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!