Red Light House

For those trying to keep track of the heavily incestuous band member goings on lately, Kevin and Kitt played a gig in Seattle with the, formerly electronica, band Flatline Transmissions. The addition of a live rhythm section has had the effect of adding some much needed rock swagger and energy to the band, and there are some more intangible effects as well…let’s see if you can tell the difference. I’m considering submitting this to “Extreme Band Make-Overs” if there is such a show.

Choice bit from my online traffic school (100% on the final exam, thank you very much):

The use of preset buttons to locate [radio] stations is important, since locating a station should never adversely affect your driving. Additionally, some people combine driving with dancing. Music is often stimulating, yet physical gyrations while driving can interfere and prove to be unsafe.

It’s the morning after our Riptide gig and my voice is shot. The cruel joke about playing small venues is that the place where you’d think you should hear yourself the best sometimes presents the most sound challenges. I could barely hear myself all night which made me sing louder than normal, that coupled with the long sets equals a throat that feels like I gargled with gravel.

That’s the only bad thing about today though, everything else is golden. As I write this Sammi is making a rum cake…if it’s before noon and the cake is already drunk you know is going to be a good day.

85 taqueria’s in 10 weeks, it almost makes me weep.

For every one burrito like El Farolito’s that sent gluttonous thrills down my spine, I ate 10 that made me want to jog to the nearest sushi bar and scrap the whole project. They may all look the same in their silver foil, but underneath the wrapping each burrito is a microcosm of individuality.

Read the Article.

The Porkchop email software is acting wonky and some folks got last week’s gig email and today’s reminder email at the same time. No good. I hope nobody unsubscribes. This is the first time it’s ever messed up in this particular way. I just hate email mess-ups like that…it’s like all our fans are out there thinking, “If those boys can’t reconcile a simple PHP based email application then how are they going to be able to rock the stage with their original and super-awesome brand of country-rock?”

It’s a valid question. The only answer that I can offer you is, “We just can.”

I got pulled over Labor Day doing 85 mph in a 65 zone. I had just been waxing poetic to Sammi about how much prettier 280 is than Highway 101. “It’s got trees everywhere,” I said, “and nice curves that make it fun to drive but aren’t vomit inducing and a great rolling landscape and…Oh shit.” I saw the Smokey smoothly slide in behind me and in the split second where I weighed the pros and cons of slamming on my brakes his lights came on and the siren wailed. I pulled off to side of the road.

After a minute he approached our car, I rolled down the window and began a shock and awe bombardment of apologies and denial.

“License, registration and proof of insurance, please.” he said.

“Sure thing,” I said, handing over the, thankfully current, documentation. “I’m really sorry you had to pull me over.”

“Do you know what the speed limit is here?” he asked.

“I’m sorry. Is it 70? I’m sorry.”

“Nope, it’s 65. Do you know how fast you were going?”

“No, I’m sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.”

“I had you clocked going 85, is there a reason you were speeding?”

“No of course not,” I said, “it was a mistake. I’m so sorry.”

He took my documentation back to his cruiser to make sure I had no warrants out for my arrest (I have none) while Sammi and I discussed the relative merits of the on-line traffic school she had taken before, and I would most likely be taking soon. “You should have told him that I’m pregnant and we’re going to the hospital,” Sammi said, “That’s a good reason for speeding.”

“Yeah,” I said, “pregnant and drunk. That’s a real emergency.”

After a little while the officer came back to my car and handed me my cards. “Well, you answered my question about the reason for your speeding correctly. There is no excuse for speeding. I’m still going to write you up but I’m lowering your recorded speed from 85 to 75+ so you can still look into traffic school.” Then his tone shifted into conversational, “It’s a beautiful Labor Day. Where are you driving up from?”

“Santa Barbara,” I said, no longer feeling the need to apologize now that I’d already gotten the ticket.

“Santa Barbara?” he said somewhat incredulously, “You got through King City and didn’t get pulled over?”

“You’re assuming I was going 85 all the way here.” I smiled. The number was actually closer to 95.

The cop laughed and said, “I’m planning on heading down to Santa Barbara myself in a week, was it nice there?”

“Yes, it was quite lovely.”

“Okay,” he said, patting my car door with his hands, “Pull into the right lane, come up to speed and merge into traffic. You guys have a better day.”

Booking shows for Porkchop is usually a numbers game. Much like the internet daters of this world, when you’re looking to book a show sometime you just have to cast a wide net and see what comes up. You don’t want to get too set on one venue or you’ll get disappointed if they turn you down. There are a few tried and true places that will write me back right away and let me know if they can book us or not, but venues we’ve never played feel no obligation to write back promptly if ever, so it’s best to just email a bunch at a time and see what happens.

99% of our booking is done over email. If you go to any venue’s website you’ll find a link there that leads to booking instructions. Most of them just have an email address where you write and tell them what kind of band you are and how awesome your sound is and that you have thousands of MySpace friends just aching to come out and see you play live.

The few times I’ve emailed El Rio looking to book a gig I get the same response:

Saturdays are booked separately from the club and for that you have to chat up Frank. You can find him Saturdays nights at the club after 9pm. Only way to get him I’m afraid.

and on a separate booking attempt:

Would recommend you speak with Frank, he books our sat night and is generally looking for bands that have draws of no less than 80. To find him, you have to come into the club on a sat night and speak with him personally. He is in most sat nights after 8:30pm. He’s old school but your stuff does fit with what he normally does. Bring a sample and convince him of your draw, pull it off and he will luv ya! Good luck.

How quaint! Actual human interaction is needed to transact business…hmmmm, it makes me feel a little uncomfortable. Like I might have to shake hands with someone or look them in the eye. It gives me a cold chill.Anyway, El Rio is an excellent bar and I’ve had many an enjoyable night there, but it’s not a place I often go so I never got around to going there on a Saturday to track down the elusive Frank, who books all their Country bands and seems to have a lock on Saturday nights. But fortune finally socked me in the head with a roll of quarters yesterday when Sammi and I went to El Rio for their annual Labor Day show: Cowgirl-a-Palooza, or something like that. I had a hunch that Frank would be working during that show so I burned off a sampler CD of Porkchop hits and hastily scrawled our name and contact information on every square inch of the CD and jewel case. It was a professional job all around, I assure you.

When we got to El Rio I asked the woman working the door if Frank was in. “Frank the sound guy?” She said. I told her that sounded like the fellow I was looking for. “Why?” she asked me, suddenly and inexplicably suspicious of my inquiry. I assured her that my intentions were honorable and I just wanted to give him a CD to start the booking process. “He’s working sound right now,” she said, “and I’m not sure what sort of mood he’s in, so good luck.” This was now the second time someone has mentioned the need for “luck” when dealing with Frank. The cold chill was back so Sammi and I headed for the bar where we both expressed reservations about how to go about dealing with this Frank character. I had assumed that this was how he did business. He’d be working sound and someone would come up and give him a CD, but now it seemed Frank might take a swing at me if I caught him at the wrong time. We decided the best course of action would be to do some light reconnaissance, identify Frank and note his mood and drink of choice for I figured I’d better bring him a beer to help wash the CD down.

The back patio of El Rio was a veritable who’s who of the Bay Area Twang scene. I got that eerie feeling where everybody was half-familiar, either from seeing them up on stage, or seeing them in an audience before. We got there just as Four Year Bender was setting up. Great timing as I always enjoy their act and was happy we’d get to see it. We quickly identified Frank as the wiry, grizzled looking gentleman in the AC/DC cap untangling cables on stage and setting up microphones. When he started line checking their vocals and instruments to set the monitor levels he called the lead singer a bitch. My heart sank…this was going to be tough. Then the lead singer quickly retorted, “It’s too early in the show to call me a bitch, Frank.” and a pattern of light-hearted, adversarial banter between Frank and the band quickly became apparent. I was somewhat relieved.

Bender ended their set in fine style, as is their custom, and another band, 77 El Deora, got set up and started playing. I figured I’d better start moving before the Mother Truckers started playing because once they did Frank wouldn’t be able to hear me. I focused my enormous powers of deduction on the massive pile of beer bottles around the sound board and quickly ascertained that Frank was a Budweiser man. So during a slow song I walked over to the sound booth area with a bottle and tapped Frank on the shoulder. I held up the bottle and he took it with a grateful look on his face. “Hi Frank, I’m Collin.” I said and held out the CD, “I wanted to give you this so we could talk about booking a show in December.” He took the CD and looked at it. “I sure you’re busy so I won’t bother you,” I said, “Hopefully we can get in touch.”

“Is this country?” he asked me.

“Uh, Yeah.” I said, and Frank abruptly turned from me and back to his sound board. I quickly headed back into the audience, thankful that I hadn’t been assaulted, but also feeling a little let down by the anti-climax of it all.

We’ll see how it pans out. I have calls out to two more clubs so I won’t get my heart broken.

Last year Sammi bought me a gift certificate for a cooking class. I chose the grilling workshop because if I was going to take a cooking class I was damn well going to take a MANLY cooking class. The class was held in an indoor kitchen so we wound up using grill pans and not actual grills but regardless it was a lot of fun and I learned some good stuff. After the class they let us loose on the store, armed with new skills and a 20% discount we found ourselves buying silicon brushes, tongs and looking at cast-iron grill pans. I wound up purchasing an enormous beast of a grill pan made by Lodge. It stretches across two stove burners, has raised grill ridges on one side and a smooth griddle surface on the other…it also weighs roughly as much as your average 2 door car.

We’ve used it on several occasions with great success. It’s long enough that you can lay an entire skirt steak across it and it makes bitchin’ grill marks. The only problems come into play once the cooking is done and it’s time to clean up. Trying to finagle a rocket-hot hunk of metal that heavy into the sink is no easy task, and, as has been mentioned by a certain live-in girlfriend, I have some less pleasant tendencies that come to the forefront in the kitchen…basically that despite my best efforts at an easy going nature sometimes, not all the time, I get a little controlling and pig-headed. Basically there is a way I want the grill pan cleaned and Sammi has quickly figured out that I’m going to be a dick about it so she just doesn’t even bother with it most of the time.

Last month Sam’s brother and sister-in-law sent us a brand spanking new All-Clad grill pan. We debated briefly the merits of having two grill pans but became so enamored with it’s shiny surfaces and non-stick loveliness that we agreed that we could find room for it. It may have saved our relationship.

While it’s not as large and doesn’t quite get the righteous grill marks the Lodge does, it still does a mighty fine job of indoor grilling. Best of all, once we’re done with it, the non-stick surface basically wipes clean with no effort at all. Angels sing and unicorns weep each time we put it away after a successful dinner.

Now the biggest problem is that I’m starting to covet more fancy All-Clad pans…I’m ashamed to admit it. Not having the space for power tools or cars or boats I guess this kitchen fetish will have to play out eventually. Until then, who wants to grill up some steak?