In which Birdmonster shamelessly uses babies to sell it's album. Also: party.

For most Catholic or Christian tykes, December is twenty-four days of painful anticipation. The promise of mountains of plastic hoo-has awaits and, really, every day past Thanksgiving is a Rumsfeldian long slog until payday. I know, I know: Christmas is supposed to be about all that good stuff Jesus stood for, what with the sharing and the love and the fastidious beard care, but for most kids (and I'm decidedly not going out on a limb here), Christmas is really about getting mo' shit. Tragic, maybe, but it does teach kids a different, no less Godly lesson: patience. December lasts three years for most kindergartners and each night is a struggle to fall asleep. Unless they're already on Xanax. Sadly, I'm not sure that's a joke any more.

The thing is, as we grow up, the amount of days spent in shaky anticipation dwindle to almost nothing. Christmas loses it's allure, middle school had none to begin with, and suddenly, you're getting letters from the AARP. It's nothing to get depressed about; it's just growing up. Everything is a superlative when you're young. A skinned elbow is a tragedy, while ripping a magazine in half is funnier than Blazing Saddles, Best In Show, and Gymkata put together. Seriously:



I haven't been that happy in years. Goddamn babies.

Which brings us to today topic: our new album, or, the last time I had trouble sleeping due to nervous, unchecked excitement. Back in January, in the weeks that hobbled towards our recording date like an elderly woman with jumbo-prawn posture, I spent every waking hour thinking about every minute, piddling aspect of the job at hand. I did not, however, resort to Xanax, like our hopefully-hypothetic five-year-old junkie. I drank. It was great.

Today, August 5th, the fruits of our labor, after so much sequencing, mastering, label meetings, powwowing, and plain old waiting, are finally, finally available. But there is a catch: they're only available online. If you're one of those stalwart folks who require a hard copy, I commend you: there are few of us left. WIRED magazine has assured me that future albums will be downloaded directly into our brains before they're recorded by our cyborg overlords. It'll be like Johnny Mnemonic, only it won't suck that horribly. Of course, Henry Rollins won't talk to a dolphin either. You can't have everything.

Where was I? Ah yes: the album. Beginning today, you can get your copy on the interwebs at, say, Amazon & iTunes. And we'd love it if you did.

In keeping with album-related whathaveyous, we want to announce we're having a listening party on Sunday at the Hotel Utah here in glorious San Francisco. Come take the album for a test drive whilst imbibing potent potables, hooting loudly, and eating Shepard's Pie. Oh, and there will be live music as well. Oh there will be. It's going to be a celebration on par with that Bar Mitzvah you went to when you stole a golf cart, drove it into that river, and stole a handle of Jim Beam from a careless bartender. I do hope you'll join us. Say, 6:30?