In which Birdmonster recalls great cinema of the motel room, meets its tourmates, and edges closer to the brilliant, ineffable beauty that is Rocky

- We've seen some bad movies on tour. Anacondas 2: Search for the Blood Orchid sticks out in my mind as a particularly egregious offender, though Crackerjack 3 sucked in a uniquely derivative way. I think I watched You, Me, and Dupree, in a theatre no less, but I've bowel movements that were more memorable. David and I share the distinction, I think, of being the only two people alive who watched both Cheerleader Ninjas and Killer Tongue on the same day. My parents: so proud.

Point is: we seek out bad movies and they, in turn, seek us out. If you've had occasion to turn on the television at two thirty a.m., you know what I'm talking about. There are no Citizen Kanes in the small hours of the morning, no Platoons or Dog Day Afternoons.There is, however, Ice Cube on a motorcycle. Or Mark Madsen squinting at something. Or Cuba Gooding Jr. co-starring opposite Skeet Ulrich. And somewhere, an angel is crying.

My favorite bad movie I've seen this tour doesn't quite hold a candle to Chill Factor, the aforementioned apex of the Skeet Ulrich experience, but it sucked enjoyably. It was called 300. It's original title, I believe, was Naked Men Stabbing Each Other In Slo-Mo, but Warner Brothers thought that was too long.

If you haven't seen 300, don't. But if it finds you, as it found us, you should definitely watch it. From this movie I learned there are three modes of conversation: screaming, yelling, and hollering. I learned that McNulty from "The Wire" should fire his agent. I also learned that killing hella fools is a hilarious good time. These are the important lessons of our times.

- First things second: We're not playing Atlanta tonight. We did not cancel this. It, like 300, simply happened to us. Sorry to all you Georgians who were planning on coming. And that includes the Georgians fighting the Russians half a world away. Though, if history has taught me anything, it's that you never go to war against the Russians. Unless you're Rocky.

- Speaking of Rocky, we played in Philadelphia a few nights back, which, as you should know, is the land of Rocky. We even had sausages one morning that came from the butcher Rocky visits in the first movie. Or so we were told. I didn't press the issue because I'd rather not quite know for sure. A world in which I eat the food of Rocky is a world I want to be a part of. And this is where you remind me that Rocky's not real. And then I remind you he has a statue in Philly and you don't. Neener, neener.

- That Philly show, beyond bringing us closer to the radiant sun of Rocky Balboa, introduced us to our tourmates for the rest of October: the Rumble Strips. I've seen them three times now, there, in D.C., and last evening in North Carolina and, well, they ooze kick assitude. It's hard to describe the music---bands like "Dexy's Midnight Runners" and "The Band" are often referenced---but the end result is something unique, fun, and incredibly catchy. Incredibly nice guys too. Oh, and there's a trumpet. And a really shoddy acoustic guitar. These things please me.

- I saw a road killed rat in the back of the club in D.C. and it made me happy and a little homesick, which is to say, I've reached a point in my life where rat splatter fills me with joy. I'm not sure what to think about this.

- Beyond the euphoria-inducing collection of rodent carcasses, D.C. was phenomenal. And you know what? It always is. We've played there on Labor Days, Memorial Days, Sundays, and all the other manner of non-concert-going days and each time we've had a boisterous, enthusiastic, lovable crowd. It's been my personal favorite so far. Thanks to everyone in (McCain time) "Warshington" who came out, sang, danced, and sent us shots to play songs we hadn't played in over half a year. I've already circled D.C. on our next tour, which of course exists only in my mind. We're opening for Daft Punk and Jethro Tull.

- Our next stop is Orlando, a town that, like Anaheim, is awash in Goofy, Snow White, Bambi, and all the other animated scamps created by that lovable Nazi-sympathizer animator, Walt Disney. I'm curious to see what kind of hotel we find there. Part of me thinks it will have race-car beds. I don't know why. We hope to see you there, but only, I realize, after you've ridden the Matterhorn a few dozen times. We wouldn't have it any other way.