A belated and incredibly long history of the end of last week

Since we spoke last, loud shows have been played,
pancakes have been eaten, and Division Day have
been deported. Well, "deported" isn't the right
word. More like "never allowed into." The lesson:
Canadian border guards know all about Google, and
they will use it for purposes of evil.

But I get ahead of myself. We should start with
Seattle. And let me tell you, Seattle was a
genuinely weird experience. The sheer amount of
lunatic vagrants in a one block radius shocked all
four of us and, well, I was pretty sure San
Francisco was at least the West Coast's densest
hub of shitcrazy hobos. So, hats off Seattle.
You've won this round.

My favorite was an overweight lady---"lady" used
in the loosest sense of the word---who wore only
denim shorts, flip-flops, and a bikini top, and
wandered over to us slurring "I'm too sexy for this
shirt." Let it be known: I disagreed.

So we played Seattle, stayed in a motel and spent
the next driving to Spokane, doing a podcast dealy,
playing "Name that Bloke"*, and finally playing one
of those rowdy shows. I love those. The podcast
can be found here: www.spokane7.com (sorry I
can't do the html coding from here. Come to think
of it, we haven't been able to hear it yet, as we've
been computerless. David's cyborg soul is rusting).
All the folks who put on the show were
enthusiastic and helpful, so thanks for that, guys.
See the asterisk for the bloke, if you dare.

The next day, we split up from Division Day so
they could get Canada's front door shut in their
face and went down to the aforementioned castle.
Needless to say, we had the better day. Poor
guys. I really wanted them to bring us some funny
money too.

We've been having a blast with those guys, by the
way and enjoying their set more each night. This is
our first tour with the same band on the bill, night
in, night out, and we couldn't have chosen wiser.
Sure, they're all crazy, but it's a good crazy. More
"eccentric" than human-heads-in-your-freezer
crazy, for sure.

Which brings us, in a roundabout way to last night's
Portland show, which, truth be told, is probably
my favorite of the trip. We played in a cramped
dive with Spiderman playing cards for drink
tickets, a bar with no sound man, a dinner table
sized stage, but it was perfect. Both bands ended
up onstage with the other, slamming tamborines
into walls and bouncing around like idiots. People
from the instore we played showed up, and fliers
handed out on the sidewalk actually brought people
inside. A few friends of friends and blog reading
folk found that little whole in the wall too, helped
us close it down, and made us want to come back
to Portland as soon as we can. Then, why, back to
the castle of course, for slurred conversation and
sleep and the blessed absence of swordplay.

And now, we're driving. Saturday we play Chico in
the afternoon and a skating rink in San Jose at
night. I hope Rohner plays on rollerblades while
wearing a fannypack, but I doubt that'll happen. A
boy can dream.

This mobile internet thing just made a really
depressing, deflated sort of noise, so I'm out of
time. Be home soon, but for now, onwards.

* name that bloke is a thoroughly asinine game
without many rules. I think the only way it's fun is
if you've spent enough time in a van that your
brain begins devouring itslef. Basically, one person
thinks of a guy. Someone famous. And everyone
else guesses. Hints are disallowed. Games go on
for days. They're totally maddening.

Ryan's was Latrell Sprewell. We've been guessing
Brett's since Tuesday.

A certainly incomplete account of the last three days or so

Allow me to state the obvious: castles are awesome. Unless you're a
thirteenth century serf or something, which I hope you aren't. Castles
are like cowboys and dinosaurs and pirates; some things are so awesome
they cannot be denied. The thing is, you don't run across too many
cowboys or pirates nowadays, and you can only see dinosaurs in the very
best zoos, so the truly awesome can seem unattainable. For us, that all
changed in Salem.

See, we Birdmonsters and Division Dayers stayed in a Castle. And yeah,
that's capitalized on purpose. We're talking suits of armor,
taxidermied boar heads, wall-mounted swords, pipe organs, turets, stone
walls---hell, they had a dungeon with a skeleton in it. A plastic
skeleton, mind you, which was certainly reassurring, but there was a
dungeon. I know. You're sure I'm joking. At the very least exagerrating.
Just wait for the pictures.

Salem was the second stop on this now four day old tour and the castle
was the property of DDay's drummer Kevin's Aunt and Uncle. I wish I
could say they were wearing velvet capes, but, sadly, they were not.
They were benevolent monarchs who took us out for pancakes and fed us
beer and even came out to the show at the Ike Box in Salem. See, if the
kings and queens of yore were that thoughtful, there wouldn't have been
all those nasty peasant revolutions and all that unfortunate beheading.
The show they attended in Salem was a ball and we learned something
important too: don't book an all-ages show on Prom night. That tends to
hurt the draw. Oh. And the band that headlined, the Black Black Black,
were awesome. Not castle awesome, but certainly dinosaur awesome.
There's a subtle, important difference.

After the show was when we saw the castle for the first time, at night,
all underlit like some Czech stone monstronsity. I went inside and
cackled in every room. I still can't get over it, obviously. Tours were
given, beers were drank, sleep was had. The next day, we went down to
the castle's sheep pasture (true) and played a ferocious game of
wiffleball. And let this be a warning to you: don't play wiffleball in a
sheep pasture. Poop everywhere. Including Brett's jeans.

That night we had the innevitable blotto show in Portland, which I blame
on 50 cent PBRs. I think all members of both bands ended up playing some
sort of percussion implement for the other, as we combined to create the
savage being Rohner named Bivisionmonster. It was my favorite show thus
far---sure it was...modestly attended and a little sloppy, but anytime
you can stumble onstage with a tamborine and rock out with your friends
is a good time.

I owe you a story about Seattle and the woman with seven stomach rolls,
a bikini top, and a permenent place in The Haggard Old Cow-Woman Hall of
Fame, but this is long enough thus far. Pictures soon---I hope---and
Spokane tonight. L'chaim.

Oh Lord, we just drove through Lo-di a-gain

We're at one of those parts of the 5 where you
don't see anything but truckers and call boxes,
finally giving the van it's first real workout. She's
doing marvelously. Wait. Can I call a van
purportedly named Patrick Stewart, "she"? Yeah. I
think it's okay. Even if it means our transportation
is a wig-wearing, trannie-Patrick-Stewart.
Especially if it means that, now that I think about
it. Would you mess with Patrick Stewart in a red
dress and heels? Exactly.

We just recently figured out the intricate
Tetris-y arrangement of gear in the back too,
which is an important step in a young van's life.
Soon, it's voice will start changing. It's also nice to
not be inhaling coolant fumes or hearing
mysterious rattling noises. I think Pete feels a
little guilty that we've moved on so fast after
being widowed by the birdvan, but we've impressed
upon him that it's for the best. The period of
greiving is over. We aren't GreekOrthodoxMonster.

Tonight started the grand Divison Day,
Birdmonster tour, a week we've been looking
forward to since, well, basically since we started
recording in January. A little background here: us
three, non-Peter folks met their drummer Kevin
maybe six years ago before an At the Drive-In
show through Brett, who also designed our first
website, who also came along for the trip. I know:
very incestual, very Jerry Springer. It's alright, I
promise. Now we get to scurry across the Land of
Plenty with them, and, hopefully, kick their lilly
asses at some basketball. This must happen.

We played the Kazem tonight, over in Brentwood,
which is always, always a pleasure. Everyone's
always all enthusiastic and clap-along, the folks
that run it are honest, and they run it well, and
you can buy some thoroughly brutal hotdogs after
it's all done. Division Day ruled on-stage, then
later ruled barbershop quartet style in the parking
lot and we had a ball ourselves and I got the
bloodstains to prove it; so, all in all, a good start
to this whole shindig. Some special San Franciscans
even came out to send us off. I wish they
would've crushed a bottle of champagne on the
van, but, you can't get everything you wish for.

Alright. Now, I'm going to bliss out to this Ryan
Adams CD and eat my Cheetos. See you tomorrow.

So this is what Lawrence Welk feels like

I got up at the crack of 1 this afternoon, a little groggy but damn smiley. Last night's CD-release shindig took a lot out of us all, especially some part of my knee, and we're looking forward to a day of pre-tour laundry, tire changes, and all the other preperatory duties necessary before living in a van for a few weeks. In other words, we'll be running errands. So, rather than talk about today, let's wallow in the past. Shall we?

We want to send a heartfelt thanks to everyone who spent a too-late Wednesday night with us, celebrating, drinking, and who probably all hate me because of that whole "crack of 1" comment I made a paragraph ago. To the Mezzanine, who basically gave us the run of the place, did their usual phenomenal job with the sound & lighting, and taught us that there are kinds of champagnes that aren't Cook's. And, as it turns out, those taste better too. We really don't have much to say except give our thanks. It was, at the risk of sounding Hallmark-y, a really special night.

Damn, that sounded Hallmark-y.

Anyway, sometime sappiness is just what the doctor ordered. And I'm feeling sappy. In fact, I'm feeling like hippies pretend to feel: all full of love for all things. I'm like the Dali Lama over here, except slightly taller and with way more hair.

There's a few things that must be said about the coming weeks. One is that we leave with Division Day tomorrow for about a week (in which I think we play ten shows) and then come back to The City to play with Art Brut at the Great American Music Hall before tagging along with them for four or five shows. So, May 1st is our next time home, but then we leave the next day. The bad part about that is that we're going to have to reschedule our Oakland show & our Amoeba instore, which we're currently doing. Apologies to anyone who'd planned on attending this far in advance and, our promises that we'll be at both places in the near future. Maybe I'll dress up like that guy in KISS with the cat make-up as a way of apology. Ok. Probably not. The tour page on our website will be all straightened out by tomorrow, so you can plot again at that point. And if you live in Kansas: watch out! We're coming, and we're bringing our flying monkeys with us.

Beyond that, I want to just re-send my thanks. I could call out tons of people individually, who've been either unbelievably supportive or energetic or helpful in myriad different ways, but that would need it's own blog and would be a damn near unreadable list of much-deserved ass-kissings, so I'm going to abstain, if only for everyone's sanity. Thanks again. I need a bath.

Semantics and World Domination; Also, Mezzanine tonight. I'm going to keep reminding you.

I hesitate to call this my last day of work. No, I've done that before, and it didn't turn out so well. I was eating dried pasta and playing dice in Minna alley, turning my winnings into cans of Steel Reserve. Then I came back. There was a distinct tail-between-my-legs sort of feeling for a week. So, no. I'm not quitting. I'm going on sabatical.

See, the wording is the important thing. It's all in the context: Bill Watterson went on sabatical; Richard Nixon quit. Who do you have more respect for? You know, I think if Nixon would've just said "I am not a crook and, by the way, I'll be taking a break for a month or so---gotta clear my head" it might've just worked out for him. He could've said how he enjoyed not being president more than actually being president and just phoned in his resignation from the Virgin Islands, sipping a drink with a little umbrella, maybe slapping the heiny of an underage poolboy. I think we can all agree: it would've been better that way. So I'm not quitting. Not yet anyway.

With whatever vocabulary I choose, the reality is this: I will not be returning to work tomorrow. I'll be recooperating. Tonight, need I remind you, is our CD release show at the Mezzanine, and we're going to end up happy and blotto. This usually means depressed with a headache the next day, but I doubt that'll be stopping anybody. We'll be on around eleven, but the three bands before us are all good and all quite different. So it's worth it to show up as early as you can. Me, I've got to be there at four. That's right: seven hours. Birdmonster will be able to get in a game of Risk beforehand. I am determined to own Europe, or at least continental Europe, by the time Seventeen Evergreen is soundchecking.

After tonight, we're going the rest of April going North with Division Day (check out their link on the right, by the way. They are glorious) and we'll be doing some more touring in May, which I'll talk about when it's time. For now, I hope you can come out tonight, for our first non-rain-drenched San Francisco show since, oh, I don't know, 2004. Remember, it's only $5. We're a cheap date. Just don't try & get fresh.

Tours, shows, non-essential information, and Foreigner. Always Foregner.

You know that Foreigner song? "I Want To Know What Love Is"? That was in my head when I woke up this morning. I'm finding it impossible to not sing it right now. In fact, it's probably in your head by now too. ("...I want you to shoooow meeee"...) You might think that's a bad thing, but you'd be wrong. Side note: Zach & I were talking a few days ago, trying to figure out the subtle differences between Foreigner and Journey and Styx, but we couldn't come up with a hard & fast rule. The conclusion? Dennis DeYoung is evil, Tommy Shaw is God, and the guys from Foreigner hate sleeves.

So, tomorrow is the big CD-release shindig at the Mezzanine in suddenly sunny San Francisco. I'm glad it's not today, because the only thing people can talk about today is 100th anniversary of the earthquake. Excuse me, let me capitalize that: The Earthquake. To commemorate this event, they kicked everyone off the bus 7 blocks early & made us walk to work. Why? There was a parade.

In four hours.

Yeah, I'm confused too. So, rather than compete with the centenial anniversary of the worst disaster in city history (which, oddly enough, people are celebrating), we're playing the following day. And it's only five bucks, so bring your cheap friends. Then, we wait a mere two days before us and Division Day (see link on the right---you know you want to) head to the Northwest for a week. I hope that, in the end, we've formed a single, 8-man-super-band in which I play the washboard or the accordion and all the lyrics are in Spanish. Either that, or we play a bunch of shows together for people in the higher latitudes as seperate entities. No matter what, you win.

Alright. So, tomorrow. You'll be there? That's sweet. We'll play your favorite song, then.

We're Legal! We're Poor!

So I went to the DMV this morning, which, in my experience is a groin-punch of bureacracy, snarky employees, and frothing weirdos screaming for no discernable reason. In other words, not the way you really want to start your week. Braced for the seemingly innevitable agony, I got there a few minutes early, paperwork in hand, and sat in an already too long line, awaiting the pain. But then, a funny thing happened: I went inside and was about half-way throughmy daily helping of John Carroll---and then they called my number. Wait a minute. I only waited....a minute. And you know what else? It turns out the employees aren't crazily surly in the morning. I think, as the day and the week wear on, the aforementioned frothing weirdos take their toll on these people and they can't help but get a monsterous chip on their shoulder(s). In the end, I was there for about twenty minutes and our van is now, finally, street-legal. Rejoice with me.

Of course, being the DMV, it couldn't've gone perfectly. Up at the counter, I was informed that the prior registration on the van had expired and, to renew it, it would cost an additional $230. "Why?" I asked, as politely as possible. "Because it expired" I was told cryptically. Deciding that I would lose either way---and that if I really pissed her off, she might discover those unpaid parking tickets on the old birdvan---I coughed up the mysterious fee and went on my way. But, you know, that's quite a bummer. They can pretty much charge you whatever they want to, whenever you walk in the door. It's either that, or you're hitchhiking. It's insidious, I tell you. Insidious.

All things said, though, success is ours. We're getting new tires on the van (dare we name it "Patrick Stewart"?---for now, yes we do. Hats off, Brett) and practicing this evening for the upcoming LP release party over at the Mezzanine. Speaking of which, I'm cutting off the silly haiku contest today, as we gave out copious tickets already and our guest list is, well, it sort of looks like this guy.* Anyway, I'd be going through the comments of that post & dolling out the last few freebies and for those of you that aren't poetically inclined or just missed the contest in the first place, hopefully five dollars won't break the bank. We kept the price down for Wednesday so we could have a big ol' LP party, and, you know, you can't even get a good sandwich for $5 anymore, but you can see four rock bands for about four hours. I'm sure Adam Smith would be proud of us. Or, maybe not. Either way, screw him. He's dead. Hope to see you there.

Last thing: People on the Left Coast are letting us know their CDs have arrived, so all you New York, Chicago, Augusta, Maine folks should check your mailboxes the next couple days. Those overseas will probably have until late this week, or early next one, but, like I've said before, $1.50 to the Netherlands is a pretty good deal. That's what it costs to ride the bus around here.

* Does anybody else remember when Manute Bol kicked the Fridge's ass on that Fox Celebrity boxing show? Because I do. Not that I watched it, of course...erm....yeah.

Freeness! Shorts!

Well, I know for a fact that folks in the surrounding vacinity have received their CD, so sit tight if you haven't. We can only put our faith in the post office and their thigh-length wool shorts.

We've been spending our days shipping CDs out, prepping for the Division Day, Nor'westerly (I love that word) fiasco, updating this here journal-dealy, and procrastinating on van repairs. Boring, right? So, screw that. This is way more fun:

The Birdmonster Haiku Challenge

For no other reasons than our own amusement and everyone's love of free shit, we're announcing a very informal haiku challenge. The rules are simple and the prizes, bountiful. Plus, it will give us all something to do at work.

Rules: In case you've forgotten, haikus are three line poems with a constrained amount of syllables. The first line has 5, the second 7, and the final one 5 again. Such as:

This is a haiku
But this is a bad haiku
Because it's boring

That works. Now, for the purposes of the contest, we're asking that you write something somehow related to birdmonster, but, please, go crazy. We take kindly to insults, praise, ridiculous stories, ideas for the name of our van, Basho rip-offs, what have you. And it will take you all of five minutes, unless you compose some mind bogglingly brilliant shit, which will be followed by me wondering where you got all that free time.

How to play: Leave a comment in the comment section of this post. A valid email address would also be helpful.

Why you'd do this in the first place: Because you live in San Francisco and want to come to our CD release show next week but you'd rather go for free. And you'd like to bring a friend. We'll pick 4 or 5 good ones and doll out freeness to them. If you don't live in the city, well, you can play too, but you just have to fly here. $200 plane flight for a $5 ticket? That's intelligent investing. Get E.F. Hutton on the line.

Your CD is in the mail. Also, is it wrong to love Derek Fisher?

Turns out the Warriors are kick-ass. With the notable exception of Mike Dunleavy, who is basically a corpse who gets paid the GNP of a small island nation to look frightened and lost for a half hour each night. The great part: there were several other people in our section heckling him. I call those people soulmates.

As you might remember, we four birdmonsters attended the Warriors game last night instead of eating Matzo ball soup or watching LOST and goddamn if it wasn't a good time. My only complaint: $7.50 for a plastic bottle of Budweiser. That's like paying $300 for a Egg McMuffin. I think it's actually prosecutable.

Alright. Enough about that. I should give everyone a rough timetable as far as shipping is concerned, so here goes: If you ordered within the United States, the post office is saying it should take three to five days. So probably by Saturday or Monday, you should be holding what you ordered---and, if I can digress momentarily, make sure you fondle the CD. Really. It actually feels nice. We decided to not go the jewel case route, which means three things: no misplaceable booklet, no annoying sticker-thingie on top, and fancy ink. So fondle away. Ok: now, if you ordered from somewhere across the Atlantic, they're telling us it will take between seven and ten days, but, for a buck fifty shipping, that's not too bad. All presales we got by Tuesday night were sent out Wednesday morning. And please, please, please: give us feedback when you get them, as you all will be the very first people to receive on, except a few folks I live with, work with, and otherwise pester, and, well, we're curious.

Today is one of those less exciting days. With the LP out & shipped, the product of the last four months of our lives in our hands, we've now got the to do all that boring stuff we've been ignoring with style and grace. Like van maintainance. Right now, the tires on our new friend are Patrick-Stewart-bald and the brakes are broken. Everything above the wheels though: top notch. Other than that, the crap we have to do is so bland I can't even make half-funny jokes about them, so I'll spare you the details.

Tomorrow: we're giving away some tickets to our CD release show. I promise some silly contest that we can all use to amuse ourselves on a slow, slow Friday morning. Stay tuned.

D-Day, part 2

You know that scene in Indecent Proposal where Demi Moore is in bed, rolling around in hundred dollar bills? That was us yesterday, except with CDs. Alas, no negligees were involved. And neither was Robert Redford.

Alright, I'll admit it. That didn't happen. You know that, and I know that. But I did give it serious thought. The problem with rolling around in a bed full of CDs is that they have pointy corners and, well, it's just a little weird and gross.

But we're getting ahead of ourselves. I should mention that the LPs were late arriving yesterday, and I spent roughly five hours making laps around my living room, staring at the phone that just....wasn't.....ringing. I tried reading a little, but mostly just did that "I've been staring at this paragraph for 20 minutes and I haven't read any of it yet" thing that I do when I can't concentrate. And then, Eric over at Pirate's Press called and, because we were all being very, very impatient, we all went to pick up the CDs together. And, can I digress and just mention that Pirate's has done every printing we've ever done (buttons, posters, stickers, CDs, the short-lived birdmonster yarmukle) and that each and every one has looked better than my most optimistic hallucinations? Yes, I think I can. And yesterday was no exception. In fact, yesterday was the most marked example of this so far. When you get your presale envelope in the mail, I really recommend you open it fully prepared.

Okay. All kidding aside, we really couldn't be prouder of this thing. It's like a really precocious baby we all had, but one that never throws strained peas at us or cries all night but can do quantum math and grow muttonchops. It's like the champion of all babies. We're just very, very grateful we were able to actually do this with our hamstringed budget and the only way we were was because of plenty of folks willing to do unbelievably generous favors (Brad, Leslie, Katrina, Eric, I'm looking at you) and help us make this happen. So, thanks for the hundreth, and certainly not last time.

Now, down to brass tacks. How do you get these things? Well, if you pre-ordered, we're shipping today. All the envelopes were ready to go yesterday, but mother nature slowed down traffic and our plane, so they're out today. If you live in San Francisco, we dropped plenty off at Amoeba yesterday and there'll be more around the City shortly. If you're one of those possession-hating Buddhist types, we're on iTunes now. There's also the CD release shindig at the Mezzanine on the 19th, and, that link over there to the right as well. Sure, it's not really a pre-sale anymore, but that doesn't mean I haven't developed a taste for licking envelopes. In fact, they're rather delicious, in a bitter, hideous sort of way.

In a very non-sequitor sort of move, we're celebrating tonight by watching our hometown Golden State Warriors. I can't wait to watch their probably feeble attempt at holding a candle to the Mavericks, then their predictable choke-fest in the fourth quarter. At least I can heckle Mike Dunleavy. That never gets old.

p.s. thanks for the tickets, Pete. You're a singer and a sugardaddy, wrapped in bacon, finished with a light tomato-cream sauce.

D-Day

Against my better judgement and deepest desires, I'm here at work while our CD is deplaning in Oakland. Why? Because I'm a sap. I could bore you with the reasons---mostly involving "escalated workload" and other euphamisms for "our department is royally screwed"---but I think the most blunt & eloquent of those reasons is "I'm a sap."

Thankfully, I'm a wily sap. I'll be leaving at noon thirty to go bask in the splendor that is our first LP in boxes and boxes all over our house, and then, after the basking is over, I'll be stuffing them into envelopes and schlepping them to the post office. Because, as cool as thousands of Birdmonster CDs on our floor will look, tons of them in the mail will look a whole lot better. The thing is, that's three hours away. Right now, I need to try to not obsess over this any more and just log in a few hours of indentured servitude. I'll be back, when the expectant nervousness has turned turned to girlish giddiness.

God bless Sunday...which, if you're religious, I guess he always does.

Today promises to be the slowest day in the history of recorded time. We're all like little kids on Christmas eve---except that two of us are Jewish and one of us might as well be---but, I'm going to stick with the analogy nonetheless. And let me tell you: Santa is taking his sweet-ass time. We've reached that throughly exciting and totally painful day-before stage, where all you can do is think about tomorrow and hope that you don't daydream yourself in front of oncoming traffic.

The nice thing is that this weekend was chock full of birdmonster goodness. For starters, it was Zach's birthday and we got invited to accompany him & his folks out for Burmese food Sunday afternoon. Let me suggest this: Walnut shrimp for President, 2008. We even got to eat around a Lazy Susan, which ranks up there with the umbrella, the fork, and the printing press in the pantheon of perfect inventions. Zach got a kid's book full of mean-ass flying dinosaurs (each of which proving the age old adage: don't fuck with a birdmonster) and a 5 gallon jug of spicy New York pickles. So thanks to Toni & Terry for a feeding a bunch of poor schlubs. We're much obliged.

Yesterday also saw the unveiling of the new website. The address is the same, but we're updating the content and now you don't have to navigate the spinning menu of death and dismemberment. Granted, I loved that spinny thing, but some of you, well, I know your feelings. Browse around, enjoy, and let us know what you think. We value brutal honesty, so long as it's positive, and if you hate it, we'd prefer a shameless lie about how much you love it. Thanks.

And then, there was our Live 105 performance. We received some really nice feedback afterwards and even a few extra presales (which tomorrow, cease being "presales" and can actually be called "salesales"), so, obviously, we appreciate that. For those that didn't catch it, we did an acoustic version of Ice Age, complete with a cello, a banjo, and a tamborine I was stomping on that nobody heard. My roomie Josh taped it for us and, even laden with FM static, we were really pleased with how it sounded. The radio gods told us we'd be getting a static-free, digital copy of it, which, when we do, we'll be sharing it with one and all, gratis. They also invited us to play BFD---which stands for Big Fucking Deal as long as you don't tell the FCC---this June, to which we said, well: sure thing gents. Although none of the other bands have been announced, I'm crossing my fingers for Stryper. Cross yours with me.

A veritable whirlwind of emotions

Well, shit. We're at t-minus 4 days, less than 100 hours, until we've got No Midnight sitting on the floor of the birdlivingroom. I just did some quick math and realized we'll be bring 1075 pounds of birdmonster home with us from Oakland International Airport, which is technically not a ton of birdmonster, but, figuritively speaking, it certainly is. At the very least, we can both agree it's a shitload.

In honor of this momentous event, a few very important things are happening this weekend. One of these is that we'll be spending our Saturday watching Gymkata and making envelopes so all you fine presale folks can receive your LP as early as humanly possible. Of course, to pick up a ton---excuse me----a shitload of CDs, we're finishing up the payment on the brand spanking new (by which I mean used) birdvan this afternoon. The days of the two sedan caravan are over. So, hopefully, are the days of overheating on the grapevine, inhaling coolant, and cursing the Gods of poorly-made radiators. I'm sure I'll always have feelings for the old birdvan. I might even feeling like I'm cheating on her, come Tuesday, but the thing is, we'd still be together if she hadn't up and died on us. We didn't break up, we're widows. Sometimes, you just have to move on.

Also, there's this: Sunday night, sometime around 8ish (maybe 8:30), we'll be on San Francisco's own Live 105, peddling our wares, our songs, and probably saying something foolish on Aaron Axelson's Sound Check. We'll also be playing something acoustic. I'm going to keep the name of that song secret, because I'm mysterious like that. Last time we were there, we learned that the FCC will allow you to say "pissed off" but you can't say "pissed on." Apparently, vulgarity is all about the prepositions. This trip promises to not piss us off nor find us pissing on anything, so the urine-vocabulary envelope will likely not be pushed. You can listen either the internet or the radio and, to be quite frank, I hope you do.

We're older than you are

Here I was, sitting at my computer, reading articles about that fish with legs that brainiacs everywhere are saying is the missing link between sea and land animals when Zach sent me this. Landfish, eat your heart out. Some palientologists found our namesake.

Definately a fire starter, twisted fire starter

Six days. That's it. Six days and the CD will be in our grubby little paws. Each one is starting to move very, very slowly. In fact, everytime I look at the clock, it's 12:47. It's always 12:47 nowadays.

Which is not to say that nothing's happening. No sir. It's just that April 11th isn't happening fast enough. We're actually in the middle of a website redesign (and by "we," I mean Katrina & Brett) and, last night, I got a sneak preview of what the new one will look like. It's quite wonderful. If you love the little spinning, vertigo-inducing menu (as well you should), get your fill over the next couple days, then say your goodbyes. We're putting her to sleep next week. But don't worry: we're taking her out to a nice steak dinner before hand...and then drugging her wine. Sorry, darling. We've never been good at break-ups.

Below, I'd like to show off a poster for the upcoming Northwest jaunt with Division Day. Their singer and pianist* Rohner made this one, and, to be honest, it gives me poster envy. Mainly because I'm still making them with pencils & crayons and then I end up seeing something like this...

...and I realize I should've taken a photoshop class at some point. I've mastered the paintcan function so far. Tomorrow: the eraser.

Lastly, we started getting some love on WOXY FM last week, which I mention because Zach just informed me that that's the station Dustin Hoffman stutters about in Rainman. The Future of Rock and Roll, definately the Future of Rock and Roll. They're strictly internet these days, but the playlist is strictly fantastic. Hell, I've been listening all morning, and, with the exception of a Prodigy song, enjoyed all of it. Plus, you've gotta love the fact that they switch it up and play different songs from not just our album but anything they have in rotation---basically, it's not just a bunch of singles. Check them out, if you're so inclined. Just promise not to request Prodigy.

* and yes, for the record, I laugh everytime I hear the word "pianist." I am a direct descendant of Beavis.

Man, oh man

So, it turns out that Wikipedia deleted the article. Let's all just agree to believe that it was in there at one point and that my last post wasn't a gigantic, useless sham. Can we do that? Please? Thanks.

Who else? Encylopedia Brown. He was cool. At least compared to the Hardy Boys

There's this hideous noise in my office. It sounds like someone is making keys in our vents. Or maybe, as my coworker suggested, abating some asbestos. Let's hope it's the former. Either way, it's invading my brain. It's like some really cruel psychology experiment, one where they stick people in a place that's boring and painful, then slowly torture them while they're there. Basically, it's Chinese water torture while someone unseen plays every Enya album in succession, with the volume slightly louder each song.

Anyway, that's the noise that's been torturing me for the last few hours. And between that and work and the fact that yesterday in Birdmonster world was fairly uneventful, I was planning on not writing silly things in the blog. Until we found this. Granted, it's a pretty wimpy entry, but none of the birdmonsters wrote it, so it's kind of cool to see. If anyone feels like adding something genius, be my guest. You're next Encylopedia Britanica. I know where you live.

Angry Addendum

Remember when I told you I wiped San Jose from my memory? Well, it turns out we got a parking ticket while we were loading up our car. Or rather, my girlfriend's car, since we were sans van at that juncture. Did I receive this ticket in person? No. Was I told I was getting one? No. So, to the DPT guy who gave it to us: go make out with a cheese-grater, you little bitch.

Tales of Noisepop

I learned a valuable lesson this morning: when it's rained for thirty days straight, don't wear shoes with giant holes in them. It's one of those lessons you think common sense would cover, but sometimes, common sense and I don't get along. Then I end up at my desk with soggy socks. Tomorrow: galloshes.

I went to a fistfull of Noisepop gigs last year, seeing the cult known as Polyphonic Spree and the genius-elf-woman known as Joanna Newsome, but Birdmonster had never had the pleasure to play at our hometown festival. I was a little shaky after the previous evening's birthday/National/Division Day debauchery but, by the time we were in Slim's, the hangover subsided. How so? Well, first off, I'd like to point to Jose, the Slim's Chef, who I would definately think had a good shot at beating that mustachoed, smug bastard on Iron Chef, so long as the ingredient was chicken or zucchini or curried potatoes. Jose: my hat's off to you. The other bands, our show, personally, and some hair of the dog took care of the rest.

We played with Send For Help for the second weekend in a row. I don't remember how they were in San Jose, since I had that memory surgically removed from my brain, Eternal Sunshine style, but I'd assume it was on par with Friday. Their singer, George, shaved his once lumberjack-esque beard into muttonchops that Martin Van Buren would've been jealous of and we shared a cushy backstage room with him and the other fine folks in SFH, and their set was really rather great. The last song in particular and that skippy one. The one that goes: dun-nun-nun-nun-nun-NA, duh-nun-nun-nun-NA. I love those.

By the time we started, Slim's was fairly packed (which happens, it turns out, when they sell all the tickets). It was our first normal, non-acoustic, non-invite-only-dealy in the City since we left for Texas and parts inbetween, so we got to see a lot of friendly faces we hadn't seen in almost a month. I got a little steamy. Oh! And we got a button*, specially made, that said "I heart Birdmonster," which I wore, despite the fact that I might have looked like a self-absorbed prick with it on. My thoughts: you can wear your own band's button but your own band's t-shirt. There's some sort of unspoken rule there. I'm unsure if I can wear the Birdmonster underwears we're getting made, however. The jury's still out on that.

Ok: confession time. We're receiving the CD the morning of the 11th. I had to get that off my chest, since we'd planned to send out the CDs early, if possible. I think they got caught up in the Prague nightlife, eating 10,000 calorie dumplings and drinking 20 cent beer. They're just a little late though, and I'm sure they had a nice time, so screw it. So, on the 11th we'll be driving to the airport in some sort of birdcaravan, loading them up, and getting home in time to ship the CDs to here, there, and everywhere, so if you pre-ordered, we thank you immensely, and we'll be sending our you disc on Tuesday or Wednesday next week, the moment we get our grubby little hands on it, as promised. That's only....8 days from now. Whoa. How very, very excellent.

*Thanks Zara...and yes I'm wearing it right now.