More ramblings

Once in a while, it's useful to remember there are some things that everyone loves. A while back, I recall claiming that the banjo and the two-dollar bill were universally adored and no one claim otherwise. We need to add breakfast in bed to this list. In fact, there has to be some way to combine all three, perhaps breakfast in a bed on two-dollar bills while listening to a Lee Skruggs album; I'm pretty sure that was the Gnostic idea of heaven, but I'm a little rusty on my ancient theology.

I mention this only because I got breakfast in bed this morning* and played banjo last night. If I was a valet, perhaps I'd get the two-dollar bill tip at some point, but I'm a temporary office lackey, so the only tips I'll be getting are along the lines of: "you better work faster" or "your lunch was too long." Two out of three ain't bad. At any rate: last night's acoustic jamboree, with the aforementioned banjo accompanying two acoustics and a cello, was a damn fine time. Sure, I couldn't hear anything, but who says you need to hear music to play it? Well, actually, you do, but let's not get picky about it. Some highlights of the evening include:

-Hijack the Disco: didn't know what in tarnation they'd sound like acoustic. They were wonderful. Hell, if sleighbells are involved, can it not be wonderful?
-Heavenly States: always great to see Ted play a right-handed man's guitar left-handed, like some genius freak.
-Ms. PacMan: Peter & I have an eternal Ms. PacMan rivalry and Thee Parkside has one of those machines where each player sits down at opposite sides and the screen rotates when you die. I was filled up with cheap Miller High Lifes (which is decidely not the "champagne of beers," despite claims to the contrary) and lost, buzzer-beater style when Peter went Nick Van Exel on me and swooped up a banana right before dying, thus surpassing my feeble score. I salute you Peter. If you didn't play guitar in birdmonster, I'd break your fingers.

Beyond that, I survived my first workday in a month without serious catastrophe, Peter is looking at a few possible birdvans today, and I get to go see the National tonight, whom Division Day have the pleasure of opening for. We played with those New Yorkers about a year ago and I haven't seen a better show since; just effin phenomenal. Added bonus: I live five blocks away from the venue. Everything's coming up Milhouse.

Oh yeah: Division Day: if you need to sleep on our floor, by all means. We only charge $60 a night.

That's it for now. Computerized labor is calling my name.

*Thanks Rebecca!

Yes, I've been writing this all day and this is the best I came up with. What's it to you?

I think I'm living in a vortex. Not only am I back at my old job---wearing a headset, for God's sake---but we are again scouring the internet and the Bay Area for a new birdvan. It's the exact same thing I was doing last time I was parked in this chair, late last month. Peter and Zach are spearheading this noble mission and we've got a few promising leads, not including the unregistered Dodge that makes mysterious noises and has an unfathomable 320,000 miles on the odometer. Oh yeah, and it doesn't start. That actually sounds exactly like our old ride, except he's asking for three times as much as we sold ours for, and ours had the plaid seats and smelled like poison. The chutzpah of that guy. I hope he finds his sucker. It just isn't going to be Birdmonster.

So, it's my first day back at work. I feel like an ex-con who got out after a petty theft charge, said his goodbyes and swore he'd never commit another crime, only to hold up the gas station twenty miles away, live in a friend's trailer for a month, then head back to slammer after a positive ID from the drunken redneck in the Airstream on lot 212. I came back and people just shook their head. I think I'll have a beer at lunch, to wash down my pride and dignity.

Of course, it's a short sentence. I'm out again April 20th, before the tour with Division Day. It'll only be a week long little jaunt up there in the Pacific Northwest, but I'm looking forward to it. Maybe we'll team up as DivisionMonster and cover Graceland from start to finish...or maybe we'll just both play our own songs. I'm voting for a little of both. I just want to sing that line "ever since the watermelon." Is that too much to ask?

Last night we did an acoustic jamboree in Peter's living room in hasty preperation for tonight's NoisePop Happyhour shindig and got some delicious dinner from Maureen, who really should have been playing the xylophone the entire time, but instead made pasta. It was the sort of set Oldmonster will play when we're Rolling Stones-aged and no one can spaz out anymore. I'm looking forward to that. I'm going to have really high pants and a floppy fedora. Just you wait.

Why Johnny Ringo. You look like someone just...walked over your grave.

My short-lived freedom has an expiration date and that expiration date is...tomorrow. Back to work for me. I was thinking about becoming a quasi-professional grifter but I just don't have the requisite skills or total lack of morality. That's okay though. I might've felt a bit squeamish about living on some old lady's permenantly borrowed pension.

So tomorrow, I return to the old job, which shall remain nameless so that my mere association doesn't cripple their stock options. It's nice that there's a slot waiting for me, and, although the job itself is about as fun as lemonade and papercuts, the folks there make it livable, even enjoyable from time to time. It's just that crawling back with your tail between your legs feeling I'm not looking forward to. If I had any pride, I'd be swallowing it.

With this single day of glorious destitute freedom, I went over to the East Bay to get the ol' banjo fixed. She's sitting here on my lap, positively purring. Which is just in time, because we have a little acoustic set to play tomorrow night at Thee Parkside, and the hideous-black-bass-of-death just isn't conducive to a strummy, rocking chair set. If you're in the city tomorrow, you should come. Cheap beer? Check. New Birdmonster songs? Check. Other kickass bands turned down, acoustic style? Check. Free? Double check. Game, set, match, tomorrow night.

Otherwise, all I'm doing is being a self-publicizing, internet slattern and thinking about how good Tombstone was last night. I mean, is there any greater shit-talking line than "I'm you huckleberry."? I don't even know what it means and I love it. Val Vilmer went from that-guy-I-hated-as-the-Saint-and-Batman to why-isn't-he-in-every-movie-ever status in two short hours. Sorry I doubted you, buddy.

Tomorrow, I'll be posting from work (unless my boss is reading this, in which case, I MOST CERTAINLY WILL NOT BE), with maybe something interesting to say.

Lastly, we owe everyone a big thanks who gave us feedback yesterday on the new songs that got posted in blogland and to anyone who bought a CD, thus keeping us from the gutter. Much obliged. We really, really, really (ad infinitum) appreciate it.

What's happening now, what's happening soon, and also, Number Munchers.

As Peter so aptly put it yesterday, we've entered the "slutty phase." For the next, oh, three or four weeks, we'll be whoring our music out to anyone who will give us the time of day. We'll be like the sonic version of those Scientology assholes on Market Street who never, ever, ever, leave you alone, even if your hands are full of umbrellas and newspapers and you're using your earphones...no...we won't be that bad. I've had the near unquenchable desire to headbutt those people, but I'm not a violent man. I consider it punishment enough that their spiritual leader wrote Battlefield Earth. I'm more into cosmic justice than bruising my forehead.

The slutty phase has so far been, well, more promiscuous than slutty. We haven't descended to a Jerry Springer-esque level yet, so, my dignity is still mostly intact. But let it be said: that time could come.

So, why are we doing this? Well, because we're in business for ourselves and our debtors have goons. Big, stupid goons with blunt objects in the backseats of their goonmobiles. But, let me tell you something: it's a nice feeling. I'm used to being in business for someone else, which has involved haggling with ticket brokers, summarizing asbestos depositions, selling kid's clothes, and driving around Shamu's sperm---and you think I'm kidding. Peddling something we made, we funded, and we own: that's fun. Driving around orca spunk? Less fun.

And that's what I'm up to. Phone calls, poster hanging, blog scribbling---wheee. I'm splurged on a bagel this morning, which just about blew my budget for the whole weekend, but I was ravenous and lazy, which is a lethal combination. All us birdmonsters did make it to a show last night though, with our erstwhile cohorts tapes n' tapes, who sounded phenomenal, looked exhausted, got goaded into an encore, and are currently on the road to Portland. Best of luck with that, gents. I think you guys should try & find a middle school somewhere & play Oregon Trail, just for the sheer awesomeness of that. Man, good memories with that game. The grandpa never made it past Colorado in my experience. Which reminds me of Number Munchers, also a highlight of my salad days. I hope children are still getting valuable education with Ms. PacMan rip-offs. If not, I demand all my taxes & lost lottery tickets back. Now.

Anyway, here's what's up for the next couple weeks: We play a few songs before Clap Your Hands at the Metreon this weekend, as well as traveling to San Jose for the first time. Next week: a few song acoustic set at a BAGeL radio shindig at the Thee Parkside followed by a Noisepop show with Film School, who, I've heard, found their van, so not all is lost. That story depressed me a few weeks back, so I bought their album, which un-depressed me. Then, another weird acoustic thing on Live 105 on April 9th, right before our album comes out, which sounds like fun, unless my banjo gets more broken. Between all that: more whoring. I just had a blood test though, and I'm clean. So don't worry if you come in contact with me. I may be destitute, but I'm free of disease.

Oh: and to David, my old, old friend and noodling guitar player: happy birthday tomorrow. Yakmallah.

Adios, gainful employment

I'm having a problem not smiling. We aren't talking a put on, take-my-sixth-grade-school-photo smile here. No, no. We're talking a full fledged, borderline obnoxious, ear to ear smile. We're in "shit-eating" grin territory. And the weather's just fine.

See, it's my last day of work today. Thursday, I'll wake up without all the embarrassing ecoutraments of my employment: the headset, the Excel spreadsheets, the usually inedible nearby sandwich. It's the stuff of dreams here people. At least for those of us who never dreamed of working customer service at eight in the morning. Which, let's be honest, is probably all of us.

Let us never speak of this place again.

Of course, copious tasks await. So many that simply thinking about listing them just brought back the ol' eye-twitch. Now, I'm usually a very calm person. A few months ago, a unicorn could've bitch-slapped me and I'd've just said "how 'bout that?" These days, well, we're dealing with a monkey of a different color entirely.

Which is not necessarily a bad thing. I'd like to notice pimp-slapping mythical horses if they decide to come over. It's just that the list of things that still need doing before Monday (the tour) and then April 11th (the album release) is basically endless. This, parenthetically, is why bands have managers & bookers & the like. We've just got our little birdmonster family, which is a wonderfully disfunctional---like that grandma you had who said innapropriate sexual remarks at Thanksgiving, but it was hilarious, so you didn't feel awkward.

And no, that didn't really make sense. In fact, I doubt anything I do for the next week or so will. Looking forward to that.

Three songs left...

Back to Lalaland. For some of us, at least

Ah, President's Day. There's really nothing like having a nine to five and getting paid to sleep on a Monday. It's like having your cake, eating it too, and having that cake give you some sort of superpowers; not unlike that radioactive bon-bon which gave the Incredible Hulk his crime fighting powers. But I digress.

Today finds both Dave & Pete down in Los Angeles*, back at the Castle, keeping Brad company whilst he mixes, mixes, and mixes some more. Of course, I don't think they've shown up yet, considered that we're still safe ensconced in the AM. Anyway, they're there for moral support, to try out a few small ideas that turned out impossible to explain over the phone or email, and to pick up Zach's itinerant cymbals, which, although rusty, ugly, and jangly, are the only cymbals we've got. They have that well-worn sort of sound. They're the percussion equivalent of that really comfy chair your roommates want you to throw out because it's hideous & sort of smells like hobo sweat, but it's just too soft to get rid of. They'll be flying home on Thursday.

Also, if you wouldn't mind, look over there to your right. Under the stupid joke about us being from Bangladesh. See that? Yep. We're on pre-sale, people. I promise to not harp on that, but, hey, I figure if you're reading this, maybe you'd like to buy a CD. I can promise nothing less than a dozen songs we're very, very proud of with absolutely no filler. We're not Aerosmith here people. We're not giving you a single, a joke-song, and 10 meandering rip offs of 40s blues ditties. No. We would never do such a thing. It's going to be like the EP, times roughly a million. Maybe two.

Oh. And for a moment, let me share my joy. I just did a bit of arithmetic and discovered I have eight, count 'em, eight work days left. And that's counting today. I just twitched with glee.

Which reminds me: we don't have a van. We don't have a van but we've got to leave shortly. We've got our peepers and hearts set on one that may involve Zach & I flying to Vegas (danger! danger!) to pick it up. But, hey, you never know. For now, we're still waiting for one of you readers to send us the genetically engineered sperm of that cheetah-man hybrid you told us all about. If we go down to Vegas, you can expect hilarity. No amount of poorness will dissuade me from the craps table. I'm a degenerate like that.

I have a feeling this will be an interesting week. Stay tuned. For now, enjoy your MonTuesday. I'm finishing a poster tonight too that I want to share with everyone. It has a brontosaurus (which don't and never did exist), a mustachioed man with a top hat, a walrus, and an eskimo. If that doesn't spell kick-ass, I'm not sure what does.



*How much does that link remind you of Ghostbusters 2? Oh. It's just me. Somebody put on the Jackie Wilson and get this sludge back to it's sewer home.

A fairly scatterbrained midweek blurb

Here's a little known fact: I'm still working. At least until the end of the month, when my official resignation goes into effect and Birdmonster takes to the road in a yet unpurchased vehicle. So, what is that? Two weeks? Two and a half? Could you hurry it on up, February? This is really getting ridiculous.

Naturally, there are good things about work. The paycheck, for starters, and of course there's the computer, which is the ultimate weapon in our fight against Taylorism. But today just has the earmarks of an eye-gougingly bad Wednesday: the stinky bus ride filled with elbows to the ribcage, the coffee that tastes suspiciously like dirt, the pissy co-worker or three...pass the pharmaceuticals.

But like I said, the days are numbered and that number is about twelve. After that, a short tour to Texas and back, followed by the release of our LP, which, by the way, is now one third of the way mixed.

We're self-releasing this puppy and that's both exciting and scary because, hey, who knows what life will be like come June or July: we could be filled with love, galavanting across the midwest in a 30-person van or playing our songs in the BART station in front of an upturned fedora filled with dimes.

Me? I'm an optimist. Plus, I'm loving the songs we've got already. It's interesting to see the order in which Brad is mixing them. He's gone through the slower, mellower ones, and is kind of working his way up to the all-out rockers that make up a majority of the disc. In other words, my ears will be bleeding by next Thursday.

Last thing: if you want to read more nonsense we wrote, go right ahead. Thanks to David at LHB. That was rather fun.