In which we embrace the downward spiral. And not that NIN album either. The real one.

"Idiocracy". It's directed by Mike Judge, first infamous for creating a cartoon that inspired teenage arson, and stars two of the Wilson brothers: the one without the nose thing and the un-famous one who sort of looks like the guy who played Stifler. It's about an imagined future in which humanity has devolved into a race of near-retards and the man who's been frozen for 500 years that saves them. If you haven't seen it, you should. But you probably haven't since it was released to about 125 theatres with no press, which is a lot like opening a Burger King in Nepal, which is to say: not a good idea.

Anyway, in the "Idiocracy"-future, society, science, and culture have gone down the shitter in tandem with mankind's intelligence. The drinking fountains stream Gatorade, scientists work only on pills to enlarge genitalia, and television...well. Here's the point: television didn't seem a whole lot worse. In a movie that is so smart about being so stupid, T.V. seems almost better. Stupider, perhaps, but better.

See: if we're in the internet's infancy, then we're in T.V.'s preteen years at best. After all, television has only been commercially available for 70 or so years, and only prevalent in the lives of your typical American for about 50. And what a half-century it's been. We went from Edward R. Murrow to "Are you Smarter Than A Fifth Grader?", with layovers at "The Gong Show" and "Joe Millionaire" along the way. In other words, "Idiocracy"'s imagined sit-com "Ow! My Balls!" seems almost high-brow in comparison.

And then there's this. There was a time when only the Fox network would run something this patently manipulative and inhumane, but, apparently, they made a lot of money doing it, so now even the Dutch are in on the act. (Although, to be fair, the Dutch let tourists take hallucinogens, so, really, it was only a matter of time till they caught up with American ingenuity). Anyway, here's the premise of the show: terminally ill woman decides to donate kidney; three contestants clamor to become recipient of said kidney; outrage ensues.

Now: this is the point where we're supposed to bitch and moan and shake our fist and write stongly worded letters, but you know what? I'm through fighting it. I'm just going to embrace it, put my feet on the coffee table, and watch the inevitable decline. I'm looking forward to "World's Most Hilarious Deformities" and "America's Top Enema". Because, see, it's all about ingenuity. Sure, we're racing to the bottom of the barrel, but what a race. We're reaching the point where the World Wrestling Federation is positively Shakespearean. Honestly? I couldn't be happier. After all, isn't this better than a bunch of "Full House"s and "7th Heaven"s?

Exactly. If you need me, I'll be watching "Dirty Sexy Money" on ABC.

T.G.I.W.F.

So I've got a job again. It's not much: I get here at 8:30, eat a croissant, then spend my day reading through legal documents so boring they could, um, enlarge a hole to a precise diameter with a cutting tool by means of rotation. Also, apparently, boring enough that I'm getting jokes out of the dictionary.

There are bonuses of course. Like, you know, getting paid. And replenishing my pen and scissor supply. Plus: I'm only working three days a week, which makes every Monday a MonWednesday, which in turn makes every Wednesday a WednesFriday, which in turn pleases me immensely. In fact, T.G.I.W.F.

This also means I can remedy the conspicuous lack of bloggery that went on in the last couple weeks. When I've got no job or my job happens dressing up like a criminal and participating in a scavenger hunt, I tend to stay away from the long sessions at the computer. And when I've got no job, I've got no money, and when that happens, my days are a thoroughly invigorating mix of eating fake-cheese products and following the sunspot around the couch. In other words, not exactly the stuff of great literature. Or, for that matter, mediocre blogerature. (And yes, I think I may have just coined a word more annoying than blogosphere. I apologize).

Of course, the dream is to one day not have to work. Because being in a band, well, it's work, but it's not Work. It's like if you were a nine year old and you had to test candy all day: sure, some days you get stuck eating Necco wafers, but overall you're probably a pretty happy kid. Sure, you'll lose your teeth when you're an undergrad but still: free gobstoppers.

For now though, I'm paying for my candy by perusing expert testimony and requests for document production and objections to special interrogatories. Of course I'd rather be at home playing the piano. That's what ThurSaturday is for.

On not taking your home for granted; also, I know it's been a while. I have no excuse.

It's the Monday after Bay to Breakers, a debaucherous annual trot across San Francisco, where the entire city wakes up at eight in the morning to heckle 60,000 runners in better shape than they are, all while drinking beer for breakfast. In other words, today figures to be a long, long day. My liver: still soggy.

But a nice, molasses-style hangover is a small price to pay for Bay to Breakers. I think every city needs one. Or something like it. It's like Mardi Gras, except with more uppity Berkeley-ites trying to convert you to some unreasonable political stance while you're taking a swallow of Zinnfandel from a plastic sack. So many of our holidays and festivals are spent inside with our families that it's really a joy to see everyone outside, making bad decisions together. Unity in idiocy, sort of. I'm not sure there's anything wrong with that.

And I think you get an interesting view into your city's character when you've rousted everyone awake before church and handed them a mimosa. Sometimes, this awareness comes in tandem with a staggering amount of shriveled nudity. So be it. I learned (or, relearned, rather), that I live in one of the most enjoyable places in America, a place where, when so much of the country seems hellbent on eliminating fun, we still appreciate early morning drunkenness, inappropriate paper mache floats, and Frank Chu. I forget that sometimes, what with all the more-liberal-than-thou posturing that goes on around these parts which, quite frankly, does get good things done, but, really: no fun. It's a happy mix if it works: on one hand, you can have the democratizing principles of a Board of Supervisors, community meetings, town halls, and the like, while on the other hand you have, um, old-man nutsacks swaying in the wind.

(Which reminds me: I've got no problem with public nudity, per se. Actually, that might be a lie. But what I really get weirded out by is the naked man in his late 50s, walking an 8-mile road race by himself just staring at you. It's creepy. It's like he's daring you to do...something. I don't know what. But if Wes Craven made a horror movie about a naked, withered, old dude, he should send his casting director to San Francisco.)

My point? It's like that R.E.M. song "Stand In the Place Where You Live." Or, as the case may be, sit at a desk making charts about expert testimony in the place where you live. In fact, it's nothing like that. Or maybe it is. I just know the chorus. But yesterday re-energized me on the place where I live. And if all it takes in a pre-noon hangover and some decidedly clumsy wiffleball-ing, sign me up for 2008. And aught nine for that matter.

What happens when I leave the house, or, Why I'm on the couch right now

I used to have one of those arm-length, Zach Morris-style cell phones. You know, the ones that are essentially guaranteed to give you eye cancer or brain cancer or testicular cancer, even though the thing barely fit in my pocket anyway. But then again: tight pants. I say "used to have" because at some point last week, between temp jobs and shows and overall sloth-dom, I lost it. No small feat, considering the fact it was slightly larger than a baby's torso, but then again, I've lost keys, guitars, permanent teeth. It's a super power, really. The Bush administration calls regularly when it wants memos misplaced. You should read the shit they send me.

Of course, cell phones are an essential part of modern living. I was definitely a late-adopter, getting one only after a college roommate neglected to pay our land-line bill the week of my birthday, which led to my Grandma calling and hearing that "this number has been disconnected due to staggeringly lazy negligence," and worrying I might be transforming into the sort of grandson who takes his birthday savings bonds to the dog track and screams "run, you horrible bitch" while spitting Skoal at nearby children. Instead, I turned into the sort of grandson who happens to be unemployed, spends most evenings away from home in dank bars playing music she can't like because my name is neither "Frank" nor "Sinatra".

At any rate, I had to get a new phone. I had visions of one of those high-tech kinds: the ones that are also camcorders and digital cameras and have ringtones that don't make you wish fondly for Hoobastank. Yes, I had high hopes. Until I got to the cell phone store, that is.

I'd say what company I used, but really: what's the point? They're all the same and they're all horrendous. It's like choosing which Bronte sister to read. There's the one with Catherine Zeta Jones, the one with that smug Rivers Cuomo looking guy, the one with the orange thing that looks like its doing snow angels. You know, it's actually less like the Bronte sister thing and more like ending up in one of those Ohio turnpike rest stops, having to eat a late lunch, and choosing between Burger King, Arby's, and S'barro's. Every one's a loser there.

So I walked to my friendly neighborhood cell hut, eager, ready. I had a few extra dollars and was hoping that I could scam my way into one of those "free" phones that involve sending forty-five mail-in rebates to central Kansas but also having a roommate's phone as a back-up plan: in other words, if I couldn't get a magical free phone, I'd make my own magical free phone. Diabolical, I know. So I get there and there's five employees helping five separate customers and I'm patiently waiting my turn, looking at insulting in-store advertisements, pacing. Five minutes go by. Ten. Twenty. Then, at about the half-hour mark, I notice there's now about two employees helping two customers. Perturbing, of course, but I'm still being patient since I need a phone for free so doormat-ness seems a good opening gambit. Then I notice the last two customers sign their receipts, scurry out, while one employee goes behind a door marked "Staff Only" while the other motions to me:

"Can I help you?"

"Yeah, definitely. I've been a customer for about five or six years now and I just lost my phone but I think I might be elligable for an upgrade. Could you check that for me?"

"...Yep. Yeah, you are."

"Great, show me what you've got then."

"Uh, sir. I'm actually not a salesman."

"O-kay. Then can you find me one?"

"Actually, sir, they're all in a meeting."

"All of them, huh?"

"Yeah, sorry about that."

"About how long till they're out?"

"Oh, it usually doesn't take longer than a half hour."

"Great. Would you mind if I stabbed you?"

Ok. Obviously didn't say that last part. I'm a docile sort of person. I'm like Ghandi, only with more hair and a better fashion sense. But really: who has an hour to wait at a cell phone store? Actually, come to think of it, I do. But, you know, imagine I had a job, or, or something to do. Yeah. That would've been rough.

Anyway, that's why you always have a back-up plan. I had the non-salesman put one of those SIM cards in my roomie's old phone, thanked him for being totally unhelpful, and walked back home. Yet, in a weird way: success. I got the free phone I was after. Plus, it's filled with phone numbers of people I don't know and some of people who I think I know but who just share the first name of people I know, which has already led to one text message of "Who the hell is this?" and will hopefully lead to the sort of misunderstanding oh so romantic comedies are predicated on. Added bonus: crying baby ringtone. What's less annoying than that?

A belated post about, well, nothing. That's why it's taken so long, silly goose.

I have yet to solve this puzzle known as employment. Last post dealt with the wondrous lessons I learned as a temp, most of which reflected a certain bitterness after a day spent in the closest thing I've got to a business suit, passing out folders to European doctors who looked at me like I had some sort of contagious fungus on my face. Two days later, I got to play a faux mobster in a scavenger hunt and make sixty dollars talking about how my cousin got himself flattened under a parade route's worth of elephants. Yet, since then: nothing. We're about 4 days away from signing up for electroshock studies. $100 for 3 hours of voltage-induced agony, eh? Do they pay for parking?

The give and take is this: no work equals no money but no work equals no stress. Call it the reverse Puff Daddy corrolary; if mo money means mo problems, no money means no problems. After all, food and shelter: highly overrated.

I think the key here is embracing the situation. Temping is sort of like a really crappy lottery. At any moment, the phone could ring, and a new, mind-numbingly vanilla job could be mine the very next day. Data entry? Why not? Receptionist? Done did that. Stuffing little foam torsos in a plastic cylinder? Please, you're talking to a pro. So see, it's all in how you look at it. Today, the fat kid with the glandular problem is at the "ain't got no work" end of the employment teeter-totter so I may as well make good use of it. I think I'll go play the piano. It's free, you know.

I should mention a couple things before skeedaddling, though. Birdmonster is currently on touring hiatus as we work on new songs and a dynamite cover of "Allentown", so missives from the road will be lacking. We should have some real news soon as we're gearing up for another album, which was the original reason for the blog in the first place, which, now that I mention it, makes me feel like Tony Gwynn's grandpa, kind of old and really proud. I have also neglected to mention how thoroughly glorious it was playing in Ess Eff again but, really, it pretty much goes without saying. Regardless of what Charles Barkley thinks, the Bay Area is the metropolitan equivalent of proscuitto and melon. Oh, and if you missed it: Illinois and the Cribs are effing magnificent. Don't say you weren't warned. You were.

Ah, to be a temp. Let's examine the pros, the cons, the sad reality that is this week

I'd written a largely unfunny screed about the value of temping, about how I need more sleep, and about the fact that if you watched every episode of COPS back-to-back-to-back-to-back, you'd be in front of the TV for fourteen and a half days, which sounds about as fun as shaving with a cheese grater, mind you, but that's not the point. The point is that I've deleted all that out of shame and out of respect for the three to five minutes you spend here now and again. You'd thank me if you'd read it. I promise.

Basically, here's the score: I've depleted my savings to the point that most of the hobos on Market Street are eating better than I am and, well, I've re-entered the world of the professional temporary employee. It's a life in which you say "sure, I need money, I just don't want a job. I know! I'll pretend that I don't have an actual job by instead working a slew of short and vaguely demoralizing ones. Added bonus: no health or dental care. Let me know if you find the tooth that just fell out my head." It's a life in which any semblance of vague competence is considered lauditory. It's a life...screw it. Let's do it like this:

PRO: Temping gives you money.

CON: So does robbing old ladies in broad daylight. Plus, the hours are better.

PRO: Temping allows you to meet new and exciting people.

CON: None of them respect or will remember you. It's like being one of those guys who dries people's hands in fancy restaurants. Sure they're just doing their job, but really: go away. You're weirding me out.

PRO: Temping gets you up early.

CON: Getting up early is for farmers, stock brokers, and other squemish losers.

PRO: Temping gets you out of the house.

CON: There's nothing wrong with living in a robe, drinking coffee from the pot, and getting strangely involved in General Hospital. I think.

PRO: Temping allows you to learn new skills.

CON: In the past three days, I've put stickers on Tylenol packages, nametags in those little nametag plastic thingies, folded folders, coallated, and passed things out said folders to European doctors who treated me like one of those aforementioned bathroom hand-drying-guys. In other words, I got paid $14 an hour to do what kids in China get paid 5 cents a day to do. Actually, that might be a PRO. A depressing one, but still.

You know what? Jury's out. I keep coming back to the original point: temping gets you money and money can be exchanged for goods and services and goods and services allow me eat and sleep and have some semblance of a livlihood. So, really: not all bad. That doesn't mean that robbing old ladies is out of the question. I'm just waiting for a bling one with a Gucci clutch. She's gotta be around here somewhere.

Oh yeah: Independent tomorrow. And no job. We're all winners now.

Life after tour: a rambling post comprising sad truths, happy acheivements, and, yeah: LOST is really good again

Success, ladies and gentlemen, is all in how you define it. Success can be a six figure salary or a luxury sedan or one of those robots that vacuums your house, that is, until the robot turns on you and vacuums your children's faces while they sleep. Success is winning the World Series, or, if you're the Kansas City Royals, success is when someone can name three players on your team without looking them up in the media guide. Success is, as best I can tell, achieving your goals. So let me say that this week has been a giant success: it's 1 o'clock and I'm wearing a robe.

Which isn't to say that I've been completely unproductive. No: I've dealt with bills, made phone calls, ran errands I could run in my slippers. I even looked for a job (more on this later). But my goal this week was to attain a level of sloth known only by hyper-obese World of Warcraft junkies and, when your big achievement is not breaking the yolk on the over-easy eggs you just made, well: success.

Of course, I hyperbolize. The beginning of this week saw me trying to figure out how exactly to suppliment the often-not-so-lucrative job that is being one fourth of Birdmonster. I contacted Old Trusty the temp agency who promised to crush my soul no later than Wednesday next week. I tried to apply to be a wine country tour guide, but a three and a half hour wait at the DMV put those plans on indefinate hiatus. I even signed up to be an "actor" in scavenger hunts for corporate team building events or snobby rich kids' birthday parties. In fact, I'm really excited about the last one; hope it works out. I also hope an eyepatch or a plastic sword are involved. I let them know that I had my own, just in case that'd help.

Hell, I even caught up on LOST so that I could watch last night's live, which, come to think of it, doesn't do a whole lot for me except force me to watch ads for Chevy and those computers that look like Tonka toys and are supposedly indestrucable. I like those commercials because everyone's incredibly clumsy: girl walks into a board meeting, drops the computer on the table, spills water on it, opens baby's diaper over it, extinguishes cigarette on it. It's wonderful. It's like that commercial where the same woman keeps burning herself pouring cooked pasta into a collander and eventually is forced to purchase the pot with the collander lid. The lesson: the world is filled with bumbling asses; buy our product. Anyhow: LOST has been at it's absolute LOST-est, meaning totally manipulative, completely full of shit, and incredibly enjoyable. Keep up the good work, chums.

A few other things merit mentioning today. Firstly, I'm going to be half-sort-of-guest-DJ-ing on BAGeL Radio with Bagel Ted, who I hastle regularly on Fridays when he plays songs that I dislike. His Friday show (480 Minutes) is definately worth a listen and, if you haven't done so before, tune in tomorrow. I'll be there the second half of the day (12-5 PST) and he plays really quality music, even if he refuses to plan any soft rock. In fact, tomorrow's goal: one soft rocker. Sometimes the sun goes 'round the mooooon/ sometimes the snow falls down in juuu-uuuune.

Secondly, next Thursday finds us playing at the Independent in San Francisco. You'll be hearing that like a broken record over the next few posts, so, I won't beat it dead yet. We're playing a bunch of new songs and playing with the Cribs, so, if ever there was a time to go, hoot, holler, and be merry, the 26th is that time. Put a big red circle on your calendar.

Lastly, I'm an unabashed basketball fan and the for-oh-so-long-oh-so-hapless Golden State Warriors have made the playoffs. This is big news for the small minority of people who give a damn. You may have to put up with me talking about that from time to time in the following weeks, especially after they beat the heavily favored Mavericks, a moment that will alienate our entire Dallas fanbase but make me strangely giddy. So, sorry about that. It'll be over soon.

I'm going to try and scam some more work now. I'm like a hustler, except a really geeky, legal, office-flavored one. Wow. I'm depressed now.

Things I learned on tour

Coming home from tour after forty-some-odd days and 10,371 miles is, to put it mildly, surreal. I always feel half-giddy and somehow, strangely nervous. Obviously, the world doesn't stop without you and the homefront doesn't bother either. New paintings are hung in your absence, new roommates have settled in upstairs, and there's always a hernia-inducing amount of mail to sift through. Of course, some of this is good mail (so and so is marrying what's her name), some of it trash (Guitar Center's Fifth Annual Third weekend of March Green-Tag Orange-Tag Brown-Tag Super Sale Sale SALE!), some it downright intimidating (if you do not pay this parking ticket, we will steal your children. If you do not have children, we will steal your pet. If you do not have a pet, watch your knees: we're sending Johnny Knuckles.) But really, I spend most of the first two days back just smiling. I slowly realize that I don't have to load gear four times a day, I get to sleep in the same bed twice, three times, forever, and I can eat food that hasn't been deep fried, re-fried, or three-fried. Some people call this normalcy. I feel like it's fairly novel. Either way, I'm enjoying it. If you're ever bored with where you're at, I'd recommend driving thousands of miles and sleeping in motels with mysterious, blood-colored stains on the doors and walls. You might still come home bored, but you'll definately have an appreciation for that boredom hitherto unrealized. Unless your room is already covered in blood-stains. And if it is, I'd appreciate it if you stopped reading this blog. Thanks.

Being home also allows us to take stock of what we learned while on tour and, as always, we learned plenty. In list form because, let's face it, I'm lazy:

- All borders should be abolished. I say this not because I'm some sort of NorCal anarchist (I smell too good for that---and I don't smell that good) but because the Border Patrol attracts the most frustrating flavor of humanity: petty little dictators with small physical deformities and monstrous mental abnormalities. I'm pretty sure that Nurse Ratched would've worked at the border if she hadn't found torturing Randle Patrick McMurphy oh so enjoyable. Of course, if there was no border patrol, these people would filter into other sectors of society, say, the DMV or high school sports refereeing. So maybe it's wise to keep them all quarantined where we can keep an eye on them. Either way: avoid the Canadian Border Patrol. Use parachutes.

- Somehow, no one ever told me The Kings of Leon were incredible. I was gifted their first LP early this tour (and by gifted I mean I burned it while I was waiting for the mechanic to show up to half-assedly not-quite-fix our van) and it remained on repeat the entire time. Sure, I have no idea what the guy is singing about, but when has that ever stopped anyone from enjoying a band? You heard Dylan lately? He's gargling marbles.

- Before traveling ten thousand miles, get your car checked out. It could save you at least...nine hundred and seventeen dollars.

- When possible, try new foods. After all, very few things give you a more keen insight into a particular region than cuisine. Texas, Kansas, and much of the South are famous for their barbeque, not to be confused with what Californians call "barbeque" which is really just grilling or, as the Sammies called it, "cooking out." Chicago is famous for it's particular style of pizza, which is more like lasagna, which is, frankly, goddamn delicious. And somewhere in Missouri, there is a road side diner that sells frog's legs. In a fit of spontaneity (and, perhaps, idiocy), we decided to try these. They tasted like a fried, slimy cigar. And sometimes, a cigar is not just a cigar. Whatever that means. Best part of the frog's leg experience was the menu though: "Just like you used to catch!" Really? Am I wearing overalls?

- In a similar vein: Ann Arbor is not famous for its Mexican food. In fact, any place that isn't California, Arizona, New Mexico, or Texas should probably avoid calling what they serve "Mexican food." It's more like a bean-pita. But in Ann Arbor, Mason Proper took us to a local "buritto" shop and, on the wall was a note from none other than Bill Walton. I quote: "Dear Josh and Jacob, Thank you for making me the best burrito in the HISTORY OF THE WORLD!" If you don't know who Bill Walton is, sorry: that probably wasn't funny. But if you do, it fits right in with his patern of egregious hyperbole. Playoffs start soon. Go Warriors.

- I'll say this: There's depressing and then there's Oklahoma City.

- Extended tours mean you get all your news from tabloids at gas station check-out stands and brief glimpses at CNN at three in the morning. In other words, I know everything that happened in the last six months: Katie Holmes is under house arrest, Don Imus is a prick, and Brad & Angela might've broke up or adopted a baby from some place I barely knew existed.

- If you have someone who's away for their birthday and you know they'll be at a bar, you should buy them a bottle of champagne across the country. It's about the best gift ever.

- And lastly, I know it sounds like a great idea, but never end a tour in Las Vegas. It's a harsh thing to not want to drink or gamble and be in the drunken gambling-est place on the planet. It's like going to Willy Wanka's Chocolate Factory the day after getting a root canal.

In which Birdmonster realizes there is but one show left and realizes that San Francisco means different things to different people

Every tour has its stupid nickname. I remember the "Respect Your Opinion Tour" of aught six, where us four Birdmonsters resolved to stop bickering over the merits of Don Henley's catalogue, the proper Waffle House ordering strategy, or the intrinsic value of Street Fighter The Movie. Other tours have been defined by exploding transmissions (the "Arizona Hates Our Face Tour") or novel experiences (the "Baby's First Tour; Hello Both of You"). This time around? It's the "'San Francisco' is Code For Gay Tour."

I've always known that, on a certain level, a lot of folks not from the Bay consider San Francisco some sort of gay Mecca. After all, we had Harvey Milk, Castro Street, some of the first gay pride parades, and a mayor who, in his typical "screw it, let's roll" style, legalized gay marriage for all of a half week until the courts reminded him that you can't just do whatever the hell you want whenever the hell you want to. (Less than a year later, Newsom would make the same sort of move again, announcing free internet for everyone without much thought to, well, how that would actually happen. Often overlooked is the "We're going to Jupiter. What the hell you gonna do about it?" press conference of 2005, but, really: probably drunk). Anyway, the odd thing is that this tour, seemingly every time we mention our home town, we're treated as if we just said "We're from Gayland." Sometimes, this exposes some sad prejudices. Sometimes, it allows closeted Southerners to hit on you on the sly. Sometimes, just hearing you're from San Francisco gives the guy you're talking to license to begin lisping and ask if you want to do some "yach" while he tells you he's a "jungle-ist" and not a "boche-boy" and you're left wondering if he's speaking English or was recently concussed. The point is, being from San Francisco doesn't mean that you're gay; it just means that you don't care if someone else is. Ess Eff always seems to have this laisez faire, "you do your thing, I'll do mine" attitude that is somehow different than the typical big city "you do your thing, I'll do mine, just get out of my goddamn way" sort of attitude. Hard to explain, really, but I'm trying. It's also the nucleus around which all jungle-ist boche-boys yach it up, but, well, that goes without saying.

Anyway, I miss home. We're on the 11 hour drives portion of the tour and the long trundles westward always make me a little antsy. Conveniently, we're back in three days, so I don't have to pine for my own bed for more than three nights. Wondrous stuff, that. Right now we're in Denver, where it snowed yesterday and I got far too excited about it. Denver always treats us right, too: the crowds, while smaller than most places, are loud and attentive, the altitude lets a man drink cheap, and Dave & I have an old friend here (not geriatric old, but since-we-was-knee-high-to-a-grasshopper old) who lets us invade his house, shows us around, and, well, it's just a bonus of every tour to be able to see your scattered acquantances and he happens to be a favorite. Plus: played this show with my old black bass, the instrument equivalent of a battered, neglected wife and she performed magnificently, despite months of neglect, rusty strings, and the fact I forgot to get her flowers on our anniversary.

We also revisited Lawrence, Kansas this time around, a show that was memorable if only for the complete lack of humanity and the one dollar shots. It was like practice, except there was a bartender watching and a couple off to the side talking over the quiet parts. In other words: success, thy name is Lawrence.

This is the time when I sheepishly check my bank account, realize I'm slightly less destitute than previously feared, then subsequently realize we're going to Vegas and then entertain fantasies of all-night craps streaks that pay for my unborn children's college education, only to have the reality be far more depressing. Odds are I lose ten five dollar blackjack hands in a row and start whining like a scolded puppy.

Alright: the rest of the Birdmonsters are waking up and we've got a long drive through roads possibly covered in ice and snow, so I'm going to throw this thing up and get packing. Until soon, perhaps home, perhaps from the mansion I buy after hitting an eight million dollar slot jackpot: au revior.

In which Birdmonster does double duty in North Carolina, muses pointlessly on video games, and, by God, begins to head home

After a steady month of zig-zagging across North America, the compass is finally pointing west and home is less than a week away. All that stands between Birdmonster and the comfortable confines of the Bay Area are Kansas, Denver, Las Vegas, 3,000 miles, and a few ill-advised a.m. visits to Taco Bell, Taco John's, Taco Mayo, Taco Tico, Taco Casa, or the illusive Del Taco, a list of restaurants which requires the following footnote: yes, we're taking vitamins. I've officially entered the Jeopardy demographic. Two years until we're playing shows in matching Rascals. I'm excited.

Since we're heading west to California, like so many toothless gold-rushers and Indian-killers before us, that means we've left the Carolinas, which is my awkward segue into talking about Wadesboro and Charlotte. Those two cities are the dual homes of the Sammies, the former being where they grew up, the latter being where the live. I asked Gymmy Thunderbird what there was to do in Wadesboro and he deadpanned "Whip-its" before adding, also, you can shoot guns. Turns out you can also rent a country club, hire a soundman and a few stoned out security guards, and have a Rock 'N' Roll show.

Apparently, the last show to travel through Wadesboro was...the last time the Sammies came through and rented out the country club. In fact, beyond the pro shop adjacent to the stage, the only bar in town is a Chinese restaurant, so it follows there wouldn't be too many bands stopping in. (When you get right down to it, your typical band is, in the view of the clubs they play, just a vehicle to get people drunk). At any rate, Wadesboro was quite the scene: we got to meet a slew of the Sammies' friends and family and play to a crowd who never sees live music. In fact, during the last song of the Sammies' set, there was a guy next to me who was spinning around like a woodland creature, hooting while throwing wadded up twenties at their singer. Later, that same man would be found on a toilet, pants on, with upchuck on his tennis shoes. And neither of those things surprised me. Such was the evening.

We skeedaddled the next afternoon to Charlotte and our show was one of the better ones in recent memory but not one that lends itself to story-time. The Sammies' set was a little more interesting as, during their last song, their drummer's (Don Yale) bass pedal broke, so I picked it up and played the kick like I was in a marching band. In retrospect, I wish I would've had one of those funny hats or something. We spent the following hour backstage ad-libbing a song about doing nefarious things to a whale in a pleasant major key.

I also had my first introduction to the Nintendo Wii during the last few days and, if I may, I'm going to add my voice to the salivating mob of addicts and say: "Holy shit." When I step back and remember I grew up shooting 8-bit mallards on a 14 inch TV and, a mere decade and a half later, was standing in front of a big screen, gesticulating madly, forcing a little man who looked like Ted Danson, via infrared, to swing a tennis racket, I get pretty happy about technology. In fact, in my lifetime, the only part of society that's improved remarkably is in fact technology. Sure, maybe we're creating an America where fatties of all genders and all races communicate, unwind, work, and date on the couch, but at least its a generation of fatties who won't start ridiculous wars. After all, we'll have really cool war video games. We can all be tyrants. The Yalies won't get to hog all the fun.

I'm going to quit while I'm behind and write some emails to temp agencies, blood banks, sperm depositories, medical studies---essentially anyone who'll pay me anything when I get back. Bring on the glamor.

In which Birdmonster traverses the South, rejoins the Sammies, and maintains a westerly route

Greetings from somewhere in North Carolina, not to be confused with South Carolina, or, as the Sammies sometimes call it, "North Carolina, Jr." The scenery is constant, like the background on one of those Road Runner cartoons where the same three rocks and shrubs pass by over and over, only here it's a never-ending succession of churches, kudzu, gas stations, deflated barns, firework stores and discount cigarette stores, often in this same building, which is a lot like putting a knife store next to a marriage counselor, which is to say: not the best idea. But the drives through here and Virginia and the rest of the "real South" are always my favorites of the tour, unless that drive happens to be between two and five in the morning and you're listening to Pat Benetar, drinking coffee a trucker made himself at a 24-hour gas station with recycled grounds on an after dinner snack of Taco Bell and Krispy Kreme. If the drive happens to be like that, you feel like there's a few dozen grnomes in your stomach having a gang fight.

It's much better today after some sleep, a homemade breakfast, and coffee that didn't remind me of a Liquid Plumber commercial. We're on our way to Wadesborough North Carolina, childhood home of our erstwhile tourmates, the abovementioned Sammies, to play at a venue they've rented out since, apparently, Wadesborough is not known for a bustling music scene. I always enjoy going to somebody's born-and-raised hometown with them: you get a good perspective on anyone that way. Plus, North Carolinian country-ness is far more interesting than, say, Fresno. No offense Fresno. You do have some amazing stucco chinese restaurants.

Since we last spoke, we've been to our nation's capital and Virginia for a total of three shows. Washington was Washington, which is to say, a perennial favorite. The crowds there are always exceedingly enthusiastic and the beer is always exceedingly free. I saw my godfather there for about three minutes, though it was late and he was sloshed so, that explains the three minutes thing, I guess. I'm always at a loss when I talk about D.C., since we never seem to have any problems with anything there (knocks fake wood on dashboard) and we always feel so happy afterwards. After all, what's more synonymous with dependable and universally lovable than Washington D.C.?

(rimshot)

The next evening we found ourselves in Fredericksburg Virginia, not to be confused with Fredricksburg Virginia although, truth be told, I might have already confused that. It's always a strange proposition traveling to a new place for the first time, playing a venue you've never been to, praying there are at least a couple other bands there so you won't be playing only to a bartender who's chewing out her boyfriend on the phone during your set. Sometimes you get lucky; sometimes you play to that bartender. We didn't play to that bartender in Fredericksburg though. For one thing, there was no bar. For another, Fredericksburg was, quite simply, fantastic. We played in a venue built in 1790, which, if you're keeping score at home, means it's 14 years older than America itself, and we played to a room of kids who weren't afraid to dance around, have a good time, and not throw things at our faces. Plus, the local band, Rocky's Revival (great name by the way) were one of those bands where all the kids are like sixteen years old and just rock the hell out and end up making you feel like you should be eating dinner at 4:30 and giving out hard candy to the neighbor's boy. If exploding bass amps, corroded batteries, and Canadian border extortion are the unhappy surprises of the tour, Fredericksburg ranks among the happy ones.

Last night was a bit odder. Instead of an ex-antique shop built when John Quincy Adams was knee-high to a grasshopper, we played in a six-month old restaurant cum venue in Norfolk. We played for our dinner, like some old tyme tap dancer, and stomped around for the Sammies. The sound onstage was a wee bit screwball so I'm going to assume we played exceptionally and then interrupt anyone who says anything contrary.

In which Birdmonster trades tourmates, plays fine cities, and continues spending money like a Russian Autocrat

Yesterday, April second, marked the first day of the baseball season, a swath of time that signals the end of spring, the beginning of summer, and a collection of horrendous goatees that even a Korn fan would be embarrassed by. It was also Birdmonster's first real day off since a good two weeks ago, and a day I spent half-ill before an evening of red wine and that new Will Farrell movie worked like twin panaceas. (And, full disclosure here: I really enjoyed "Blades of Glory," but it must be known I was cackling far harder than the other dozen or so people in the theatre. Of course, I'd laugh at Farrell if he was giving me a brain cancer diagnosis, so, like I said: take that recommendation with a grain of salt. Or ten).

Today we're meeting up with the wondrous foursome known as The Sammies, fine upstanding chaps from North Carolina who make me a bit jealous that I have that bland, characterless California accent and not a country flavored Wainsborough one. This means that we had to part ways with Mason Proper and, well, leaving a great tourmate is just a bittersweet thing. Not unlike a cup of coffee filled with Jolly Ranchers, in fact. We separated from those boys in New York after they, in about ten minutes, learned all the cords and changes in Ice Age and joined us on stage playing tambourines, melodicas, and a guitar part that I wish I would've written. They were fantastic guys: very down to earth, humble, helpful---they were like the anti-Aerosmith. To take the analogy further, they had great songs, which, well, Aerosmith hasn't had since "Dream On," unless you count "Janie's Got A Gun," and that's certainly up for debate. Not up for debate: "Dude Looks Like a Lady." In fact, "Dude Looks Like a Lady" is the only song they play in waiting room before you go to Hell. Point is: buy a Mason Proper album and be happy.

I also recently had the luxury of spending my birthday in Boston. Besides bowling drunk, I can't think of anything better. Actually, I did get late night French Toast,and champagne from my girl in California, so: eat your heart out inebriated bowling.

In fact, life had been oh so lovely for oh so long until we took the Donald in to have the battery cable swapped out so that Zach wouldn't have to spend every third afternoon under the hood de-corroding the positive connection and the mechanic informed us that thirty thousand miles of hard driving without a trailer had reduced our shocks to spring-loaded superballs of death and that new shocks would cost us, well, let's leave it at "ah, crap." But we fixed them, plus some other part near the front axle that had been making a disconcerting cat meow noise and now the Donald's driving like a hovercraft and we couldn't be happier or poorer. I'm pretty sure it would be cheaper to have a set of triplets than a van. In fact, if only I would've had some triplets twenty years ago and fed them the Human Growth Hormone I'd be set. Added bonus: rickshaws. Other added bonus: no oil changes. I see no downside to this.

Despite the wine and the Farrell, I'm still feeling a bit...out of sorts. I'm sure I'm forgetting worthwhile happenings, certainly ones from Boston and from New York as well, but, I'm having trouble focusing, so, if they're really worth our time, they shall resurface in the coming days. For now? I need a nap. Westward, ho. And I mean that in the "onwards!" sort of way. I'm not insinuating you get paid to sleep with men.

In which Birdmonster renews political dialogue with Canada, returns to their homeland, and gives hotel tips they should have taken themselves

Touring is simply specialized traveling and traveling is a mean educator. For example, despite many people's (including my own) distrust of large chains, motel chains are in fact a good thing. Sure, your typical Days Inn isn't the same as staying in a New Orleans bed & breakfast, waking up to Chicory and a beignet, but you've got the requisite amount of towels, at least one channel of HBO, and beds not infected with STDs or harboring amphibians. I forgot this lesson last night when I chose a motel named after a blind, overly religious poet instead of the imminently safer Red Roof Inn. Yes, if you're in the Syracuse area, I'd recommend avoiding the John Milton Inn. The price is right (forty dollars or so), but the fungal streak in the bathtub, the vague stench of creeping death, and the oh-my-God-I-hope-that-isn't-blood stain on the shower curtain tend to cancel out the feeling of fiscal intelligence.

Traveling also reminds you that any place on the planet is a whole lot better than its bureaucrats. See, from the moment we crossed the border into Canada, the populous was, well, not a bunch of power-tripping prick-bastards. In fact, they were all really accommodating. After our odyssey of frustration and near-extortion to enter Toronto, we ended up reaching our destination twenty minutes after we were to have begun playing, only to be bailed out by the Coast, a Toronto based band who let us use their amps and drums which allowed us to play much earlier than we ever could of pulled off by our lonesome. Everyone at the Horseshoe tavern ended up being lovely, dressed warmly, and, yes, said "eh?" after at least 75% of their sentences. I found it endearing. It's like the Southern "y'all" or Lady in Red: I can't explain why I like them, I just do.

The next day was far less stressful. We returned to our native land with a sigh of relief and a renewed sense of patriotism, not that ugly jingoistic kind, but that "our Border Patrol agents aren't sexless piglets from hell" kind of patriotism. Plus, I've been reading a 700 page history of America book this tour, so leaving Canada made me feel a little more knowledgeable about everything, although, truth be told, I don't know anything about Canada. I'm definitely "that guy." Prime Minister? Some sort of humanoid. Rules of Curling? Brooms are involved. Climate? Effing cold. That's the extent of my Canadian scholarship. Meanwhile, I'm learning about Boss Tweed and the Mexican-American Landgrab and all manner of historical happenings that were lost to years of doodling and spelling "BOOBLESS" on upside-down calculators. The point? As always: none.

Our glorious return to the U.S. was spent driving through upstate New York which is still covered in snow, although that snow is of the filthy-brown-road-side variety, but it's snow nonetheless and snow is pretty noteworthy when you live in California. There, we actually vacation towards snow. We find it picturesque and novel. I'm sure four months of thick jackets and soggy socks would kill that feeling, but, hey, that's why we live in Eurekaland.

Where was I? Ah, yes: Upstate New York. Last night, I had the pleasure of having my birthday at 12 midnight in Syracuse with Mason Proper and some rather talented local bands and another improbable win for the Golden State Warriors, who I'm aware nobody else really gives a damn about, but please: give me my small joy. I get to spend my proper b-day here in Boston (adios Utica) with Mason Proper again (who, by the way, get more lovable every night) and Ra Ra Riot for the first time (who, by the way, rock oh so hard with oh so much cello and violin and songs about Andre that remind me of what would an Arcade Fire song would sound like if Cat Stevens was singing it and I mean that to be a wondrous compliment). I expect to be rather blotto. That's what birthdays are for: taking years off your life. It's a strange irony but, I think, an important one. Until soon.

In which Birdmonster begins with happy abandon then becomes the Whitney Houston to Canada's Bobby Brown

A week ago, I had a dream where Conan O'Brian was supervising a water slide and he was wearing a blue suit and a snazzy tie and I was at the front of the line and I caught him picking his nose and when he saw me laughing at him he ate his booger. Then, last night, I had that same dream again. I'm not really sure what to think about that, except, of course, that Conan has great comic timing, even in my brain while I'm sleeping. Just thought I'd share.

At any rate, today we're heading to Canada. We've got our paperwork in order, our passports in our pockets, and our politest voices on. Plus, we get to buy gas in Canada's, which is always fun, since everything's in liters and funny money and we can't convert either. In fact, right now, we're on the bridge to Canada, waiting to be frisked and badgered by their internet-savvy, bilingual, Border Patrol agents. Just don't tell them we're smuggling five pounds of contraband avocados and four underage manservants. I fear that could derail the entire expedition...

...So, yeah...I actually wrote the paragraph above while we were in line to cross the border. That was three hours ago, mind you. Now? Back in Detroit. Some days you're just on the wrong side of the giant celestial dildo.

I had plans of talking about the cozy little crowd in Covington, the benefit we played in Indianapolis, the ping-pong tinted dive we ended up at in Detroit, so I'll do that first. After all, all those nights, to varying degrees, were successes. In Covington, an old friend from WOXY came out, said inappropriate things, brought friends, clapped loudly. In Indianapolis, we helped raise money for a children's hospital, hung out with some amazingly dedicated and interesting people, signed and doodled all over a dilapidated acoustic guitar, and, far less enjoyably, ate Steak 'N' Shake at 3 in the morning. In fact, Indy is one of my favorite days thus far; it deserves far more love than this here third-of-a-paragraph, but my entire consciousness is consumed with fanatical hatred for all things Canadian. Even you Gordon Lightfoot. Even you. So to Indianapolis, Rock for Riley, and My Ol' Kentucky Blog: thanks again. You made us feel very, very welcome. And to Detroit: God bless you and your bars with ping pong. You know we have an addiction.

And, for the record, I was far too harsh up there about Canada. I have no problem with Canada. No, sir. I'm far too ignorant of our Northern neighbor to hate them in the way, for example, I loathe Rob Schneider. The problem is actually getting in to Canada. See, in reality, all we've done is renewed our hatred of all things Border Patrol. I feel very safe saying that. I actually feel liberated saying that. It's my new mantra.

Without further ado: A tale of bureaucratic infuriation of which even Franz Kafka would be jealous.

It begins at the first window at the US/Canadian border. As I mentioned, we were feeling quite proud of ourselves because we had the proper work permits and the proper identification. We were Preparedmonster and that, my friends, is a rare rare thing. Anyway, so we're at the window and the guy is staring at the opposite wall saying "bon jour" and we assume, since, well, he's talking to a wall in French, that he might not be talking to us, whereupon we said nothing, he assumed we were being rude, and he went all surly on us. Off to a good start. Then he launched into a series of questions, slathered in broken English: "Do you have firearms munition?" "What is purpose in Canada?" and, most importantly: "Are only these your equipment?" Remember that last one. It promises to ruin our day.

So, "No" we said. We have no firearms. We're here to play some music in Toronto. And yes, this is all our equipment. I mean, really: do you know who you're talking to? This is Preparedmonster. We're an unstoppable machine of taking-care-of-our-own-shit-ness. So what's next? Go over there to customs? Sure, no problem. See the above taunt. We cannot be contained.

Of course, turns out we can. We were met at customs by a guy whose name I never quite caught, though I wish I did, because I would be cursing him and any children unlucky enough to have been sired by a minor demon. In honor of the mechanic in Phoenix who tried to ruin our day and DeNiro's psychotic alter-ego in that horrendous Dakota Fanning movie, we'll name him the Charlie.

So the Charlie is looking through our car with the anal retentive vigor of Sherlock Holmes and he calls over Peter because he's certain he's spotted some sort of drug. No, says Peter. That's actually a crushed pretzel. But the Charlie is rather sure of himself so he grills us to make sure we're nice and sober and haven't spent the last three weeks snorting pretzels off the belly a hooker. We're sure of this, the Charlie. We promise. At this point, the Charlie proceeds to ferret through all our bags, overhead compartments, under the seats, inside water bottles, then decides he needs to look through all the gear in the back, you know, in case we hid some Rold Gold twists inside a floor tom. And then the Charlie notices our merchandise.

"Doesn't look like you declared this," remarks the Charlie.

"Well, no we didn't. We were never asked and last time we drove through to Montreal, we showed our merch to the customs agent," we replied.

"Doesn't look like you declared this," remarks the Charlie. "And that constitutes smuggling."

Canada 1, Preparedmonster, 0. The Charlie went on to explain, in his singularly infuriating, smug, power-tripping oink that since we didn't declare our merch at the window with the surly guy who never asked us about it, we were subject to a night in jail, a strip search, and copious fines which would total 25% of our shirts' and CDs' estimated value. This, of course: bad news. We were told all this while standing in front of our car with our pockets turned inside out, just so the Charlie could make sure our pockets weren't a breeding ground for illicit snack foods. He's a crafty one, that the Charlie.

So we were asked to go inside and wait in customs while the Charlie went behind the scenes to figure out just how egregious our fine could be. I passed the time reading about what sorts of agriculture you can and can't bring in to Canada. For example, you can bring a coconut only if it hasn't sprouted. You can also bring any kind of crab but the mitten crab, proving, of course, that the mitten crab is the baddest crab on planet earth. Take that Alaskan King Crab.

We wait and guess who shows up? It's the surly "bon jour" guy who never asked us about merch in the first place. He informs us in a very casual way that "Are only these your equipment?" means "Do you have any commercial goods you'd like to declare?" Apparently, Canadian English involves much reading between the lines. He leaves after we try to burn his eyes out with telepathy.

The Charlie returns, literally, forty five minutes later and informs us that the Canadian government has seized the entire supply of Birdmonster merchandise as smuggled goods and that we could retrieve it for the bargain basement price of 917 dollars. I'm not sure if that was Canadian dollars or American ones over the expletives I was screaming.

But see: Preparedmonster would not take this sitting down, even in vaguely comfortable government waiting room chairs. We laid out our case with the sort of forced calmness you might see in a new father after his two year old just clubbed him in the groin for the first time. Among our salient points: We were never asked about commercial goods. We're paying for a work permit, why would we sneak merch in a giant tupperware tub? We're legally below the poverty line. We hate your face. None of these did much to the demeanor of the Charlie. He was a rock. Unmovable. Unfazable. Without any internal organs, notably a brain or a heart. So we asked to speak to his supervisor. And, lo and behold, she turned out to be a human being.

She informed us that we could get our merch back without being extorted by a government agency but that we couldn't bring it into Canada. (In case you're keeping score, that's Canada 867, Preparedmonster, 1). At that point, we thanked her profusely and waited for the Charlie to add us to the Canadian government's "High Risk Traveler" list, which is a moot point since my desire to return is currently somewhere between my desire to watch Wild Hogs and my desire to get hit in the neck with a bat, then drove back to American soil so we could all kiss the soil like a bunch of pirates landing in Florida after three months of rum and scurvy.

But we don't miss shows. No we don't. So we shipped our merch to Connecticut and U-Turned back to Canada. This time, we declared nothing correctly, applied for a work permit, paid for it, overdrafted our bank account, and are currently en route to Toronto, where we hopefully will arrive with enough time to play a set. I just hope no one wants to buy a shirt.

In which Birdmonster falls in love with Minneapolis for the third time, Mason Proper for the first, and violates child labor laws

In which Birdmonster falls in love with Minneapolis for the third time, Mason Proper for the first, and violates child labor laws for the...uh...only time ever. We swear.

I have a hatred of buffets which can be best described as "irrational." I figure, if I'm going to a restaurant, I'd like my food cooked fresh, or, at the very least, not sitting in a vat of grease getting fondled by some filthy guy in overalls who just sneezed into his palm. And I know that when you're eating at truck stops that same guy could easily be in the kitchen, ashing his Pall Mall into your meatloaf, but, you know: out of sight, out of mind. I'm comfortable being lied to. Just make sure I can't see into the kitchen.

On the flip side, there's almost nothing better than eating at a greasy spoon with a chef and a buffet. (And yes, we're both aware I'm using the term "chef" rather liberally. Just bear with me). The fun part of this scenario is that you can scope out the buffet from a safe distance; it becomes comedic. Since you don't have to eat the mashed peas in runny sauce, you get to laugh at it. When you get right down to it, a truck stop buffet is at least ten times funnier than Rob Schneider---of course, so is getting eye cancer. But you get the idea.

So, if it's not obvious, I always feel a disconnect with anyone who would choose the pre-cooked, half-warm, yesterday's leftovers option. But the place we ate at yesterday, somewhere in the middle of Wisconsin, was other-wordly. Obese children in sweat pants and NRA Summer Camp T-shirt with massive grease stains on the belly eating giblets? They were there. A guy in head-to-toe camouflage with spiderweb neck tattoos? Two of 'em. Shambling geezer in a jean tuxedo who couldn't even be troubled with a plate and who, in a feat of slovenly originality, smashed two pieces of plastinated pizza together and created the pizza sandwich? You know it. You don't have to leave America to get culture shock.

That short trip to the restaurant equivalent of a Siberian gulag stands in sharp contrast to the days before in Minneapolis/St. Paul. In fact, there's not a single bad thing I can say about that city and, well, I can get a little snarky (see last three paragraphs). Everytime we end up there, I love it a little more. This trip involved a too-early stop over at MPR (the Current, to be precise), where we played a three song, rather mellow acoustic set for a DJ who we'd met originally at the once-defunct WOXY station in Cincinnatti. We loved the way they turned out and, as per usual, will share them when they become available via the internet, which, we hope, will be in the next couple days. We brought with us Steven, the son of the couple we were staying with, who acted as our guide and manager, and yeah, he's only eleven, but if he wasn't stuck in grammar school, we'd take him on tour to break legs, haggle contracts, and lay down the goon-hand. That night, we played a gorgeous club in Minneapolis called the Varsity which looked sort of like the opium den in Dorian Gray, except with disco balls, which, sadly, were unavailable in the early 1900s. Notably, the band Belles of Skin City played before us and rocked part if not all of my face off. Our best to them.

Minneapolis was also the front bookend of an eight shows in eight days sprint, unless you count radio stuff, which would actually make it more like ten in eight days. If you need me on day nine, I'll be in the back seat sucking on a pacifier. Anyway, we followed Minnesota with the aforementioned Wisconsonian buffet non-experience and, far more importantly, Chicago. I've spent more in the Windy City than any other place I've never actually lived in, owing to having a set of grandfolks there and an extended family that numbers in the tens of thousands. Many childhood afternoons of cheek-pinches from fifth great aunts were had. Many of those aunt's names were forgotten. Hopefully none of them know how to use the internet. If so, sorry...Lucille.

Chicago, as usual, was wonderful. It's one of those places where we look forward to going, where we're always surrounded by lovely people, and where we inevitably take advantage of the fact bars don't close till three a.m., sometimes five. I won't bore you with details or pointless name-dropping, but: wheeee!

We also met Mason Proper, who we'll be touring with for the next week-ish, and again: wheee! We've got the same friends, the same enemies. Plus, I should mention they rock really hard. Not hard rock, really, so get that mental image of Bon Jovi out of your head; they just bounce around and play really good music. I stood in the front row starry-eyed during their entire set and, almost indubitably, will be doing so again tonight.

Man. I'm full of good cheer today. I'm like that guy at a wedding who has three glasses of champagne too many and hugs everyone thirty times and professes love for people he's never even met before he ends up praying over a toilet bowl. Onwards, to Convington Kentucky. And a big happy birthday to Dave. All together now: "Happy Birthday, Dave." Until soon.

In which Birdmonster waxes uneloquently on music, film, and the best actor you never knew was one

I knew that after four days of egregious loudness, barhopping, and band overload, I'd probably forget a few dozen important happenings. After all, South By is overwhelming and Chic-Fil-A isn't necessarily brain-food. Sure, I got to make fun of Sisqo, but really, that's like shooting fish in a barrel, although I've never understood why anyone would want to shoot fish in the first place. So, without further ado, a few items from SXSW, Dallas, and Oklahoma in the form of a lazy list, since, not unlike Chic-Fil-A, the twelve-noon Oklahoma buffet isn't brain-food either. In fact: much more like getting chopped in the neck by Jet Li.

- Since our van got Arizona-ed, we've (occasionally) needed to start the van with two people, one turning the key while the other guy pulls blindly at a battery cable until the connection works the way it was meant to. Now, I'm as big a fan of the jerry-rig as the next guy---I'd trust a kidney surgeon with duct tape on his belt---but I was a bit worried about traveling nine thousand miles with my fingers crossed. Of course, we're in a back alley in Austin and the inevitable happened: the Donald, she wouldn't start. So we began pushing her to a street wide enough for a tow-truck, canceling our dinner plans, and spewing invective at an uncaring God. And then: salvation. This shaggy blonde guy from the band Birds of Avalon came over, and, with a Leatherman and a flashlight, had us up and running in forty seconds. Hugs were exchanged, plans were uncanceled, expletive-filled anti-prayers were rescinded. The moral? Pathetic whining to God above works wonders. Also: Birds of Avalon are awesome. Buy all their CDs.

- I know that most people would rather watch Citizen Cane than Anacondas: The Hunt for the Blood Orchid and I have but one thing to say to all those people: you silly bastards. Even without Jon Voight's unimpeachably perfect Cuban accent, Anaconda 2 is a just more enjoyable proposition than watching Orson Wells brood for a couple hours. In other words: I simply prefer a bad movie to a good one. So it was with supreme pleasure that, while snuggling up on a couch after a couple Lone Stars and a night of bowling (also known as Heaven), that I came across Showdown. You know Billy Blanks, of Tae Bo fame? Yeah. He's got a starring role. Even better than that, his character's name is Billy. Even better than that, he's played a "Billy" in at least three other movies, perhaps proving he's incapable of responding to any name other than his own. Of course, I'd never make fun of Billy Blanks since he could break me by farting. Just know that Showdown is a very special film, sure to take it's rightful place near Gymkata, Torque, and that movie where Anna Nicole Smith (God rest her soul) kicks a bunch of terrorist ass, irregardless of the fact all the terrorists look like male porn actors and, in fact, almost certainly are.

- Kansas is goddamn windy. Pretty sure I just saw Glenda getting chased by some flying monkeys. Pretty sure that joke wasn't that funny.

- Oklahoma was goddamn windy as well. We played there last night to a crowd of...nearly a dozen. We did see the world famous Oklahoma College of Horseshoeing on our drive. I'm sending all my kids there. To the Ph.D. program, of course. A B.A. in Horseshoe-ery just doesn't go as far as it once did.

- We're heading to Minnesota tonight, home of Prince, Husker Du, and a whole bunch of other phenomenally respected artists I don't know half as much about as I should, although I have been Prince for three straight Halloweens. If I decide to grow an epic mustache, I'll be Bob Mould next year, just to even things out. Minneapolis is always one of our favorite places to tour, and, you know, I don't say that about everywhere we play (ahem, Cleveland). We're doing an early morning set on the Current, one of those rare FM stations I mentioned last post, a station who's playlist has never seen a Hoobastank, a station that plays Ice Cube right after Ryan Adams right before Nancy Sinatra, and, well, who plays Birdmonster. I'm imminently bribe-able, you know. Before we actually play, I'll provide a link for everyone. We're not sure what we're going to end up playing, but we'd love it if you joined us.

- That's it. Go rent Showdown and then send us some flowers.

In which Birdmonster, not unlike Huckleberry Finn's Dad, rails against the gub'ment and exhaustedly talks of South By Southwest

Growing up in the early '90s, mainstream FM radio was reliably decent. You had your Smashing Pumpkins, your Nirvanas, your Jane's Addictions. The Nu Metal devolution was a half decade away and there were more than a dozen years before the dial would be largely dominated by American Idol runner ups, actor-fronted emo-core bands, and that song where the guy just sings "I'm so fly" fifty-eight times and you suddenly lose all faith in humanity. Oh yeah, and back then: Boyz II Men. Between those years when my attention was divided between Tool, that newfangled "Alternative" movement, and a strange adoration of that Lisa Loeb song and now, Congress passed something called the Telecommunications Act. At its crudest (and admittedly most biased) level, this law allowed single corporations to own thousands of radio stations, which, of course they ended up owning, which led to a couple faceless guys somewhere programming literally hundreds of stations at once. In simpler terms, you heard Creed blowing it professionally in every market because of the shady machinations of that aforementioned faceless guy. Scott Stapp was ecstatic; the rest of us pondered deafening ourselves with meat thermometers.

Now, of course, there were a few stations around the country who remained independent, or who at least were programmed independently, who didn't torture their audience, who took chances, who played music that was, you know, good. But if you weren't lucky enough to live within the requisite zip code, you were saddled with the Thong Song six times an hour. As Mom always said: life isn't fair; enjoy your Sisqo.

At around the same time, this pesky thing called the Internet was starting to speed up. Where once it took longer to load your email that send a cross-Atlantic postcard, suddenly music was downloadable, streamable. Metallica whined famously that Napster was removing the plug in their treasure bath but there was really no stopping it. Not only was music more accessible than it ever had been before, but it was now damn near free. You didn't have to wait for the radio or that snooty prick at the record store to gift you new music; everyone's collection was tradable, broadcastable, available.

Logically, Internet radio soon followed. Now that snooty guy at the record store could play his entire collection of obscure Iroquois Jazzcore B-sides and anyone, anywhere could hear it. You could search out new bands, new styles, new genres cheap if not free, could find stations you loved, get turned on to your local scene, all commercial-free, usually by a guy or gal sharing their music for the love of turning people on to something new. Of course, anything that utopian couldn't last for long.

And it didn't.

The US Copyright Royalty Board, in its infinite ignorance, passed a law that will essentially end free Internet radio. Basically, they've proposed that every Internet station pays fees which add up to something near 100% of their revenue. And since most of the folks we've met who have internet stations run them commercial-free, well, let's just get ready for the next wave of Sisqos and Creeds, this time, hopefully, combining to form a goulash of God-fearing, underwear-pontificating rap-rock. In other words: Uh oh.*

If this sounds as excremental to you as it does to me, well, take a second and sign this here petition, or, if you’d rather, send a strongly worded letter to your Congressman. Then come back and read the remainder of this here yammering. Go ahead. I've got some cocoa & a good book.

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Welcome back, welcome back. Since we last spoke we've spent our days and nights surrounded by enough music to drive even the most dedicated music fan at least partially batty. Yes folks, Birdmonster was one of over a thousand bands to descend on Austin for South By Southwest, a five day festival of music and film (but not that much film, honestly) that mutates Austin into a cacophonous collection of hung over hipsters, record label types, and bemused locals. It's prime people watching territory, let me tell you. Big earrings, tight pants, and carefully tousled hair abounded. I saw Matt Pinfield, some actor I couldn't quite place, umpteen tourmates and bands I'd paid to see in my younger days, and a grizzly dude in a thong and a leather jacket that said "Born to be ridden."

We ended up playing three shows, one in the evening, two during the day, over the space of four days total, before fleeing this afternoon, sweaty, exhausted, and mostly deaf. We also did plenty of schmoozing, some of which was rather beneficial, some of which wasn't, and some of which involved getting free pants. In fact, last year I got free pants too. And if there's something wrong with free pants, I demand you tell me what that is. Sure, maybe your old pants get jealous, but they also get a breather now and again, and for a guy with about two pairs of pants who sees about one laundry machine a month, well, use your imagination.

In the end, though, it's a fairly hectic long long weekend. You're constantly loading in, loading out, borrowing gear, line checking, scurrying from one show to another, scamming free booze, having free schwag thrust at you by attractive college girls in half-shirts, waiting for decent food or settling for sub par burritos, and it's all to the tune of roughly thirty bands playing simultaneously, next door to each other, so that when you're out on the street, surrounded by all manner of humanity, there's a constant din of electric guitars, bass drums, and toneless yelping, all blending into a singular mash of sonic oddness. Imagine walking down the Vegas strip holding twelve boomboxes, all playing different songs of different genres, while slightly drunk and certainly hungry. It's a lot like that. But it's goddamn fun.

It's also incredibly exhausting. In fact, as I write this, we're barely three hours removed from Austin, two hours removed from a surprisingly delicious virginal trip to Chic-Fil-A, and one hour from Dallas, where we'll be sleeping this evening before heading out to Oklahoma City for the first time ever. In other words, tour begins anew after oh so long in all parts of urban Texas. In other words, life will return to normal. Or whatever it is I'm calling normal these days.

* In the interest of full disclosure, the aforementioned law also mandates that FM play 30% independent music to offset what will surely mean the end of free, computer-flavored radio. Color me skeptical. And while I'd gladly embrace the FM dial becoming more diverse, I'm not sure why this has to happen at the expense of others.

In which Birdmonster hunkers down in the Lone Star State, solves various problems, and confesses various loves both new and old

Although success is a wonderful thing, calamity makes for better stories. I mean, nobody's reading King Lear if Lear's a loving Dad, doesn't get his egomaniacal lunatic on, and ends up inventing the sourdough roll. That's a simple fact of life. So it follows that an interminably long tale of amp shopping which ends in expensive but glorious success would probably bore the bejesus out of everyone. In other words, I'm skipping that part of trip. Just know that we've spent a large part of the last 48 hours in various Guitar Centers, getting called "bro" more frequently than our actual names, trying out all manner of cheaper, lamer amplifiers until finding one I fell instantly in love with, asked to marry me, and have subsequently decided to take on a 4 week honeymoon. I don't think she loves me yet, but, not unlike an IT guy who orders a Siberian bride, I'm pretty sure she'll come around.

Of course, even though a majority of my time has been spent haggling and unplugging cords, things have happened. We played Tucson, which was pretty much the polar opposite of Phoenix in that our van didn't need to be hospitalized and our show was fantastic (not to toot our own horn, but, well: "toot, toot"). We also met up with Division Day, who you know we adore, for the first of three shows, which, coincidentally will end this evening in San Antonio after yesterday's festival set in Dallas at 4:30 on a workday, a time slot which, needless to say, didn't exactly lend itself to a packed house. I think more people watched that Heather Graham sitcom they cancelled in a day. Still, playing music is playing music. You'll never hear me complaining about that.

I also had the distinct pleasure of watching the Golden State Warriors end the Dallas Mavericks' 17 game win streak in a taco shop surrounded by Mavs fans. For about five minutes, I was the one guy clapping incessantly after every Warriors basket until I remembered that Texans take their sports quite seriously and that a lot of them have firearms.

But, truly: we love Texas. I mentioned this the first time we came to this monstrous land mass and I stand by that. Sure, you drive in from the west on the I-20 and there's a sign that says "Welcome to Texas; Proud Home of President George W. Bush," and part of you thinks "So this is how it's gonna be, Texas?" but, quite soon afterwards you realize that California could just as easily have a sign on the I-10 that said "Welcome to California; Proud Home of President (and Bedtime for Bonzo thespian) Ronald Reagan," so really, it's a wash. Texas just has character. And tons of delicious ways to cook cows. We'll be here for a bit more than a week, what with the shows in Dallas and San Antone, plus four days worth of shmoozing and overwhelmingness at South By Southwest (beginning tomorrow, in fact), so it's a good thing we've heaps of adoration for this place. Texas is kind of like that wildly inappropriate uncle you love in spite of the fact he's hit on all your girlfriends, throws dinner rolls at your head while eating, and is constantly blotto. He's not perfect but, damn, he's fun.

So for now, I'm going to leave you to spend some quality time with said uncle, eat some enchiladas with red and green sauce, and remember not to root against the Spurs or disparage the Alamo, which should be pretty easy since I love Robert Horry and Davey Crockett. Until soon.

In which Birdmonster redefines a popular term

As to where the acronym "SNAFU" originated, there are competing accounts. The publication American Notes and Queries first noted the term in 1941 with the PG-rated, truncated definition: "situation normal." By 1944, with World War II in full swing and the U.S. Army mobilizing at historic levels, the term gained popularity and spread quickly, later to join the American vernacular sometime after the war. It's probably common knowledge, but, in case not, a definition: "situation normal all fucked up." The acronym allowed for military men to politely spew invective at bureaucrats, their commanding officers, and each other, without all that nasty cursing and insubordination, which leads to discipline, which leads to court marshalling, which leads to Jack Nicholson screaming "You can't handle the truth." Obviously, a useful word.

Of course, Birdmonster has it's own version. We just say "Arizona."

For the sake of argument, let's recount the episodes that have befallen us in John McCain-land, shall we? When travelling with the venerable Art Brut, we blew a hose on our radiator near Yuma and were detained by the Border Patrol and their canine-unit, whose olfactory powers are, well, phenomenal. Our next trip was the one I noted yesterday, where, while waiting at that same fateful checkpoint, the transmission on Patrick Stewart gave up the ghost. All manner of SNAFUs followed (auto-wrecking yards, hundreds of dollars spent on cabs, various transport options pissing coolant after a three mile test drive) and we eventually made it to the dealership where we bought our new van, whose unstoppable glory had been confirmed time and time again. Until, of course, last night. All together now: "Arizona."

Before continuing any further, I need to mention that the people in Arizona are lovely. When our radiator hose broke, it was fixed on the cheap by a gentleman who dropped everything else he was doing to save our tuchises. The old dude who sold us the Donald wasn't bent on ripping off four scrubby kids who showed up at his dealership in a taxi, smelling of failure and dejection. The fans here are always supportive and understanding and, even as I write this, we've been lucky enough to have a cozy home to use as our lair for the latest adventure in desert-flavored frustration. Like I said: good people. Like I also said: Arizona.

And you'll be hearing both of those sentences again, by the way.

So, we got to the club a bit early, relaxed, opened up some horrible wine that had been gathering vintage in the van since last month, and, eventually, loaded our gear into Modified Arts. Upon realizing we hadn't eaten yet, we decided to jump in the van, drive down the street at random, and stop at the eatery that looked least likely to give us dysentary. And this is where the unpleasantness starts. Not so coincidentally, it's where the van doesn't.

My automobile knowhow essentially ends after "gas on the right, brake's on the left," so, I was surprised as anyone that the simple suggestion of a jump start turned out to be all we needed. Pete & I picked up some sandwiches, drove in circles in an attempt to charge the battery, and returned, listening to "Astral Weeks," feeling vaguely optimistic.

Of course, this is what the next few hours brought along with them:

- Bass amp implodes on stage, devolves into 50 pound paperweight
- Van refuses to start again
- While looking at the engine, van hood slams Peter's arm
- The crushing of Peter's forearm fails to fix engine problem
- Further attempts at jumping van lead to much swearing and cackling, largely by yours truly
- Strange band inside nearly ODs on hallucinigens, throws blanket on crowd, and invites crowd to get naked under blanket
- Van gets towed
- Vague optimism replaced by feeling of impending storm of horseshit

But like I said: good people live in Phoenix. Everyone at the show was more than patient with the on-stage SNAFUs and were chatty and calming afterwards. Our van was towed to the house of a gentleman named Kevin, with whom we were internet friends, but had never met before, and, well, thank God he stays up late. Apparently, just the news we were coming in town caused his refrigerator to blow a fuse, but he treated us to Bud Lights from the sink anyway, and we listened to music, pet his chunky, wonderful cat, and slept like babies.

Here's the head-slappingly stupid part: Charlie, our tow-truck driver, after about ten minutes, diagnosed the problems under the hood, and said he'd have no problem fixing the Donald in the morning. A new starter, some new solenoid, maybe a new cable for our corroded battery and we'd be good as new. He said: "Call me up at 8 and I'll come by and fix it." We did. He'd be there by 1. No problem. In the meantime, Zach and Dave called the cab company, who sent some sort of lunatic with dual Confederate flag tattoos on either forearm (and who also went to bat for Olive Garden, so, really: take a nap), and picked up the starter, the solenoid, the new battery cables. Optimism, slowly, reared its naive, little noggin.

Needless to say, like some cable man from hell, the Charlie just didn't come. We called, he called, we called, he called, and suddenly, it's 3:30 and the van is still sitting in the street, although it's halfway down the street because we had to move it so some dude spraying roof foam didn't ruin our paint job. It rains, it pours.

Skip forward to now. It's 7:30, the Charlie dropped his friend, one of those mechanics that chain-smokes inside the hood and makes me feel like I should be cowering behind protective glass like one of those guys on Myth Busters, and that guy fixed the van, and we left, and now we're sitting in horrendous traffic but we'll make it to Tucson on time, exasperrated, frustrated, but we'll make it. Of course, Tucson's in Arizona, so we aren't out of the woods yet. Or out of the desert, as the case may be.

The moral? Say what you will about Tokyo, but Phoenix is the most expensive city on the planet.

In which many parts of Birdmonster return home while all parts of Birdmonster leave home

Sometimes, it takes a while to realize we're on tour. Sometimes, I don't realize it until we're halfway through west Texas, getting stared down because I didn't tuck my t-shirt into my jeans. Sometimes, it feels a lot like those first few days of summer vacation, where you have to fight off the Pavlovian instincts of nine months of 7 a.m. Algebra and embrace the glorious newness of 3 months of 10 a.m. Judge Joe Brown, but part of your brain just isn't letting go. This time? Not so much. After a day during which we dined on cheeseburgers and pizza (tour staples, sadly), all the geriatric symptoms of tour have begun in earnest: my knees hurt, my ears are ringing, and I can't find my keys. In fact, tour hammers home that "you're only as old as you feel" point a little too firmly. I'm in my mid-twenties yet I feel as if I should be watching "Murder She Wrote" and lusting after Angela Lansbury. In other words, pass the creamed corn.

Right now, we're a dozen miles east of Alpine, California, a bustling metropolis of trailer homes, scrub grass, and about thirty Indian casinos of varying sizes. This particular drive in this particular van feels very poignant as, last time through, this was the drive that killed our last van, Patrick Stewart. Well, honestly, that's a lot like saying a nineteen year old dog with three bad legs was killed by a half-marathon in the Mojave, meaning: it was nine-tenths dead already. Point is, Phoenix is where we purchased the Donald, the new van which cost us the Rumpelstiltskin-esque price of financial solvency and a few first borns. So this drive is dedicated to you, your comb-over, and your irrationally inflated ego, the Donald. Welcome home.

Dave & I also got to go home last night; "home" meaning the place where we grew up and dorked out on Spiderman comics until leaving to get a college education I'm barely using. Plus, we played the Casbah, which is the club where all the cool bands played when I was 16 but I could never go to because they don't do all-ages there so I stayed home and, well, read Spiderman comics. Anyway: a great club that's always a little too loud and that always gives you a W.C. Fieldsian amount of drink tickets. We played with a couple fantastic LoCal natives, the Transfer & Roman Spring, saw some old friends, and slept in beds that didn't have lizards in them. Even got to try out some new songs, an event that always makes me part nervous, part giddy, and generally skittish. All in all, a pleasant beginning to our five weeks away from home.

Now? Well, we keep driving. Soon, we'll be in Arizona, the van-killing-est, Border Patrolin'-est, Steve Nashiest place on the planet. Personally, I'm excited for that weird brand of Arizona gas station where you can get everything from snakeskin wallets to ceramic buffalos to hats that say "My Ex-Wife's Car is a Broom." I can't wait to indulge my addiction to useless rubbish. Anyone want a bolo tie with a picture of Jesus riding a hippo? Actually, I think a better question is: anyone not want that? Good. I'll pick up a few thousand then.