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.