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.