I turned on pandora yesterday and listened to my husband’s emo channel. For the record I distinctly hate emo. It is awful.
Really, If you can whine (I can!), and if you have a love for sweaters and chuck taylors (I do!) then theoretically you could be in am emo band. (Uh, no thanks.)
But, the first rule to being in an emo band is to give it a stupid name. Pink Daffodils, Modest Mouse, Jets to Brazil, Weezer, Dashboard Confessionals, Get-up Kids, Death Cab For Cutie… a stupid name almost insures instant success.
The way I see it, the bands with the biggest success generally have either a color, an animal, a number, or a vehicle in their name – if you could put several of them together, it triples your odds.
Think: elephant dodge blue or six yellow birds… that sort of thing, for instance. (Please give me due credit if you happen to use on of these names I invented.)
But, I think the real reason I don’t like emo is because it infringes on my own emo headspace. I got my own stuff to whine about. Plenty of it.
Well, it looks like I have spent too much time blogging today, as I just realized my husband is in the kitchen making “Daddy Dinner”. That is what happens when I (on rare occasion!) become self-absorbed and forget to make dinner, and so my husband out of desperation makes the only meal he ever makes if the task of dinner finds it’s way to him: rice, green beans and chicken with so much black pepper that the kids drink a gallon of water before bedtime.
uh, I gotta go hide the pepper.