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.