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June 23, 2008

What’s Wrong with Being Sexy?

Well, we spent the past few days putting together demos for the Fuck Machines project. I submitted them to Dean Charleston yesterday; today, he called me in for a meeting. I asked if I should bring the band, and he hung up on me. I took that as a “no,” but I told the boys to stay on call in case I misinterpreted Charleston’s signal.

At the Mildew office, the receptionist led me to a large conference room overlooking Hollywood. The long table was lined with scowling men and women of all ages, creeds, and colors. At the other end of the table, barely visible in the hazy distance, sat Dean Charleston. Even from this distance, I could see that smug, white smile.

“Sit down, McDürchstein,” he said.

I sat.

“We’ve listened to your demos,” Charleston said, “and we have no choice but to reject the project.”

“What?!” I screamed, a little louder and more high-pitched than I intended.

“Listen,” Charleston said soothingly, “we think it’s a good idea, conceptually, but the execution… You’re a sexist, McDürchstien, and some women don’t like that.”

“We’re not catering to those women,” I said. “Are we?”

“We want to generate mass appeal with Fuck Machines,” Dean Charleston replied. “In order to do that, you must craft an album that casts the widest possible net. We want the enlightened women who protested such songs as ‘Tongue Quest’ and ‘Bay-Ooh-Tay-Tay’ to believe they’ve misjudged you.”

“But… They haven’t.”

Charleston laughed, as did a few people sitting at the table. “I know that, and you know that. They don’t. We want to keep it that way, until they’ve already spent their money.”

“So you’re saying it needs more feminine perspective?” I asked. “I wrote it with a woman—”

“Perdida Cheyenne?” one of the women at the conference table uttered in a musical cadence. “Women like her do a shocking disservice to our gender. You need the help of a woman with a functional brain.”

“Like you?” I asked.

“Yes. Or, perhaps, your wife.”

“Margo’s been out of town,” I said. “She normally helps write, but…”

“Bring her back!” Charleston shouted abruptly.

“Will do,” I said cheerfully.

While driving back into the Valley, I hit Margo on her cell.

“Now’s not a good time,” she said.

“But we need help,” I whined. “Dean Charleston says you need to work on the album with us.”

“Can’t you hire a keyboardist? I’m really not even that good,” Margo said.

“True, but it’s not about that. Charleston says you need to help us write the album. He says my ideas are too sexist.”

“He’s probably right,” Margo sighed. “Listen, I’d like to help, but I have another two weeks in Wilmington, and my schedule is booked solid. I’ll help you when I get back, though. I promise.”

“You better.” I hung up.

Written by Girth McDürchstein on June 23, 2008 3:53 PM
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