She was the kind of girl who could say things that weren't that funny

We're on the road again, like Willie Nelson, except
without the man pigtails. Everyone's on about
three hours sleep after our first show with Art
Brut in the ex-brothel that is the Great American
Music Hall last night, and I've been coughing up
what looks like raw eggs, and having really intense
fever dreams about waking up blonde. Tonight, we
venture to San Diego, where Dave & I both spent
our salad days being awkward and learning Iron
Maiden songs out of guitar magazines. Ah, the
memories. Tonight's show is at the Casbah, which
is a venue I never quite got to go to, since it was a
bar and I was, at the oldest, in high school, so, on
a personal level, I kind of excited about that. I
can't for the life of me remember which bands
came to the Casbah when I was younger, but I
remember wanting to go. No matter. It was
probably Tesla or Dokken or something.
Sometimes, not getting what you want can be the
best thing for you.

It's almost two in the afternoon and we just
crawled up the Grapevine and are nearing Magic
Mountain, which means that the pit of traffic hell
known as LA looms on the horizon. But I think we
might be hitting it just right, directly after the
lunchtime trafficjam and a few hours before the
dinnertime, workday clusterfuck. I just hope the
afternoon tea traffic is a sick rumor. Cross your
fingers for us.

So, last night: so nice to see some friendly faces,
so great to be home. Sure it was for two incredibly
short days, but we got to see our birdgirls, sleep in
our own beds, see that Colbert thingie on the
internet, and cram in some desperately needed
laundry time.

And the show last night was fantastic to boot.
The gents (and lady) in Art Brut are incredibly
friendly and their live show is, well, you sort of
just need to see it, but it's damn fun, well done,
and totally endearing. I'm looking forward to the
week or so with them for a variety of reasons.
One: I get to see 'em live eight times. Two: I get
to place bets on which birdmonster will slip into a
faux-british accent first. Three: we're playing
fancypants venues. Four: mustaches comma
singers with them.

In fact, the list goes on, but it will be innumerated
in the coming days. I hope that's the right word. I
like how it sounds.

That said, we Birdmonsters do miss Division Day.
We miss their caseless keyboards and jumping
onstage for Tap-Tap Click Click and whooping
them at wiffleball and all else. Next year,
suckers, we'll record Stoked Palace. Oh yeah. And
we know Brett's bloke. Mwahahahahaha! We're
taking it to the grave too.

After a painless jaunt through LA proper, we're
now bogged down in random-outskirt traffic, but
at least we've got Graceland. Thank God for
Graceland. I think I need to start singing along.