Tales of the Midwest

Despite indulging Sir Patrick's quart an hour oil
habit, we are championing onwards. Since last time
we spoke, have put down almost a thousand miles,
seen David & my's oldest friend, and eaten some
of the worst diner food ever devised. Let's tell
some stories.

Denver: I've been once before, maybe four years
ago to see the worst basketball game ever (the
Nuggets and the Sonics, back when Payton was on
Seattle) and spend New Years wandering the
snowy streets with a rabbitfur Russian hat and
the aforementioned old buddy, Webb. This time:
less snow, more noise. The club in Denver, the Hi
-Dive, treated us so well, and, well, we send our
thanks and tip our collective hat. Four words:
Sweet potato french fries. Let it be known: I
would have accepted seven sacks of sweet potato
fries in lieu of payment. My mouth waters at the
memory.

After the show, dancing and bad video games were
in abundance. Turns out I only have about five
dance moves, but none are the white-man-arm
-waggle, so, points for me.

The next afternoon, which was yesterday, we
rolled through Kansas, which is, well, it's really
flat and really green. Also, I think highway 70 has
four turns in it. Total. Lawrence was a cool town
though, and the club was gorgeous. We sort of
neglected to account for the hour time change, so
we missed soundcheck, but that's par for the
course these last couple days, especially now that
Patrick Stewart is ravenous for oily goodness.
Webb accompanied us to Kansas as well, which
allowed for some really epic DMX sing-alongs and a
stop off at Sonic Burger, a mistake I've made
twice now. At least they'll put Vanilla in your Coke
while they put the pain in your gut.

The Kansas show was, I think, my favorite. Why?
Well, we played well and played Spaceman, which
we haven't played too much this trip and always
puts me in a great mood. After the show was
actually better than the show itself. Us
Birdmonsters and a few Art Bruters spent about
half an hour backstage singing Weezer songs, with
Art Brut's drummer (Mike) displaying his
unbelievably encyclopedic knowledge of every
River's Cuomo guitar part ever. Bad harmonies and
attempts at the falsetto Weezer "Ooh"s were
executed with drunken precision, and, in the end,
the club pretty much had to kick us out. Jaime is
still in my head.

And then there's tonight. We nixed our day off
(who needs breaks?) as Chris from Gorilla Vs. Bear
offered to set up a spur of the moment Dallas
show and we couldn't turn it down. We like Texas.
We like Chris. It seemed natural. So we're driving
now, many hours and plenty of oil away, but
tonight, it seems, we'll be Art Brut-less and
sleeping in Fort Worth after yet more
Birdmonstering. If you're in Dallas and don't care
about your Monday work performance, you should
come on out.

After this: two more Texas shows, then
westward, to San Diego and the land of the
vanquished Lakers. Part of me wanted them to
lose to the Clips instead, but when the villians die,
you can't complain about why.