(Blog post by Meg. To read the whole post please visit HER BLOG)

I’m going to come clean at the risk of sounding like a politician with all of my “flip-flopping”. I decided to take one class at the University. I know I said in a previous blog that I wasn’t going back, but I lied. I am. A tug-of-war took place inside my head before I finally took the plunge. With all of the time that I don’t want to take away from practicing the guitar and songwriting and all of the projects and ideas I would like to begin with Chandler, I didn’t think I had time to add yet another activity. 

With a skeptical mindset and a notebook and folder tucked underneath my armpit, I made my way across a very foreign college campus. After being a touring musician for so many years, attempting to return back to school has been a very interesting learning experience to say the least. I told myself on that first day, if the professor gave me any crap for missing the first week (I exhibited at the New York Gift Fair with Chandler that week) ,or for not having read all of the required reading material, or for not having all of my homework I would skip out of the University lifestyle without a second thought.

I took a seat near the front, struggled to maneuver the stow-away-desk from the side of my seat to a horizontal position, while I waited for the professor to either chastise me or ignore me all together. Neither event took place. He simply looked up with a pleasant smile as he poured a cup of steaming hot tea for himself behind the podium. “I haven’t seen you in class before. Are you a new student?” His voice purred with soft undertones like a cat finding a surprisingly warm spot on the couch. “Yes.” I answered, my eyes nervously traveling back and forth across the classroom. “Please don’t pause too much on my behalf professor,” I thought to myself. I’d much prefer to melt into the sea of random students, do the homework, and skedaddle. But he proceeded to ask THE question: “So, are you related to Peter Frampton?” The side of his lips curled into a tiny sideways moon. “I wish!” Hey, this guy wasn’t half bad!

For some reason (I hate to admit this now.) I thought that all of my traveling experience I’ve had all these years as a musician would make me more intelligent and “worldly” than any of my fellow students and even my professor! I believed that I didn’t need them. I didn’t need anybody! Well, that first class really knocked me back into reality and humbled me right down to the bone. Every student, instead of slinking back into their seat after the professor asked a question, didn’t bother to raise a hand, and instead, simply spoke out their very well-thought-out opinions and concerns in confident voices. We were having GREAT thought-stimulating discussions. I was… dare-I-say-it learning.

Another blog post of the next chapter of my “Meg and Dia” Story Series. For the first few chapters read these posts: “Here”, “Here”, and “Here”. These posts about how my first band started out, the process of “getting signed” by a major label, all the ups and downs. By Meg

Dia and I performed a few more times after that gig at The Electric Theater. With our practices becoming more and more rare and our enthusiasm tanking, I decided to pack a bag and try the “college” route.
 I placed a stack of neatly folded jeans into my suitcase with my father’s voice echoing from down the hallway, “You’re only young once. You ought to keep at it.” I shrugged off his advice and reached up for a few photos on my wall that I wanted to bring with me to my dorm. “You’re going to regret this. You really don’t need to go to college.” I glanced up from my packing. Really? What kind of father gives his child the advice NOT to go to college. I had to convince him over and over again that I needed an education to find a real job, a steady income. I needed stability, and my sister and my little dream and our gigs around town weren’t going to give that to me.
Of course, I didn’t want to leave Dia to fend for herself at home while I went off to college. I realize now, looking back how hurt she felt and abandoned at my leaving. I tried to play down the enormity of my decision, because although I would never admit it out loud, leaving Dia was one of the hardest parts about my “grown up” decision. I held back tears and succeeded in my goal of showing no emotion. Why I couldn’t have simply given her a huge hug, balled my eyes out, and asked her to beg me to stay, I’ll never know. 
I basically lived in a closet for a year, sharing half of the tiny space the University liked to call a “dorm room” with another really religious girl who frowned upon my cut-off jeans and late curfew. (I actually ended up becoming really great friends with her.) I did all the college “activities”. I attended some really lame parties, drank a beer on a rooftop in the middle of the night with strangers, fell in love with a tortured artist, and flunked Political Science…

How to learn to play the guitar in 4 easy steps:

Playing music for the sake of playing music is a beautiful thing, even after an artist is still recovering from a small defeat. So, Dia and I booked ourselves a gig on a Saturday night at The Electric Theater without the Jade Harbor band backing us up. 
We packed our arsenal of songs and sang our hearts out for an audience of about 20-30 preoccupied students.  Although we enjoyed performing, the excitement for us took place about 10 minutes after we finished when the headlining band began their foot-stomping set. A display of musical theatrics that our small town had never experienced before. Do you guys remember Limbeck? They used to be a Doghouse Records band. In my young  eyes Limbeck was the real deal. 
They tumbled out on stage, belligerent, sweaty, road—worn in all the right ways. They just sounded so together and smooth, like a real rock n’ roll band. The lead singer even had that “thing” that all lead singers seem to possess. At that moment I stole a sidelong glance at Dia and then up at the singer on stage, secretly scheming how I could rip a few holes in her jeans without her knowing and perhaps get her to stop brushing her hair for a week or two.  
Back then I would have given an arm and a leg to be able to travel in their beaten-up, 15-passenger van, heck I’d give up half my limbs to even sit shot gun around the block with all of the band members hanging their arms out the window, cigarette smoke hot-boxing our conversation. (A decade later, I feel slightly different about traveling via van and even more intense about cigarette smoke, but back when I was 17, those smelly bench seats called out to me with a vengeance!)
After Limbeck finished their set, Dia and I took our places behind the merch table, arranging a few demo cds and  two horrible t-shirt designs on the folding table near the entrance of the venue. The task proved difficult because a pair of ankles clad in worn sandals kept stomping around in our very compact space. I looked up at the man hopping around on the table. His giant pirate mustache muffled his hollering, “Limbeck CDs! Two for 10!” With every hoot and yell his head dramatically swooped back and his auburn, curly-hair waved around excitedly. I didn’t know if I should be concerned for his safety. He looked as though at any moment he might slip on a cd or t-shirt and fall to his doom…
To read the rest visit my blog: http://chandlertherobot.blogspot.com/

I’m writing this post lying on the floor on my stomach in an empty room aside from a few bloated cardboard boxes and an ikea floor lamp. Nick is prancing through our empty apartment spraying spritzes of one of his homemade “natural”, “essential” oil mixes. The window is open. I’m staring at startling greenery (for Austin at this time of year. Thank you spring rain!) and smelling hints of lavender and evergreen. Nick opens the door, peeks his head through, and asks me, “What are you doing in this empty room on the floor?” I give him the same glance I give to everyone when they interrupt me when I’m either writing a song or a blog post. My eyebrows come together and do a little dance and my lower lip puckers outward. “I’m writing a blog!” I wine in an effort exaggerate the fact to that I’d like some time alone. “Well, why you gotta do it in here?” “Because there is music out there, and it’s calm in here.” ”Well, it was, I think to myself. He gives me one of his “looks” and then turns and walks away. I couldn’t help thinking about what I knew he was thinking as he continued with the finishing touches on our apartment: “God, why am I dating a “creative”, artist, hippie chick with extremely irritating dietary requirements? I should have listened to my mother and stuck with Anne back in high school. Yeah, she had a boring hair cut, but all of her meals were loaded with butter and sugar, and she would never EVER pay more attention to a blog than ME…”

Yes, we are in the midst of packing and moving. I can’t wait for the day when I can stop this “packing and moving” bit. It’s tiring and dull.

To continue reading please visit…http://chandlertherobot.blogspot.com/

1. I learned that being a  “performer” and being a “musician” on stage are equally as important. For the entirety of “Meg and Dia” I believed that having my bangs cover half my face in a dramatic swoop and an incoherent mumble in between songs fulfilled my requirement as an entertainer. Only during the second half of the Blake tour, by watching and learning from both Dia and Blake, did I realize that the crowd deserves to have the entertainers on stage be appreciative and show their respect by smiling and moving with the music. 
2. I learned to not sweat the small stuff that happens on stage. People aren’t analyzing the show in detail as much as the band and I are. When two cowgirls are sitting in the third row, sipping on beers and laughing hysterically to each other, they are not making fun of me for missing the A minor in the 2nd verse, they are remembering the “stuck up” mechanical engineer who spilled Miller Light all over himself while hitting on them at the bar last night.
To read the rest of Meg’s blog click here…

Silver Chandlers are now available in my shop! http://www.chandlertherobot.com/

Define Nerd:
  • One Whose IQ exceeds his weight. (from the “Urban Dictionary”)
  • A foolish or contemptible person who lacks social skills or is boringly studious.
  • An intelligent, single-minded expert in a particular technical discipline or profession.

March’s SPECIAL “Limited Edition” piece: “Herman the Nerdbot”

  • Made from an alloy metal with silver coating. (Many of you have been asking for “silver”:)
  • 1.75” tall
  • Includes a vintage silver chain that is 19” with a 3” adjustable tail
  • Complete with snazzy bow tie and intelligent glasses. 
  • price: $50.00 
  • Only 100 made
More details about “Herman the Nerdbot” will be posted tomorrow! To order tonight at midnight visit my ONLINE SHOP.