I think we can all agree that Italy should have won yesterday. That PK in the first six minutes smelled tremendously of horse-shit, France's coach took out his best shooters before the shootout, and, then, there was that whole wreckless and retarded headbutt to the chest thing. I was watching the game with Vince McMahon and Vince McMahon was taking notes. Anyway: Bravo to Italy. Now, get back to The Boot and get indicted for match-fixing, stat.
I had a rather relaxing weekend without much in the way of Birdmonstery-ness which now makes realize how easy it is to write this thing when we're on tour. I mean, there's quite a disconnect between musical roadtrips and, well, let's be honest, sitting in a cube with a headset on, trying to accelerate the clock with telekenesis, realizing you don't have that particular skill, and becoming sorely depressed. During the former, there are nightly lunatics, strange cultural realizations, tattoos, sight-seeing, late-night perusal of infomercials, Dakota Fanning movies, and dating shows featuring the most pathetic dregs of twenty-something society making asses of themselves for our saddened amusement. During the latter, there are...phone calls. And emails. And that list of links to the right. And coffee. And work. Can't forget about work.
So, in lieu of news (besides, of course, the Bottom of the Hill show I'll be plugging endlessly (buy thy tickets here) and is all ages, by the way), I'm going to share a joke:
A girl walks in to the doctor's office. She has grapes in her nose and a banana in her ear. The doctor says, "You aren't eating right."
Maaaaan, that's rich.
Monday, July 10, 2006
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3 comments:
Gasoline Hobo: Keep thy glock holstered. We need not more violence. Although, I'm thinking of greeting all my friends with the head-down rush to the chest. What would remain? Less friends.
As for hoboism: Well, I've got the bath thing covered, easy. And hobos with banjos: priceless. You may be onto something. If you can play a washboard, we could team up. Although, that would be busking, which isn't hoboing per se, but, you know. At any rate, I like my bum name. Call me Corkscrew.
Other important questions:
Do hobos ask strangers for money indignantly? Do hobos carry bindles? Have you seen Bozo Texino?
Answers I pray for: No, Yes, Damn Straight.
back to work mr. olafson!
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