In which Birdmonster plays Boston, visits Providence, and witnesses new lows of sorry, degenerate drunkenness

We're on about four hours of couch sleep right
now, but, unlike when we chased Art Brut
throughout the bottom half of the country, it's
not going to be the normal plot on this trip. Most
of our East Coast drives are doable without drive
-thru breakfasts, gas station coffee, groggy
cackling, and early morning R. Kelly. Part of me
will miss that. The sane part won't. Well, even the
sane part wants some R. Kelly, but that's it.
Promise.

For me, most of the stops on the East Coast will
be my first visits to each respective city. I did
take a trip back at the turn of the century, but I
remember New York and twelve dollar lobster in
Maine, but that's about it. I think the family and I
traveled around here too, but when you're five
years old, you just don't give a shit about the
Liberty Bell. Peter's from this whole New English
mash of teeny states, which translates into tour
guide-y driving moments, old friends, and free
floors to sleep on, but for me, and for all intents
and purposes, my first trip to Boston was last
night. I must say: Bravo.

First off, we played at a funky little club called
the Great Scott (a mural on the wall asked "Who's
the Boss?" with pictures of Bruce Spingsteen,
James Brown, and Tony Danza. The answer, of
course: not Tony Danza). Nice, helpful staff in
what, apparently no more than a year or two ago,
was a testerone soaked frat bar. This might be
hearsay, but, at any rate: a kick-ass show. If I
may be so pompous. The Bostonians seemed to
agree.

Afterwards, we drove an old friend home and
departed for Providence to avoid the morning
Bechtel-induced traffic nightmares and for an
aforementioned free floor to sleep on. Then, this
morning, we ate delicious Rhode Island diner-ness
and saw one of the most impressively pathetic
sights I've ever seen: namely, a bearded dude at
the diner counter who'd eaten breakfast while
polishing off eight beers. Before 10:30. I imagine by
now, he's in jail or on number thirty-eight. There's
really no other possibility.

Now, in what we may as well officially christen
the Whaleship Essex (where's my smashy
champagne bottle?), we're rolling to Washington
D.C., that partially slummy, strangely Disneyland
-esque place where our country's leaders make
important decisions about Freedom Fries, Freedom
Onion Soup, and vote on gay marriage every third
Tuesday. See you there.

In which Birdmonster battles snafus, logistical nightmares, plays BFD, and somehow arrives in New York City

Here's the thing about festivals: too many
employees and none of them know what's going on.
We spent an hour being shuffled between gates,
kiosks, huts, shanties, lean-to's, inflatable
armadillos, and security guards with Napolean
complexes until finding a couple quality individuals
who used their walkie-talkies for a righteous
cause: namely, allowing us inside the venue we
were playing. BFD was quite the shindig, I must
admit: four seperate stages, $40 beers, perfect
weather, Anti-Flag, who, cryptically enough,
played surrounded by Bud Light ads (but then
again, so did we), and a veritble sea of humanity.
We stayed mostly by the local stage, getting free
shoes (thanks Ted), sour bagels, a rather touching
photo album (thanks Sherman clan), and a couple
sunburns. After the set, we had to scramble home,
being that we had an hour drive and a Super
Shuttle waiting to ferry us off to Oakland
International. Sleep and relaxation: highly
overrated.

Yet, somehow it all worked out and we made it to
the airport in time to choke down some Round
Table, the undisputed king of shit pizza. I flew to
New York via Vegas, Dave through O'Hare, while
Zach & Pete had a fancy-pants direct flight. They
all missed the degenerate glory that is Las Vegas
International. Basically, we're talking rows of slot
machines, those depressing glass coffin smoking
corals (also filled with video poker, naturally), and
an inordinate amount of advertisements for
caffienated beers and greasy male strip-joints. My
flight was delayed by a good hour and a half, and I
must say (and not without pride) that I avoided
the slots. My fellow captives were not so lucky:
my plane neighbor, who sported a platinum grill and
a very deliberately designed shaved head with
Oakland's area code above either temple,
confessed to losing fifty bucks in the span of a
single cigarette. Joke's on you Vegas; I don't even
have fifty bucks.

We all arrived the next morning, exuding various
levels of jet-lagged loopiness, on three different
planes at two different airports, all luggage
accounted for, all instruments intact
(miraculously enough: the banjo is in a flimsy
backpack and ended up "valeted" at the gate,
which, in layman's terms, means no one
deliberately threw it against anything sharp or
jagged).

And then there's issue of the van. We'd planned on
renting a trailer and pulling it with Peter's folk's
old SUV. Of course, this was before we discovered
some moron had rolled their Ford Explorer while
towing a trailer & now, for fear of getting re
-sued, U-Haul wouldn't rent us one. Of course,
they <i>will</i> rent to a Mercury Mountaineer,
which is the exact same fucking car, but when it
comes to U-Haul, it's best to avoid reason and
intelligence and just absorb their arbitrary
punishment. Long story not exactly short, we're
cruising around in an anonymous E350 we were
forced to rent from a shady dude in New York,
who, when we asked if he had the van's cuts and
bruises on record, said "I know what they are man.
Have I ever lied to you?"

We took pictures.

We need a good name for this white, scuffy
monstrosity. So far though, nothing's come to
mind. Care to take a stab at it? Bueller? Gibson?

So, with our borrowed gear (thanks SpinART) and
our rented van, we're off to Boston for the
official start of this here the Talk/ Birdmonster
East Coast extravaganza. I'll try & maintain this
puppy when I'm not driving or brain-dead, which
might mean once weekly or once daily. You can
never tell. For now, hello East Coast. You talk
way faster than me.

Video, Schmideo

So, I've been waiting to put this up for a couple days, so much so that I'd been refreshing a certain blog roughly four thousand times a day, like some demented lab rat. Over at Stereogum, they were nice enough to post a video-project we've been working on with the gentleman & scholar known only as Greg Crane. Plus, our silly yammerings are now elsewhere on the ol' internets. And I got to make fun of Sisqo, which really isn't very nice, but is, in fact, always funny. That's a proven scientific fact. Thankfully, they put Zach's name on it, so when Sisqo's army of died-hair thugs come after us, I'll survive the onslaught. And yes, I just sold our drummer down the river. Sorry, man. You are the strongest among us. If it comes down to a knock-down, drag-out rumble, I'll kick crotches, necks, and knees for you. I'll bite too. And I got sharp teeth.

Happy 100th-Post Day, or, Goodbye San Francisco

You know that machine in Princess Bride they hook Carey Elwes up to that sucks years off his life? Yeah. Tomorrow is that machine and we are Buttercup. Buttercupmonster, rather. Point is, without boring you, we're loading into BFD at 9, playing at 2:30, and flying to New York at 8:30 and arriving in the morning at 7. This sounded doable, back when we booked & planned everything, but now the logistics are wagging their fingers at us. I'm going to make sure I shave so as not to get the probable-terrorist-pat-down at the security checkpoint. Actually, there's no point. I always get pulled aside. I'll just make sure I swallow the condom of heroin I'm smuggling before I get in line.

We got us some new shirts yesterday too. And maybe some more today. The former are gentlemen's t-shirts, black with gray writing while the latter are indescribably cool ladies shirts with pictures and fancy pants writing; the whole nine. We'll have both with us when we land. And at BFD. So give us your money.

That was blunt. Sorry. But, speaking of tours, Division Day sent us some snap shots of our jaunt a couple months ago. Click here if you want to see them. A majority of the pictures are of those dudes, but, you know, they're fucking adorable. I could just pinch their little cheeks, I could. There's also a bunch from an outdoor show where they stormed the stage during Alabama, an inordiante amount of restuarant pictures, and an uber-mature attempt at writing "dong" with a candle on a long exposure shot. Brings back good, sappy memories. We loves us some D-Day.

I might post a little extra something later today, but for now, I'm going to tie up some before-we-leave loose ends, have a little extra coffee, and try not to stress out like R. Kelly when Rufus is about to open the closet. We'll be keeping the blog updated whilst we travel through the East Coast, so, keep us bookmarked on your battle against Taylorism.

Until soon,
Birdmonster

What, for some reason, I did not post yesterday:

So it's official: the Democratic Party will be presenting the sacrficial cow that is Phil Angelides at the altar of Kalidor, Governor of California. I think it was a good choice. If you're going to make a meaty sacrifice to our supreme ruler, Westly was just too skinny and probably quite grissly. I mean, if I were Arnold, I'd cook him in a nice lemon & white wine sauce before I ate his face. Just two terrible, terrible cantidates. At least there won't be campaign ads on Jeopardy for a few months. So, that's a plus.

A couple things today, besides aimless, cannibalism-laced, political whine-fests. First, I invite everyone to check out some songs by our soon-to-be tourmates the Talk. I like all four. "Good Songs" indeed.

Second, we boarded up Sir Patrick last night, sticking her in Sebastopol while we're galavanting around the Right Coast. Hopefully, the fresh air and the rest will do her well and, so long as she doesn't have hay fever or wisteria alergies, I'm predicting she comes home rested, happy, and ready to be abused anew. We'll be cheating on her on the East Coast (with a rental of all things, the loose, promiscuous whores of the van kingdom), so if you see her: don't. Say. Anything. She thinks we're going to a wedding for our old van, which is actually dead, stripped, and mashed into a sad little cube somewhere. We keep all your secrets, so, you know, it's time to return the favor.

Three days until complete panic

Did I mention that I got my accordion? Of course, to call what I purchased an accordion is like calling an Ibanez a guitar or saying that Arby's serves edible roast beef. In other words, it's a stretch of the highest order. Instead of visiting music stores or going antiquing, I decided to drop into a toy store down the street from the ol' day job, where they had a Hohner child's toy accordion capable of about two chords and no notes that are either sharp or flat. So, basically, I got a squeaky two octave accordion that can yelp along with white-keyed piano ditties. $20 well spent, I'm sure you'll agree. The best part was the duet I did with a six year old when I was buying it. You've never heard percussion genius until you've heard a first grader play drums through plastic packaging. Trust me.

This week, us birdmonsters are trying desperately to avoid forgetting important loose ends before flying to the Right Coast. Personally, I need a haircut & some new pants. But also packing, laundering, and finding Sir Patrick a foster garage are important, if not boring, tasks that need doing. We're good at that last-minute, pseudo-procrastinated rush to action so I have the utmost faith, but, innevitably, I forget something that seems unimportant on paper but ends up being quite necessary. Like deoderant. Sorry plane neighbor. I'll remember this time.

Otherwise: I have a request. I finished the book I was reading & need something new. Maybe somethings, emphasis on the plural. It should be fun, addictive, and long, something that will make me cackle on the plane so that, beyond the lack of deoderant, I'll also be giddy and wild-eyed. In fact, I'm not going to shave either. I see a security point strip search in my future.

And need I remind you that BFD is this Saturday? And that there's an East Coast tour after that? No. But I did.

I'm awake. I swear

Having arrived home at 3:30 and at work 5 hours later, you can rest assured that I'm running solely on coffee, a microwaved croissant, and the life-giving majesty of last night's In 'N Out. I feel like an extra in a George Romero movie; feed me brains.

But, it was quite a weekend. Music was had, tetherball was played, sunburns are itching. We played at my old high school's Performing Arts Center, the same place where I saw Fiddler on the Roof in Eleventh Grade (with a Phillipino dude as Tevya, no less---and he RULED) and got some sausagey pasta for dinner, courtesy my Dad. We spent the day at the pool, where I did a lot of flailing off the diving board and loudly mocking the diving form of several different six year olds. The show itself went over well, despite some...unpleasantness with my temporary bass set-up and a complete lack of monitors and alcohol, and, as always, we ended up sweaty and smiling. Plus, I got to see tons of high school bands. And not the ones with flutes & tubas. Ah, memories. When I was that age, I was still trying to learn "The Trooper" by Iron Maiden, so I give these kids credit for the hectic ska, the SoCal punk, and the various incarnations of rock goodness they played. Oh, and I stuck a few stickers on campus and didn't even get sent to the Principal's Office. I'm a rebel, you know.

The next morning, after some biscuits and gravy, we drove up to LA to play a barbeque at Little Radio. Let me tell you what I was expecting: I flimsy wooden stage under a ripping tent in the 100 degree weather with a negligable sound sytem. I couldn't have been more wrong. Little Radio's set up down there is epic, in a Gilgamesh sort of way. Not only do they have a proper venue, but the invaded the neighboring furniture store parking lot with ping pong tables, kiddie pools, plastic pool recliners, squirt guns, hamburgers, and a bouncy castle with foam basketball hoops inside. A memo: when you can spend half your day recklessly flying around a bouncy castle pretending to be athletic, you're having a good day. This is undeniable.

To boot, the venue was inside, so no one got heatstroke. Run Run Run were kind enough to let me plug into their bass amp (thanks again) and everyone was so laid back & barbeque-y that it was tough to leave. When in fact we did, it was half past seven and on an empty stomach, hence the egregiously late arrival this morning. Oh well. Definately my favorite LA show experience thus far. So, thanks again Little Radio folks. I hope you keep that up. And, you know, if you live in LA, I can't think of a better thing to do on a sweltering Sunday, so you should do yourself a favor & go check them out. If it wasn't an eight hour drive, I'd go every weekend. It just doesn't seem cost efficient.

Before my brain continues to atrophe at an exponential rate, I'm going to start trying to do some work, listen to something soothing (Ryan Adams sounds nice, doesn't he?), and drink about eight more cups of terrible office coffee. Just a note: coffee should not be crunchy. But it's crunchy and free and, well, I have my priorities.

One of those scatterbrained postings

It's the Friday before our glorious return to...my highschool, once a place where assistant principles lifted the skirts of girls outside the Winter Dance because the Thong Song was popular and said principle was worried that, you know, girl's underwear might not be up to her puritanical standards. Just one of the many crimes in which we can call Sisqo an accomplice. Now, instead of crapping on common decency, they're throwing concerts & donating the money to charity. So, points for them.

So, we've got a nice long drive this evening, past all those windmills and the rolling greenness, past several In 'N Outs (not all of them of course---you have to stop at at least one), past the traffic wonderland of LA too late to be crapped on, then inland to North Country San Diego. Then, on Sunday, we're doing a barbeque thing in Los Angeles. You know, it just dawned on me we're doing two outdoor shows in one weekend. How bizarre. Then BFD will be outdoors too--so, three in a row...Just hide the hackysacks, please. I'd rather not see any hackysacks.

Oh yes: the bass amp problem is (temporarily) fixed. Roger from Dark Side of the Cop loaned me an extra speaker I can hook up to my broken head, thus making my setup about nine hundred pounds and 500 watts. All to run a busted, 200 dollar bass. How excellent. And also, I didn't win that other accordion. Perhaps it wasn't meant to be. My Zydeco dreams, dashed. My neighbors, ecstatic.

Explosions and Elephants

Last night, without Dave, who is vacationing down in SoCal, us other three birdmonsters gathered in our studio for one of those oh so enjoyable, meandering, long-winded, messy practices which often result in interesting song ideas. Or even songs. Hell, Resurrection Song and Ball of Yarn were written that way. And everything was going nicely, I must say, until...well...until my bass amp exploded.

Alright, "exploded" is certainly an exagerration. It wasn't as if Sly Stallone should've been diving away from it as it engulfed the room in fireballs. But there was that distinctive and depressing noise of a speaker tearing. If you've never heard it before, it sounds like a cat dying, only amplified. Either that or a large, eggshaped flatulent man, amplified. Actually, it's a rather even mix of the two.

Which brings us to an impasse: we have a show in San Diego in two days (see last post) and I'm ampless. I'm thinking about just setting up a microphone and beat-boxing my bass parts. The chords will be tricky of course, but I can get Dave to harmonize with me. Either that or I'm going to find one today. Plans are in the works, and hopefully, our old friends Dark Side of the Cop will come through in the clutch. I have a good feeling about it. We can always car-jack Division Day in LA. I'll bring my ski-mask.

Beyond that, a few folks clued me into Gorilla Vs. Bear today. Why? you might ask. Well, he played us on some radio shindig (which, by the by, thanks) and also, videos with elephants. And who doesn't like Elephants? Really. Too bad he's rooting for the Pistons. Chris: you're blowing it there. They're tired and they're cocky and they're losing tomorrow night. I'll wager...my bass amp. You'll wager your car.

It's a deal.

Ok. I'm really enjoying this book I'm reading so I need to scheme a break from work now. In other news, I am insanely dedicated to my job.

Well, I said I'd never do it...

Well, I said I'd never do it. I really did. I said it when I was in high school, watching some ungodly LoCal punkband butcher "Mrs. Robinson" at 200 beats per minute. I said "I'll never play a highschool quad. I'll never, especially, play the quad at my highschool." But my, my, my: how things change.

See, we were contacted quite some time ago by a group of rather eager kids in my hometown (suburban San Diego, if you must know) who asked if we'd play a benefit show for Ugandan children on the third of June. The catch, and I'm speaking from a personal level here, was that I'd be violating my youthful proclamation. To wit: Never, ever, ever, under any circumstances, playing music in an area I used to eat lunch in while copying the odd answers out the back of my Algebra 2 book. Yet, lo and behold, I made a liar out of my younger self. Because we're going down south this weekend.

The nice part is, well, we're doing something nice. Benefit shows are a tricky thing, because, often, they're benefitting someone's weird little project and masquerading as some kind of non-profit do-gooder-ness. You get an email asking you to play a non-specific benefit show sponsored by some well-meaning organization only to find out that all the money is actually funding someone's art project, which happens to be a collage of tin foil and fingernails in the shape of the Virgin Mary playing the glockenspiel. It really can be rather disillusioning. That said, we have played some genuinely well-meaning ones, like a Get Out the Vote type event when Governor Conan the Barbarian called that hilariously sucky special election. I think this event is one of the good ones. So, I invite all you SoCal folks to come on out and share in what will surely be, at least for me, a very, very surreal Saturday.

Beyond that little anecdote, I must admit that I bid on another accordion on eBay. I'm attending a meeting at the Y this week though, don't worry. "Impulsive eBay Bidders Anonymous." "Hello, my name is Justin, and I have a problem," I'll say, and the nice old lady doing macrame will look up and smile at me and the kind of creepy looking bald guy with the turtleneck will say "The first step is acceptance" and everything will start getting better.

Lastly, go Heat. Not because I'm a real fan or anything, but because Shaq is cooler while he sleeps than I've ever been or even will be at any and all points in my life, added up and then squared. And also, the Pistons are annoying.

Welcome back; Go Stinky!

Most people, when they're a little too drunk, argue with their girlfriends or fall asleep with their shoes on or pick fights with 6'9" skinhead ex-linebackers. Not me. I bid on accordions on eBay.

Now, as most readers know, I can't afford an accordion. I especially can't afford an accordion whose shipping and handling costs were $90. Then, last night, while I was still blissfully ignorant about my impulsive (read: blotto) choice to bid on a 1940s Italian accordion I don't know how to play, I received an email from eBay informing me I'd been outbid at the last moment. Ah, serendipity. And I'm not talking about that shitty Cusack movie either. We need a phrase for poorly-decided-eBay-maneuvers, like posting your car for $10 or selling you soul or bidding on things you don't need and can't afford after too many gimlets. An eBoner? Meh. Maybe. I think we can do better though.

Beyond soggy computer idiocy, we also played a show this weekend at 330 Ritch, or, that club with the pole in the middle of it. Since we've played there last, the sound and stage underwent striking improvements, like one of those bitter chicks who goes on Maury twenty years after she gets stood up on prom night to show off her new tits. It's fantastic now. We got to see Push to Talk inside too, which was nice, since last time we met, we were outside in a hundred degree Chico weather with feedbacking monitors, shaky stages, and attendees playing frisbee. Needless to say, in their natural habitat, Push to Talk was wonderful. They released their CD within two weeks of us too. Worth a few dozen listens for sure. All said, a great night---thanks to all the folks who put it on, came, played, and even that smelly dude who loitered outside yelling about 'Nam. You're cool too, guy.

Sadly enough, that was our last San Francisco show until...eeek! July 15th. That's a bit depressing. But in the meantime, we've got BFD (sort of SF, but now quite) and afterwards, the East Coast will feel our wrath. And by wrath I mean our gas money. And borrowed equipment. It's been, I don't know, about seven years since I took a one-week jaunt through greater New England and I've never been to about three fourths of the places we're going, so, I must say, I'm excited. More on that later though. For now, I'm going to keep listening to Janis Joplin, who, according to those who were once in ten feet of her, reeked like a hobo. But damn could she sing. Go stinky!

Danger: Bad Jokes With-in; Proceed At Your Own Risk

When we toured with Division Day, we found out they had a fondness for creating side projects with hilarious names. A few of them even had songs. On tour, all of us who were fighting the monkey-flu we got in Seattle formed Mucus Pocus, for example. Not as funny out of context, perhaps, but, you know, just bear with me. It's Friday and I'm running low on material here. At any rate, Dave & I had a little couch-sitting session yesterday, complete with out of tune guitars & banjos & bad, bad, bad vocals in chromatic & minor keys, so we dubbed ourselves System of a Ho-Down.

Rim. Shot.

Dave also wants to start a Scandanavian metal band (nevermind that we're not from Scandanavia of course) that sings only about the interent and call it Memory of the Oversoul. I think that's the coolest metal band name ever. I defy you to trump me.

Obviously, I'm babbling. I should mention again that we have a show tonight with Push to Talk & Damone at the 330 Rich located, strangely enough, at 330 Rich Street. Merriment will be everywhere, so wear one of those Gallagher-front-row-plastic-tarp-sack things if you want to stay grumpy. Otherwise, come say hi, have a drink, get a sticker, put it somewhere it doesn't belong. It'll be grand.

Otherwise, enjoy your three day weekend. I'll enjoy these Cheez-Its instead.

p.s. yes I saw Lost. Yes it was convoluted, ridiculous, and totally awesome.

Tires! Shows! Tires!

Poor Patrick Stewart; will you ever be healthy? After only a month of birdmonstering, Sir Patrick has blown a coolant hose, leaked roughly nine thousand dollars of oil, and, now, blown a tire. And we've treated her so well too: we got her a new mirror when the right hand one fell out mysteriously in Northern California, we let her drink plenty of gas, we clean the bug corpses off as often as we can, and we removed those old bananas that had been under the seat for the past four days; in other words, she is loved. Hopefully, together, we can work through this. Tonight, she gets a nice sushi dinner and a drive through the park. We're gonna kill her with kindness.

Anyway, turns out we didn't really know how to change Sir Patrick's tires, so Zach, our neighbor, and I (along with BAGeL Ted, who did a lot of picture-taking and guffawing but very few tire-related activities) spent an hour and a half learning last night. Sure, sure: I understand the basic principles of tire changing, but in practice: not so good. At least I got to have oil under my fingernails while drinking beer and pretending I knew what I was doing. That was fun.

Now, re-tired and ready to go, we've got a show tomorrow night at 330 Rich with Push to Talk and Damone that we can make it to. I recommend y'all come out and enjoy. There will be loud music, bouncing and new stickers (spoiler: parachuting moose!). And, yes, yes: the East Coast will soon be upon us (more on that later), so for those who've been politely prodding us towards the Atlantic, we'll see you in June. Or early, early July. We'll be busy writing & scheming & booking & laughing at our tumorous bill-pile until then. Now, back to work, where they pay me, apparently, for not working...

Help us help you; actually, no. Just help us

So, with little occurring and work looming over my head, I decided to ask for some feedback. See, with copious time being spent in Patrick Stewart, we need things to do. Punch-buggie is just too violent.

We've got "Name that Bloke," gifted to us by Division Day, which I've explained before, but is basically a never-ending guessing game without hints. We've had a game going since East Texas and it shows no signs of letting up; my bloke is not R. Kelly, Joe Montana, or the guy who played Vigo in Ghostbusters 2. It's a great game, of course, but we crave variety; we need new games to go along with the ever growing list of greatest road-trip albums ever*. So, maybe you have a game you remember from your salad days, driving with Mom and Dad to some boring weekend excursion (maybe to an Amish village) and playing it with your sister, who just threw up all over the backseat to boot.

I ask because, well, with Pete & Dave out of town, and boring, business-y things happening in the world of Birdmonster, new music isn't getting finished and I'd rather not regale you with tales of sending out CDs in the mail or answering emails. So I'm asking something I meant to ask before we left last time. I'm also going to ask the Google oracle but don't be jealous: I like you more.

*among them: London Calling, Graceland, Creedence's Greatest Hits, the first Counting Crows CD, anything by Stevie Wonder, Astral Weeks, Recipe for Hate, Trapped in the Closet...

Hello again

My first work Monday in over a month happened to come on the heels of Bay to Breakers, which, if you don't know, is a day-long drinking binge disguised as a cross-city race that Kenyan folks always win. So I'm a little groggy. Tecate is a friend you do not betray.

We revisted our house-party roots this past Saturday, playing to a horde of Santa Cruz-ians who represented a variety of political and hygenic leanings. And let me tell you: they danced. Not the "I'm occasionally bobbing my head" dance favored by many a hipster, but full fledged bouncing, pogoing, and high-quality spazzing favored by the energetic, the innebriated, and the energetically innebriated. Any time you're invited to play a house with home-brewed beer, chickens, and an empty living room, you play it. That's the rule. It's in the book they give you when you first start touring, right after chapter 4: "If you must go fast food, just don't go Arby's." I'd show it to you, but it's like that book they give dead people in Beatlejuice; if you saw it, the whole balance of the universe would be upset.

Ok, so I'm babbling. It's because we've got a mellow week ahead of us as we book shows for the future, have a few loose practices, and deal with my first full work of gainful employment in a while. Should be fun. If you're around the city on Friday, come out and join us at 330 Rich, do a little dancing, and see some Birdmonster. If not, eat something pizza and watch Omega Man. You'll be happy you did.

New ways to amuse yourself, or, we was boring yesterday

How nice it is to have an uneventful afternoon once in a while. Doing Nothing, double-capitalized. Of course, it was also nice seeing the Pistons choke on a chicken bone and finding a new Indian delivery place whose Sag Paneer didn't taste like Pinesol.

In lieu of tour stories, weird experiences, and financial whinings, I'm going to whore out a website for everyone. It's called Draw Here.

What is it? Basically, it's internet photoshop: you can go to you favorite or least favorite websites & graffiti all over them. It's strangely addictive & ranks highly on my list of "Websites I visit while avoiding work like the plague." The most genius part: you can see what others have drawn on different websites with a simple click of a button. And yes, someone beat us all to www.whitehouse.gov

So enjoy doodling. And yes, LOST was wonderful last night. Withdrawals forthcoming in t-minus six days.

I missed you, impenatrable fog layer

It's halfway through May, the tour is over, and it's time to start thinking about the ever pressing issue of rent. And food. And haircuts. I don't want to start looking like Bootsy Collins over here; I don't think I could pull off the sunglasses. So the issue, of course, is money, and, rather than pull a Margita Bangova, I decided to crawl back to work, yet again. I have expensive habits...like, say, not eating cardboard.

Of course, I exagerrate. We did rather well on our tour of the Northwest & the Midwest & the Southwest & the ever elusive Westwest, but we have creditors and they have goons, so, in the interests of not bleeding internally, I'm back at work. Hip hip hooray.

I spent my first and only true day off scouring my room for old letters, drum machine chords, and clean socks while taking too many banjo breaks. In the end, the room is now actually dirtier, but there's a few bags of trash to show for my efforts. And a nice little banjo ditty. Last night I was lucky enough to check out Cloud Cult & Hijack the Disco at the Makeout Room and they were both worth the lack of sleep. I've got that post-show-ten-song-medley-stuck-in-my-head-thing going on to boot and it's a rather enjoyable one. Lots of keyboards and catchy basslines. Bravo to both.

So, 8500 miles, 27 days later, we're home and we're rested and we get to crank out the new songs that have been sugarplumming through our noggins in the van. But first a break. And, of course, LOST. I've missed the last two episodes (SO SHUT UP) but I'll be caught up tonight. Hook it up to the vein.

Ah, the wonders of posting in my pajamas

Like the doormat says, "Home Sweet Home." Or, just as accurately, "God Bless this Mess." I always remember my room cleaner than how I actually left it.

At any rate, it's true. We're home, more or less, for three weeks, until departing again on the tenth of next month for the East Coast to play on other people's gear, drive in other people's cars, and play in other people's cities. We're upping our vagrancy ante, my friends, and seeing New England for the first time as the birdmonster that we are.

So, we finished our tour with a two show double header with the Fall over at the Independent which I ostensibly live next door to. That part was nice. There's been some drama on that tour (see various screeds & articles online, if you must) but everyone I met seemed wonderful. Not to mention that the five folks in the band have only been playing together for about five days and are ridiculously tight, despite earlier unpleasantness. A fun show, with new people in the audience to boot. The old faces, though, brought a smile to mine. It's great being home.

I think I hear Judge Joe Brown calling me. I'll see you tomorrow.

Fall show knowhow

Ladies, gentlemen, those of unknown gender and
sexuality: tonight and tomorrow night's Fall shows
are two band bills, just us & them. We're on at
8:30...ish. Be there early & have a drink, should you
be near the panhandle.

"...And that's the most important thing"

After roughly a month with shows nightly and one
night in our own beds, we're homeward bound like
Simon and the less talented Garfunkel. Tonight
and tomorrow, though, we're playing the
Independent with the Fall, so, heads up there for
the home towners.

So, we've had three shows since we parted ways
with Art Brut and tagged the Robocop Kraus like
the Bushwhackers would have done in the olden
WWF days. San Diego was dang fun, followed the
next morning by Peter asserted HORSE dominance
on my home court, no less; Earl Boykins I am not.
Then we did a double-header in LA, once at the
Spaceland and once at the Knitting Factory...

Wait. So, I have to tell a brief story. Outside the
Knitting Factory, while we getting ready to leave,
I heard something flabbergasting that has to be
shared. Without introduction, this quote (not about
us, mind you), is my best bad line of the tour:
"Yeah, but they dressed really well and that's the
most important thing." And no: not a joke. It was
depressingly hilarious though, like watching that
Home Improvement 10th banana guy host the
Family Feud.

Oh. And "Name that Bloke" continues, with many
blokes eliminated (not Kevin Nealan, not Montell
Jordan, not Brad Renfro) but the real blokes
undiscovered, except Peter's, who was Joe Pesci.
Now, we slowly scale the Grapevine, praying Sir
Patrick doesn't start smelling like coolant. See you
in fogtown.

Aqua-pee-na

...sent via sidecrack...

Adios Europeans; Hello Californians

Well, we made it. Yesterday's drive was a total of
twenty one hours, with stop off's at Chuy's
Mexican Eatery (in the John Madden Hall of Fame,
no less) and an Italian place in Gila Bend, which
was pretty phenomenal. We avoided the roadside
trifecta of unforunate bowel movements (KFC,
McDonald's, and Subway) the whole way and Sir
Patrick managed over a thousand miles without
exploding. Now, to San Diego, well rested to boot.

So, we finished our ten days with Art Brut in
Houston and passed the support torch to the
Robocop Kraus, a thoroughly kick-ass and
gentlemanly German indie band who cruised into
the venue decked out in matching Wal-Mart
ensembles. If you haven't seen five grown men in
yellow Aloha shirts, blue short shorts, and
matching slippers, you haven't lived. They put on a
helluva enjoyable show along with some gimmicks
and tricks I've never seen before (the best: the
singer lifting the drummers snare drum while he
played it and leading him through the audience
without missing a beat). Best to those boys.

We ended our week-plus sojourn with Art Brut by
breaking my two-year old tamborine into three
pieces and storming the stage during their encore,
cymbals, clapping hands, and a properly working
tamborine in hand. Afterwards, we all realized
every show should've ended that way, although
that would've meant several more bloodied
knuckles and very bruised palms, so perhaps a
proper finale was the way to go. Then, the sad
end. Everybody exchanged email addresses and
hugs and learned Eddie's pin number and it felt like
the end of a really blotto summer camp. A totally
lovable band, that Art Brut.

But now, we're homeward bound after only a night
in our own beds since April 19th, with lessons
learned from the aforementioned Brits and our
band bestfriends, Division Day. I get to watch
basketball, catch up on Lost, figure out how to
pay rent, see our buddies, and eat something that's
not slathered in grease. And finally, we can sit
down and write some new music. Hooray for that.
But I'm a bit ahead of myself. We've got 250 miles
to San Diego and two shows in LA first, then two
at the Independent with the Fall and the Talk on
the 14th &15th before we can really relax. For
now, let's all just sing along to some Tom Petty,
plugs our noses as we drive through another
stretch of cowshit, and try not to pull over too
often to pee. See you soon.

Our 26 hour drive

...sent via sidecrack...

400 miles...from El Paso

Much to say, much to say, but for now, I will be
curt. With 1500 miles to cover in less than 2 days,
and a good high energy show working our brains like
trucker uppers, we decided to drive through the
evening. I took the first shift out of Houston,
which began with a rousing game of "Name that
Bloke" (any guesses?), continued with London
Calling (up there with Graceland in the pantheon of
road-trip albums) and horrific rest stop coffee.
Then I crawled into the back seat for a cat nap
and woke up to Bad Religion screaming "Fuck
Armaggedon, This is Hell." Definately the theme
song for this drive, I'll tell you that much. Let it
be known: Texas is too big. I'm putting it on the
Atkin's diet. They've got the meat to do it too.

I'll post about the last Art Brut show soon when
I've got my wits about me and a little Denny's in
the tummy. For now, someone pass me some beef
jerky and slap me. Nah. Just slap me with beef
jerky. That's better.

Deep in the heart of Texas for at least 24 more hours

Bonjour, one and all. We're in Austin, glazed with sweat, owing to the 4000% humidity, getting ready for our final show with Art Brut in Houston. Sniff, sniff. We'll miss those boys (and girl) and their top of the popsness. But there is no time for glumness, since we've still got one more show and a van to pack and, since we're in Texas, meat to eat. Bring me the ribcage of a four legged mammal.

So, I mentioned last time that we changed our day off to an impromptu show day in Dallas, at an incredibly cool, divey place called the Double Wide. If you ever hear me complaining about a camoflague soundbooth with a stag's head on it and free Lonestars, you can slap me. The opener (who had, somehow, even less notice than us) was called St. Vincent, which is misleading since St. Vincent was not a band, but a girl with a guitar. She had this Jolie Holland with jazz chords thing going on, and, well, was my favorite opener thus far. We spent that night playing a few we hadn't played in ages, including No Midnight, which always goes over well in Texas. This may sound stereotypical, but Texans love the banjo. And god bless that. We could all learn a thing or two from them. Except how to select a governor...of course, we elected Arnold and Reagan, so I wouldn't take lessons from California either.

That night, we got our first good sleep in weeks, cruised to Austin and played Emo's, after some aforementioned barbequed meats and wonderbread. Have to say that Emo's treated us really well, gave us more drink tickets than William Faulkner could've used, and the sound there was, well, unreal. It definately deserves its mythic status.

For those who may be worried or wondering, Patrick Stewart had some sort of faith healing in Kansas and no longer leaks oil at alarming rates. In fact, it's been several hundred miles since we had to fill her back up. Keep your fingers crossed; perhaps that Madame Laveau comment a while back worked mysterious wonders. Only time will tell.

So: to Houston, home of NASA, our last show with Art Brut, and 7'6" Chinese centers. Onwards.

Tales of the Midwest

Despite indulging Sir Patrick's quart an hour oil
habit, we are championing onwards. Since last time
we spoke, have put down almost a thousand miles,
seen David & my's oldest friend, and eaten some
of the worst diner food ever devised. Let's tell
some stories.

Denver: I've been once before, maybe four years
ago to see the worst basketball game ever (the
Nuggets and the Sonics, back when Payton was on
Seattle) and spend New Years wandering the
snowy streets with a rabbitfur Russian hat and
the aforementioned old buddy, Webb. This time:
less snow, more noise. The club in Denver, the Hi
-Dive, treated us so well, and, well, we send our
thanks and tip our collective hat. Four words:
Sweet potato french fries. Let it be known: I
would have accepted seven sacks of sweet potato
fries in lieu of payment. My mouth waters at the
memory.

After the show, dancing and bad video games were
in abundance. Turns out I only have about five
dance moves, but none are the white-man-arm
-waggle, so, points for me.

The next afternoon, which was yesterday, we
rolled through Kansas, which is, well, it's really
flat and really green. Also, I think highway 70 has
four turns in it. Total. Lawrence was a cool town
though, and the club was gorgeous. We sort of
neglected to account for the hour time change, so
we missed soundcheck, but that's par for the
course these last couple days, especially now that
Patrick Stewart is ravenous for oily goodness.
Webb accompanied us to Kansas as well, which
allowed for some really epic DMX sing-alongs and a
stop off at Sonic Burger, a mistake I've made
twice now. At least they'll put Vanilla in your Coke
while they put the pain in your gut.

The Kansas show was, I think, my favorite. Why?
Well, we played well and played Spaceman, which
we haven't played too much this trip and always
puts me in a great mood. After the show was
actually better than the show itself. Us
Birdmonsters and a few Art Bruters spent about
half an hour backstage singing Weezer songs, with
Art Brut's drummer (Mike) displaying his
unbelievably encyclopedic knowledge of every
River's Cuomo guitar part ever. Bad harmonies and
attempts at the falsetto Weezer "Ooh"s were
executed with drunken precision, and, in the end,
the club pretty much had to kick us out. Jaime is
still in my head.

And then there's tonight. We nixed our day off
(who needs breaks?) as Chris from Gorilla Vs. Bear
offered to set up a spur of the moment Dallas
show and we couldn't turn it down. We like Texas.
We like Chris. It seemed natural. So we're driving
now, many hours and plenty of oil away, but
tonight, it seems, we'll be Art Brut-less and
sleeping in Fort Worth after yet more
Birdmonstering. If you're in Dallas and don't care
about your Monday work performance, you should
come on out.

After this: two more Texas shows, then
westward, to San Diego and the land of the
vanquished Lakers. Part of me wanted them to
lose to the Clips instead, but when the villians die,
you can't complain about why.

Problems and their half-assed solutions

Do you believe in curses? I do. And, the sad truth
is, I think Patrick Stewart might be cursed. See,
yesterday, as we sped through New Mexico,
listening to Richard Buckner (who actually sounds
like New Mexico), we noticed a sporadic stench, an
unmistakable one, the smell of burning oil. But, as I
said, it came, then went, every hour or so. Then,
somewhere just past Santa Fe, we started trailing
a plume and smelling like those parts of Texas do
so we pulled off, turned around, and trundled back
to Sante Fe, unpacked the van, and slept the sleep
of the spastically worried.

Pete and I woke up the next morning (this morning,
actually) and went to Pep Boys for a diagnostic. A
surly woman with bad pants and a guy named
Wilson told us that we had a leaky oil pan and a
different, leakier rear gasket, which, although only
worth sixty bucks combined, would take about
seven hours to fix, thanks to being buried under
most of the transmission and engine. Good ol'
American cars. "How much?" we inquired. "About a
thousand bucks," the replied. Then I ripped out a
chunk of my hair and politely relayed that we
could scarely afford last night's desperation Taco
Bell, let alone a four-digit car repair, let alone lose
the full day getting her repaired, when most of our
drives are 550 miles a day.

So, here I am in the backseat, relegated to plan B.
We bought about 6 kegs worth of motor oil and, on
the advice of badpants, Wilson, and our at home
mechanic, we're stopping every 200 miles to check
the levels. Now, basically, I'd come to terms with
the fact that I was going to spend the remainder
of our journey grinding my teeth in anticipation of
a full-fledged Patrick Stewart meltdown, but, at
our last check, we'd barely lost any.

So, is she cursed? It's possible. I wish Madame
Laveau was still around so I could ask her. For
now, I'm just going to cross my fingers, check
fluids more often than an OCD In'n'Out emlpoyee
washes his hands, and forge ahead. There are,
after all, shows to play.

Tucson was the last of these. After the van's
first on-tour repair, we cruised up well past
soundcheck and well past when any palatable
restaurants were still serving, right after the
Cavs beat the Wiz, and right about when doors
were opening. A hectic day usually transaltes into
a good, exhausting show and Wednesday was no
exception. At least I think it was Wednesday.
Anyway, we had a good time, once the day's
madness was stained with some liquor and British
accents. Art Brut, again, kicked ass. They've
started their last three shows with eight bars of
AC/DC and tonight promise something a little
different. Here's hoping for Whole Lotta Love or,
at least, a whole lotta Muscrat Love.

They've been great tourmates, by the by: Jovial,
loud, hilarious; nothing but good things to say. Hell,
they bought me a power chord at Guitar Center
before I knew half their names (back in SF). We
would've loved to see them on Win Ben Stein's
Money alum Jimmy Kimmel's show last night, but,
well, we were too busy trailing smoke up the 25.
Hope they rocked late night TV's face off.

Hmm. We're getting hailed on now. Bring the pain,
New Mexico. Patrick Stewart might be cursed, but
at least she's water-tight. Onwards, Birdmonster!

Success is ours

50 dollars, 2 hours, and one new, less leaky hose
later, we're back in business, coasting downhill
thru southeast California. Let it be known, the
bearded mechanic in Pine Village is both a
gentleman and a scholar.

This part of California sort of looks like a Road
Runner cartoon; here's to hoping we run across
some free birdseed soon, or a tunnel painted on the
side of a bluff. Art Brut is long gone, of course, as
they are in one of those luxury liner buses, with
bathrooms, DVD players, and a lifesize chess board
inside. They were great last night, by the way: the
smaller club (the Casbah) did them justice. I hear
we were good too, but I couldn't really tell as I'm
still fighting off this goddamn fever so I basically
spent last night's show concentrating on not
fainting. They also had a supremely awesome Ms.
Pacman, which Peter demolished me at...again.
Bastard.

We then went back to my folk's house, which
meant hanging out with my cat and eating
pancakes and bacon in the morning. Thanks pappy.
That was a fine way to start the morning. Much
better than waking up to Taco Bell, which is a near
innevitability this trip. Hold the white sauce,
please. My stomach hates me for just mentioning
that.

To Tucson we go.

Stopped in Pine Village

Ah, back to Arizona, land of the ridiculous gas
station. We come from California, where gas
stations sell Cheetos, Junior Mints, and lottery
tickets, so, I must say it's surprising to see a 600
pound geode when you're topping off the tank. The
thing is, there's not a whole lot of civilization in
Arizona. The towns we've been in have been
excellent, but it's one of those states where the
scenery can be positively horror-movie. I'll watch
out for the shifty eyed gentlemen with chainsaws.

But, I get ahead of ourselves. Currently, we're still
in California, with a good five hours to go. I'd like
to a moment, too, to shudder at the 3.60 a gallon
we just paid to fill up our tank while Patrick
Stewart peed out some (hopefully) unnecessary
coolant. That was fun. In the most sad and
sarcastic way possible.

In fact, we're going to take her to a backwoods
mechanic now...speaking of horror-movies and price
-gouging. Cross your fingers for us.

She was the kind of girl who could say things that weren't that funny

We're on the road again, like Willie Nelson, except
without the man pigtails. Everyone's on about
three hours sleep after our first show with Art
Brut in the ex-brothel that is the Great American
Music Hall last night, and I've been coughing up
what looks like raw eggs, and having really intense
fever dreams about waking up blonde. Tonight, we
venture to San Diego, where Dave & I both spent
our salad days being awkward and learning Iron
Maiden songs out of guitar magazines. Ah, the
memories. Tonight's show is at the Casbah, which
is a venue I never quite got to go to, since it was a
bar and I was, at the oldest, in high school, so, on
a personal level, I kind of excited about that. I
can't for the life of me remember which bands
came to the Casbah when I was younger, but I
remember wanting to go. No matter. It was
probably Tesla or Dokken or something.
Sometimes, not getting what you want can be the
best thing for you.

It's almost two in the afternoon and we just
crawled up the Grapevine and are nearing Magic
Mountain, which means that the pit of traffic hell
known as LA looms on the horizon. But I think we
might be hitting it just right, directly after the
lunchtime trafficjam and a few hours before the
dinnertime, workday clusterfuck. I just hope the
afternoon tea traffic is a sick rumor. Cross your
fingers for us.

So, last night: so nice to see some friendly faces,
so great to be home. Sure it was for two incredibly
short days, but we got to see our birdgirls, sleep in
our own beds, see that Colbert thingie on the
internet, and cram in some desperately needed
laundry time.

And the show last night was fantastic to boot.
The gents (and lady) in Art Brut are incredibly
friendly and their live show is, well, you sort of
just need to see it, but it's damn fun, well done,
and totally endearing. I'm looking forward to the
week or so with them for a variety of reasons.
One: I get to see 'em live eight times. Two: I get
to place bets on which birdmonster will slip into a
faux-british accent first. Three: we're playing
fancypants venues. Four: mustaches comma
singers with them.

In fact, the list goes on, but it will be innumerated
in the coming days. I hope that's the right word. I
like how it sounds.

That said, we Birdmonsters do miss Division Day.
We miss their caseless keyboards and jumping
onstage for Tap-Tap Click Click and whooping
them at wiffleball and all else. Next year,
suckers, we'll record Stoked Palace. Oh yeah. And
we know Brett's bloke. Mwahahahahaha! We're
taking it to the grave too.

After a painless jaunt through LA proper, we're
now bogged down in random-outskirt traffic, but
at least we've got Graceland. Thank God for
Graceland. I think I need to start singing along.

Home today, gone tomorrow; and also, some pictures

Before I get down to doing the mid-tour laundry, packing my hobo bindle, and purchasing replacement chords, picks, strings, and the like (fyi: beer spills and instrument cables don't mix), I'm going to make good on my promise of picture-y goodness from a half week ago. And you thought I'd forgotten. Have some faith.

Just so we're clear: these aren't all the pictures, nor even the best ones (okay, I lie, I did manage to find my absolute favorite), but for the time being, hopefully they'll solidify the epicness of the castle and provide you with a chuckle or two on this Monday morning.

I should of course mention that we're playing with Art Brut tonight at the Great American (SF) and then heading out of the gas-guzzling-est tour in Birdmonster history starting tomorrow morning. Let it be known: Houston to San Diego is 1500 miles and we have a day and a half to do it. Odds of me going Vincent Dinofrio in Full Metal Jacket at some point in that drive: three to one.

Anyway, please check the tour page for upcoming shows if you're so inclined. Also, if you see our old van in LA, please light it on fire, as, for some reason, the DMV still thinks it's ours and is putting liens on my assets. But ha! The jokes on them. I have no assets.

Alright. Here's the castle exterior at 2:30 in the morning, the night we arrived:

...which led, naturally, to swordplay:


This is actually a typical room. Notice the armor and the animal noggins, as well as the thoroughly kick-ass doorway...

The following day, there was much wiffelball to be had. Brett through at heads. His pants were covered in feces

Peter with the original Division Day guitarist:

That's good for now. Plus, I'm really behind on that whole van-cleaning/laundry-doing/stuff-buying plot. See you shortly, we hope.

A belated and incredibly long history of the end of last week

Since we spoke last, loud shows have been played,
pancakes have been eaten, and Division Day have
been deported. Well, "deported" isn't the right
word. More like "never allowed into." The lesson:
Canadian border guards know all about Google, and
they will use it for purposes of evil.

But I get ahead of myself. We should start with
Seattle. And let me tell you, Seattle was a
genuinely weird experience. The sheer amount of
lunatic vagrants in a one block radius shocked all
four of us and, well, I was pretty sure San
Francisco was at least the West Coast's densest
hub of shitcrazy hobos. So, hats off Seattle.
You've won this round.

My favorite was an overweight lady---"lady" used
in the loosest sense of the word---who wore only
denim shorts, flip-flops, and a bikini top, and
wandered over to us slurring "I'm too sexy for this
shirt." Let it be known: I disagreed.

So we played Seattle, stayed in a motel and spent
the next driving to Spokane, doing a podcast dealy,
playing "Name that Bloke"*, and finally playing one
of those rowdy shows. I love those. The podcast
can be found here: www.spokane7.com (sorry I
can't do the html coding from here. Come to think
of it, we haven't been able to hear it yet, as we've
been computerless. David's cyborg soul is rusting).
All the folks who put on the show were
enthusiastic and helpful, so thanks for that, guys.
See the asterisk for the bloke, if you dare.

The next day, we split up from Division Day so
they could get Canada's front door shut in their
face and went down to the aforementioned castle.
Needless to say, we had the better day. Poor
guys. I really wanted them to bring us some funny
money too.

We've been having a blast with those guys, by the
way and enjoying their set more each night. This is
our first tour with the same band on the bill, night
in, night out, and we couldn't have chosen wiser.
Sure, they're all crazy, but it's a good crazy. More
"eccentric" than human-heads-in-your-freezer
crazy, for sure.

Which brings us, in a roundabout way to last night's
Portland show, which, truth be told, is probably
my favorite of the trip. We played in a cramped
dive with Spiderman playing cards for drink
tickets, a bar with no sound man, a dinner table
sized stage, but it was perfect. Both bands ended
up onstage with the other, slamming tamborines
into walls and bouncing around like idiots. People
from the instore we played showed up, and fliers
handed out on the sidewalk actually brought people
inside. A few friends of friends and blog reading
folk found that little whole in the wall too, helped
us close it down, and made us want to come back
to Portland as soon as we can. Then, why, back to
the castle of course, for slurred conversation and
sleep and the blessed absence of swordplay.

And now, we're driving. Saturday we play Chico in
the afternoon and a skating rink in San Jose at
night. I hope Rohner plays on rollerblades while
wearing a fannypack, but I doubt that'll happen. A
boy can dream.

This mobile internet thing just made a really
depressing, deflated sort of noise, so I'm out of
time. Be home soon, but for now, onwards.

* name that bloke is a thoroughly asinine game
without many rules. I think the only way it's fun is
if you've spent enough time in a van that your
brain begins devouring itslef. Basically, one person
thinks of a guy. Someone famous. And everyone
else guesses. Hints are disallowed. Games go on
for days. They're totally maddening.

Ryan's was Latrell Sprewell. We've been guessing
Brett's since Tuesday.

A certainly incomplete account of the last three days or so

Allow me to state the obvious: castles are awesome. Unless you're a
thirteenth century serf or something, which I hope you aren't. Castles
are like cowboys and dinosaurs and pirates; some things are so awesome
they cannot be denied. The thing is, you don't run across too many
cowboys or pirates nowadays, and you can only see dinosaurs in the very
best zoos, so the truly awesome can seem unattainable. For us, that all
changed in Salem.

See, we Birdmonsters and Division Dayers stayed in a Castle. And yeah,
that's capitalized on purpose. We're talking suits of armor,
taxidermied boar heads, wall-mounted swords, pipe organs, turets, stone
walls---hell, they had a dungeon with a skeleton in it. A plastic
skeleton, mind you, which was certainly reassurring, but there was a
dungeon. I know. You're sure I'm joking. At the very least exagerrating.
Just wait for the pictures.

Salem was the second stop on this now four day old tour and the castle
was the property of DDay's drummer Kevin's Aunt and Uncle. I wish I
could say they were wearing velvet capes, but, sadly, they were not.
They were benevolent monarchs who took us out for pancakes and fed us
beer and even came out to the show at the Ike Box in Salem. See, if the
kings and queens of yore were that thoughtful, there wouldn't have been
all those nasty peasant revolutions and all that unfortunate beheading.
The show they attended in Salem was a ball and we learned something
important too: don't book an all-ages show on Prom night. That tends to
hurt the draw. Oh. And the band that headlined, the Black Black Black,
were awesome. Not castle awesome, but certainly dinosaur awesome.
There's a subtle, important difference.

After the show was when we saw the castle for the first time, at night,
all underlit like some Czech stone monstronsity. I went inside and
cackled in every room. I still can't get over it, obviously. Tours were
given, beers were drank, sleep was had. The next day, we went down to
the castle's sheep pasture (true) and played a ferocious game of
wiffleball. And let this be a warning to you: don't play wiffleball in a
sheep pasture. Poop everywhere. Including Brett's jeans.

That night we had the innevitable blotto show in Portland, which I blame
on 50 cent PBRs. I think all members of both bands ended up playing some
sort of percussion implement for the other, as we combined to create the
savage being Rohner named Bivisionmonster. It was my favorite show thus
far---sure it was...modestly attended and a little sloppy, but anytime
you can stumble onstage with a tamborine and rock out with your friends
is a good time.

I owe you a story about Seattle and the woman with seven stomach rolls,
a bikini top, and a permenent place in The Haggard Old Cow-Woman Hall of
Fame, but this is long enough thus far. Pictures soon---I hope---and
Spokane tonight. L'chaim.

Oh Lord, we just drove through Lo-di a-gain

We're at one of those parts of the 5 where you
don't see anything but truckers and call boxes,
finally giving the van it's first real workout. She's
doing marvelously. Wait. Can I call a van
purportedly named Patrick Stewart, "she"? Yeah. I
think it's okay. Even if it means our transportation
is a wig-wearing, trannie-Patrick-Stewart.
Especially if it means that, now that I think about
it. Would you mess with Patrick Stewart in a red
dress and heels? Exactly.

We just recently figured out the intricate
Tetris-y arrangement of gear in the back too,
which is an important step in a young van's life.
Soon, it's voice will start changing. It's also nice to
not be inhaling coolant fumes or hearing
mysterious rattling noises. I think Pete feels a
little guilty that we've moved on so fast after
being widowed by the birdvan, but we've impressed
upon him that it's for the best. The period of
greiving is over. We aren't GreekOrthodoxMonster.

Tonight started the grand Divison Day,
Birdmonster tour, a week we've been looking
forward to since, well, basically since we started
recording in January. A little background here: us
three, non-Peter folks met their drummer Kevin
maybe six years ago before an At the Drive-In
show through Brett, who also designed our first
website, who also came along for the trip. I know:
very incestual, very Jerry Springer. It's alright, I
promise. Now we get to scurry across the Land of
Plenty with them, and, hopefully, kick their lilly
asses at some basketball. This must happen.

We played the Kazem tonight, over in Brentwood,
which is always, always a pleasure. Everyone's
always all enthusiastic and clap-along, the folks
that run it are honest, and they run it well, and
you can buy some thoroughly brutal hotdogs after
it's all done. Division Day ruled on-stage, then
later ruled barbershop quartet style in the parking
lot and we had a ball ourselves and I got the
bloodstains to prove it; so, all in all, a good start
to this whole shindig. Some special San Franciscans
even came out to send us off. I wish they
would've crushed a bottle of champagne on the
van, but, you can't get everything you wish for.

Alright. Now, I'm going to bliss out to this Ryan
Adams CD and eat my Cheetos. See you tomorrow.

So this is what Lawrence Welk feels like

I got up at the crack of 1 this afternoon, a little groggy but damn smiley. Last night's CD-release shindig took a lot out of us all, especially some part of my knee, and we're looking forward to a day of pre-tour laundry, tire changes, and all the other preperatory duties necessary before living in a van for a few weeks. In other words, we'll be running errands. So, rather than talk about today, let's wallow in the past. Shall we?

We want to send a heartfelt thanks to everyone who spent a too-late Wednesday night with us, celebrating, drinking, and who probably all hate me because of that whole "crack of 1" comment I made a paragraph ago. To the Mezzanine, who basically gave us the run of the place, did their usual phenomenal job with the sound & lighting, and taught us that there are kinds of champagnes that aren't Cook's. And, as it turns out, those taste better too. We really don't have much to say except give our thanks. It was, at the risk of sounding Hallmark-y, a really special night.

Damn, that sounded Hallmark-y.

Anyway, sometime sappiness is just what the doctor ordered. And I'm feeling sappy. In fact, I'm feeling like hippies pretend to feel: all full of love for all things. I'm like the Dali Lama over here, except slightly taller and with way more hair.

There's a few things that must be said about the coming weeks. One is that we leave with Division Day tomorrow for about a week (in which I think we play ten shows) and then come back to The City to play with Art Brut at the Great American Music Hall before tagging along with them for four or five shows. So, May 1st is our next time home, but then we leave the next day. The bad part about that is that we're going to have to reschedule our Oakland show & our Amoeba instore, which we're currently doing. Apologies to anyone who'd planned on attending this far in advance and, our promises that we'll be at both places in the near future. Maybe I'll dress up like that guy in KISS with the cat make-up as a way of apology. Ok. Probably not. The tour page on our website will be all straightened out by tomorrow, so you can plot again at that point. And if you live in Kansas: watch out! We're coming, and we're bringing our flying monkeys with us.

Beyond that, I want to just re-send my thanks. I could call out tons of people individually, who've been either unbelievably supportive or energetic or helpful in myriad different ways, but that would need it's own blog and would be a damn near unreadable list of much-deserved ass-kissings, so I'm going to abstain, if only for everyone's sanity. Thanks again. I need a bath.

Semantics and World Domination; Also, Mezzanine tonight. I'm going to keep reminding you.

I hesitate to call this my last day of work. No, I've done that before, and it didn't turn out so well. I was eating dried pasta and playing dice in Minna alley, turning my winnings into cans of Steel Reserve. Then I came back. There was a distinct tail-between-my-legs sort of feeling for a week. So, no. I'm not quitting. I'm going on sabatical.

See, the wording is the important thing. It's all in the context: Bill Watterson went on sabatical; Richard Nixon quit. Who do you have more respect for? You know, I think if Nixon would've just said "I am not a crook and, by the way, I'll be taking a break for a month or so---gotta clear my head" it might've just worked out for him. He could've said how he enjoyed not being president more than actually being president and just phoned in his resignation from the Virgin Islands, sipping a drink with a little umbrella, maybe slapping the heiny of an underage poolboy. I think we can all agree: it would've been better that way. So I'm not quitting. Not yet anyway.

With whatever vocabulary I choose, the reality is this: I will not be returning to work tomorrow. I'll be recooperating. Tonight, need I remind you, is our CD release show at the Mezzanine, and we're going to end up happy and blotto. This usually means depressed with a headache the next day, but I doubt that'll be stopping anybody. We'll be on around eleven, but the three bands before us are all good and all quite different. So it's worth it to show up as early as you can. Me, I've got to be there at four. That's right: seven hours. Birdmonster will be able to get in a game of Risk beforehand. I am determined to own Europe, or at least continental Europe, by the time Seventeen Evergreen is soundchecking.

After tonight, we're going the rest of April going North with Division Day (check out their link on the right, by the way. They are glorious) and we'll be doing some more touring in May, which I'll talk about when it's time. For now, I hope you can come out tonight, for our first non-rain-drenched San Francisco show since, oh, I don't know, 2004. Remember, it's only $5. We're a cheap date. Just don't try & get fresh.

Tours, shows, non-essential information, and Foreigner. Always Foregner.

You know that Foreigner song? "I Want To Know What Love Is"? That was in my head when I woke up this morning. I'm finding it impossible to not sing it right now. In fact, it's probably in your head by now too. ("...I want you to shoooow meeee"...) You might think that's a bad thing, but you'd be wrong. Side note: Zach & I were talking a few days ago, trying to figure out the subtle differences between Foreigner and Journey and Styx, but we couldn't come up with a hard & fast rule. The conclusion? Dennis DeYoung is evil, Tommy Shaw is God, and the guys from Foreigner hate sleeves.

So, tomorrow is the big CD-release shindig at the Mezzanine in suddenly sunny San Francisco. I'm glad it's not today, because the only thing people can talk about today is 100th anniversary of the earthquake. Excuse me, let me capitalize that: The Earthquake. To commemorate this event, they kicked everyone off the bus 7 blocks early & made us walk to work. Why? There was a parade.

In four hours.

Yeah, I'm confused too. So, rather than compete with the centenial anniversary of the worst disaster in city history (which, oddly enough, people are celebrating), we're playing the following day. And it's only five bucks, so bring your cheap friends. Then, we wait a mere two days before us and Division Day (see link on the right---you know you want to) head to the Northwest for a week. I hope that, in the end, we've formed a single, 8-man-super-band in which I play the washboard or the accordion and all the lyrics are in Spanish. Either that, or we play a bunch of shows together for people in the higher latitudes as seperate entities. No matter what, you win.

Alright. So, tomorrow. You'll be there? That's sweet. We'll play your favorite song, then.

We're Legal! We're Poor!

So I went to the DMV this morning, which, in my experience is a groin-punch of bureacracy, snarky employees, and frothing weirdos screaming for no discernable reason. In other words, not the way you really want to start your week. Braced for the seemingly innevitable agony, I got there a few minutes early, paperwork in hand, and sat in an already too long line, awaiting the pain. But then, a funny thing happened: I went inside and was about half-way throughmy daily helping of John Carroll---and then they called my number. Wait a minute. I only waited....a minute. And you know what else? It turns out the employees aren't crazily surly in the morning. I think, as the day and the week wear on, the aforementioned frothing weirdos take their toll on these people and they can't help but get a monsterous chip on their shoulder(s). In the end, I was there for about twenty minutes and our van is now, finally, street-legal. Rejoice with me.

Of course, being the DMV, it couldn't've gone perfectly. Up at the counter, I was informed that the prior registration on the van had expired and, to renew it, it would cost an additional $230. "Why?" I asked, as politely as possible. "Because it expired" I was told cryptically. Deciding that I would lose either way---and that if I really pissed her off, she might discover those unpaid parking tickets on the old birdvan---I coughed up the mysterious fee and went on my way. But, you know, that's quite a bummer. They can pretty much charge you whatever they want to, whenever you walk in the door. It's either that, or you're hitchhiking. It's insidious, I tell you. Insidious.

All things said, though, success is ours. We're getting new tires on the van (dare we name it "Patrick Stewart"?---for now, yes we do. Hats off, Brett) and practicing this evening for the upcoming LP release party over at the Mezzanine. Speaking of which, I'm cutting off the silly haiku contest today, as we gave out copious tickets already and our guest list is, well, it sort of looks like this guy.* Anyway, I'd be going through the comments of that post & dolling out the last few freebies and for those of you that aren't poetically inclined or just missed the contest in the first place, hopefully five dollars won't break the bank. We kept the price down for Wednesday so we could have a big ol' LP party, and, you know, you can't even get a good sandwich for $5 anymore, but you can see four rock bands for about four hours. I'm sure Adam Smith would be proud of us. Or, maybe not. Either way, screw him. He's dead. Hope to see you there.

Last thing: People on the Left Coast are letting us know their CDs have arrived, so all you New York, Chicago, Augusta, Maine folks should check your mailboxes the next couple days. Those overseas will probably have until late this week, or early next one, but, like I've said before, $1.50 to the Netherlands is a pretty good deal. That's what it costs to ride the bus around here.

* Does anybody else remember when Manute Bol kicked the Fridge's ass on that Fox Celebrity boxing show? Because I do. Not that I watched it, of course...erm....yeah.

Freeness! Shorts!

Well, I know for a fact that folks in the surrounding vacinity have received their CD, so sit tight if you haven't. We can only put our faith in the post office and their thigh-length wool shorts.

We've been spending our days shipping CDs out, prepping for the Division Day, Nor'westerly (I love that word) fiasco, updating this here journal-dealy, and procrastinating on van repairs. Boring, right? So, screw that. This is way more fun:

The Birdmonster Haiku Challenge

For no other reasons than our own amusement and everyone's love of free shit, we're announcing a very informal haiku challenge. The rules are simple and the prizes, bountiful. Plus, it will give us all something to do at work.

Rules: In case you've forgotten, haikus are three line poems with a constrained amount of syllables. The first line has 5, the second 7, and the final one 5 again. Such as:

This is a haiku
But this is a bad haiku
Because it's boring

That works. Now, for the purposes of the contest, we're asking that you write something somehow related to birdmonster, but, please, go crazy. We take kindly to insults, praise, ridiculous stories, ideas for the name of our van, Basho rip-offs, what have you. And it will take you all of five minutes, unless you compose some mind bogglingly brilliant shit, which will be followed by me wondering where you got all that free time.

How to play: Leave a comment in the comment section of this post. A valid email address would also be helpful.

Why you'd do this in the first place: Because you live in San Francisco and want to come to our CD release show next week but you'd rather go for free. And you'd like to bring a friend. We'll pick 4 or 5 good ones and doll out freeness to them. If you don't live in the city, well, you can play too, but you just have to fly here. $200 plane flight for a $5 ticket? That's intelligent investing. Get E.F. Hutton on the line.

Your CD is in the mail. Also, is it wrong to love Derek Fisher?

Turns out the Warriors are kick-ass. With the notable exception of Mike Dunleavy, who is basically a corpse who gets paid the GNP of a small island nation to look frightened and lost for a half hour each night. The great part: there were several other people in our section heckling him. I call those people soulmates.

As you might remember, we four birdmonsters attended the Warriors game last night instead of eating Matzo ball soup or watching LOST and goddamn if it wasn't a good time. My only complaint: $7.50 for a plastic bottle of Budweiser. That's like paying $300 for a Egg McMuffin. I think it's actually prosecutable.

Alright. Enough about that. I should give everyone a rough timetable as far as shipping is concerned, so here goes: If you ordered within the United States, the post office is saying it should take three to five days. So probably by Saturday or Monday, you should be holding what you ordered---and, if I can digress momentarily, make sure you fondle the CD. Really. It actually feels nice. We decided to not go the jewel case route, which means three things: no misplaceable booklet, no annoying sticker-thingie on top, and fancy ink. So fondle away. Ok: now, if you ordered from somewhere across the Atlantic, they're telling us it will take between seven and ten days, but, for a buck fifty shipping, that's not too bad. All presales we got by Tuesday night were sent out Wednesday morning. And please, please, please: give us feedback when you get them, as you all will be the very first people to receive on, except a few folks I live with, work with, and otherwise pester, and, well, we're curious.

Today is one of those less exciting days. With the LP out & shipped, the product of the last four months of our lives in our hands, we've now got the to do all that boring stuff we've been ignoring with style and grace. Like van maintainance. Right now, the tires on our new friend are Patrick-Stewart-bald and the brakes are broken. Everything above the wheels though: top notch. Other than that, the crap we have to do is so bland I can't even make half-funny jokes about them, so I'll spare you the details.

Tomorrow: we're giving away some tickets to our CD release show. I promise some silly contest that we can all use to amuse ourselves on a slow, slow Friday morning. Stay tuned.

D-Day, part 2

You know that scene in Indecent Proposal where Demi Moore is in bed, rolling around in hundred dollar bills? That was us yesterday, except with CDs. Alas, no negligees were involved. And neither was Robert Redford.

Alright, I'll admit it. That didn't happen. You know that, and I know that. But I did give it serious thought. The problem with rolling around in a bed full of CDs is that they have pointy corners and, well, it's just a little weird and gross.

But we're getting ahead of ourselves. I should mention that the LPs were late arriving yesterday, and I spent roughly five hours making laps around my living room, staring at the phone that just....wasn't.....ringing. I tried reading a little, but mostly just did that "I've been staring at this paragraph for 20 minutes and I haven't read any of it yet" thing that I do when I can't concentrate. And then, Eric over at Pirate's Press called and, because we were all being very, very impatient, we all went to pick up the CDs together. And, can I digress and just mention that Pirate's has done every printing we've ever done (buttons, posters, stickers, CDs, the short-lived birdmonster yarmukle) and that each and every one has looked better than my most optimistic hallucinations? Yes, I think I can. And yesterday was no exception. In fact, yesterday was the most marked example of this so far. When you get your presale envelope in the mail, I really recommend you open it fully prepared.

Okay. All kidding aside, we really couldn't be prouder of this thing. It's like a really precocious baby we all had, but one that never throws strained peas at us or cries all night but can do quantum math and grow muttonchops. It's like the champion of all babies. We're just very, very grateful we were able to actually do this with our hamstringed budget and the only way we were was because of plenty of folks willing to do unbelievably generous favors (Brad, Leslie, Katrina, Eric, I'm looking at you) and help us make this happen. So, thanks for the hundreth, and certainly not last time.

Now, down to brass tacks. How do you get these things? Well, if you pre-ordered, we're shipping today. All the envelopes were ready to go yesterday, but mother nature slowed down traffic and our plane, so they're out today. If you live in San Francisco, we dropped plenty off at Amoeba yesterday and there'll be more around the City shortly. If you're one of those possession-hating Buddhist types, we're on iTunes now. There's also the CD release shindig at the Mezzanine on the 19th, and, that link over there to the right as well. Sure, it's not really a pre-sale anymore, but that doesn't mean I haven't developed a taste for licking envelopes. In fact, they're rather delicious, in a bitter, hideous sort of way.

In a very non-sequitor sort of move, we're celebrating tonight by watching our hometown Golden State Warriors. I can't wait to watch their probably feeble attempt at holding a candle to the Mavericks, then their predictable choke-fest in the fourth quarter. At least I can heckle Mike Dunleavy. That never gets old.

p.s. thanks for the tickets, Pete. You're a singer and a sugardaddy, wrapped in bacon, finished with a light tomato-cream sauce.

D-Day

Against my better judgement and deepest desires, I'm here at work while our CD is deplaning in Oakland. Why? Because I'm a sap. I could bore you with the reasons---mostly involving "escalated workload" and other euphamisms for "our department is royally screwed"---but I think the most blunt & eloquent of those reasons is "I'm a sap."

Thankfully, I'm a wily sap. I'll be leaving at noon thirty to go bask in the splendor that is our first LP in boxes and boxes all over our house, and then, after the basking is over, I'll be stuffing them into envelopes and schlepping them to the post office. Because, as cool as thousands of Birdmonster CDs on our floor will look, tons of them in the mail will look a whole lot better. The thing is, that's three hours away. Right now, I need to try to not obsess over this any more and just log in a few hours of indentured servitude. I'll be back, when the expectant nervousness has turned turned to girlish giddiness.

God bless Sunday...which, if you're religious, I guess he always does.

Today promises to be the slowest day in the history of recorded time. We're all like little kids on Christmas eve---except that two of us are Jewish and one of us might as well be---but, I'm going to stick with the analogy nonetheless. And let me tell you: Santa is taking his sweet-ass time. We've reached that throughly exciting and totally painful day-before stage, where all you can do is think about tomorrow and hope that you don't daydream yourself in front of oncoming traffic.

The nice thing is that this weekend was chock full of birdmonster goodness. For starters, it was Zach's birthday and we got invited to accompany him & his folks out for Burmese food Sunday afternoon. Let me suggest this: Walnut shrimp for President, 2008. We even got to eat around a Lazy Susan, which ranks up there with the umbrella, the fork, and the printing press in the pantheon of perfect inventions. Zach got a kid's book full of mean-ass flying dinosaurs (each of which proving the age old adage: don't fuck with a birdmonster) and a 5 gallon jug of spicy New York pickles. So thanks to Toni & Terry for a feeding a bunch of poor schlubs. We're much obliged.

Yesterday also saw the unveiling of the new website. The address is the same, but we're updating the content and now you don't have to navigate the spinning menu of death and dismemberment. Granted, I loved that spinny thing, but some of you, well, I know your feelings. Browse around, enjoy, and let us know what you think. We value brutal honesty, so long as it's positive, and if you hate it, we'd prefer a shameless lie about how much you love it. Thanks.

And then, there was our Live 105 performance. We received some really nice feedback afterwards and even a few extra presales (which tomorrow, cease being "presales" and can actually be called "salesales"), so, obviously, we appreciate that. For those that didn't catch it, we did an acoustic version of Ice Age, complete with a cello, a banjo, and a tamborine I was stomping on that nobody heard. My roomie Josh taped it for us and, even laden with FM static, we were really pleased with how it sounded. The radio gods told us we'd be getting a static-free, digital copy of it, which, when we do, we'll be sharing it with one and all, gratis. They also invited us to play BFD---which stands for Big Fucking Deal as long as you don't tell the FCC---this June, to which we said, well: sure thing gents. Although none of the other bands have been announced, I'm crossing my fingers for Stryper. Cross yours with me.

A veritable whirlwind of emotions

Well, shit. We're at t-minus 4 days, less than 100 hours, until we've got No Midnight sitting on the floor of the birdlivingroom. I just did some quick math and realized we'll be bring 1075 pounds of birdmonster home with us from Oakland International Airport, which is technically not a ton of birdmonster, but, figuritively speaking, it certainly is. At the very least, we can both agree it's a shitload.

In honor of this momentous event, a few very important things are happening this weekend. One of these is that we'll be spending our Saturday watching Gymkata and making envelopes so all you fine presale folks can receive your LP as early as humanly possible. Of course, to pick up a ton---excuse me----a shitload of CDs, we're finishing up the payment on the brand spanking new (by which I mean used) birdvan this afternoon. The days of the two sedan caravan are over. So, hopefully, are the days of overheating on the grapevine, inhaling coolant, and cursing the Gods of poorly-made radiators. I'm sure I'll always have feelings for the old birdvan. I might even feeling like I'm cheating on her, come Tuesday, but the thing is, we'd still be together if she hadn't up and died on us. We didn't break up, we're widows. Sometimes, you just have to move on.

Also, there's this: Sunday night, sometime around 8ish (maybe 8:30), we'll be on San Francisco's own Live 105, peddling our wares, our songs, and probably saying something foolish on Aaron Axelson's Sound Check. We'll also be playing something acoustic. I'm going to keep the name of that song secret, because I'm mysterious like that. Last time we were there, we learned that the FCC will allow you to say "pissed off" but you can't say "pissed on." Apparently, vulgarity is all about the prepositions. This trip promises to not piss us off nor find us pissing on anything, so the urine-vocabulary envelope will likely not be pushed. You can listen either the internet or the radio and, to be quite frank, I hope you do.

We're older than you are

Here I was, sitting at my computer, reading articles about that fish with legs that brainiacs everywhere are saying is the missing link between sea and land animals when Zach sent me this. Landfish, eat your heart out. Some palientologists found our namesake.

Definately a fire starter, twisted fire starter

Six days. That's it. Six days and the CD will be in our grubby little paws. Each one is starting to move very, very slowly. In fact, everytime I look at the clock, it's 12:47. It's always 12:47 nowadays.

Which is not to say that nothing's happening. No sir. It's just that April 11th isn't happening fast enough. We're actually in the middle of a website redesign (and by "we," I mean Katrina & Brett) and, last night, I got a sneak preview of what the new one will look like. It's quite wonderful. If you love the little spinning, vertigo-inducing menu (as well you should), get your fill over the next couple days, then say your goodbyes. We're putting her to sleep next week. But don't worry: we're taking her out to a nice steak dinner before hand...and then drugging her wine. Sorry, darling. We've never been good at break-ups.

Below, I'd like to show off a poster for the upcoming Northwest jaunt with Division Day. Their singer and pianist* Rohner made this one, and, to be honest, it gives me poster envy. Mainly because I'm still making them with pencils & crayons and then I end up seeing something like this...

...and I realize I should've taken a photoshop class at some point. I've mastered the paintcan function so far. Tomorrow: the eraser.

Lastly, we started getting some love on WOXY FM last week, which I mention because Zach just informed me that that's the station Dustin Hoffman stutters about in Rainman. The Future of Rock and Roll, definately the Future of Rock and Roll. They're strictly internet these days, but the playlist is strictly fantastic. Hell, I've been listening all morning, and, with the exception of a Prodigy song, enjoyed all of it. Plus, you've gotta love the fact that they switch it up and play different songs from not just our album but anything they have in rotation---basically, it's not just a bunch of singles. Check them out, if you're so inclined. Just promise not to request Prodigy.

* and yes, for the record, I laugh everytime I hear the word "pianist." I am a direct descendant of Beavis.

Man, oh man

So, it turns out that Wikipedia deleted the article. Let's all just agree to believe that it was in there at one point and that my last post wasn't a gigantic, useless sham. Can we do that? Please? Thanks.

Who else? Encylopedia Brown. He was cool. At least compared to the Hardy Boys

There's this hideous noise in my office. It sounds like someone is making keys in our vents. Or maybe, as my coworker suggested, abating some asbestos. Let's hope it's the former. Either way, it's invading my brain. It's like some really cruel psychology experiment, one where they stick people in a place that's boring and painful, then slowly torture them while they're there. Basically, it's Chinese water torture while someone unseen plays every Enya album in succession, with the volume slightly louder each song.

Anyway, that's the noise that's been torturing me for the last few hours. And between that and work and the fact that yesterday in Birdmonster world was fairly uneventful, I was planning on not writing silly things in the blog. Until we found this. Granted, it's a pretty wimpy entry, but none of the birdmonsters wrote it, so it's kind of cool to see. If anyone feels like adding something genius, be my guest. You're next Encylopedia Britanica. I know where you live.

Angry Addendum

Remember when I told you I wiped San Jose from my memory? Well, it turns out we got a parking ticket while we were loading up our car. Or rather, my girlfriend's car, since we were sans van at that juncture. Did I receive this ticket in person? No. Was I told I was getting one? No. So, to the DPT guy who gave it to us: go make out with a cheese-grater, you little bitch.

Tales of Noisepop

I learned a valuable lesson this morning: when it's rained for thirty days straight, don't wear shoes with giant holes in them. It's one of those lessons you think common sense would cover, but sometimes, common sense and I don't get along. Then I end up at my desk with soggy socks. Tomorrow: galloshes.

I went to a fistfull of Noisepop gigs last year, seeing the cult known as Polyphonic Spree and the genius-elf-woman known as Joanna Newsome, but Birdmonster had never had the pleasure to play at our hometown festival. I was a little shaky after the previous evening's birthday/National/Division Day debauchery but, by the time we were in Slim's, the hangover subsided. How so? Well, first off, I'd like to point to Jose, the Slim's Chef, who I would definately think had a good shot at beating that mustachoed, smug bastard on Iron Chef, so long as the ingredient was chicken or zucchini or curried potatoes. Jose: my hat's off to you. The other bands, our show, personally, and some hair of the dog took care of the rest.

We played with Send For Help for the second weekend in a row. I don't remember how they were in San Jose, since I had that memory surgically removed from my brain, Eternal Sunshine style, but I'd assume it was on par with Friday. Their singer, George, shaved his once lumberjack-esque beard into muttonchops that Martin Van Buren would've been jealous of and we shared a cushy backstage room with him and the other fine folks in SFH, and their set was really rather great. The last song in particular and that skippy one. The one that goes: dun-nun-nun-nun-nun-NA, duh-nun-nun-nun-NA. I love those.

By the time we started, Slim's was fairly packed (which happens, it turns out, when they sell all the tickets). It was our first normal, non-acoustic, non-invite-only-dealy in the City since we left for Texas and parts inbetween, so we got to see a lot of friendly faces we hadn't seen in almost a month. I got a little steamy. Oh! And we got a button*, specially made, that said "I heart Birdmonster," which I wore, despite the fact that I might have looked like a self-absorbed prick with it on. My thoughts: you can wear your own band's button but your own band's t-shirt. There's some sort of unspoken rule there. I'm unsure if I can wear the Birdmonster underwears we're getting made, however. The jury's still out on that.

Ok: confession time. We're receiving the CD the morning of the 11th. I had to get that off my chest, since we'd planned to send out the CDs early, if possible. I think they got caught up in the Prague nightlife, eating 10,000 calorie dumplings and drinking 20 cent beer. They're just a little late though, and I'm sure they had a nice time, so screw it. So, on the 11th we'll be driving to the airport in some sort of birdcaravan, loading them up, and getting home in time to ship the CDs to here, there, and everywhere, so if you pre-ordered, we thank you immensely, and we'll be sending our you disc on Tuesday or Wednesday next week, the moment we get our grubby little hands on it, as promised. That's only....8 days from now. Whoa. How very, very excellent.

*Thanks Zara...and yes I'm wearing it right now.