In which Birdmonster witnesses our national shame, is surrounded by Biblical imagery, and immortalizes the Doubtful Guest

After watching our men's soccer team both get
jobbed and play awfully, thus earning their plane
flight home after playing no better than a third
rate high school girl's team, I can't help but be a
little sad. At this point, I'm rooting for Ghana, who
pull the crumpling-bitch routine far less often
than, say, Austria or the Czech Republic, despite
the fact that Ghana is destined to be mopped up
by the juggernaut of soccer supremacy that is
Brazil. Ah well: for the next few days, let us join
together in love of the outmatched underdog,
regardless of the fact we can't pronounce any of
their names* and attempt to disremember our
team's hatred of cogent strategy and shots on
goal.

Let's take a step back in the blog Delorian. It's a
short trip though. Just a couple nights. A trip, I
admit, that wouldn't be necessary if I'd been
slightly less engrossed in the ridiculous,
conspiracy-theory, talking dolphin, drug-laden,
science-fiction dorkfest I've been enjoying in the
back bench of the Whaleship Essex.

So, to St. Louis and the Off Broadway we go, with
our friends and countrymen, the Talk. When the
show started, the crowd could be euphemistically
described as "intimate." The Talk ended up forcing
everyone to introduce themselves: there were an
abundance of Sarahs. But by the time we went on,
the place was cozier, some audience member's
monikers were unknown, and everyone in
attendance was well on their way to lubricated,
next day katzenjammers. We ended up two
encores deep into our catalogue, racking our brains
to remember the few songs we hadn't yet played.
The night ended with hugs and handshakes and a
couple who claimed they might drive down to
Nashville to see it all over again; didn't happen, but
God bless anyway. The thought was endearing.

One crappy hotel, three hundred some-odd miles,
and a dinner of suprisingly pleasant Souther sushi
later, we got on-stage in Nashville. We played
before the Afters, and after no one, as the Talk
spent their afternoon at Six Flags, rejoicing in
recreational queasiness. The Afters are a Christian
rock band, but please, think Collective Soul rather
than Creed or Stryper (who, oddly enough, will
make another appearance in our sordid tale).
Incredibly nice gentlemen, incredibly tight
musicians, and, although not my usual cup of tea, I
must say I enjoyed their stage show. None of that
shoe-gazey yawn vibe and delightfully free of
Scott Stapp-ian annoyance: just rock and roll. All
the best to them.

(An aside: I found a button in my pocket that said
"Satan is Real" and cackled like a lunatic before
tucking it back away).

It was an all-ages shindig and those tend to wrap
up early. With a day off today to be spent either in
our car trundling towards Cincinnatti, where we've
already been, or hanging out in historic Nashville,
we opted for the latter, so we checked into a
Day's Inn, attempted to find some goodbad
television, found only copious ads for phone-sex
lines, Girls Gone Wild, and DUI lawyers (ahhh, to
be part of the latenight market), and passed out
fitfully. After watching the aforementioned
drubbing of our boys in white, we dined at The
Pancake Pantry.

Now, let it be known that I am a self-proclaimed
connosoir of all things bread-breakfast, including
but not limited to pancakes, french toast, and
biscuits and gravy. The Pancake Pantry is
definately on the medal podium, along with Salem's
OHOP (not, I repeat NOT IHOP) and my dad's
delicious homemades. If you make it to Nashville,
give them your money. Delicious to the point of
titillating.

Ah, but where are we now, you might ask? Well,
Dave is cyborgin at Kinko's, but Pete & I are
waiting for Zach to get his (and Birdmonster's)
first tattoo. Eschewing the designs on hand (large
breated women leaning on crosses, a drumset
adorned with the maxim "Drummers Rule
(exclamation point)", various species of large cats
feigning ferocity), Zach fulfilled an year's old
desire: a tattoo of Edward Gorey's Doubtful
Guest. According to a portly tattooist there, the
creature in question looks like the offspring of a
wookie and a penguin, which is an apt but also
unfair description. The Doubtful Guest is far
cooler than that. I mean, it came from the brain of
Edward Gorey, a man fond of wandering urban
streets in a fur coat and red hightop Cons; in other
words, a man of impeccable taste and curious skill.
When the bandage/scab era has passed, we'll share.

And yes, I mentioned Stryper's reappearance in
this here post. You see, this was a Christian
establishment and unabashedly so. They had a
Stryper** SHRINE complete with signed merch &
drum sticks, next to P.O.D. posters and other, less
memorable fellows who rocked for the Lord. In
fact, there was a sign on the wall which read
"Absolutely No Bad Language." When Zach's ink
surgery was done and he came over to show it off,
I paid heed to the sign and exclaimed, while
giggling:

"That looks fucking amazing!"

They threw holy water in my eyes and they bled.

*there was in fact some guy on the Ghanian team
named Pimgpong. Just incredibly awesome. Much
better than, say, Tabletonnis. Man. Terrible joke
there. I'm hanging my head in shame.

**for those unfamiliar with Stryper, they are the
premier 80's Christian metal band who dressed like
bumblebees. Seriously. Look it up.