Obligatory Halloween Post

I don’t know what I’m doing tonight, but I definitely celebrated Halloween last Saturday. Naturally, I celebrate by not thinking up a clever costume, and then going with whatever’s easiest and cheapest at the last minute.

I was going to a costume kickball game followed by a warehouse rock show in honor of Elbert’s birthday, and I feared chastisement if I didn’t at least try to sport a costume. So, I cut some holes in my worn-out pillowcase and went as a pillow. Of course, most people didn’t dress up anyway.

To make matters worse, nobody even understood my costume. The closest they came was a couple people who asked if I was a pillowcase. WTF? That’s like dressing up as Babe Ruth, then having people ask you if you’re a baseball uniform. Although, now that I think about it, that would be a pretty rad costume...

“Hey, nice Babe Ruth costume!”
“Actually, I’m a baseball uniform, MORON.”

I think the best Halloween costumes let you antagonize anyone who dares to speak to you.

Is anything worthwhile even happening tonight? I might just sit in my room and eat cookies. Ah, my decadent mid-twenties. Years from now, I’ll look back and have no recollection of Halloween 2007.

House of Chocolate

I’m back from tour, with a soft belly and a mild case of delirium tremens. I’m pretty sure I’ll be throwing together a tour diary in the next couple weeks. At the moment, I’m sitting in my new house in San Francisco, procrastinating the unpacking of all my boxes of stuff. It’s a pretty good time.



This is the view from my living room. I suppose the paint job doesn’t bother me too much at the moment, but it definitely did when we first started moving stuff over in the beginning of September. Just as a broken clock tells the correct time twice a day, a house with a tasteless color scheme will be relatively appropriate a couple weeks out of the year.

I hope they change it in November.

September Wrap-Up

Well, that month went by quickly. Umm, let's see, I played some cool rock shows. And I saw some cool rock shows. I got my Mac, and all my stuff will be in San Francisco shortly. I also fucked up my back last night. Luckily, I'm about to have a month of sleeping on the floor, sitting in a van for hours on end, and lifting lots of heavy shit. That's right, I'm leaving for tour today, so the ridiculously sporadic updates will continue. But now, I'll have an excuse! And I'll write a zine or two.

Peace. Word. Yo.

September so far

My sister got married last weekend. The DJ at the reception played such yester-hits as “The Twist” and “Shout!” and “Twist and Shout,” as if to say, “Alright, Aaron, you anti-social, snobbish luddite, I’m meeting you half-way!” To which I responded, “Okay, fine, I’ll dance with old people.”

In other news, Mike got the key to “our” house, which of course is really “his” house, that is, after he pays the bank however many million dollars real adults pay each other for such things. Here he is attempting to open the front door. Aww. Remember when you had trouble unlocking whatever place you’re living in right now? Aww. He’s threatening to fill the dining room with a dining room table to facilitate his dust collection unless I can think of a better idea for the room. So far, practical suggestions like “computer room” and “vomitorium” have been vetoed.

Would you believe that my uncivilized word processor doesn’t think “luddite” nor “vomitorium” are words? And would you be disappointed to learn that “vomitorium” doesn’t mean what I thought it meant? And how come less than a month after coming up with some stupid webspeak term, people are already polluting minds with masturbatory websites and t-shirts? These are sad times indeed. Shakespeare must be rolling in his grave.

Oh, yeah, and Ajax, you can have my decrepit PC after I’m done transferring files. Not the monitor, though. Too many memories.

Life changes

All my life, I’ve lived in the East Bay.
(yes, Livermore counts)

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been a PC user.
(since the days of 5.25” floppy discs)

But now, as my first quarter-century on this planet nears its end, I’ve decided to flip the polarity switch on my life; I’m moving to San Francisco, and I’m getting a Mac.

Also, I’ve started wearing white Keds.

Deal with it.

My life's so eventful

Yesterday, I sold a zine for the first time ever.

That’s all for now.

Wait, I also wanted to spill a little text on the curb for Ajax, who is no longer of this world.

And of course, by “this world,” I mean the blogosphere. He’s not dead or anything. He just stopped blogging.

So, basically, he’s dead to me.

More rock shows

Last night, I went to 21 Grand to see Mikaela’s Fiend, a two-piece from Seattle. I’d seen them a couple years ago at the WC, and I was totally blown away by their drummer, then not even old enough to buy cigarettes. I missed their last bay area show ‘cause I was sick, so I was stoked to be able to see them this time.

Since I last saw them, the drummer had blossomed into a young rock star with a seemingly unquenchable thirst for apple juice, which he guzzled from a large glass jug. He encouraged the audience to gather around him, while the peripheral guitarist just sorta blended in with the crowd. They were just as great as before, if not better. During the last song of their set, the drummer (gee, I really should have found out his name...) passed off the pieces of his drum kit to various crowd members, then retreated to a corner to work on a Rubik’s cube. He worked quickly while the noise-punk drum circle created the soundtrack. When he was close to finishing, he looked at the cube with a confused look. At first I thought he was stuck, but really, he was just memorizing the final moves. He stood on top of an amplifier and looked at the ceiling while he finished the puzzle, then leapt down to once again shred the drums.

It was undoubtedly the greatest moment in the history of Rubik’s cubes.

Incidentally, this entry is not meant to insult the other rad bands I saw this weekend: Militant Children’s Hour, Audacity, Party Fowl, and of course, the Traditional Fools and the Rantouls. They were great too. It does make me think it would be better for my self esteem to start going out to see shitty bands with members who are older than me.

The graduate

I don’t have anything especially interesting to write, but I know you must be worried, dear reader and leaver of no comments, so here’s an update.

It’s a strange life, to have everything so completely up in the air. Would you believe I didn’t even make it to half of those rock shows I mentioned because I was busy in the studio? I’ve been doing my best to sniff out recording and mixing sessions to sit in on, and as usual, I find the most rewarding experiences by exuding absolutely zero effort. I’ve started a new bank account for my meager earnings as a freelancer. Will I earn enough to properly feed myself when I go on tour? If not, I see many many peanut butter sandwiches in my future.

There are other life changes afoot, too. But we can talk about that later.

Empty nest

With Daniel moved out, and JJ+JoJo out of town until Sunday, the house is feeling especially empty. Not too much going on at the moment. But did you know we were making house beer koozies with the money from we got from letting people shoot a music video here a while back? Well, Paul’s koozie design masterpiece that he slaved all summer over was rejected by the production people because of copyright infringement. Whodathunk? Until we regroup, you’ll just have to click and dream about what might have been. We’ll see how long it takes for my Photobucket account to get deactivated for similar reasons.

Rather than publish some diatribe about US copyright laws, I thought I should write about something more important: me! Today, I take the final for my last class at Ex’pression. Which means I’m done. Like, totally done. I’m fucking horrified. It’s time to get serious. Therefore, until I get my life on track, no more drinking unless I’m at a rock show.

Here are some rock shows I’m going to, come buy me a drink, ‘cause I’m fucking done!:
Tonight- Teutonics, Rantouls, Barbary Coasters @ the Rickshaw Stop
Maybe later tonight- Snakeflower 2 @ the Knockout
Tomorrow- Trad Fools @ Thrillhouse Records
Night after tomorrow- Husbands, HRLIC @ the Knockout

Free stuff

This morning, my roommate moved out. It’s a little sad, ‘cause he was a total bro through some tough times. But really, it’s all okay, ‘cause I’m getting a bunch of free stuff out of it! For instance, a record shelf that can hold 300 records (not that I especially need it right now, but I probably will eventually). Also, a bed that can hold more than one person (not that I especially need it right now, but I probably will eventually). And some clothes, which is always nice. The house will feel a little empty this August, but I have free stuff to keep me company.

Speaking of free stuff, anyone want a futon?

Goodbye pants

Once upon a time, I needed some new pants. To this end, I went to thrift shopping in San Leandro. A good hour or two yielded but one find. It was worth it, though: a handsome pair of Levi’s "Action Slacks" for $1.50. They were baggy, sure, but I loved them all the same. Of course, a few years of loving wear can take quite a toll on a pair of pants. My poor man’s hem job (umm, staples) didn’t make the cut, and before long, the ends of the legs had been worn off by my heels. Holes began to form in the pockets and, most recently, the crotch. Then, the other day in the school bathroom, the little handle thing on the zipper came off.

It’s not something I had ever considered, but the handle is a critical element of a zipper. Thankfully, you can still zip up without it, but unzipping is quite troublesome. So troublesome, in fact, that I have condemned these pants! They are officially retired. Maybe this doesn’t strike you as particularly interesting, but believe me, it’s no small feat to get me to part with a piece of clothing I wear regularly.

I suppose it’s all for the best, since it’s more or less an utter travesty for a strapping young man like myself to wear such baggy pants. I’d replace them with some snugly fitting designer jeans, if I had the money to throw around. The obvious course of action is to sell my body for some wardrobe-enhancing funds, but it’s kind of a catch 30-32 since it’s so hard to sell my body without the tight pants. Okay, that’s just an assumption, but still, it’s dissuaded me from a life of prostitution, so doesn’t that excuse a little unscientific assuming?

Too much writing

The irony was, of course, the week after I write about having nothing better to do but listen to records was incredibly packed with other things to keep me busy. Just as well to have the distractions, though, since in one week’s time, my life will be a directionless, paralytic crisis. Did you know that the Chinese ideogram for “crisis” contains the character for “opportunity”? It’s really too bad I speak English.

One of the things I was busy with was a five-page research paper on internet music piracy. I haven’t written a five-page paper on anything since I graduated UCB, but I haven’t had such a vague assignment on an issue of such complexity since high school. The idea of coming up with an intelligent statement in two weeks’ time and presenting it in such a brief format was so ridiculous to me, I decided to put very little effort into it. And lo and behold, my writing reverted to high school prose. It was painful, but brief. Y’know, positive and negative.

It led me to believe form and content are inextricably linked. Like with text messages, I’m always tempted to remove vowels for expediency’s sake, but typically I can’t bring myself to be so… euhm, pedestrian. The other night, I indulged my temptation, and whatever semi-intelligent question I had was replaced with “wll thr b htt grlz?”

Therefore, the ultimate question is, can I be a good writer without having anything good to write about? The other day, I leafed through the classic Mball Vegas zine, and I have to say I was impressed. The text was driven by more inspiration, talent, and wit than I ever remember having. I was struck with the feeling that my best days and my best writing have come and gone. But I’m afraid this blog is not the place to pontificate upon such self-pity.

So anyway, last night, I got irey and watched Top Secret and Highlander. It was hell of awesome.

Wax existential

As I dropped the stylus into a test pressing of the new TMN record, I came upon a revolutionary discovery: my turntable plays records a semi-tone higher than intended! At first I was upset. Sure, I knew the shitty built-in speakers, the flimsy tone arm, and the cheap plastic pick-up cartridge were depriving my ears of a multitude of frequencies and introducing vast amounts of distortion, but still, raising the pitch of a record so much seemed to cross the line.

But then I realized, this actually saves me time! Consider this: if my turntable plays records so that it shortens the length of each one by sixty seconds, and I listen to an average of two records per day, that’s a whole hour every month I don’t have to be listening to stupid rocknroll. Instead, I can devote that precious time to something more important, like… uh… hmph. Damn turntable.

TKO

Last night, the Makes Nice reached our apex of self-indulgence, playing three sets at the Knockout. I doubt we’ll ever try it again, but it was interesting to go through the full gamut of rock band experience in one night. We got to play the awkward, sober set to an awkwardly sober audience; the relaxed, triumphant set to a packed house; and then the apathetic, sloppy set to almost no one at the end of the night. I nearly hyperventilated, thanks to my suit.

Perhaps the best part of the night was at the very end, when a dance party spontaneously erupted out of nowhere. Well, not exactly spontaneous, since it was inspired by my new favorite DJ, Memphis Style. There’s something transcendent about a tall dude with a bushy moustache and garish necklace, one fist in the air and the other clenching a 24-ounce can of Tecate, head-banging to fucking weird, amazing records, not to mention a healthy dose of the Kinks and the Zombies, and occasional, completely tasteless applications of digital delays. So, umm, yeah, that was cool.

Aaron's Guide to Summertime, part 1

Riddle: How do you get 8 friends to drive to Livermore?
Solution: Pool party!

Unlike the elusive dance party or makeout party, pool parties are easy to plan. There’s 3 simple requirements.
1. A pool
Must be private. Preferably at your parents’ house, preferably when they’re out of town.
2. Friends
A small group is best.
3. Say “Pool party!”
The more times you do this, the better your pool party is. Just like “Spring break!” Please note, if your pool party’s during spring break, shouting “spring break” counts towards your pool party status. Also, it helps to preface everyone’s names with “Pool party” (i.e. “Pool Party Carson” or “Pool Party Jane”).

Once you’ve taken care of those three things, you’ll have a pool party on your hands. If you want to have a good pool party, you should also include swimming, sunshine, beer, babes, and barbecue. Be sure to take plenty of pictures so you can blog about your pool party without looking like a complete tool.

Cheeseburger with sunglasses

We had a rad BBQ last Sunday. You were probably there. It was the record release show for my favorite band these days, the Traditional Fools. I remember having a lot of fun and talking lots of awesome people. The only bummer was that the large crowds, while leaving the basement after sets by the Rantouls, NoBunny and the Okmoniks, only looked at the “Kissing Booth” sign above the merch table and not the wonderful products I had to offer, resulting in many disgusted sidelong glances in my direction. Seriously, though, I’m not that pathetic. That’s almost as bad as plugging your record label with your blog.

Oh yeah, I took some pictures of the show.

Anyway, I can’t complain too much. By the night’s end I had sold a bunch of records and got rid of a bunch of zines. Plus, I handed out all my flyers for what is most likely to be the greatest Makes Nice show ever. No kisses, though, in case you were wondering. Not that I'd ever write about that anyway. A gentleman does not kiss and blog.

Welcome back to the Theater of Magic

One of the great things about my house is the pinball machine by the bar. When I first moved in, I was playing it all the time, battling with Jason over who was the Master Magician. As time went on, though, the game developed more and more problems to the point where you had to manually feed your ball every time. It simply became unfun.

Until last week, that is, when it got tuned up! I assume it’s a lot like when you’ve been living with a woman for a while, and have sorta gotten tired of her and you don’t have sex that often and when you do it’s not just not the same any more, but then she gets cosmetic surgery and you realize you’re still in love. Now I just need to get my pinball skills back in shape.

Oh man, you should’ve seen the pinball repairman. He was such a hardcore nerd. I mean, this was the kind of guy even I would have made fun of in middle school. So ironic, then, that I should meet him in such a situation where his bad-ass pinball knowledge and repair skills should bring me to worship him as some sort of demi-god.

Alright, I'm going to stop wasting my time with this blogging stuff and squeeze in a few games before class.

People take pictures of each other

I believe it was Heisenberg who first theorized the contradiction of documenting rock shows. “What we see is not a rock show, but a rock show subjected to incessant, annoying, flashing lights.” Seriously though, perhaps there should be some rule whereby you’re not allowed to take more pictures than there are people in attendance. There’s a certain point at which you feel like you’re watching a photo shoot. Not that there’s anything wrong with photo shoots, mind you, but let’s call it what it is. Worst of all, it makes me feel guilty taking one humble picture of a band I really like but only get to see upon the rarest of occasions.

As annoying as flash photography can be, it doesn’t hold a candle to the dude who stood in front of me the other night. Stationed by a lamp with his camcorder, he had taken upon himself the task of videotaping a band playing a house party. Most of the footage he shot was in the dark, but at random points he would turn on the lamp for about sixty seconds at a time. I don’t know about you, but my eyes work in such a way that immediate, drastic changes in the amount of light cause discomfort.

If he had simply left the lamp on or off, I wouldn’t have minded his little camcording venture, but I suppose his artistic vision demanded a tapeful of unintelligible footage punctuated by brief segments where you could actually see what was going on. My frustration eventually compelled me to unscrew the lamp’s light bulb. The next time he reached for the lamp, he turned the switch several times before complaining to his neighbor. “This light doesn’t fucking work!” I chuckled to myself in that petty way I have, basking in the blog fodder I had just spawned. The joke was ultimately on me, though, since I had neglected to actually remove the light bulb from the lamp. He pieced together the puzzle, screwed the light bulb back in, and once again subjected everyone to his decelerated, photon-based version of Chinese water torture.

Brushes with stardom

Today, I sat in on a recording session with Eddie Kramer at the helm. I shook his hand. This means I’m now separated from the Kinks by a mere two degrees! Almost there. It was a pretty cool experience. I won’t depress you by discussing the projects he’s involved in nowadays.

In my two years at Ex’pression, I’ve run into Butch Vig and Chuck D on campus, too. It just goes to show how much cooler it is than Berkeley. I mean, I did walk past Arnold Schwarzenegger at UCB, but that was before he was elected Governor, so he wasn’t really that famous yet.

This entry’s worth 2,034 words

This weekend was filled to the brim with beverages, loud music, and sunshine. Anything worth writing about? Not really. Instead, I’ve decided to resort to baby and dog pictures.

Night of the dyeing red

Last night, I went to a theatrical interpretation of the Night of the Living Dead movies: essentially, a thin veil of a plot to facilitate pelting the audience with spaghetti, fake limbs, and buckets upon buckets of fake blood. Totally awesome. Afterwards, we went to the Phone Booth, the stains of fake blood still spattered all over our faces and arms. Meyergami treated me to the largest, strongest, least ice-having cocktail I’ve ever had at a bar. I became drunk enough to try out some psoriasis-themed pick-up lines, but sadly, there were no eligible targets.

How I spent my summer solstice

Did you have a good solstice? Did you even realize you were having it? I did! After taking my final and turning in my project, I asked myself “Where shall I spend my summer solstice?” Oddly enough, I chose Berkeley. I indulged my basest urges at the copy shop, the gelateria, and Amoeba. My discovery? My basest urges are really pretty tame.

All that aside, the most important part of any solstice worth blogging about, if such a thing exists, is staying indoors and drinking during the sunset, as if to say, “I’ll have a cocktail when I want to have a cocktail, and the sun can go down when it god damn feels like it” (note: this is slightly less socially acceptable during the winter solstice).

On the whole, it was a great day. And, of course, it’s all downhill from here. Except for maybe tomorrow, ‘cause we’re having a BBQ show at my house. It’ll be fun. You should come. If you ask real nice, I’ll probably give you one of those things I just pictured. If the nice asking thing doesn’t work, try showing me your tits. That won’t work either, but hey, y’know.

Events of a busy week

Saturday: Went to surprise birthday show for Mike del Lame at the Stork Club. The Party Ice Breakers were great, though they would have been so much greater had they stopped after their first two songs. One of the songs was about getting aboard the party train, the other was about being wasted. Chris S-M definitely practiced what he preached, to the point where a Spuds MacKenzie reference was made.

Sunday: Had lunch with family. My dad told an endearing story about renting a PT cruiser, taking my mom on a joyride in the hills with the top down, and listening to both TMN records. Returned home where a barbecue was a-brewin’, then drank for approximately ten hours.

Monday: Wasn’t busy, really, but too hung over to do much until band practice. Band practice.

Tuesday/Wednesday: Cut my remedial DVD authoring class so I could assist Phil at a recording session. The best decision I’ve made lately. I drove home feeling all good about myself as an audio engineer, then when I checked my e-mail, I discovered my career advisor lady just passed away. Crazy.

Thursday: Taking the final for my penultimate class. Ladies and gentlemen, the Great Void is almost upon me.

The events of my uneventful week

Sunday: Picked up roomies from airport. Practiced for NASCAR while forms for lost luggage were filled out.

Monday. Band practice. Attempted to revive a JLS classic, but I felt too old to sing it. Quarter-life crisis? At least my knees are better. (Apparently, sitting in front of a computer and eating junk food is way better for your knees than exercise.)

Tuesday: Spent a bunch of time on the computer, utterly entranced and appalled by the MySpace pages of presidential hopefuls. Became very, very frightened.

Wednesday: Spent a bunch of time on the computer, looking for people to send promos of the T Fools EP. Who knew running a record label would be so exciting?

Thursday: Drove roomie to airport. Couldn’t turn down an In-N-Out Burger even though I was about to play basketball. (Apparently, a stomach full of junk food is bad for exercise.)

Friday: Updated my blog.

Small world

Last Saturday, I journeyed to Carmichael to party with Kendra K. and crew. I guess nothing too epic or scandalous happened, but there was lots of good hang time. And sometimes, through the typical art of conversation, you’ll discover connections you never knew existed.

Like that Hi-Fives video I uploaded the other day, which I used to convince my bandmates to wear suits for the show the other night. Kendra informed me that the original footage was shot by this woman I know, who’s actually a fan of TMN and was at the Rickshaw show. I also discovered that a dude from Brent’s TV, one of those Hi-Fives precursor bands, is the bassist for Nudity, who we just played a show with in Olympia. In other words, I was smoked out by a member of a band I really love, but I was completely oblivious!

It all just goes to show you that existence is made of circular rings, linked together to form a cosmic space-time chain, which is used by Jor-El to drive the astral sled dogs that pull Earth around the sun. I have more literature on the subject, if you’re interested.

I'm gonna buy me a dog

Jason and Jolene return tomorrow, which means I have to make up for a week’s worth of shoddy housekeeping. It also means the return of Monroe’s favorite people. It’s been a good week, though. Mellow. There’s something so honest about a dog’s affection, even if it’s only because you’re his primary source of nutrition and physical interaction. If only human relationships could be so simple. Well, I suppose there’s Stockholm syndrome… but I don’t think I’m ready for that sort of commitment.

Fun to end all fun

At the show last night, I was preaching the awesomeness of Shorty’s Coney Island, which I am wont to do, when someone alerted me to the existence of California Extreme. This year, it’s taking place the weekend after I finish school. Oh, also, it looks fucking incredible. One might say it’s the only reason you’d ever want to go to San Jose. Basically, you pay an entrance fee, then you get to free play a bunch of old arcade games and pinball machines for hours on end. I can’t think of a better way to celebrate the end of my college career.

Idle hands

It’s surprising how easy it is to forget that there’s a button maker in your household. Don’t ask me why it took so long to put 2 and 2 together (4 = Makes Nice buttons). Making buttons for your band is a lot like masturbation, except that people are slightly more interested in the product. Alluring, no?



So are you coming to the show at the Rickshaw tonight? You know if you do, you can count on one of these babies gratis. As if that weren’t enough, I think we’ll be wearing suits. When was the last time you saw a retro band wear suits? Skinny ties? And have you seen Josh’s new schoolboy haircut yet? Consider yourself convinced.

Black Sand Beach

At school today, I ripped this video from a VHS bootleg Kendra K. lent me. The full-fledged DVD project will unfortunately not be ready for this weekend, but perhaps some YouTubage will tide the birthday girl over. Any fan of the Hi-Fives and surf music will definitely enjoy it. It‘s funny, when I find out that someone likes surf music, I feel a special bond which quickly deteriorates when I discover that, although we both listen to surf, they’re still too cool for me. I can’t say I’ve ever had that problem with a Hi-Fives fan.

That’s what I love about Kendra. She’s not too cool for anyone; she’s just too cool. Plus, she’s all brave and stuff in her fight against cancer. On a selfish note, it can be good for one’s mental health to have a friend dealing with such a serious illness, only because it puts all your emotional crises in perspective. I remember when I found out…

“Kendra, I miss my bangs SO MUCH!”
“That sucks! I have cancer.”
“Oh...”

Happy birthday, Kendra K.

Hello, blog

I hadn’t realized how much I missed writing in a blog. Of course, I’ve forgotten how to deal with having nothing to say. It’s a slow week. Mike’s gone to Bulgaria. JJ and JoJo are in Oaxaca, along with Meyergami. This naturally means plenty of hang time with my best buddy, Monroe. Do you ever get tired of humans? Dogs are a refreshing alternative.

The tourstache is now gone. I was already getting tired of it, then Dave from HRLIC said something along the lines of “Let’s you, me, and that moustache go find some little boys.” To not shave at that point would’ve been an affront to society. Sorry, Ajax. And you’re right, I don’t believe you.

Anyway, school is mellow. I’m mellow. Hella mellow. But what week would be complete without a rock show?

Harold, don't hurt 'em

Lately, I’ve been going to a lot of rock shows. I seem to have settled back into my lifestyle of a few years ago, when I would… go to a lot of rock shows. It was all so novel back then. Having just turned 21, it was difficult to imagine getting tired of hanging out in dive bars and watching dudes play music. Ha. It’s hardly novel now, but it’s superior to sitting at home and watching the Adventures of Pete and Pete. Well, maybe not “superior” per se, but it’s nice to have both at my disposal.

It’s unfortunately rare for a rock show to be blog-worthy, but it’s awesome to be there when it happens. Especially if you have a camera! For example, last night at El Rio, during an amazing set by south bay bubblegum sensations the Rantouls, infamous frontman Harold Ray was seen holding a large plastic bottle, taking swigs of a beverage he called a “Dennis Wilson.” (That’s rum and OJ, kids!) His typical rowdy banter eventually gave way to staggering and slurred speech, and before we knew it, he had passed out in a dark corner of the club, perhaps a scant half-hour before he was scheduled to perform. The members of his band scrambled about, trying to find someone who knew the lyrics to their songs.

Disaster was more or less averted, though. After a little power nap, Harold awakened, deposited an unspecified volume of Dennis Wilson in a trash can, downed a few bottles of water, and took the stage with an admirable air of confidence. It was damn fine set. And, of course, he managed to charm or offend everyone with his racist, sexist, and/or homophobic camp. Maybe it’s for the best that such rock shows are rare.

June 1st = Fresh start #6

Pinball machines, fanzines, analog tape, rocknroll… all these things of which I’ve grown so fond in my college years, each growing more irrelevant with every passing year. Even that PO box I rented seemed pretty useless in this day and age. I suppose the occasional walk to the post office was kinda fun, but still. The twelve month period just expired, and I couldn’t help but think back to the time when I thought it would be a good idea to get one.

Remember a year ago, when I killed off my Livejournal to pursue other interests? I wrote a few zines. Played a bunch of music. Started up a record label. I won’t bore you with the details of how much it all exceeded my expectations.

But Chocolate Covered Records soldiers on, good sir! Shirley, you’ve seen us in the weeklies of late. You’re coming to see Dreamdate play at Amoeba in SF this evening, right? You’ve waited until now to buy the CD, you silly girl. And I know you’re super excited about the Traditional Fools 7” coming out this summer. Shirley, there’s so much to look forward to. Let's get some ice cream later.

Tourstache

When packing for a rocknroll weekend, I always leave my razor at home. I have no idea why I do this, but it is very important to me. Occasionally on the road, you’re left with no options except to enjoy being gross, dirty, sweaty. When you’re unshaven, you can truly embrace this. It’s a different life, you see. Tour Life.

Only when I return home to Real Life can I notice and appreciate the strip of comedy that’s grown on my upper lip. It’s hard to get rid of it immediately. Perhaps because it reminds me of all the drunken epiphanies, talking pinball machines and whatnot. So, I wear a tourstache for a little while from time to time.

My moustache has been compared to a wide gamut of personae, ranging from John Waters to Child Molester. It’s funny when I go to a bar, because the bartender assumes I’m some jackass teenager trying to outsmart them with some pathetic facial hair, when really I’m just an idiot who doesn’t know what a “wide gamut” is. If only you could see the look of disappointment on their face when I show them my ID.

(note: there's an incredibly relevant Kids in the Hall sketch for this entry, but the internet has failed me)

The happiest place on earth

My favorite part about traveling to the northwest is that I get to visit the greatest bar on the west coast. Beer. Pinball. Hot dogs. Who knew perfection could be so simple? And yet, only one place has mastered the trifecta: Shorty’s Coney Island in Seattle. It holds the answers to all of life’s problems (the entirety of life’s problems being hunger, boredom, and sobriety).

Each and every spring, I’m filled with the insuppressible urge to migrate north and spend a few euphoric hours at Shorty’s. I wish I could go more often, but I know then it would be less poignant. If I lived in Seattle, I’d probably go there every day for a week, then never go there again. I’m sure it’s better this way.

This past weekend, I indulged in Monster Bash and Medieval Madness, which I believe have all but vanished from the bay area. Playing these antiquated pins, I was instilled with a great peace of mind. The machines spoke to me. They said, “Aaron, don’t worry about your bass guitar. You must move on. If you continue to cling to the past, it will destroy your future.” Then I freed the Mummy, and he said, “That sarcophagus sucked!” Tell me about it.

The man without a bass

I’m back from the Northwest, where the Makes Nice just played a few shows. You should believe me when I say it was fun. Do you require ocular proof?

At the Towne Lounge in Portland, we had to play last of four bands. When you’re an unknown band, it’s especially hard to fight the gravitational pull that persistently draws show-goers back to their places of residence towards the end of the night. We hurried to set up. Immediately into our first song, the strap on my bass came undone, but I refused to stop. I attempted to play strapless, which is as difficult as it is humiliatingly awkward, until I realized the low string had actually broken. Still, I refused to stop. I dropped the bass, since only douchebags carry instruments they’re not playing, and finished the first song. Examining my fallen ax, I noticed it now had a crack in the neck. Broken. All those years, now just a memory.

Since none of the other bands that stuck around had a bass, our friend Joe said he’d rush home to get his. I severely doubted anyone would bother waiting for his return, so I decided to not be a prima donna. In an uncharacteristic moment of spontaneity for the Makes Nice, I grabbed Josh’s spare guitar and we continued rocking in that fashion. A few songs later, Joe carried in his bass, and we finished the set. The five or six people that remained were incredibly charmed and entertained. Totally worth it!

In a way, it was beautiful how I could transcend technical difficulties and inebriation and become a pure, humble vessel of rocknroll. On the other hand, it’s kinda tragic how my ongoing efforts to not be a douchebag can cost me the things I hold so dear. I guess it’s worth it, though. To not be a douchebag. Right…? Anyway, now I have no bass. The tour brought in enough cash to replace it, but my jerk bandmates seem to think that money’s better spent paying for all that gas we just guzzled. Can you believe that?

Gone giggin'

Last September, I moved into Oakland’s famed Cereal Factory. I was spending so much time getting drunk at BBQ’s, cocktail parties, and band practices here that it made too much sense to have a room to pass out in. It’s been pretty great. Even as I write this, the gentle fragrance of Cocoa Pebbles wafts gently through the air.

So, it is with great sadness that I report I’ll be missing the first BBQ show of the season this Saturday. On the bright side, it’s because I’ll be touring, which is probably my favorite thing to do. When you’re single, Tour Life is 100% superior to Real Life. It’s a shame I’ll only be gone four days.

What exactly will the road bring? Good Times Bad Times? Hard to say for sure, but at least I know I’ll have plenty of Early Times. Having familiarized myself with whiskeys sold in glass bottles, I figured it was time to try something new. The plastic “easy tote bottle” tells me that this company has nothing to prove; they’re letting the whiskey speak for itself. And, before too long, I’ll be letting the whiskey speak for me, too!

NOTE: I have received no compensation, financial or otherwise, from the folks at Early Times brand whiskey for the above statements, but if anyone over there wants to hook that up, I’m totally down.

I'm getting older

Earlier this year, I realized I would either have to start exercising or stop drinking so much beer. Obviously, doing both was not an option, nor was the protrusive beer gut... 'cause let's face it, there's money to be made.

So, I strapped on the cheapest possible running shoes and headed over to the nearest body of water I could run around. I need not wax sentimental over the redemptive nature of Lake Merritt on a cool summer morning, but y'know, it's like, pretty and shit. Before long, I was jogging a few times a week, capable of circling the lake in its entirety without walking or feeling sore the next day.

Recently, I've found my knees are not handling the strain too well. Must I invest in good running shoes? Get a job to pay for them? I find myself so suddenly thrust into adulthood, and all because of childish, reckless drinking. Curse this aging frame.

I have returned!

After a year outside of the blogosphere, I have decided to come out of retirement. Why, you ask? Oh, just be grateful, nosy.

Lots of things have changed in the past twelve months. For instance, last week, I started putting amaretto in my scotch instead of drambuie. Most importantly, though, my bangs are now gone, so I must leave behind that tired old handle of mine. Thusly, say hello to the Soda Vine, your window into the non-stop action-adventure that is my life.

All the features of my old LJ will be retained: hating and bitching kept to the minimum; drunken idiocy and rocknroll kept to the maximum; and let's not forget the painstaking attention to grammatical detail. So, while I dust off the old digital camera and remember exactly how to write a decent blog entry, take comfort in anticipation... of greatness!