Orangevales and exquisite corpses

I apologize for the lack of an update yesterday, guys. For reals. But when you're on a tour bus and literally every single person next to you is on their laptop, it has a funny way of bringing the internets to a blog-stifling crawl. I don't know how Sabbath or Zeppelin ever made it without checking their MySpace pages six times a day.

So yesterday we were in Orangevale, California. I was completely unaware that it's a suburb of Sacramento until well after we left. After playing the huge and ornate Grand Ballroom the day before, it was a little weird when we pulled up to the Boardwalk--a mainstay in the rock world but for all intents and purposes, a bar not much unlike one Patrick Swayze might rough up punk-asses in. Obviously the place has some history, gauging by the ceiling covered with autographed guitars and the bathroom covered with stickers (and a love letter to Thrice's Teppei Teranishi right across from the urinals). But it was a sold out show and the place is tiny, so I spent most of the night telling people it's cool that they accidentally grabbed my crotch. 

Unfortunately, Sonny took the night off to rest his throat. That sucked because I caught his set the night before and was immediately sold. His new stuff is like if Circa Survive threw a rave and Depeche Mode handled the catering. 

But the crowd, although probably the smallest of the tour so far thanks to the venue size, was widely regarded as the craziest. The place was vibrating by the time All Time Low took the stage. (The mom that I ran into there, however, insisted that I speak to them about the "potty mouths," which I fully intended to do after the show until I saw Alex running naked through the parking lot screaming about his laundry. Then I chose to wait.)

I met a ton of awesome kids, though, including two who offered to drive me to their places so I could have my first shower in four days. (Showers on tour are worth their weight in gold. Instead of bringing your favorite musician a homemade quilt featuring hand-stitched likenesses of them, just offer them a shower and maybe a place to watch Lost.) Unfortunately, we had an early bus call so we could start the trek to Portland, so here I remain, wallowing in my own squalor. (To be fair, it's not that different from the squalor I live in at home. My hair just looks way worse.)

Once we got on the road, I spent most of the night trying to write this blog without success and writing filthy exquisite corpses (that's where you collaborate on a story with other people but can only read the line before yours) with the Matches. I can't repeat really anything of what we came up with for fear that I will lose both my job and my place in society, but I can tell you that they almost always ended up being about Matt Whalen, much to his chagrin.

Well, I can feel the bus slowing down, so we're approaching our destination in Portland. But if you're coming out tonight, totally stop by the AP booth. Get your free subscription and bring me some food. Mention this blog and I'll give you a poster or a high five (Your choice. Cash value of high five: $2.34.).

AP Tim