Author: theycallmedame

Insulted.

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Okay, I know we’ve already had the “Rebecca Black” blog post done by yourgingerkid, but I’d like to take a different point of view on the matter. Yes, like yourgingerkid, I do feel bad for Rebecca Black, she’s young and doesn’t deserve all of the death threats, and she also probably doesn’t know that her voice sounds like a walrus on crack. But I also have to say, as a musician, I am insulted.


(Said Walrus on Crack)

As a vocalist, I am insulted that a 13-year-old girl and so much autotune that you don’t even know what her voice truly sounds like (except for the fact that it’s unbelievably nasally) has gotten recognition for being “the next Justin Bieber,” even though he isn’t that fabulous anyway.

As a lyricist, I am insulted that a mere child is talking about partying, and even more so insulted that, in her bridge, she sings, “We we we so excited, we so excited, we gonna have a ball today.” I’M SORRY, but it really makes me cringe that she couldn’t use “we’re” or “we are” or just follow the proper rules of grammar.

As a musician, I am insulted that electronic instruments, terrible electronic drums, and a music video with more awkward dancing than a middle school dance has more than 73 million views.

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Colleges.

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College college college college college college college college.

I’m in 10th grade, a minuscule little sophomore, and I already have counselors and parents coming at me saying, “It’s never too early,” and “I think you have the initiative. So just start now!”

It’s not that I’m not thinking about college, because I am. I’ve been thinking about what college I want to go to since 8th grade. But with everyone just all of a sudden coming up to me and asking, “Oh, what do you want to major in? What college do you want to go to? What do you want to do with your life?” everything becomes a bit overwhelming. Because, in all honesty, I get embarrassed when I tell people what I want to do for a living. I’m not embarrassed of my career choice, but I’m embarrassed of their reactions. Every single time I mention what I want to become, someone is there to shoot it down and leave my hopes at rock bottom. I want to do what makes me happy, but obviously I’m the only one who sees it that way, aren’t I?

“Oh, Aria, what do you want to do with your life? What do you want to do when you’re older?”
“I want to be an English teacher.”
“You want to what!?”
“Be an English teacher. And work in theatre. But mainly English.”
“Oh, honey, how foolish could you be? Don’t you know the salary of a teacher?”
“I do, but I don’t care. I want to teach.”
“Oh, well, you’ll see it our way soon.”

WHAT IS THAT SUPPOSED TO MEAN?

I understand that I won’t have the highest income out there, but teaching is something that I really want to do. I’ve never had a teacher who has effected me neutrally, they’ve either been a huge positive influence on my life or a huge negative influence. I want to be the teacher that a student will remember forever. The teacher that can teach and just possible change someone’s life. I want to be able to help people in one of the simplest ways. I want to teach.

So it shouldn’t matter to other people whether I want to be an English teacher or an astronaut; it’s my decision and they can’t change my mind.

So maybe I’ll go to USC, or UCLA, or some microscopic liberal arts college on the east coast. Maybe I’ll change my mind and attend freaking Harvard.

But it’s my choice now, and only mine. They can just deal with it.

The Secret Life of an Abandoned Band Room.

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The cramped room has faded white walls with various cracks that run like spider webs along the ceiling. There rectangular light on the ceiling flickers occasionally, casting a dull fluorescent glow around the room.

There is a large window covered by shut and dusty blinds, hiding the room from any passerby outside. Opposite of the window is an old door that never fails to creak upon someone’s entrance; it’s rusty handle jamming every third turn. There is a massive black amplifier next to the door with countless amounts of lined papers atop it; each one with at least seven scribbled out lines that had to be rewritten.

The amplifier is attached by a winding black chord to a beaten up and dented microphone, carelessly left at the foot of its towering stand as if dropped by its owner. The once perfectly rounded head of the microphone points to a wooden chair with two electric guitars leaning against it; one is black and sharp, the other orange and rounded.

The bodies of the guitars are almost touching a menacing bass drum precariously placed on a weak stand; one hard kick from its pedal would make it shudder and squirm, as though it was discomforted. The drum is attached to an entire kit, but its crash cymbal has a large crack that splinters out from the center of the dull gold cylinder. In front of the unsteady drum kit is a single sheet of lined paper, resting face-up on the musky blue carpet.

The paper is slightly crinkled around the edges and bright blue ink litters the page in an unceremonious scrawl. The violent markings on the paper form silent words and unfinished thoughts, starting strong with personal ramblings, “Time has frozen the lives we chose.”

There are so many things I would do to escape back to the wondrous place of Power Chord Academy. It’s enchanting with its college-dorm-rooms-turned-band-room and its dingy rental drum kits and its ever musically gifted and ever smiling students. PCA, you’re only a summer away.

The Moment

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One step forward.
Seven steps back.
The train is still moving,
But it’s running off the tracks.

One stunning truth.
Twelve useless lies.
We can never be trusted
If we can’t even try.

One real friend
And another with a knife.
They’ll stab you in the back
To take away your life.

One more day
‘Til your life begins.
Live in the moment,
This isn’t a game you can win.

1907-2011

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It seemed like it was going to be a good day on Monday, 3/14/11. But when I went to my dorm room for lunch, everything kind of went down the drain.

Glancing at my phone, I saw I had a voice mail from my dad. Checking said message, a frown creased onto my face.

“Hey, Aria, it’s Dad, just, call me later today, okay?”

He sounded worried and maybe even a bit sad on the phone. Briefly I thought I might be in trouble, but I laughed to myself, what could I have done?

But after calling my dad, I wished I had been in trouble.

The phone rang five times before I hear my dad pick up on the other line.

“Hey Dad, what’s up? Are you okay?”
“No, no, I’m fine, Aria.”
“What’s up?”
“Aria, your… Great-grandma DeeDee died last night.
“Wha…What?
“I’m so sorry, Aria, she just, she stopped eating and they took her to the hospital to replenish her fluids and she just, she just died. I’m here for you whenever you need me, you know that, right?”
“Yeah Daddy, yeah I know.”
“Call me later, honey.”
“Okay Daddy, I will.”

The rest of the day was kind of ruined. I spent the majority of it crying in my room, and the minority coming to terms with it.

I finally reasoned that, hey, Great-Grandma DeeDee was 104-years-old, and she far surpassed her life’s expectations.

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My Four Parents and Me.

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Every time I mention to someone that I have a stepparent (two, actually) they always react the same. They get a sympathetic look on their face and either apologize (for what?) or say something along the lines of, “Oh, that must be terrible for you!”

Um, why would it be terrible for me?

People have the idea that stepparents must be evil beings who torture their stepchildren and are unfit to be parents drilled into their minds. It’s like their reasoning goes like this:

Cinderella had a stepmom.
Said stepmom was evil.
Therefore, using the “I’m an Idiot” property, all stepmoms and stepdads alike must be evil.

I’m sorry, what?

I love my stepparents! They’re just all around good people!


My stepdad, Andy, on the right, teaching a student how to properly land a hanglider.

My mom’s husband, Andy, is probably the nicest person you’ll ever meet. He’s kind and funny and he and I have formed a secret alliance to sneak junk food into the house when my mom isn’t looking. He comes to all of my performances (without being asked!) and is always up to playing or hanging out with my brother, Ben, and I. He’s made my mom very happy.


My stepmom, Rita, whose smile never leaves her face.

My dad’s wife, Rita, is like a giant kid. Her and I have nerd conversations about Star Wars and Star Trek, and argue over which cartoon animated show is the best (she usually wins said arguments by pulling the “I’m a cartoon producer so what I say goes!” card). When she has a little too much sugar she starts bouncing off the walls and goes and gets oddly colored highlights in her hair. I’ve never seen my Dad happier than the day they got married.

I definitely lucked out on the stepparent front. Now my brother and I have not two, not three, but four loving parents who would go to the world’s end just to make sure that we were alright.


I love them, and they are the farthest from evil as someone can ever get.

O Music, Where Art Thou?

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Okay, rant time.

Music Appreciation.

I am currently sitting inside the journalism classroom between fourth and fifth period with three other students and “thebrownguy.” (by the time you read this I probably won’t be in the classroom, but whatever)

I am playing Queen on my computer.

One of students raised their head from their computer screen with a confused look on her face, “What band is this?”
I look at her, stunned.
“You don’t know what band this is?!?” I’m shocked.
“Um, no, should I?”
“Um, YES!” I exclaim, “Queen only wrote We Will Rock You, We Are The Champions, Bicycle Race, Fat Bottomed Girls, Bohemian Rhapsody, and that’s just naming the famous songs!”

The rest of our time goes like this:

“Do you know who Aerosmith is?”
“No.”
“Guns N’ Roses?”
“No.”
“Led Zeppelin?”
“No.”
“Oh my god what is wrong with this generation?!?”
“I know Drake and Rhianna, that’s pretty much it.”
“WHAT?”

I want to cry.

How can we live where the only music people appreciate is written by someone who isn’t the artist, the chord progressions are so generic you can find 100 other songs with the exact same ones, and that the voices are doused in auto tune and pitch correction the listener doesn’t even know how the artist really sounds like?

What ever happened to real musicians?

The Beatles, Bessie Smith, Queen, The Turtles, Tom Petty, Michael Jackson, Andrew Anderson?

Have we really reached a point in history where those who are “musicians” have a pretty face and cheap software to make their voice sound like a robot on crack?

Oh world, please come back to your senses.
Please?

I Promise.

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I promise,
that this was never fake.
Don’t you wish that I
was forgotten in the wake.
I promise,
to leave you behind.
I promise,
to turn my eyes blind.
I promise,
to break my own heart.
I promise,
to stop at the start.

Cross my heart,
Hope to die,
Stick a needle in my eye.
Cross your heart,
Prepare to die,
Stick a needle through your lie!

I promise,
to learn to breathe again.
The line I’ve walked
has reached an end.
I promise,
that you won’t feel.
I promise,
that your heart won’t heal.
I promise,
that you’re the reason why.
I promise,
that I can never lie.


Cross. Your. Heart.

The Tunnel

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A simple breath,
Take it in.
A glance sideways,
With a hidden grin.
A brush of hands,
A lifted heart,
Dreams can’t die,
Before they start.

You’re a nightmare,
Making my dreams come true.
You’re a fire,
So burn on through.
You’re the light in the tunnel,
But that might be the train.
You’re a stranger with open arms,
I’m glad you came.

It’s another life,
The one we lead.
Cherish it now,
Before it leaves.
With a brush of hands,
And a lifted heart.
Our dreams won’t die,
Though they may depart.

Dear Mom.

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People might think this is “lame” of me to say, but I love my mom.

Yeah, sometimes we fight but it never lasts long and she tends to be the most understanding person in the world.

She’s been there through everything with me. And sure, that’s a given, I mean, she’s my mom. But she’s truly been there through the ups and downs and has helped me get through the hardest parts of my life.

I mean, she has to be a pretty good mom if she put up with my I-want-to-be-exactly-like-my-big-brother-so-can-I-please-get-a-buzz-cut-and-be-a-vegertarian-and-snowboard-and-be-tall-so-maybe-Ben-and-his-friends-will-like-me faze.

She’s also been to every one of my performances. From my pre-school performances about who-remembers-what, to my first time doing a Shakespearean play during 2nd grade, to my first real musical in 4th grade, to my vocal showcases, to my various concerts, to my first school musical, and every little event in between.


Mom and Fred “Spiderman” Waugh at one of my various Elementary School events.

Not to mention after I was born she decided to be stay-at-home mom for my brother and I so she could be the best mother she could possibly be (and she is, by the way.) She might have also decided to be a stay-at-home mom when she came home from work to see my nanny feeding me chili. This would have been fine, except I was less than a year old and it was my first real solid food. Mom might have freaked out a bit.

I love my mom, and I think a lot of people don’t realize how much their mom puts into being there for them whenever they need them to.

I love you, Mommy, thanks for being there.


No big deal or anything, but that’s my mom flying a hang glider super duper high in the air and totally isn’t scared at all.
It’s the greatest.