Adios Europeans; Hello Californians

Well, we made it. Yesterday's drive was a total of
twenty one hours, with stop off's at Chuy's
Mexican Eatery (in the John Madden Hall of Fame,
no less) and an Italian place in Gila Bend, which
was pretty phenomenal. We avoided the roadside
trifecta of unforunate bowel movements (KFC,
McDonald's, and Subway) the whole way and Sir
Patrick managed over a thousand miles without
exploding. Now, to San Diego, well rested to boot.

So, we finished our ten days with Art Brut in
Houston and passed the support torch to the
Robocop Kraus, a thoroughly kick-ass and
gentlemanly German indie band who cruised into
the venue decked out in matching Wal-Mart
ensembles. If you haven't seen five grown men in
yellow Aloha shirts, blue short shorts, and
matching slippers, you haven't lived. They put on a
helluva enjoyable show along with some gimmicks
and tricks I've never seen before (the best: the
singer lifting the drummers snare drum while he
played it and leading him through the audience
without missing a beat). Best to those boys.

We ended our week-plus sojourn with Art Brut by
breaking my two-year old tamborine into three
pieces and storming the stage during their encore,
cymbals, clapping hands, and a properly working
tamborine in hand. Afterwards, we all realized
every show should've ended that way, although
that would've meant several more bloodied
knuckles and very bruised palms, so perhaps a
proper finale was the way to go. Then, the sad
end. Everybody exchanged email addresses and
hugs and learned Eddie's pin number and it felt like
the end of a really blotto summer camp. A totally
lovable band, that Art Brut.

But now, we're homeward bound after only a night
in our own beds since April 19th, with lessons
learned from the aforementioned Brits and our
band bestfriends, Division Day. I get to watch
basketball, catch up on Lost, figure out how to
pay rent, see our buddies, and eat something that's
not slathered in grease. And finally, we can sit
down and write some new music. Hooray for that.
But I'm a bit ahead of myself. We've got 250 miles
to San Diego and two shows in LA first, then two
at the Independent with the Fall and the Talk on
the 14th &15th before we can really relax. For
now, let's all just sing along to some Tom Petty,
plugs our noses as we drive through another
stretch of cowshit, and try not to pull over too
often to pee. See you soon.