In which Birdmonster leaves San Francisco behind, looks ahead to Los Angeles, and just won't shut up about Gummi Bears

Some people say you can get too much of a good
thing. They're the sort of people who say "put the
frosting down" or"not now, I'm tired" or "haven't
you seen Demolition Man enough times?" And
sometimes, those people and I see eye to eye.
Yeah, maybe the cake looks alright how it is, I'm a
little sleepy myself, I did just watch it
yesterday. But if these selfsame people were to
say "do you really think you can eat and enjoy 36
packs of gummi bears?" well, I might have to get
hysterical and violent on their faces. I hope they
wouldn't take it personally. I'd certainly pay the
hospital bills.

At this point, we're down to 33 packs. I give them
till Denver, which is Sunday, which is, admittedly,
a bit disgusting. But my God they're delicious.
They're everything I remembered and more. It's
delightful when your nostalgic mania for a thing
turns out to be well founded.

(Sometimes though, you just exagerrate bygone
preferences. I always come across albums I swore
were brilliant at 15, decent at 20, and then at 25, I
put them on the stereo and they eat shit. But the
records, just like the gummi bears*, were always
the same: it's not you, Iron Maiden, it's me. You
can keep the VCR, though.)

We're fresh off a short but rather taxing show at
the Warfield last night. Taxing because, well,
we're a little rusty. I sure am. After a twenty
five minute show, I needed a defribillator. But the
stamina always comes back faster than I expect
it to. In two weeks I'll feel like playing two shows
a day, volunteering at a soup kitchen, and brokering
a standing peace between Israel and Palestine; for
now, my arms and knees are sore.

And all of a sudden, we're on tour. I mean, here I
am, sitting shotgun on the 5 South, hours from Los
Angeles and three weeks of hotels, loudness,
drastic weather changes, and wary looks from
obese truckers with mysterious stains on shirts
that would look form-fitting of a woman in her
third trimester. I barely feel like we were home
this last go 'round. Which, in essence, we weren't.
Three weeks is barely long enough to get bored at
work, let alone feel settled back into a normal,
comfy day to day. But then again, this is our job
(sometimes, at least), and it's fun and it would be
ludicrous to complain about it. Plus, we missed the
middle of the country, so the scenery will be
different. I'm actually going back to Kansas. Never
thought I'd say that.

Tomorrow, or, odds are, by the time you're reading
this, today, we're playing on Morning Becomes
Eclectic on KCRW. Which, now that I think of it, is
another thing I never thought I'd say. It all starts
at 11:15 and should be free at the KCRW website,
www.kcrw.com. We're looking forward to it. We
wanted to bring Nic Harcourt a pumpkin but we
left it at home and, in retrospect, coming without
one will make us look less like a bunch of
obsequious bootlicks. Still: wish we would've
remembered. This clump of crab grass I pulled out
of a crack in the gas station asphault has far less
charm.

Now, I must help Dave naviagate through the
bovine stank pit that is Central California. Check
out the show Friday morning if you aren't doing
anything---which, considering you're reading this
here, you probably aren't. Ha. I caught you.

* Shermans: I thank you for the gift of gummis.
We thank you. My dentist thanks you.