The reason I should only post once daily

You know what's the weirdest part about going to a hearing center to get earplugs made? It's that everyone there is at least eighty years old and that half of them sort of smelled like Necco Wafers.

The good part is that now, I won't go deaf. So that's a plus.

Alright. So, today, besides responding to Underrated's kindly request for a cross-country jaunt (see below), and weighing the pros and cons of visiting the hearing center, I'm listening to our second reference mix of Alabama...and it sounds really good. Brad would call it "hype." I would agree.

By the way: that puts us about three fourths of the way there. Allow me to have a seizure of glee.

Thanks. That felt nice.

I'm ashamed to admit I probably wrote this whole post to make a Necco Wafer joke. You have my deepest apologies. Tomorrow?

Watch your back, Zagnut Bar!

A response

Dearest Underrated,

It's so nice to hear from you. We haven't seen you guys since Jeremy's bris---and what a disaster that was.

So, thanks so much for writing to us. We'd love to come New York is like San Francisco's fatter, more distinguished brother, you know. It's the brother that doesn't smell like bum pee (or, as much like bum pee), stays out later, and gets all the good banking jobs. And good clubs too, you say. Well, we've heard tell of many, but the only time I've ever been to New York, all I did was admire views from tall buildings and struggle with a row boat in Central Park. And you dance, you say? Well, they dance out here too, but they don't dance everywhere, and we like going places where, at the very least, the crowd does some God's honest toe-tapping. Ass-shaking is thoroughly superior, of course.

And that video you have? Aw. That ain't shit. I mean, we don't like tooting our horn, but that was a show in a basement long ago. Imagine what might happen if there was, oh, I don't know, a PA, or room to breathe? The possibilities are endless.

So, it's a date. We're going to have to keep it open-ended, but y'all are famous for your hospitality. Once we get this CD out and get our transportation issues squared away, we'd love to come, have one of those meaty, cubic sandwiches, and play as many shows as you'll let us. And of course, we'll be sleeping on your couch.

Very Truly Yours,
Birdmonster

p.s. Don't think we didn't notice the Stevie Wonder-y title to your letter. You are the sunshine of our lives.

Wait. We're leaving when? I see...Right...Excuse me. I need to have a seizure.

Looks like this is it: my last week of work. Which is not to say I won't be waiting tables by month's end. Hell, I could be on the corner, tap dancing with my banjo for your coffee change. But, the old, tried and true nine-to-five: that's done. Yet, I'm getting ahead of myself. I've got a couple more days, so I best sit tight. I think all the clocks here have stopped anyway.

In sharp contrast to the molasses-y boredom here at the workplace, the weekend in birdmonsterland was rather eventful. We got the final mix for a yet unnamed song and a really rough but really wonderful mix of a ass-shaking sort of ditty called Alabama. Not much can be said except that the first exceeded my expectations, while the second will be doing so shortly. It has that feel to it already. Katrina, our resident designer-of-all-things-except-show-posters-and-the-website, made a glorious shirt which is going to press today as well as some business cards, which are boring to you, but make me feel rather saucy. I feel like I should be smoking a pipe at all times if I have business cards, but I'm unsure exactly where this feeling comes from.

We also dealt with our transportation debacle...and by that I mean we had a spirited discussion & woke up this morning without a van but with a plan, which rhymes, so you know there's something to it.

In fact, there's an overwhelming feeling right now that everything's coming to a head. Because, well, it is. Funny how that works out.

But I have faith. I'm an optimist. You get lemons, you make lemonade. You got no van, you go get one. Or, you take the most ferocious cross-country bike ride of all time. That would make for some good pictures, at the very least. Plus, I'd wear one of those old Harley helmets, you know, the ones that sort of look like plastic yarmukles? Yeah. I'd look smooth with that on.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go get some putty squirted into my ears so I don't go deaf.

Translator needed

So I just read this book where one of the main characters had the same name as me. I think it was making me feel batty and schizophrenic. It's over and already I feel healthier. Don't I, Justin? Yes, yes you do. Precciioooussss.

So I went back to the morning paper this morning, which was filled with bombings, ladies falling like drunks while figure skating, and a fairly impossible crossword---no, I don't remember who the "captive of sea nymph Calypso" is. I'm sorry.

What does this teach us? Well, only that if it doesn't involve birdmonster, my brain turns into a mashed potato-esque clump of uselessness. At least these days. Intelligence, I pray, will return again.

We got song seven yesterday too. Instrument switches, slide guitars, and big gross rock outs abound within. Plus, Peter gets to play my big ugly bass, which he must enjoy. Actually, did I ever mention that I couldn't even record with that thing? We got it "set-up" in the City, which basically meant that someone lowered the action and changed to intonation so that it didn't sound like the same instrument which caused me to weep for forty days. Thankfully, we had an old trusty back up which is less abused but, in the end, identical.

But man: seven songs...Before we know it that number will be twelve & then they'll be mastered & then, well, then we can share. I'm looking forward to that part.

Oh: and thanks again to all you presale folks. I didn't know people in Wisconsin or the Netherlands knew who we were, but, apparently, I was mistaken. If I could only speak Dutch or...Wisconsin-ese...

I need to be quiet now

I was thinking about our stint in LA while out on my not-so-hard-earned lunch break today, probably because I've basically got a one-track mind right now (must release CD....must release CD) and I realized I don't think we've even mentioned the name. How 'bout that? So, time to remedy that oversight. The album will be called "No Midnight."

...

Whoa. That was sort of anti-climactic. Well, now you know. And like GI Joe said, knowing is half the battle. The other half of the battle, is, of course, buying the CD. "Whoa" yet again. That was shameless.

Before this post spirals any further out of control, I'm going to retire. I'm still wearing all black & am in serious mourning mode (see below). However, since I spent roughly four thousand hours on it, I thought I'd share the poster for our upcoming show. My favorite part? The eskimo.



And with that, I think I'll retire. I'm a bit sleepy after a dinner with my folks and a late night of agonizing photoshoppery. Good luck with Thursday. Me and him, we ain't getting along so well.

A eulogy. Or is that "an eulogy"? Either way.

Dearly beloved; we are gathered here today to get through this thing called---wait. Wait. That's a Prince song. Let's start over.

Dearly beloved; we are gathered here today to bid a fond farewell to your friend and mine: the birdvan. It was a brave van, a van that defied the odds, that cost 800 dollars and made it up and down the West Coast more times than it should have. It died, like so many vans, by the cruel, overworking it's masters gave it. That and a bum radiator. And transmission. And a broken radio. And that weird sound that the seat made everytime you went over a speed bump too fast. At any rate, birdvan, we'll miss you. I hope the man we gave you to will treat you nice, or, at least gut you proper and put your five working parts into finer automobiles, such as a Gremlin or a Rabbit. Rest in peace, buddy.

Half way, huh?

Back on the computer. Good lord. I spent all last night arguing with photoshop while trying to color a poster and keeping the areas I wanted filled with blue ink from bleeding everywhere in an infuriating, fustigating catastrophe. In fact, the only time I wasn't on the computer last night was when I was eating fried chicken and when I was showering, which I actually considered doing simultaneously, but thought better of it.

While chained to my computer, I did happily receive the sixth song's final mix, making the album, officially, half-way mixed. I'm sure Brad's a lot more relieved than I, considering the entirety of my contribution are phone calls, emails, and nitpicking after a few hours of careful listening, while his is more like an unfathomable amount of minute & large changes arrived at after something like three hundred thousand listens. The song in question yesterday was All the Holes in the Walls, the second track on our EP, which we re-recorded a little more like we play it live: raucous & boot-stompy-er. It's different enough from the EP to keep me smiling. Pete had his late night/ early morning gruffness going, which lends the song a much different vibe.

Beyond that, I mean, I have to be honest: I'm boring. Nothing happened to me yesterday. Literally. I sat in a hard wood chair for 6 hours after sitting in a soft faux-leather one for 8 hours. I'm lucky I escaped that seething ass-pain that truckers get when they drive from Seattle to Burbank in one day. At any rate, we're mere days away from finishing the van logistics, which means Vegas, which means...trouble. And, actually a lot of little details are slowly falling into place, but, hey, they're not worth hearing about till they've actually fallen into their various places.

And I want to thank all the folks who purchased an LP yesterday. Truly, truly appreciated.

(there's a link over there on your right, in case you're curious)

Back to Lalaland. For some of us, at least

Ah, President's Day. There's really nothing like having a nine to five and getting paid to sleep on a Monday. It's like having your cake, eating it too, and having that cake give you some sort of superpowers; not unlike that radioactive bon-bon which gave the Incredible Hulk his crime fighting powers. But I digress.

Today finds both Dave & Pete down in Los Angeles*, back at the Castle, keeping Brad company whilst he mixes, mixes, and mixes some more. Of course, I don't think they've shown up yet, considered that we're still safe ensconced in the AM. Anyway, they're there for moral support, to try out a few small ideas that turned out impossible to explain over the phone or email, and to pick up Zach's itinerant cymbals, which, although rusty, ugly, and jangly, are the only cymbals we've got. They have that well-worn sort of sound. They're the percussion equivalent of that really comfy chair your roommates want you to throw out because it's hideous & sort of smells like hobo sweat, but it's just too soft to get rid of. They'll be flying home on Thursday.

Also, if you wouldn't mind, look over there to your right. Under the stupid joke about us being from Bangladesh. See that? Yep. We're on pre-sale, people. I promise to not harp on that, but, hey, I figure if you're reading this, maybe you'd like to buy a CD. I can promise nothing less than a dozen songs we're very, very proud of with absolutely no filler. We're not Aerosmith here people. We're not giving you a single, a joke-song, and 10 meandering rip offs of 40s blues ditties. No. We would never do such a thing. It's going to be like the EP, times roughly a million. Maybe two.

Oh. And for a moment, let me share my joy. I just did a bit of arithmetic and discovered I have eight, count 'em, eight work days left. And that's counting today. I just twitched with glee.

Which reminds me: we don't have a van. We don't have a van but we've got to leave shortly. We've got our peepers and hearts set on one that may involve Zach & I flying to Vegas (danger! danger!) to pick it up. But, hey, you never know. For now, we're still waiting for one of you readers to send us the genetically engineered sperm of that cheetah-man hybrid you told us all about. If we go down to Vegas, you can expect hilarity. No amount of poorness will dissuade me from the craps table. I'm a degenerate like that.

I have a feeling this will be an interesting week. Stay tuned. For now, enjoy your MonTuesday. I'm finishing a poster tonight too that I want to share with everyone. It has a brontosaurus (which don't and never did exist), a mustachioed man with a top hat, a walrus, and an eskimo. If that doesn't spell kick-ass, I'm not sure what does.



*How much does that link remind you of Ghostbusters 2? Oh. It's just me. Somebody put on the Jackie Wilson and get this sludge back to it's sewer home.

Pass the Zach & potatoes

Last night, we had a phone interview after a fairly exhausting practice. I always feel silly doing interviews. I just don't like talking about myself, which seems weird, I'm sure, since this blog is such shameless and unveiled self promotion, but typing little blurbs at home or at work is well within my comfort zone. It's the phone yammering that clams me up.

Anyway, I bring this up only because we were asked my favorite question we've yet been asked in a situation like that: "If you four were on a desert island, who gets eaten first?"

Now, this requires serious thought. I based my answer on who'd be the tastiest, which would be Zach, because, hey, he's got the most meat on his bones and I think, in a nice coconut milk marinade, he's taste kind of like Tom Kha Gai. Later, the point was made that Zach would be far more valuable on a desert island than most of us, since he worked construction & seems to be adept at jerry-rigging. So Dave was suggested. But I think he'd be all sinew and, if the island didn't have dental floss, it'd be pretty aggravating to walk around with leg of Dave wedged under my bicuspid. In retrospect, my answer is this: have Zach rig up a barbeque, try and fix the boat, and then kill & eat him. Hey. It's rough out here. Don't judge me.

And that just reminds me of that band Fine Young Cannibals, who I will now get in your head: "She drives me crazy, and I cain't he-eelp myse-ee-eelf (oo! oo!)"

I guess since this is a journal about an album and not late '80s pop acts or the Donner party I should mention some news. Thing is, we didn't get a new mix last night. Which means its probably coming this morning, but I'm impatient and wanted to get some typing done before that happened. Plus, listening to music at work with my hated RadioShack earphones (which live here because, well, it seems appropriate) is never a real test of quality. I could listen to Vivaldi on those things and get sad. So, I'll keep today light and wish everyone a happy President's Day weekend. Take some time Monday to remember that, once, the executive branch wasn't filled with guys who shotgunned their friend's face.

Paging Dr. Morreau...man that was a terrible movie

San Francisco is a funny place. About a year ago, we banned cigarettes in public parks, but not golf courses, while yesterday we shut down a golf course because of some endangered frogs hang out there. The obvious answer? Make sure to give the frogs some nice cuban cigars. Then everyone's pissed off.

Hundreds of miles south, Brad continues carving songs like they were a roast beast in Whotown. He is most likely not surrounded by cigar-smoking frogs. Last night, we got the final mix of our fourth song, which put the album at thirteen minutes and fifty two seconds so far, on it's way to the mid forties, with twelve tracks over all---a dozen, without the extra cruller thrown in for good measure. Although, strangely enough, we've been waffling about adding this weird little ditty we did in Brad's living room to the album for a week, so we actually get the baker's dozen after all. I remarked a few weeks ago that 13 songs was certainly bad luck, until Zach reminded me that Fugazi's first album is actually called "13 songs" which shut my fat mouth good and proper. In fact, I should listen to Waiting Room right now.

Well. That was a good idea. Of course, I listened to it on these earphones I got at Radioshack, which in the last week have proved the law of Radioshack, that being: "All things bought at Radioshack will either break, explode, or electrocute you within ten weeks of purchase." If you see Terry Bradshaw, punch him in the face for me.

In fact, why do I even own these things? The left earphone works maybe thirty of the time I use it. I'm going to go Gallagher on these things. Nurse, pass the sledgehammer.

Today, we're all waiting for song five. It's a mystery as to what it will be and I like surprises, so it's all gravy. The one we got yesterday is (amazingly enough) still unnamed, even though it's the oldest song on the album. In fact, it's the third song we ever wrote. You'll never hear the first one if you ain't heard it already, while the second song, well, it's the last one on the EP. I love that one.

Now, we try & get a van. Either that or a team of highly trained, extremely fast sherpas. Maybe some sort of man-cheetah hybrid. That'd be nice. You know any place we can find those?

A fairly scatterbrained midweek blurb

Here's a little known fact: I'm still working. At least until the end of the month, when my official resignation goes into effect and Birdmonster takes to the road in a yet unpurchased vehicle. So, what is that? Two weeks? Two and a half? Could you hurry it on up, February? This is really getting ridiculous.

Naturally, there are good things about work. The paycheck, for starters, and of course there's the computer, which is the ultimate weapon in our fight against Taylorism. But today just has the earmarks of an eye-gougingly bad Wednesday: the stinky bus ride filled with elbows to the ribcage, the coffee that tastes suspiciously like dirt, the pissy co-worker or three...pass the pharmaceuticals.

But like I said, the days are numbered and that number is about twelve. After that, a short tour to Texas and back, followed by the release of our LP, which, by the way, is now one third of the way mixed.

We're self-releasing this puppy and that's both exciting and scary because, hey, who knows what life will be like come June or July: we could be filled with love, galavanting across the midwest in a 30-person van or playing our songs in the BART station in front of an upturned fedora filled with dimes.

Me? I'm an optimist. Plus, I'm loving the songs we've got already. It's interesting to see the order in which Brad is mixing them. He's gone through the slower, mellower ones, and is kind of working his way up to the all-out rockers that make up a majority of the disc. In other words, my ears will be bleeding by next Thursday.

Last thing: if you want to read more nonsense we wrote, go right ahead. Thanks to David at LHB. That was rather fun.

I think we should all write poems. Give it a try

So, yeah. It's Valentine's day. You can write it off as a Hallmark holiday or be bitter that all you've got this year is your extensive porno collection, but, I choose to look at it like Christmas. Sure it's commercialized and borderline ludricrous, but it's still a good reason to spread some love around, right? And, like a true romantic, Birdmonster uses poetry to spread it's unending adoration. Finding it impossible to remember the rhyme scheme of a Petrucian sonnet, we have chosen instead to go for a timeless haiku.

To Brad, our platonic valentine, who's doubtless in front of his computer as I type:

Tell Buddy hello;
We miss that little fuzzer;
At least my check cleared*

Well. Master Basho is surely rolling in his grave.

At any rate, with more seriousness, we do want to send our thanks to Brad. The man is a godsend, a perfectionist who loves clamorous rock and roll, and who works harder in one day than I do in an entire work week. We salute you.

By virtue of the gentleman I just serenaded with impeccable poetic panache, we received our third finished mix yesterday. The song he finished is Ice Age, which is my favorites to play live, both because it's a pretty & kind of odd song, and also because I don't have to play anything for the first sixty seconds & I usually could really use a beer by the time we're playing it. It's the only song I've ever heard with buttery cello and what almost sounds like a cattle round-up at the end. And you think I'm kidding.



* for the sake of this poem, let's agree that "cleared" is one syllable, okay? Great.

Welcome to the Working Week

While buying my ceremonial croissant this morning, the radio in my coffee shop treated me to the soothing sounds of Richard Marx. It was at this point where I remembered how my weekend had been full of GOOD music and that Richard Marx was a fitting auditory punishment on a Monday morning. And if you're a Richard Marx fan, I apologize. I hope we can move on.

See, this weekend was chock full of wonderful Bay Area bands and Birdmonster mixes, none of which remotely reminded me of "Right Here Waiting." We got a song called No Midnight mixed and in the bag this weekend, which is one we used to play live until the logistics of instrument switching and miked banjos dissuaded us for the last few months. I mentioned it early and said it had a "civil war-y" sort of vibe and, well, I know that might not make sense, but it will when you hear it. It has the bonus of being a one-take sort of song, with Pete's vocals & guitars being done at once, during our third day. We were thinking of recording the whole ditty at Brad's house, but, lo and behold, the version we got at Grand Master remains one of everyone's favorites from the whole session. I even got to sing at the end. But have no fear. It's more of a sing-a-long, yelp sort of thing than a showcasing of my non-existant harmonizing abilities. These would frighten and scar you and the CD is supposed to do the exact opposite.

Which brings me back to good music and Saturday night. We were invited to Oakland to play the Metro with Street to Nowhere, Poor Bailey, IO (I mean, Dear Static), and Brilliant Red Lights. I'm telling you kids, it was three or four hours of five goddamn rocking bands for about $2 each. We had a blast. There were fiddles backstage, for crying out loud.

At the end of the show though, something odd happened. A guy who looked strangely familiar approached me and asked me if we'd visited a guy named Trevor in LA while we were recording. Turns out we had, as Trevor was our guitar fairy godmother, getting us fancy electrics for an overdub or two and pointing Dave & I in the direction of a tech who would work on our instruments & not leave them in state of sad disrepair. So, after saying, "yeah, we know Trevor," this guy says "I'm Matt. I came in the Trevor's office when he was giving you guys directions." Not a thrilling story, I admit, but one with a point. The music world is a tiny place. I would have never expected to see a Los Angeles native we'd met a month before up at an all ages gig in Oakland, let alone expected that he'd be working with the aforementioned Street to Nowhere. So, if you'll excuse me, I have to walk to Walgreens & apologize to Richard Marx. I think he's working the register on aisle 3.

Back in email watching mode. In fact, these next 2 weeks may well scar my retinas permanently. Where’s the next song? I ask myself as I filter through myspace friend requests, spam, random well-wishes & returned emails from folks whose sloppy mailing list entries left us guessing. Oh well. We’ll all be cyborgs soon, so I’m just getting a head start.

The nice thing is Balcony is done. Really done. There it is. My iTunes says “Balcony FINAL” and that’s something I’ve been waiting to see since I bought that melodica at the garage sale down the street. It was either that or buy that old dude’s vibraphone, but I didn’t have $400 cash to drop on someone’s driveway, so I went with the mouth piano. At any rate, we’re nearer every day to a finished product and nearer to letting one of these tracks out of the bag for one and all. So I’m not complaining. I get to sit here, listening to BAGeL radio, babbling into this here blog, and scheming like a supervillian. Not complaining in the slightest.

Of course, recent and upcoming events don’t and won’t necessarily lend themselves to exciting reading, but I’ll do my best. There’s only so long I can keep your interest while typing about staring at a computer. Hell, that’s what you’re doing. This is about songs, goddamnit. I’ll continue scheming so that the next post can be rife with the wonders of Birdmonster. Rife, I say. Or rather, I said. Either way.

Hey. I should mention this too:

HAPPY BIRTHDAY PETER! I owe you a cupcake. If not two.

Next time...the album title? New pictures? A summary of the recent events in Tehran? You never know. Until then.

Triumphs both boring and fantastic

In the few minutes I have before my dentist lacerates my gums, I thought I’d do something that’s actually enjoyable, namely, writing a little bit on the ol’ blog.

First off, see that fairly blurry picture down there? The one with eight Rudolph-noses and Brad’s hand at the bottom? That’s the Scully. The Scully is our friend. It’s an old ‘60s 8-track that we recorded a good deal of vocals & rough acoustic stuff through & it will be all over the album. Zach, our resident photographer, wept when I asked him to put up a picture that blurry, but the Scully needed some love and attention, so there it is.

Now, onto triumphs both boring and fantastic.

Let’s go with boring first. We got a bank account. We scoped out a van to replace our once trusty white and orange behemoth. We feel like professionals. Sadly, the bank account will be cavernous and echo-y for quite some time, but it will enable us to close the door on CD Baby & sell our EP proper-like from home. The LP will be elsewhere, but more on that later.

Ho-hum. Like you care about the bank account. I wouldn’t either. But it’s a nice step some level of grown-up professionalism, which, if you know me, is not exactly a quality I exude. I’ve got more of that “wait, you’ve been employed before?” look about me.

Here’s the good stuff: We got a mix. A wonderful one, at that. It’s for the song Balcony, which is one of our longer, more layered ditties. When I heard it for the first time last night, I think I shivered with glee. The instruments sound so much more separate (yet together…confused?) than they did on the roughs we took with us from LA and on earphones, the song is really rather subtle and pretty. Earphone enjoyment’s always been a big deal for me, since I avoid human contact on the bus every morning with the aid of giant, DJ-sized ear muffs, so hearing it like that…well…I’m still smiling. We sent back a small couple suggestions, but Brad knew exactly what we wanted. It must have been the secret telepathic nudgings from up coast…either that, or he’s great at his job. Take your pick.

It’s novacaine time. Pray for me.

We're once again daily; prepare yourselves

Down here in the birdbasement, it’s rather cold. This is owed to a hundred year old house with ill-fitting windows, hardwood floors, and cracks under the doors so large that a small horse could trot underneath. Why am I here, you ask. Well, for one, I’m back to blogging---now that something’s happening---and two, I’m watching my email. It’s kind of like watching paint dry, except less colorful. But soon, something glorious will appear.

See, we’re waiting for our first song to be emailed back to us from Brad’s house, affectionately mocked as the Pink Castle. The triumph of the internet is that we can be hundreds of miles away and still have a mixing process with some give & take, without us sitting on Brad’s comfy chairs making obvious suggestions. He stays saner, we sleep in our own beds. The natural order gets preserved.

But it isn’t here yet. Wait! We got an email! Ah. If you’ll excuse me, there’s a Liberian man-orphan who needs me to do some banking for him.

Last night, us four birdmonsters sat around in our lair and schemed for hours. We got to see specs for the album art (which is being made by the same lovely lady who provided us our EP art, Katrina), discussed our lack of viable transport (unicorns were suggested), and ate MSG soaked chow fun. All went gloriously, especially seeing the cover, which was far more fun than contemplating our imminent trip to debtor’s prison.

With mixes coming daily, art being updated, and birdmonster getting its overall shit in gear, I’m going to be once again blogging daily. Sure, there won’t be stories about hunting sharks with small rodents, but there might be an amusing anecdote here and there. Not to mention a song which we’ll sneak up somewhere for those of you who are paying attention. Plus, if you’re reading this, you’re probably at work, and you know these last five paragraphs were way better than the operations meeting you’ve got scheduled in the small conference room at 1 p.m.

Until tomorrow.

Well, we made it.

It turns out there are other people in the world. I remembered this last night at our free Mezzanine show, which left me with a big fat grin, a few dead nerves in my pinkie, and quiet inklings of tinnitus. After all, us four birdmonsters have been quarantined in LA for three works, spending time only with each other and Brad. If we were women, we’d’ve been menstruating simultaneously. At any rate, it was good to get back into the real world and back to San Francisco, which, regardless of where you’re coming from, is a great place to come home to. My umbrella, it missed me.

As for the birdvan, she’s sorry she couldn’t make it home. She tried. She really did. But an exploding radiator and an apparent allergy to transmission fluid kept her down in Los Angeles, where she will no doubt be donated to charity with a floor full of crushed Cheez-its, crumbled t-shirts, and food of questionable age. We’ll miss you darling. Au revoir.

So, thus begins the later half of our album-making experience. Mixes will be transported through the wilderness of cyberspace and sent back down to Brad with our cogent, genius commentary, then sent back to us, then back to Brad, and so on: apply, rinse, lather, repeat, ad nauseum, until the album is done. It sounds like a good reason to stare at the computer and to get my iPod fixed. I’m sure you’ll agree.

As the mixing lopes along, I plan on updating the blog, perhaps with a few old pictures, and hopefully linking a song for streaming when it’s properly mixed. It’ll be fun, I promise. As for now, I’m just happy to be in my own bed, not mooching off the generous couches of LoCal-ers. Now, if only I could figure out what happened to all that money I left with…