The Plan

There are two kinds of holidays in this world: the ones you spend with your family and the ones you spend with your whiskey. On one hand, you've got your Christmases, your Mother's Days, your National Hideous Deformation Awareness Weeks. These are days dedicated to the unwrapping of gifts, the eating of honey hams, the giving of flowers, the staring and the pointing at hunchbacked albinos. They are days where we gather with our loved ones and, well, that's really the point: gathering; making merry; feeling lucky that there are people somewhere in the world who care what happens to you. These are good holidays, but good in that 17th century Puritan kind of way.

On the other hand, you've got your drunk days: your New Year's Eves, your Labor Days, your Halloweens. And while they do indeed have societal import---the signification of another calendar year, the enjoyment of day off, well earned, the Pagan-flavored need to dress up like a Leprechaun and grab women's asses---these holiday are just nationally sanctioned excuses to get stumbling and blotto. I, of course, have no problem with this.

Unfortunately, I'll be missing Halloween weekend in San Francisco for the second time in a row this year. Last October, we found ourselves in New York, doing the CMJ thing, riding in taxis with bloodthirsty, braying lunatics. This year? Well, we're flying to Chicago, we're doing a little recording. Thing is, its been a while since we recorded our last album and we're in full on let's-get-our-lazy-asses-into-the-studio mode. We've got plenty of new songs and now, alls we need is to find somebody who can make those songs sound the way they should sound and, quite honestly, that's what this weekend is for. Maybe we've found someone. All we can do is try it out. It's like a really expensive, horribly loud first date. Except without the sexual tension. Or the dressing well. Or the copious lying.

Needless to say, we're excited. Our current recordings of these new songs have that AM-radio quality to them, which is to say they sound like they're coming out of my old Dream Machine, which is to say you're never hearing them ever. So this Friday we're vamoosing, skipping a weekend of booze-soaked revelry, and returning, we hope, with two or three songs that make us feel like I feel at the end of Beethoven's Ninth: awash in sonic euphoria. "Doesn't sound like butt" would be an improvement, however.

So that there is the plan. The unfortunate lack of Halloween weekend will be remedied when we return, even if all that means is me sitting on my couch with a bad mustache drinking Hamm's out of the can. I don't know how this qualifies as "Halloween" but I figure that if you're drinking Hamm's, you should have a bad mustache.

On Life, Music, and Decorum, or, What I Really Learned At Work

Musicians, by and large, have always had a bad reputation. Now, certainly, it's deserved at times. Axel Rose has refused to play concerts to tens of thousands of exasperated fanatics for want of a lamb shank. Ozzy Ozborne once staggered into a suit-and-tie meeting with some label executives and, after releasing a jacket-full of doves for dramatic effect, chewed one of those doves' heads off. And surely, no father wanted his daughter bringing G.G. Allen home for supper. I mean, unless that father was a masochistic coprophiliac, and then, well, who's judging who, really?

But there are countless other cases of musicians maligned for dubious motives. Nicolo Paganini and Robert Johnson were long assumed to have dealt with the devil for their prodigious skills, and, suffice it to say, you don't often hear the words "Faustian contract" associated with tree surgeons. The Italian composer Antonio Salieri has been fingered as Mozart's poisoner with evidence that could best be described as "suspicious," "arguable," or "made up by some whack-job." Hell, even Britney Spears---certainly no rock of pious chastity---has been slandered to the extent that if you read a "Brit Chairs KKK-NAMBLA Co-Convention!!!" headline in the grocery store, you really wouldn't be surprised.

Now, Birdmonster, well, we're pretty wholesome folks. Sure, we've got a collective unquenchable thirst for Quaaludes, but, really, who doesn't? Otherwise, we're the sort of people who do your dishes rather that breaking them in half and stabbing your pets. We're the salt of the earth over here. I mean, look: no devouring of peaceful birds, no lamb-shank-related bribery, no contracts with Beelzebub, no horseplay with fecal matter. No big deal, you might protest. Nothing to be proud out. These things are givens. No one, in real life, actually does those things, you'd say, and then we'd go back to playing cribbage and chatting politely about the news of the day.

Of course, you'd be wrong.*

See, a few weeks ago, I was at my straight job, doing what it is I do at my straight job. Namely, that's conversating with lawyers or sending angry letters to those selfsame lawyers demanding all manner of documents and evidence even though I really have no idea what I'm talking about. Essentially, then, I'm paid to out-bullshit professional bullshitters. It's fun in that not-at-all-fun sort of way.

At any rate, there I was, on a pleasant MonsWednesday, staring at a letter I'd received from a partner at a Defense firm. It was an especially haughty missive and it forced me to mutter this gentleman's surname aloud.

"Damn you, Jenkins!" I said, pounding my fist on my desk.**

"Jenkins?!" exclaimed a passerby. "JENKINS! You know about Jenkins, right?"

I knew he was a horrible pompous ass, but beyond that? "No," I replied.

"Hold on," said our passerby, who scurried off to his desk, grinning in a not altogether healthy way.

I went back to working. In fact, I sort of forgot about the whole exchange. I was neck deep in a letter to Mr. Jenkins himself when our passerby returned.

"Ok," he began, evidently fighting off some serious glee while he handed me a legal document. "So Jenkins got fired from his old job and his employer sued him. But this is Jenkins' cross-complaint for breach of contract. Skip down to the fourth page there. See what I highlighted?"

I saw. I read. I winced.

Verbatim:

"Jenkin's rage carried over into the late night hours. At approximately 2:27 a.m. on April 23, 2003, only a few hours after the dinner meeting, Jenkins returned to the San Francisco office. While there, Jenkins destroyed the computer equipment in his office, left papers and files scatted about his office, and placed piles of his feces in his office and on a mouse pad on top of a cabinet in a common area near the kitchen. Jenkins also smeared feces on one copier and one of the sinks in the men's bathroom.

...Jenkins' mess was discovered later in the morning on Staff Appreciation Day by Julia Monroe, Office Manager…"

First off, let me tell you it was incredibly difficult for me to not mention that in the letter I was writing: "Plaintiff seeks responsive documents, including but not limited to sales records, product specifications, and please, please don't shit all over them, Jenkins." Second, while I know lawyers don't enjoy the reputable social status that nurses and firefighters do, they are rarely lumped in with the Lady Divines of the world either. Which brings us to our moral: never judge a person by his job. Or, more universally, you never know who's crapping on your mouse pad.

* and of course, I'm winning in our imaginary cribbage game. Double run for 8, sucker. And I got Knobs.

** for the record, his name isn't "Jenkins." I did one of those "names have been changed to protect the innocent" things they do on Get Smart.

On a state of confusion; and also, show tomorrow. Or rather: SHOW TOMORROW!!!!

Growing up, I was one of those people who thought Paul Newman just made salad dressing. He wasn't the strangely charming, banjo-strumming loner of Cool Hand Luke; he was the avuncular gentleman with the jaunty hat donating the proceeds from Newman's Own Italian Dressing to charity. Later in my youth he became a purveyor of popcorn, quality lemonade, and imitation Oreo's that make Hydrox their bitch.

Some years later, college probably, I finally saw him in a movie. He was Butch Cassidy and he was grinning and shooting at folks at not selling pasta sauce. It was disturbing.

Now, my parents find all this strange and vaguely hilarious. After all, Paul Newman was Captain Kick Ass for quite some time. It'd be like someone knowing Marlon Brando only because of his private island or by scare-tactic ads warning of morbid obesity. It'd be like knowing Tom Cruise for his pious Scientology.

Of course, now, I've gone the other way completely. Now, instead of not being properly informed on the achievements of bygone celebrities, I'm now clueless on the names of the new ones. I thought Shia Lebeauf was a pirate. I thought Pink was dead. I wish Nickelback would die.

In other words, I'm out of sorts. I don't know enough about the artistic heroes of my parents or nearly anything about their modern day counterparts. I can, however, give you the track listing for Number of the Beast off the top of my head and quote most of Princess Bride from memory.

Where am I going with this? Beats me. I just get sad when I'm doing the crossword and it mentions a movie from 2006 I've never heard of or an Oscar winner from the '50s that I couldn't pick out of a line-up. I'm shrouded in ignorance, I tells ya. How will I ever make it on Jeopardy! like this?

There are things, however, that I do know. For example: we've got a show...tomorrow. It sort of came out of nowhere and I admit this is very short notice, but why not stop by? It's at Slim's and we're opening for a gentleman named Jamie T who we saw in Austin six months ago, and who is fantastic with a four string guitar. I'd never heard his music before but its instantly lovable and, if you're an Anglophile, he's English, so there's that. (And if you're an Anglophobe, then he's German. Or French. He's a Creole. Just come to the show for God's sake). Details are: early show, we're on at 9. It's all ages, so those familiar Shia Lebeauf can mingle with those who voted for Eisenhower and we can enjoy rock and roll together, which predates us all. Please come on down. New songs abound.

For now, I'm going to drink a cup of Newman's dark roast, with him and his daughter there on the bag, vogueing a la American Gothic, and continue working my straight job, pretending I know what I'm doing. It's fun. Remind me to never become a lawyer. Not that that happens on accident or anything.

The long and bombastic saga of the Spaghetti Milkshake

You know what they say about assumptions, right? Something like them making an “ass” of “u” and “mptions.” Can’t quite put my finger on it. I do, however, understand the point: assumptions are so often proven wrong. You might assume that the Republican Party can’t possibly have more closeted homosexuals than we already knew about, but you’d be wrong. You might assume that popcorn is a harmless, nutrition-free snack-‘em, incapable of causing asbestosis-style lung agony, but you’d be wrong there too. And you might assume that a plate of spaghetti cannot be pulverized into a pour-able slurry and drank out of a mildly comical coffee mug. You’d be wrong on that one as well.

To begin at the beginning: I have a long-time roommate with whom I’ve had a series of ongoing, seemingly endless debates. The topics of contention have ranged from philosophical to downright ludicrous and the arguments always remain civil, save the occasional Momma’s joke or quick screwdriver stab to the kidney. Most of the time I think we both realize that we view the world in vastly different ways and our chats are more a way of illuminating these differences, defending them, and explaining them rather than trying to alter the other person’s beliefs. He’s not one of those infuriating arguers who are determined to win the conversation rather than winning the argument. Fox News has most of them on staff anyhow.

Now: one of our episodic debates concerns food, specifically what food’s good for. He believes, essentially, that food is fuel and that all that epicurean hullabaloo is a waste of energy, resources, and time, not to mention being part of an inherently unfair system that penalizes the impoverished with Slim Jims and dirty water. In his perfect world, all of humanity eats nourishment pellets and vitamin gruel and nobody’s the wiser. We’re all healthy, nobody starves, and all it takes is taste bud genocide. I, on the other hand, argue for the importance of flavor, texture, and variety in food. Also: I am pro-chewing. Sure, I admit, food is fuel. But that doesn’t mean it needs to taste like cement and anus.*

Eventually, this debate wended its way towards reality. You can debate the merits of universal Matrix-style slop-food all day long, but if you’re working three days a week for peanuts, you’re probably not going to get it done. Eventually, the debate worked its way to the following quandary: if food is just fuel, why eat spaghetti instead of, say, a spaghetti milkshake? What’s with all that pointless masticating and variety? Why cook when you can blend? It became a kind of running joke. “Where’s my spaghetti milkshake?” he would ask. “Up your ass,” I would answer and that’d be that. Until last night. Last night, we made the spaghetti milkshake.

Now you may ask yourself,* “how does one go about making a spaghetti milkshake?” There is a surprising scarcity of literature on the subject, so the enterprising chef is left to his own devices. I figured a good place to start was with your basic pasta with marinara sauce and deal with the various issues that would certainly (and did eventually) arise. I did so and it smelled good. Just some farfalle and a simple sauce of plum tomatoes, onions, some fresh basil, a few sauteed carrots, and a few run of the mill seasonings. Not five-star Italian eating, mind you, but no Olive Garden $6.99 special either. Then, predictably, I tossed it in a blender. Then, also predictably, that blender didn’t work. It did do a fantastic job pushing my ingredients against the side of the jar and emitting that peculiar overheating motor aroma, however.

So we make the executive decision and switch to the food processor. It has many advantages, not the least of which was that it was made at some point in my life time. At this point, we transfered the still-mostly-looks-like-a-spaghetti-dinner mixture into the food processor and, suddenly, it's looking good. And by "good" I mean "hideous." The red in the sauce and the starchy bland yellow of the pasta blended into a sickly bright-orange mash that looked, well, kind of like vomit. And by "kind of," I mean "a hell of a lot."

Yet, it still smelled good. The problem was the consistency. We weren't yet at "drinkable" or even "milkshake with a spoon" consistency. It was more the texture and density of a thick hummus. So I added a little tomato juice and a little veggie stock. Then a little more. Then a little more. And then: success! By which I mean: viscous spaghetti! Naturally.

So we tipped the Cuisinart and poured ourselves a cup. And, you know what? It completely exceeded my expectations.** In fact, I had two sips. My roomie, to his unending credit, went back for seconds, if not thirds, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he brought a Thermos of liquefied pasta with him to work today. God, I hope he did. It would really make my day.

Anyway, it’s my custom to look for morals in episodes like this. In other words, what, if anything, did we learn from our little experiment? Well, we learned that solid foods can be made liquid. Cynics might hand me an ice cube and laugh, so I’ll amend that: we learned that a spaghetti dinner can be eaten with only a straw. We learned that there is a whole cuisine of food left unexplored by the Wolfgang Pucks of the world, namely Designer Gruel. And, while I started the whole experiment to prove a point---that point being that spaghetti should be served on a plate---I came around rather quickly. If you want your food smushed into a textureless paste, you have my full and complete support. It’s a Libertarian sort of lesson, but it’s always good to remember: “Live and let live.” Or is it “Live and let die”? Either way, we should totally write a song about it.

* Is that my beautiful wife? Is that my large automobile?

** Honestly, it did kind of taste like spaghetti. But there was something...off about it. Maybe it was a texture thing or the veggie broth or the fact that it looked like food that came up rather than food that goes down, but there was a sickly kind of aftertaste. Like food that's going bad but hasn't quite turned. Like some leftovers that didn't quite make it to the refrigerator. I can't explain it much better than that.

On busking

I recognized a gentleman who used to play fiddle outside my second most recent straight job. He sat in front of us and we got to talking and, being the polite sort who reads Miss Manners each morning with his scone and Peppermint tea, I asked him one of the uncouth questions: "How much do you make in a day?" His answer: more than you'd think.

The man said that, on a good day, when his little fiddle amplifier was working just right and it was warm out and all the stars and ducks had aligned just right, he said he'd make about a hundred bucks. There was one day, he recalled with greedy nostalgia, when he made $160 and, I presume, did a jaunty little dance.

And, sure: it didn't always work out that well. There are any number of tiny calamities that could derail the whole day. A rain storm could end the whole day. A bad burrito could too. And it's not exactly the sort of job that provides dental care and matches your contributions to your 401K.

Of course, this guy was also a damn good fiddler and, really, everyone loves the fiddle. It's like the banjo, except slightly less toothless and slightly more refined. Point is: it's a crowd pleaser. The dirt-encrusted stoner on Haight who's wheezing into a didgeridoo probably has a far different appraisal of pedestrian generosity.

And then there's Atonal. We don't know his name, but we've given him one. Plus, it bears resemblance to another Bay Area wunderkind named Adonal Foyle, who the Warriors just gave 13 million dollars to not play for them next year. That's a good gig if you can get it, which you can't, because you're not a 7 foot tall poet who looks like Shrek. But I digress.

Atonal is a busker and he plays his highly original brand of music at the Civic Center BART station. He is a multi-instrumentalist, a virtuoso in the grand tradition of Stevie Wonder, Prince, and Yuri Landman, a man who can transition seamlessly between the clarinet and the ukulele, the viola and the recorder, the harmonica and the...recorder. Granted, this depends on your definition of "instrumentalist," "virtuoso," and "sounds like forty cats dry-heaving in unison." For, you see, Atonal has his own idea of what music sounds like. I've seen him studiously reading music off his music stand with two harmonicas in his mouth. I've seen him playing the same note on the recorder for several minutes with a look of rapture all over his face. I've seen him writing his newest masterpiece on a giant swath of butcherpaper fifteen feet long. He's brilliant. He's unstoppable. He sucks.

But the thing is, he brings me joy. If I happen to catch him playing the clarinet in his usual style (which resembles a drunk man eating a hotdog), I laugh. And you know what? So do most people that pass him. He's like an episode of Married with Children: you know you shouldn't be laughing but you can't help yourself. Let's just hope he doesn't end up in McDonald's commercials like David Faustino did, although being in said commercials proved he wasn't dead, which was nice. It also proved he wasn't funny. But good job Bud. I hope you're paying off your mortgage.

So here's to Atonal. No matter how much that one note he can play sounds like a small animal begging for mercy, he's always completely lost in the music. And that, really, is the important part. I think.

Cafe Du Nord. Saturday. 8.18.2007

Behold the grace and the glory that is this poster:

A lunch time beverage suggestion, complete with flawless reasoning

This morning, from the cozy yet smelling-of-ass back seat of the bus, I saw something that's familiar to every San Franciscan. No, not hobos fluent in gibberish or mustachioed men in leather, although those too are familiar occurrence round these parts. No, I saw protesters. Only about 10 of them, granted, and sure, you couldn't read the signs or understand the chanting, but damn: they were upset. A word to the wise, though: when using a megaphone, make sure the batteries are fresh. It's hard to rouse the rabble with angry cries of "Muffle fee don? GRUMBLE!!! Muffle fee don ih? Now!!!"

Of course, in San Francisco, people will protest pretty much anything. War in Iraq? Thousands meet downtown. Repeal of Gay Marriage licenses? Close down Market Street. Ten cent increase at Starbucks? Send in the riot police. It's a charming aspect of the city, I think. We're loud; we complain. And usually, I agree. So, to see a ragamuffin group of protesters at 8-something in the morning on a Monday, well, it doesn't bode well for the week. I like to have at least one cup of coffee before the atrocities start pouring in. I'm silly like that.

So I got to work, I got my cup of coffee, I chitted and chatted. I wondered what horrors had happened that would warrant a bright-and-early gang of lefty do-gooders taking to the streets while half the city was hitting the snooze button for the third time. I ate my croissant. I read the newspaper. I was at a loss. Then, one of my favorite workmates runs up to me, exasperated and borderline euphoric.

"Karl Rove just resigned," he office-yells, smiles, puases, then thoughtfully adds a "Fuck yeah!" while demanding a high-five.

I gave him the high-five.

At a time when most Americans are upset about the direction of our country (that direction: down the shitter), news like this is uplifting. Sure, we're still neck-deep in a horrendous quagmire, our Supreme Court pretty much hates all humans, and the dollar gets weaker every minute, but that countrified dough-boy with all the marionette strings is finally walking away. We're just got a little bit closer to January 2009. Every little bit counts.

So, infected by my office-mate's state of complete glee, I passed on the information and decided to go out in the sunshine, just to soak up the goodness. And down at the corner, where I'd noticed a righteously indignant crowd forming too early this morning, there was no one but some a bike messengers and a panhandler. Maybe they'd finished telling whoever it was whatever they thought. And maybe they'd moved the incredibly loud mumbling to another locale. But I like to think they got the good news and went home. After all: you can't protest everything all the time. Sometimes, you need to go home, kick your feet up, and have a beer at lunch. Today is definitely one of those days.

Notes from Undergound (not to be confused with the depressing Russian novel)

I was on the couch last night, discussing the European stock market over a fine New Zealand red (or quoting the Simpsons over Tecate---I forget) when I heard an explosion. At first, I assumed it was small arms fire from that half-way house full of delinquents across the street. After all, nothing's more soothing than indiscriminate gun play, especially after a hard afternoon of hooting and pedestrians and trying to con the guy at the corner store into selling you peach blunts. But then: more explosions. Lots more. Suddenly, my earlier hypothesis seemed silly. The neighbors were not dealing with the PLO.

Then it dawned on us all: that whole guy-with-the-giant-noggin-hitting-the-ball-over-the-doohickey-
more-times-than-anyone-else thing. The neighbors' small scale bombing campaign? Actually just a bunch of fireworks. Unlike Francis Scott Key, no one present plagiarized a song about it.

Now, you'll read lots of indignant self-righteousness about Barry Bonds. After all, he is fairly hateable, what with the steroids, the not-at-all vague disdain for humanity, the smug curmudgeon-ness he oozes from every pore. You'll also read people defending him as the greatest hitter of all-time, a solitary loner who, deep down, only sort of completely hates everyone. Me? I don't really care about the guy or the record. The whole thing seemed kind of joyless and obligatory. I'm glad it's over. We can get back to focusing on important things like, say, the whereabouts of Mario Lopez.

The whole Barry debacle did remind me why I lived in San Francisco though. This is a place where things happen. It's not the only place, not by any stretch of the imagnination. It's just a city. But last night, if only for a few minutes, the most news-worthy event in the Western world was happening a few miles away. And, I don't know, I think that's kind of nifty, even if it occurred only by virtue of a brooding man-freak.

Yes, things happen in San Francisco. You wouldn't know it by my continued silence, but I swear, things happen. In fact, there will be much news coming out of our little corner of the internet in the coming weeks: new songs, shows, a line of Birdmonster suspenders and belts (we're quite serious about the not-falling-down-ness of pants). We just needed a little time underground to hang out with all the C.H.U.D.s and molemen. It was fun. We smell horrible.

First and foremost: we've got a show in a week and a half at Cafe DuNord (August 18th, precisely). It's been a while, so you'll have to be gentle. We're chock full of new songs and would love to see your smiling faces, even if you're a humongously large steriod abuser.

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.