Concerning beer, our newfound tourmates, and my probable second career as an ad executive

After months of sitting home and rotting like a forgotten nectarine, us four Birdmonsters are gearing up for a tour. And while I'll miss the comforts of home (like, say, blankets not infected with herpes), I'm thrilled to be heading out. After all, tour is just code for "traveling with my three best friends, playing music every night, and sampling the myriad beers of the Pabst Brewing Corporation."

(Parenthetically, you truly need to check out the "quality" beers distributed by the Pabst Brewing Corporation. It's a veritable "Who's Who" of hobo-quality swill. Blatz? Rainer? Lone Star? Oh yeah, they do all three. And since nothing says "quality" like a luke-warm 40, Pabst also distributes Colt 45, St. Ides, and Country Club. Now, I'm no beer snob (nor could I afford to be one) and I enjoyed a cold Pabst no less than twelve hours ago. I'm overjoyed at the prospect of Lone Stars and Pearls in Texas, Olympias in Seattle, and a Stroh is Detroit. But you can't call a collection of notoriously low-rent alcohol "quality." It's like being a Kansas City Royals fan: you're in the Major Leagues, but just barely.

And while we're digressing wildly, it's worth noting that Pabst is now the largest American brewery. In case you didn't hear, Anheuser-Busch, brewer of Budweiser, the red-white-and-blue-enest beer on God's America, is now owned by a Belgian-Brazilian brewmonster known as InBev. Coors, on the other hand, is half-owned by Canadians. While some may read this as further proof of our nation's decline into less-than-Superpower-dom, I read it as a staggering opportunity for Pabst. If I was them, I'd make commercial where a cowboy in a pick-up truck is drinking a PBR and listening to a baseball game. He'd look stoic and withered and the announcer would say "Pabst Blue Ribbon is the last true American beer for true American originals," then the voice-over comes back "Budweiser would have you believe they're the great American original too, but they're owned by someone else." Then you play this video:



That was awesome.

Then you go back to the cowboy in the pick-up and do a slow zoom out so you can see the amber waves of grain rolling in the distance. "Pabst. Because you love beer," says our announcer---and it really should be Sam Elliot doing the voice-over, now that I think of it. Screw that. Sam Elliot should be the cowboy too. Sam Elliot should also be making me coffee and spitting Skoal into my trashcan. I need to make this happen.)

Okay, like Snoop said, "back to the lecture at hand": tour. I've included the requisite dates over there on your right and, as we fill out the tour and eliminate off-nights, days of rest, and other probably-needed days of respite, more dates will inevitably be added. (In the past week alone, we've added days in Tempe, Detroit, and Toronto, as well as a pair of Virginia ones.)

However, this post is not about us. And although up to this point it's been mainly about Pabst, our original goal was to introduce you to our indefatigable tour mates: The Rumble Strips.

All shows from October 4th through November 1st will be with these fine Brits. This means several things. Firstly, we will all have to struggle against accidentally slipping into English accents. Inevitably, this is easy at first, but then all of a sudden, you're saying "cutlery" instead of "silverware" and "cheers" instead of "thanks," and then you're discussing the UK-India cricket final in a Costneresque lilt. I pray we persevere. It also means that we get to spend almost a month with some seriously good musicians and songwriters. When we were approached with the offer to open for these guys, I admit I hadn't heard their music before. That's not surprising. I just heard the "Vampire Weekend" CD a few weeks ago. I also hear these "Beatles" are pretty slick too. Point is, I'm out of the loop. It's a symptom of age, I think, to fall out of that insular circle of right-now-hipness, and if that is indeed true, I'm getting pretty Methusilahy over here. And while I hadn't heard the music yet, when I did, I was impressed. It's a lovable amalgam of British pop, Soul, Rock, and maybe a little Folk, spruced up with horns and some rather inspired arrangements. In other words, it's good. Plus, they cover Thin Lizzy. That's reason enough by itself.

So do check them out. I feel like it's a great pairing and I'm giddy about a month of hearing them near nightly and sharing the great American beer tradition with them, which, as we noted above, means one dollar cans of Pearl Light.

An Open Letter To Two American Heroes

Dear Twenty-Something Couple That Sat Next To Us During "The Dark Knight,"

Hey there. That's a really nice shirt. I love Big Dogs too. I'm partial to the one that says "While you were reading this...I farted!!!" but yours is pretty fresh. Keep doing what you do.

Except this one thing. See, I think it's great that you and your wife came out to see Christian Bale clobber henchman-face with his bat-fists and I think you made the right choice seeing it in IMAX. I mean, listen to that sound quality! It's like Batman is driving in my frontal lobe. And, really, what's more American than a 900 foot screen? That's right: a 1300 foot screen. But seriously: great choice. I'm here and I think I'm pretty smart.

But you know what? You shouldn't have brought the eight month old baby. I mean, you really should have thought this one through. You know this isn't Wall-E right? I mean, I hear this thing is mega-violent. And exceedingly creepy. I saw a man with a facial scar in Army fatigues weeping when he left the last showing. But look: I don't want to tell you how to raise your kid. Not my place. I know after this, you and the wifey are taking your baby to "Disemboweler Three: Return of the Mellon-Baller," but I just wanted to say my piece. I don't think this is a good idea.

Right, right. You disagree. And that's fine. But your baby's crying. Don't leave the theatre though, whatever you do. I mean, I'm sure whatever he's crying about has nothing to do with the homicidal, knife-wielding clown. Kids love clowns, after all. Just sit right there and give him a bottle. That should take care of everything. That's how Batman kills the Joker anyhow: warm milk bath. It's unstoppable.

Still crying huh? Well, don't worry about it. It's only the climax. Sure, everyone else in the theatre paid fifteen bucks for the ticket alone but you watching this veritable horror film with a hysterical baby definitely trumps the wants of needs of hundreds of your neighbors. How could we be so selfish? What sort of parents don't take their screaming infants to violent spectacles? We should take away their kids, neglectful monsters that they are. I hope you're staying for the Mirrors double-feature. That looks like a light-hearted romp.

And the lights are coming on. Feel free to throw that can of soda on the ground in front of me. I'd love to step on it for you. Thanks.

Look. Before you leave, I need to say something. I know it's hard being a parent, splitting your time between what you want and what the baby wants, but I think today you guys managed to walk that fine line of healthy compromise. You got to see a brutal action/horror allegory and your baby got some milk. That's what parenting is all about. Never change. I love you.

Regarding my ridiculous masculinity, the Olympics, and some music for tonight. Also, a big slobbery kiss for Sunday concert goers

I've been away for a bit, working at a San Francisco charter school, which are public schools that enjoy reasonable autonomy from the district and their less high falutin' cohorts. I've been using my effete English degree to its fullest: schlepping boxes, organizing storage closets, and catching mice amid a chorus of shrieking. All that lifting and vermin control will make a man feel like a Man, right before that man goes home and watches Bravo in his taffeta nightie.

So that's what I've been doing. That and the Olympics. Nothing brings out my frothing patriotism like America dominating in events I didn't even know existed. Women's saber? Yeah, I watched that. Some announcer called it the "punk rock of fencing" which I suppose is kind of like the "gangsta rap of cotillion," which I hope doesn't actually exist.

And yeah, I know the complaints: "The Olympics are too corporate, the backstories are treacle, everyone's on drugs." They're all valid too. Coca Cola goes as far as to say "If you've ever purchased a Coke ever you contributed to every athlete ever that ever won anything ever in the history of everything," while NBC transmogrifies each American competitor into GandhiJesusSuperman. But I'm still along for the ride. The Olympics are one of those rare things that all of humanity settles down and enjoys together. In fact, is there another thing? I can't think of any, except maybe a collective seven-continent-wide schadenfreude centered around JarJar Binks. Even the Antartic fur seal hated that fool.

Alas though, tonight I will miss my nicotine-level Olympic addiction to, well, play music. We're doing an in studio at Stanford's KZSU radio at 9, pacific time. That link takes you to the "listen live" page, should you want to join us for an acoustic-flavored performance and an interview in which I will say something idiotic. And speaking of acoustic performances, I'd like to thank everyone who came out to our we-don't-have-a-physical-copy-of-our-album-but-we're-throwing-a-
release-party-anyway party at the Utah. We had a lovely time. And, significantly for me, it was the first time I felt like the album was actually coming out. It's been so long in the offing and the release felt so far removed from the actual, you know, recording of the music, that it took a night like this to make me fully appreciate it. So thanks everyone.

Later this week, we'll be announcing a North American (read: US plus a couple Canadian metropolises) tour while simultaneously bemoaning the certain lack of vitamins we'll be getting. I can't wait to take Centrum Silver when I'm 29. Looking forward to that. Until soon.

In which Birdmonster shamelessly uses babies to sell it's album. Also: party.

For most Catholic or Christian tykes, December is twenty-four days of painful anticipation. The promise of mountains of plastic hoo-has awaits and, really, every day past Thanksgiving is a Rumsfeldian long slog until payday. I know, I know: Christmas is supposed to be about all that good stuff Jesus stood for, what with the sharing and the love and the fastidious beard care, but for most kids (and I'm decidedly not going out on a limb here), Christmas is really about getting mo' shit. Tragic, maybe, but it does teach kids a different, no less Godly lesson: patience. December lasts three years for most kindergartners and each night is a struggle to fall asleep. Unless they're already on Xanax. Sadly, I'm not sure that's a joke any more.

The thing is, as we grow up, the amount of days spent in shaky anticipation dwindle to almost nothing. Christmas loses it's allure, middle school had none to begin with, and suddenly, you're getting letters from the AARP. It's nothing to get depressed about; it's just growing up. Everything is a superlative when you're young. A skinned elbow is a tragedy, while ripping a magazine in half is funnier than Blazing Saddles, Best In Show, and Gymkata put together. Seriously:



I haven't been that happy in years. Goddamn babies.

Which brings us to today topic: our new album, or, the last time I had trouble sleeping due to nervous, unchecked excitement. Back in January, in the weeks that hobbled towards our recording date like an elderly woman with jumbo-prawn posture, I spent every waking hour thinking about every minute, piddling aspect of the job at hand. I did not, however, resort to Xanax, like our hopefully-hypothetic five-year-old junkie. I drank. It was great.

Today, August 5th, the fruits of our labor, after so much sequencing, mastering, label meetings, powwowing, and plain old waiting, are finally, finally available. But there is a catch: they're only available online. If you're one of those stalwart folks who require a hard copy, I commend you: there are few of us left. WIRED magazine has assured me that future albums will be downloaded directly into our brains before they're recorded by our cyborg overlords. It'll be like Johnny Mnemonic, only it won't suck that horribly. Of course, Henry Rollins won't talk to a dolphin either. You can't have everything.

Where was I? Ah yes: the album. Beginning today, you can get your copy on the interwebs at, say, Amazon & iTunes. And we'd love it if you did.

In keeping with album-related whathaveyous, we want to announce we're having a listening party on Sunday at the Hotel Utah here in glorious San Francisco. Come take the album for a test drive whilst imbibing potent potables, hooting loudly, and eating Shepard's Pie. Oh, and there will be live music as well. Oh there will be. It's going to be a celebration on par with that Bar Mitzvah you went to when you stole a golf cart, drove it into that river, and stole a handle of Jim Beam from a careless bartender. I do hope you'll join us. Say, 6:30?

A new website in a new location and the reasons why

Back in the halcyon days of California, after James Marshall Eureka-ed a hunk of gold near Sutter's Mill, miners, adventurers, and brigands from all points of America flocked to our great state, knowing full well that money did not grow on trees but rather in the ground. The first of these men were called "Forty-Niners," after the date 1849, and, in addition to providing the namesake for a now horrendous football team, their mining claim practices became the basis for U.S. law. Essentially, any public domain land---that is, any land unclaimed by the government of the United States for an expressed purpose---was up for grabs.

Scraggly weirdos came in droves. Among them was the infamous "Emperor" Norton, a man who inherited ridiculous sums of money from his father, and, unlike modern day trustafarians, decided to go completely bat-shit instead of taking bong rips and wondering why people still go to McDonald's. James "Grizzly" Adams also showed up, a man who kept bears as pets, a man who wrestled with his pet bears, and a man who learned why men aren't supposed to wrestle bears when one bear-slapped his face and left his brain exposed. Seriously.


But the majority of immigrants were adventuresome everymen, hoping that the streams and dirt of California hid their fortune. They took advantage of the first come, first served land laws, chose their claims, and started mining. Of course, there were men of questionable valor who simply saw something they fancied and stole lands already parceled out to more steadfast folk. They were called claim jumpers. They were dicks.

Now, thinking back to the early days of this thing we call the Internet, there are certainly parallels to the California Gold Rush. An entity of largely untapped potential, promising massive riches and a new way of a life, the internet began in a remarkably similar way. Largely lawless, domain names were given away to whoever thought to claim them first. Dweebs, techies, and masturbators from all points of America flocked to this great internet, knowing full well that money did not grow on trees, but rather on "sex.com." These pioneers, not unlike Samuel Brannan before them, got the good land.

Of course, to continue our analogy, there were a disreputable sort of technological claim jumpers known as domain poachers. They purchased domain names which they had no interest in using, praying that companies, entrepreneurs, and every day people would one day want and, naturally, pay a handsome sum for. Later, when smart companies had purchased or sued for their domain names, these modern day claim jumpers began to pursue a different tact, known as "cybersquatting" or "domain hijacking." Essentially, these horrible dicks loophole lovers waited for domain names to expire, purchased them as soon as technologically possible, then demanded exorbitant compensation to give back what was rightly somebody else's.

Which brings us to "birdmonster.com"

See, we lost it. We lost it because we didn't re-register our domain properly and for that, we except blame, scorn, and sadness. But we wouldn't have lost it were it not for DomCollect Worldwide Intellectual Properties, who purchased birdmonster.com in hopes of, well, extorting the living shit out of us. May they all get hepatitis and die.

Yes, thanks to DomCollect, we are homeless. We went to store for a baguette and some brie and came back to a squatter, mocking us in our own home. These man-vulture hybrids now own birdmonster.com, want $6,000 for it, and are the object of my unending vitriol and slander (or is it libel? I can never remember. It's like the stalactite/stalagmite of hate speech). May they all get syphilis and die.

Which brings us, sadly but yet triumphantly to our brand-spanking-new-fuck-you-very-much-DomCollect-Worldwide-Intellectual-Properties website over at www.birdmonsterMUSIC.com. Adjust your bookmarks accordingly. Do not go to birdmonster.com and click any of their godforsaken links about jobs in the Bay Area, Phoenix Birds as pets, Large Gorgeous Aviaries, or Cryptozoology. Instead, come to our new website, which is newly snazzy, updated, and fancified for a new age when Birdmonster will properly register their names with the proper authorities and never get cornholed by soulless European squatters ever again.

And if you're from DomCollect, let me know how that STD is going. My hope: poorly.

In an effort to make tonight's showing less like last night's, a recommendation that, admittedly, is not for everyone

It's summertime and, whether you heard it from Gershwin or Bradley Nowell, the living's easy. Summer is synonymous with vacations, melanoma, and the aggressive forgetting of last year's schoolwork. It's three entire months that seem to say "Look: you've had a rough year. Just open your headflap so I can pour tapioca all over your brain."

It's also the season of "Waterworld," "Van Helsing," and "Big Momma's House." Summertime is when movie studios unveil their schlockiest, sorriest, bogus...est wares to a public which they pray doesn't notice. Sure, there's the annual Pixar gem and the yearly loafing-stoner-gets-hottie Apatow flick, but really, for every lovable winner, there's a steaming pile of Speed 2: Cruise Control clogging up your toilet. I'm still in counseling over Matrix: Reloaded; Wild Wild West blinded me for a month.

Now, admittedly, I'm not a big movie theatre person. (This is in stark contrast to Peter, who sees seemingly everything, including Norbit twelve times.) I'm more of a "I'll rent it from Video Shack down the street and pay a $40 late fee" sort of man. But last Friday, a movie I had been waiting oh so long for began a week-long layover at a local, single-screen theatre. Last night, I saw it. It's called Poultrygeist. I've never seen anything like it.

And for a moment, I didn't think anyone else would either.

See, after buying tickets and popcorn, Dave, myself, and a couple close buddies entered the theatre to find we had it all to ourselves. No hyperbole here: just four dudes in the middle of a 300-seat theatre. It was like one of our Ohio shows. As show time approached, a couple moseyed in, followed by a small clan of twenty-somethings with bad tribal tattoos and worse tribal earrings. It was nice not having the whole place to ourselves, though I could've indulged my secret love of screaming instructions at protagonists, but the barrenness of the place startled me. Were we early? Did the world at large know something I didn't? Was there a better zombie-chicken-musical out across town?

And, while those were meant to be rhetorical questions, the answers (respectively) are no, sort of, and no fucking way.

First, off, let me say this: it's not for everyone. Not since the new Rambo have I left a film with such an acute case of post-traumatic dress disorder. Poultrygeist is a horror movie, yes, but not in that Eli Roth, torture-porn sort of way; it's both tongue in cheek and eye-coveringly-disgusting. "Dead Alive," is a good touchstone, if you've seen that. But, oh, Poultrygeist, you were so much more: a full-fledged musical about the fast food industry, collegiate protesting, chicken-Indian-zombies---you know, the important stuff. I'm still trying to process the whole experience, quite frankly. I laughed and my burrito almost repeated on me. And, if that sounds good to you, well, you know who you are.

Concerning free wine & music tonight for one and all, prefaced by vaguely-related rambling

You know that old saying "they don't make 'em like they used to"? It's often invoked by gray-haired been-there-done-thats while driving in a rented Dodge Nitro or when one of those Ikea shelving units sways precariously after a strong wind. The tacit implication is that all this new-fangled who-ha is pure crap, inferior to the sturdy brilliance of an old Camero or an antique bookcase. Everything new is just a construction made of plastic and particle board, we're led to believe, while everything that preceded it was made of oak, diamonds, and ground up unicorn bones.

Of course, that's just silly. What's misremembered are the Deloreans, the Hop 'N' Gators, and Zapmails of history. I'm not suggesting that the past was just a collection of clunky muscle cars, inharmonious Gatorade and beer marriages, and FedEx blunders; I'm simply noting that that phrase just isn't fair. In other words, what's still around seems sturdy because, well, it's still here. Plenty of old ideas and old products have died ignominious deaths but since they've long retreated into the attic-like brains of historians and trivia-buffs, they're more or less forgotten.


Take, for instance, my mandolin. Or my mandolins. In less than a year of playing that most manly of instruments (move over picolo; step aside pan flute), I've broken two. Both were circa early 1900s sorts, you know, the ones with the bowled backs. They're sometimes called "potato bug" mandolins, which amuses me to no end. But one ended up murdered in the back of our van (culprit unknown but expected to be a drunken footfall) and the other, to quote Cutting Crew, "just died in my arms tonight," while I was adjusting the bridge. They were delicate, faberge-egg like things that needed to be treated with diva-like tact and care. I, on the other hand, am more of an inebriated spousal abuser when it comes to instrument care.

In other words, I'm on my third mandolin. And my third melodica. Meanwhile, a $190 dollar Washburn bass I once slammed tamborines into nightly and threw on ground at the slightest provocation is still going strong. Modern construction: not always a bad thing.

I mention this because yesterday, in anticipation of tonight, I bought a brand spanking new mandolin with what was supposed to be next month's rent. On the one hand, I can strum out soprano chords to my heart's content, on the other hand, can I sleep on your couch?

Which is my (extremely digressive) way of saying "Come enjoy my new purchase with us tonight." To wit:

In our neverending quest to provide both free music and free wine, Birdmonster has jumped at the opportunity to play an event next Tuesday night at the Gray Area Gallery on Folsom Street. It's a three hour shindig with a DJ (DJ Excitable Rooster, a name which, in and of itself, suggests supreme awesomeness), complimentary (read free, free, free) wine, a raffle, some art on display and for sale (with proceeds going to Rock the Vote but not Vote or Die, sorry Puffy), and us doing an acoustic set.

In other words, an RSVP is good for a free night of music, art, booze, and general merry-making. It's like my version of heaven, except without Kurt Russell following me around, threatening to beat up interlopers.

You can RSVP here. It starts at seven and it ends at ten. Hope to see your shining faces. I'll be the one with his housing payment on his lap, sadly plucking through his last month of shelter. You can be the one with a job and a mug of free Shiraz.

Let's discuss this foofaraw (and yes, I'm very excited about the word foofaraw. I hope you are too)

The Golden Gate Bridge, once the subject of fawning '30s news reels about Modern Man's Butt-Whooping Engineering prowess and still the most pervasive symbol of San Francisco, is now in the middle of a very public brouhaha. The issue at hand is suicide barriers: some liken the bridge to a "loaded gun" and champion one of five different designs that hope to drastically cut down the amount of jumpers; others think $50 million dollars to deface a national monument so people can commit suicide elsewhere is probably not the best use of fiscal resources.

It's a sticky situation. If you go one way, you're crudding up something iconic and beautiful to (possibly) save some lives; if you go the other, you sound like a dick.

Essentially, the barrier plans fit into one of two categories: nets & railings. Four designs are similar: either vertical or horizontal bars outside or in place of the existing railing. To me, they look like prison bars, which isn't really the best greeting you can give an incoming tourist: "San Francisco: It's like a beautiful jail, except: less shiv-ings." Boo that. The other is a net, something like 20 feet under the bridge, which begs the question, if you jump off the bridge and land in a net, wouldn't you just then jump off the net? They could've saved the $2 million they invested on that idea and given it to me.

For my money (and some of it would in fact be my money), these ideas suck. Jungle gyms taught me that bars can be climbed and the net idea, well, we went over that. Plus, while we're debating this, there's no actual divider between north and south bound traffic on the bridge to prevent head on collisions, thereby preventing people who don't want to die from dying. I'd tackle that first. What we're left with here is five options, all of which have the laudable goal of saving lives but the sticky wickets of ugliness, expense, and probable uselessness.

Of course, there's a middle ground. And that middle ground is Spider-Man.

When I was knee-high to a grasshopper, I read many tales of Spider-Man swinging from rooftops to rescue falling pedestrians/girlfriends/octogenarian legal guardians. And you know what? He never. Missed. Once.


There are downsides, naturally: Spider-Man can't work 24 hours a day and he's only one man (though he's radioactive and spandexed, so he's really better than any other man). Furthermore, you know rabid fanboys from all corners of the earth would jump off the Golden Gate just to be rescued by the webbed avenger. But if you pay Peter Parker $50 million cash, he's quitting his weak-ass photo job at the Daily Bugle and coming to the bay. If basketball free agency has taught me anything, it's that you go on, take the money and run.

Wait. You know what? Now that I think of it, Spider-Man could just construct a hugemongous web beneath the bridge, thus saving both his time and our money. Once a night, he goes out, frees the failed suicides, gives them a stern talking to, and sets them free before retreating to his Nob Hill loft to play World of Warcraft until his eyes bleed. This could totally work. Contact your Supervisor.

Regarding music, Hulk Hogan, your calendar, and the atrophied ghoul that is Jason Kidd

If you're anything like me, you have a calendar of Scottish Highland Cattle in your den that hangs there naked and useless. Sure, there are twelve glorious photos of creatures are both be ferocious and have horrific emo hair, but the days themselves are blank. So, in an effort to fill up that calendar, we here at Birdmonster have a few dates you may want to add.













- August 5th, 2008: The date our new album comes out on them there interwebs. You can do the download thing at your favorite mp3 hole and, well, we'd love it if you did.

- Monday Nights, 8p.m.: As a young skip, my Sundays were often filled with cereal, He-Man jammies, and rapt viewings of American Gladiators. Now, while some things from my youth, like my undying love of Dream Theatre and uncontrolled poison marshmallow cereal fetish died hard, my love for all things American Gladiators was rekindled last night. I can't recommend the ludicrous stupidity that is the updated AG highly enough. They've got a bunch of failed tight ends wearing lycra and wolf-fangs, Hulk Hogan pimping Toyota (brother), and last night, the subtle homoeroticism was through the roof, with one of the contestants nearly outdoing Tobias Funke, with gems like "I always come from behind" and "You might be on top now but I'm behind you just waiting." Thank you NBC.

- September 2nd, 2008: The date you can get the album in stores. Not the American Gladiator album, mind you, though if that's also being released, I admonish you to buy one as well. We must support my newfound love.

- February 22nd, 2005: The day "Rich Girl" was murdered by its creators. Look, I loves me some stripped-down acoustic jams and I loves me some "Rich Girl" and, I may as well admit I'm coming down from a veritable Hall & Oates addiction (it's hard doing without "Private Eyes" after a long day of notwork but the shakes and migraines have abated), but I do not loves me some "Rich Girl" acoustic with added croontastic intro. May mustaches be regrown. May funkiness be rekindled.



- September 3rd, 2008: We're playing a hometown shindig with Nada Surf at the Great American. So, if you're in San Francisco or surrounding parts and can't quite get to Amoeba on Tuesday, come out and celebrate our release on Wednesday. We can talk about that Monday's American Gladiators, unless its off the air by then, in which case I will likely be suicidal.

- August 8, 2008: The Olympics start and 'Merica tries to reclaim its International Basketballian Glory. Of my many other, non-Hall-&-Oates vices, drinking beer and watching basketball is among the most pervasive, though I do my best from yammering about it too often, but the Olympics is a special deal. Sure, Jason Kidd is starting at point while far superior, less decrepit young 'uns wile away on the bench, but I have faith that the United States of Nike team can make our country proud. We might've crapped the bed for the past eight years here, both in international politics and international roundball, yet I can't help but think that this summer and autumn, all that will turn around. Of course, if they lose and McCain wins, you'll find me in my roommate's fortified zombie bunker, eating SPAM, playing gin, weeping in the fetal position.

Here's to Populism

I always feel awkward at museums. I mean, I've got the slow motion museum mosey down, but beyond that? Nothing. I'm one of those rubes who looks at sculptures worth more than my house and says things like "The 'Fountain,' huh? Looks like a fucking toilet." I can understand the theories and reasonings that form the foundation of some modern art but that doesn't mean it makes me feel happy or awed or give me any other emotion that good art is supposed to. It just makes me think "Piss Christ" would be a kick ass band name.

I'm okay with this. I'm not proud of it per se, but I'm not not proud of it. I just know what I like: original Kincaids and Wylands. I mean, get a load of the brush technique, bro:


Far out.

Which brings us to the first Tuesday of every month. On these glorious days, a whole slew of San Franciscan museums are free to the public, a courageous move that puts pleebs like me right next to black turtleneckers who use a word like "ephemeral" while staring at an installation piece composed of expired subway tokens and the plush, severed head of Donald Duck. It's a day that invites that's supposed to foster appreciation of the fine arts, unite the community, and to gather the largest amount of shameful goatees under one roof since the Philosophy Majors and Major League First Basemen Convention of 1998.

This past Tuesday, I ventured out to the de Young and tried the idea on for size. I went to see the visiting Chihuly exhibit (which costs five dollars and is an affront to all things Free-First-Tuesday) and, I must say, it was worth every penny that I did and didn't spend. He's ostensibly a glass blower, so the whole exhibit is a series of massively colorful glass sculptures which should win several lesser-known awards, among them "Worst Place To Be In a Massive Earthquake," "Best Place to See a Confused Stoner," and "Best Exhibit In Which To Dribble A Basketball and Give a Docent Heart Murmurs."

The real beauty of the whole exhibit though was it's sheer likabilitynessness, with those aforementioned connoisseurs mixing seamlessly with casual rubes, old ladies in dangerous hats, and summer school field trips. It's the only art exhibit I've ever seen a baby enjoying, though said baby may have just been relieving herself with euphoric abandon. It's, in other words, the reason for museums. It's art that anyone can enjoy without the necessity of historical context or having to peruse those infuriating mission statements that read like sycophantic knob-slobbing. It, like most of my favorite art, is for everyone. It's the difference between something like John Cage's "4:33" and the Beatles' "Two of Us." You can certainly enjoy them both, but one requires context, intellectual detachment, and a scholarly bent, while the other awes by merit of its supreme kick assitude alone.

And, not to go all Simon Cowell on you here, but isn't that the whole point?

On Inspiration, Rip Torn, and the Greatest And Best Movie Ever

Songs come from all sorts of places. Neil Diamond admitted that "Sweet Caroline" was inspired by JFK's then-eleven-year-old daughter Caroline Kennedy, a factoid that I find worrisome in a Lewis Carroll, R. Kelly sort of way*, while Elvis Costello patently refuses to expound on the identity of "Allison," though he does know this world is killing her. A few posts back, I mentioned that "Rhapsody in Blue" was inspired by the rhythm of a New York City locomotive, only to find out that the ABBA's "Take A Chance On Me" and the Bee Gees' "Jive Talking" were also inspired by the sound of trains. That underrated Bonnie Raitt tune "I Can't Make You Love Me" originated when a countrified defendant, after shooting up his ex-lovers car, was asked by a judge if he learned anything from his trial, responded "you can't make a woman love you if she don't," a story which still makes me a little dusty every time I retell it. A minute ago, I was reading about how Sting got his inspiration for Roxanne, but he became so insufferably pompous, I gave up after a couple paragraphs. There was, of course, a hooker involved. Then there's this, in which most Beatles fans will find one (1) Beatle and one (1) Beatles song title:


And then there's the piece de resistance: Paul Simon's "Mother and Child Reunion" was inspired by a chicken and egg dish at a Chinese restaurant. That gives me Six Kinds of Happiness. It's like Rip Torn's name. I can't fully fathom the awesomeness of either of those things, though I've spent a fair chunk of my adult life trying.

Really though, when you boil it all down, inspiration doesn't matter. While those origins illustrate that a song can come from something as insignificant as an antique store poster, and while they make for good stories, what remains is simply the music. To put it another way: it's sad that "Smoke on the Water" really did happen, but, also: duh-duh-duh, duh-duh-DUH-nuh.

I write that as an extended to caveat to what's below: a low-rent hip-hop beat, made on an eighties Yamaha, a mandolin, and a sixteen button drum machine. Like so much art, it was inspired out of nothing but boredom and/or Kurt Russell. And the desire to make David rap at us while we drive around middle America, searching for gas. I hope it gets you through four and a half minutes of your Tuesday.

My Music - Not Me; I'm In My Prime

UPDATE 2: The comments clued me in to another player (I tip my hat to Brett there) so give that a try. I deleted the offending iMeem player, but, if you use that thing, the link can be found here. It might even be downloadable but my budding computer illiteracy keeps me from truly confirming that.

* Speaking of R. Kelly, I would be remiss to not mention Josh Levin's thoroughly entertaining Dispatches From The R. Kelly Trial over at Slate. It's expired, but strangely riveting.

"COPS" vs. Cops

Last week, it happened. They said it never would. They said it'd never---not in a million years---happen. But I waited. Oh, I watched and I waited. And my diligent slothfulness paid off: I saw the episode of "COPS" where the guy got away.

As any robe-wearing layabout without cable can attest, "COPS" is on The Channels You Get With Rabbit Ears roughly four hundred times a day. If it isn't time for news, soap operas, or Putty whoring himself out for the egregious pimp known as "Family Feud," you can rest assured that "COPS" is on. "COPS" is, essentially, the first reality show ever, both in it's obvious realism and in it's equally obvious distortion of reality. See, on "COPS," the police always get their man. Sure, sometimes they have to chase a shirtless hillbilly through a swamp or taze some titanic, bloodlusting goonatic, but in the end, that low-rent, marble-mouthed criminal will be in the back of squad car and we, the viewer, can rest easy, knowing that peace, justice, and the American Way have been saved by Sergeant Overweight and Deputy Assbrain.

Only any thinking person knows it doesn't always---or even usually---happen that way. Despite half of London and San Francisco scouring the streets, Jack the Ripper and the Zodiac Killer, respectively, were never even identified, let alone arrested; John Rigas had to build his own private golf course before the Feds decided that maybe he might be defrauding a few million rubes; and the FBI had to enlist the knowhow of an effete cannibal to catch Buffalo Bill, only to foolishly release him so he could star in "Freejack" with Mick Jagger and Emilio Estevez.

The point? Those criminals were smart. Or smartish. To wit: cops only catch stupid criminals and, fittingly, "COPS" only catch stupid criminals. Your typical "COPS" mastermind has the mental wherewithal of a preoccupied monkey with a grotesque head injury. So when Johnny Law Enforcer begins a high-speed chase during the third act of a "COPS" episode, you assume that the perp will eventually run his '88 Olds Cutlass into a guardrail, make an obese/blotto attempt at a getaway, then get tackled by a cop who will call him "the individual" or "the suspect," all before the sweat Reggae stylings of Inner Circle announce the closing credits. This is why it was so surprising to see the perp run his '88 Olds Cutlass into a guardrail, make an obese/blotto attempt and a getaway, get tackled by a cop...and then proceed to drag aforesaid lawman over the guardrail, off the freeway overpass, and into a forty foot freefall. More surprising was that, after the duo landed, our police officer was on his side, clutching his spine, and calling for backup, while the ubermench criminal, limping slightly, ran into the nearby woods, perhaps to forage for nuts and berries, with no help in sight.

I dialed my friend and told him all about it. He was very proud of me. Not "Congratulations on your new baby girl!" proud, but "Way to sit on your ass and see the COPS where dude escapes" proud. It's a subtle distinction but an important one.

Now, for a little compare and contrast. We here at my house have had some recent unpleasantness with the San Francisco Police Force. Without going into tedious detail just know that if your house gets robbed and you learn from an anonymous note who perpetrated said crime, where they live, and what their names are, do not expect the police to do anything. Instead, be prepared to learn the true meaning of "Kafkaesque" while leaving countless messages for these donuted commandos of public nonservice, getting no reply, filling out seven different kinds of TPS reports, getting no recompense, and eventually just going to the house of the thieves yourself. The whole outlandish calamity will be a frustrating amalgam of "The Wire," Barney Fife, and Chief Clancy Wiggum's immortal line "Can't you people take the law into your own hands? I mean, we can't be policing the entire city!"

What I ended up learning from this is that, sadly, "COPS" are better than cops. Sure, the show is a ludicrous farce, but dealing with "COPS" is an enjoyable undertaking, one that can be done with Tecate in hand, slippers on feet, and a smug sense of your own awesomeness still fully intact. Is it all a little schadenfreude-y? Sure. But I'm down with other people's problems (yeah you know me). They make for good T.V. And the cops on "COPS" always at least try to solve crimes, apprehend suspects, and protect the greater good. Dealing with the non-COPs cops, in contrast, is a harrowing, taxing debacle. I had expectation that the City Police will, you know, police the city, but what I discovered was it was more like the DMV with guns: a joyless, soul-crushing slog through a bureaucracy in which no one wants to help you. Sad indeed, but true as well.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I think there's another episode on. I hope it involves a "domestic disturbance."

How to Chose an Album Cover, Part 3 of 2

In case you missed them: parts one and two

On February 14th, 1876, Elisha Gray and Alexander Graham Bell, working independently from one another, filed a notice with United States Patent Office. Bell's patent, famously, was for the telephone, a device which allowed instantaneous verbal communication, thereby supplanting Morse code, spawning the cellphone, and allowing you to be sideswiped by confused geriatrics and LA moms scheduling their next rat-poison lip inflation. Meanwhile, Elisha Gray's patent was for, well, the telephone.

This phenomenon is known as "multiples," the unfancy term science types apply to concurrent discoveries and simultaneous breakthroughs. Malcolm Gladwell, the afroed smartypants responsible for "Blink" and "Tipping Point," just wrote a big ol' New Yorker article chronicling this strange phenomenon; beyond the phone, calculus, fractions, oxygen, evolution, and color photography were discovered by at least two people at nearly, if not the exact same, time.

Of course, what do you call an invention that, for whatever reasons, happens many years after the original discovery? Well, in English class, they called it "plagiarism," a term which now largely applies to that essay you just download from I'drathernotlearnthisshit.com. It's a cardinal sin in the art world, whether accidental or contrived. Just because everyone who has ever lifted a guitar or bass has accidentally played "Blister in the Sun" doesn't mean they wrote it; it just means it's really that easy.

Which brings us---tragically---to "Gettin' Physical." See, I was sure we'd hit on something brilliant, something that, if you've been reading along was patently and absolutely "Fucking Awesome." Turns out we suck:


Yes, Tony Tee, that Stephen-Jackson-looking peddler of Spandexed hoes and disinterested spotters beat us to it.

Now, you may not know Tony Tee. You are forgiven. Google barely knows who Tony Tee is, the moniker now apparently hijacked by a New Jersey-based disc jockey who looks far less like the greatest and best basketball player ever. Tony Tee albums, furthermore, are few and far between, the province of eBay grab bags, Amazon used cassette clearances, and garage sales at the house of that old man with the green Impala.

What I'm saying is we could get away with it. Tony Tee is unlikely to emerge from whatever gym in which he's currently getting physical and sue us. He's no doubt quit the old school rap game and now works as a regional sales manager for a salted meat concern. But just because no one would know we sort of accidentally kind of ripped him off doesn't mean we wouldn't know that. The knowledge would eat us up inside like some sort of parasitic worm or Burger King entree.

I simply couldn't live with that.

So we went back to the drawing board. Or rather, we disallowed Peter the access to his trusty green pen and went to a professional. What we ended up with was something classy, arresting, and about as far from an extreme-sports loving fishman as possible.

We hope you enjoy:

In Praise of a Great American Pastime

I'd never been to Coney Island before. Sure, I'd concocted a blurry mental tableau based mainly on "The Warriors," that early '90s Van Morrison song, and "He Got Game," a Coney Island of futuristic lesbian gangbangers and Jesus Shuttleworths and Van after he got all weird and fat, but it was a Coney Island based solely on fiction. Still I was hopeful. If a place filled with super tough lesbian street punks, Irish Soul music, and precocious roundballers actually did exist, I'd seriously consider moving. These, as the song goes, are a few of my favorite things. So when the band up and decided to spend our Thursday at Coney Island, doing the promo photo thing coupled with the frugal tourism thing, I was overjoyed. I braced myself for a day of scuzzy majesty in a place mythologized as majestically scuzzy. Except for the total lack of Ray Allen or Denzel, I was not disappointed.

Coney Island, to me, seemed like one of those traveling carnivals employed by the toothless, catering to the jobless, that, having arrived on a particularly lucrative patch of New York beach-front, decided never to leave. It boasts a wide selection of food ranging from "sugared dough" to "anonymous meat tubes" and horrible carny rides with names like "The Zipper," "The Regurgitator," and "The Concussion Giver." There's a boardwalk, a year-round freak show, and a beach with more trash cans than humans. But that's not why we're here today. We're here today for "Shoot the Freak."

To fully describe "Shoot the Freak"'s low-rent awesomeness would be impossible. That said, we shall try. "Shoot the Freak" is situated between a daiquiri bar and a place named "Cha Cha's," which sold booze and ice cream on the boardwalk. It is, for all intents and purposes, a vacant lot overgrown with knee-high weeds and has only two employees: The Barker and The Freak. The Barker, like any good carny, heckles folks into trying their luck at shooting the freak, only here, instead of playing some patently impossible game of "chance," you pay a nominal fee to shoot paintballs at a real live human being. The Freak is a well-tanned New Yorker with a BMX helmet, hockey pants, an athletic supporter (read: testicle preservation device), and a wooden shield, all bespeckled with fluorescent paintball explosions, and his job is to hide behind various barrels and fences while taunting you into firing shot after shot at his face and crotch.

It is deeply satisfying in a way I'm not fully comfortable with.

And it got me thinking: why the hell don't we have one in San Francisco? After all, all you need is a vacant lot, two employees, five paintball guns, and, voila: instant profit. I envisioned taking over a spot near Fisherman's Wharf, far enough from it to catch locals but close enough to it to ensnare tourists. It would be my great stroke of entrepreneurship. I'd buy a split-level Victorian with Shoot the Freak money, send my children to college with Shoot the Freak money. I would never work again, choosing instead to take treasure baths in a clawfoot tub filled with Shoot the Freak doubloons. By God, this was the best idea I'd ever had. I was beside myself. Then, I remembered one small thing: I lived in San Francisco.

See, Shoot the Freak could never exist here. First off, the name itself with be derided as insulting to all the great and noble bearded women, conjoined twins, and torso-less heads who fought valiantly against that derogatory title. So I'd have to name it something else. Say, "Shoot the Fully Actualized Gender-Neutral Person." Then, since Shoot the Freak is inherently violent, we'd have to replace the paintballs and the guns with something less fearsome like, say, aloe-soaked sponges. And you wouldn't be able to throw them overhand (still obviously too violent), so I'd have to mandate slow-pitch softball style tosses only. Lastly, the surly carnival barker would be classified as a noise polluter, so I'd have to find a far more polite version, one who spouted affirmations of our patrons' personhood before, during, and after the whole transaction. What I'd be left with the wife of an amateur Napa vintner not-pressuring passersby into a leisurely game of "Underhand Lob the Aloe-Soaked Sponge at the Fully Actualized, Gender Neutral Person." And that, my friends, is just lame.

Which is to say: hooray for Coney Island. Hooray for any place where "Shoot the Freak" exists in this day and age of kid gloves and seat belt laws. Coney Island may not have been teeming with Sebastian Telfairs, Baseball Furies, or even Requiem For A Dream era Wayanseseses, but with that one attraction, it earned a lifetime of repeat visits. At least until Nickelodeon buys it and turns the whole place into Sponge Bob Square Pants Beach.

Shoot the Freak while you still can.

In which Birdmonster, barely awake, tries to explain why it's in New York before failing spectacularly and falling asleep on a pleather sofa

Greetings from a windowless basement in Brooklyn sometime near two in the morning, though in fact I'm far too jetlagged and blotto and unemployed to really care where we are, what time it is, or if I have pants on, which, by the way, I do not.

We arrived in New York Monday night, deplaning anxiously after enduring the dual tortures of a talkative pilot and an inflight "The Bucket List" matinee which Dave and Peter were courageoustarded enough to watch. Their verdict: better than "Wild Hogs," which is sort of like saying a mayonaisse sandwich is better than getting stabbed in the face.

New York is the only city where I feel as if I've done something even if I haven't, like the bustle of the town makes you productive through osmosis. Thus far though, we have been mighty productive: We've powwowed with the label about business-flavored whatnots; we played a free show; we saw our producer Tom and reminscened about the Tenderloin strip club Amateur Night we went to, which was simultaneously too skeezy and not nearly skeezy enough; we watched the ends of both of the recent NBA semifinal games, alternately upset and ambivalent; we saw Jeffrey Ross, sitting alone outside some Chelsea coffee house, waiting for an impromptu celebrity roast to break out that never did.

After a solid month of sloth, it's nice to be here. I mean, sure, I love watching four hours of fake court every day, eating leftovers in my robe, and generally wondering why I went to college, but traveling has a way of realigning the brainpan for the better. I tend to come home feeling lucid, a feeling that fades quickly during the eighth consecutive episode of Judge Hatchett. What I'm saying is any trip, unless it involves LSD and a John Phillips Sousa-scored clown snuff film, is a good trip.

But it's odd going to meetings about the band after doing everything ourselves for so long. Don't get me wrong, it's completely fantastic, but ceding control is a hard thing. The idea is to move past the disorganized sojourns across the Canadian border that find us detained as smugglers, past the horrors of shopping for a van in triple digit heat, past the tours that find us playing to a solitary nine-fingered racist hobo on Easter. In the end, I feel as if we're entrusting Birdmonster to a really competent au pair with luscious knockers: on one level, I wish I could stay home with the kid and help him with his science project. On the other: luscious knockers.

How to Chose an Album Cover, Part 2 of 2

Yesterday, we began our course in Album Coverolgy 201, covering the a trifecta of possible cover strategies: Sex Appeal, Elaborate Outfits, and Phenomenal Hubris. Notably, we learned that none of these formidable strategies were sacrosanct, that each led to ruin in more cases than success. These, indeed, are trying times. We soldier onward.

4- The Aggressively Half-Ass Route

With so many ways to go wrong, it's not surprising that bands often err on the side of simplicity. You can't have a woman crapping on your cover whilst holding her shoe if you never take that photo, in other words. Take the Beatles' "White Album" for example: classy, bold, clean, iconic, the inherent message being "the music speaks for itself." But tread lightly, as it's only a hop, skip, and a jump from "Subtle and Classic" to "Put your hands up and step away from the glue stick":


The "Blue Album"

The "Speech Bubbles: They're Not Just For Garfield Anymore Album"

The "Spell Check Album"
I know what your'e thinking: those aren't even attempts at the delicate, Rothkoesque simplicity of the "White Album," to which I'd say, yes, that's true. But they certainly took more time to design. It's like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich: sometimes less is more. Once you start adding apple slices and honey and toenail clippings, you're left with something inedible. Less, in other words, can be more.

5- The Patently Disturbing Route

Also known as the "Purposefully Controversial Route," our fifth cover art strategy has enjoyed wide and storied success. The Black Crowes "Amorica" and Two Live Crew's "As Nasty As They Wanna Be," with their exposed pubic hair and shimmery buttockseseses, were transparent attempts to spark controversy, thereby sparking interest, thereby selling records, and in both cases, it worked. Further, the entire genre of metal cover art is predicated on this idea, much to the pleasure of millions of teenage boys and Scandinavians; our producer Tom gave Dave an album called "Leprosy" by a band called "Death," for example, though it could have been an album called "Death" by a band called "Leprosy." A Mobius Strip of dorkdom, indeed.

And, naturally, sometimes this approach can go oh so wrong:


"I'd rather not"

Or, "Your Children Will Never Sleep Again"

I'm really not okay with this one
See, there's a difference between fighting censorship and giving me pigmask nightmares. I say "fighting censorship" because that's ostensibly what the Black Crowes and Two Live Crew did, albeit with hirsute genitals and sophomoric raunch. If you're going to shock somebody, it's important that there's a purpose. It's the difference betweem Texas Chainsaw Massacre and Hostel: both are disturbing, but one is an atmospheric classic while the other is porn for sadists. Another route best avoided.

6- The Man Rides Giant Rat Route

Admittedly, this is a small genre, without a reputable album to hold up as a guide. But I'll be Goddamned if I wasn't going to include Swamp Dogg.


7- The Fucking Awesome Route

Which brings us, in the end, to the answer. In the same way you don't make music by talking about who you want to sound like, you don't make a cover by mimicry. Granted, the Best And Greatest Album Of All Time (tm), London Calling, is a parody of an old Elvis Presley cover, but again, that's the exception to the rule. When we're writing songs, there's always a moment when, after playing a song well for the first time, the notes still decaying, we look at each other and just grin. Sometimes, you just know it's "right." So, while we we've learned we can't simply rip off the following examples of brain-boggling luminosity, I think they speak for themselves:


So do I!

Verily, this is the definition of "Fucking Awesome"

Nevermind. This is.
I imagine the graphic designer finishing the colored marker touchup on Metal Magic, pushing his rolling chair back a few inches from his desk, and thinking, not unlike Dr. Frankenstein, mad with brilliance and dedication, "I've done it. I have created a masterpiece." When it all boils down, all you can wait for is that moment. You have to keep trying, keep plugging away, and, in the end, you'll know. If it doesn't feel right, well, it isn't.

So, without further ado, I'll unveil here, for the first time, the cover art for the brand new Birdmonster album. When it appeared in my inbox early this week, I recall having a "Eureka" moment, knowing, inherently, that we had exactly what we needed, and knowing that no image could possibly convey the artistic statement we are making any better than this:


See, the new Birdmonster album is a lot like a merman on a skateboard. It's mythical, yet earthy. It's experimental, yet American. It's a merman. On a skateboard.

Thematically, it works too. Peter's lyrics have been dominated by aerobics for the past year, notably his use of badminton imagery, which you'll find most striking on "Don't Shuttlecock a Shuttlecocker" and "Put Down That Racket So We Can Skateboard Like Mermen."

I hope you guys like it.

p.s. I'd like to send a big "Godspeed" to Bizarre Records dot com, without whom, several of these brilliant covers would never have been discovered. Like Swamp Dogg. I love you Swamp Dogg.

How to Chose an Album Cover, Part 1 of 2

While we're all well versed in that worn-thin aphorism "Don't judge a book by its cover," when you're actually choosing a cover, that maxim goes right out the window. You begin inflate every mundane detail to risible proportions and find yourself saying things like "I'm not sure this album is that orange" or "Is that font too emo-core?" It can be maddening. Because, really, when you get right down to it, any album or book is, in some small way, judged by its cover. It's superficial, but it's natural.

Thankfully, Birdmonster was born after thousands of album covers have come and gone, allowing us to parse through the genius of decades past. A great album cover is simultaneously iconic and evocative, a representation of the work and a work in and of itself. Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon cover is a perfect example, but then again, so is any Iron Maiden cover, with Maiden's mascot, "Eddie" the avuncular zombie adorning each and every one. So without further ado, we look back fondly on some of our favorites, in hopes that they, in their unending wisdom, will inform an important decision.

1- The Sex Appeal Route

The phenomenal success of Herb Alpert's well-known and oft-parodied "Whipped Cream and Other Delights" in 1965, coupled with the loosening of Puritanical mores, paved the way for covers that titillated, sexified, and otherwise made your grandmother uncomfortable. In fact, Alpert's image so captivated his audience that in concert, he'd often joke "I'm sorry, we can't play the cover," a sentence which surely disappointed his fan base, which was largely made up of dairy fetishists. Other artists would try to emulate this tawdry, "sex sells," philosophy, to varying degrees of success:


Sexy!

Mega Sexy!

SuperHyperUltraMega Sexy!

...or "Put your pants on," "put a shirt on," and "Please say you have your pants on," respectively. Sex Appeal is a tricky area to be sure. And you know what they say: "Just because you think crapping while holding your shoe is erotic doesn't mean I didn't just lower my head into the garbage disposal."

2- The Elaborate Outfits Route

Sure, not everyone's sexy. Ronnie James Dio, for example, is probably a goblin. That doesn't mean he can't bellow operatically about Rainbows in the Dark over some crunchy-ass metal: it just means you can't have him bare chested and svelte on an album cover. Instead of Sex Appeal, what you want to have is "a look." Here, think "Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Heart's Club Band." Or the Ramones. Or even Stryper. The important thing is consistency, a sense of mystery, an iconic representation, via fashion, of the sounds found within. Visually:


The family as table cloth

In which we learn Zeus was black

Can you tell this came out in 1986?

The problem here lies with fickle Fashion herself. Growing up, I was certain that my Hypercolor shirt and Airwalk jam shorts were the absolute apex of awesomeitude. As it turned out, I was mistaken. We've all gone through our closets and thought to ourselves "I used to wear that?" before taking it to a Salvation Army and having them say "I'm sorry sir. We're trying to help these people, not make them the butt of unending suffering." A route best avoided.

3- The Phenomenal Hubris Route

A few years back, Talib Kweli released an album titled, simply, "Quality." In a way, that's simultaneously a bold claim and a backhanded slap at all his contemporaries. As it turns out, the album was fantastic and more than lived up to its name and Kweli's cover was actually a restrained, thoughtful image of himself, an understated counterpoint to a vaguely boastful title. Of course, this is the exception to the rule:


I've deleted fifty jokes here.* Let's just let the unbridled arrogance of a NELSON MILLENNIUM COLLECTION speak for itself

Apparently, this "Handel" fellow thinks quite highly of himself

Or, "I'm rich; kiss my ring."

Like when Mohammed Ali said, "It ain't bragging if it's true," if it ain't true, it's insufferable. Covers that convey a sense of entitlement, a brash money-grab, or celestial parentage tend to rub the casual record buyer the wrong way. Let's put it this way: did Woodie Guthrie ever make an album called "This is My Hot Shit" with a picture of him riding in a baby blue Thunderbird, blanketed by bikinied hos? Exactly.

Part two tomorrow.

UPDATE: A hearty, hearty thank you to esteemed commenter ncbutters, who showed me the error of my ways by providing us with the following:

Did I mention I love the internet yet?

* For the record, the Nelson Millenium Collection narrowly edged out "Snow's Greatest Hits." And now you have "Informer" in your head. I am sorry.

Birdmonster, not unlike Billy Joel, is in a New York State of Mind. So here's a free show while we're there.

In the history of American Music, from Aaliyah to ZZ Top, no city has enjoyed more musical kudos than New York. Where lesser towns like, say, Lodi, have singular songs penned about their deadend decrepitude, New York has no less than thirty-five songs blandly named "New York" or "New York City." And there are the streets. Avenue B, and C have their own songs. So does 110th Street. And 57th Street. And 52nd. And the intersection of 53rd and 3rd. And the bridge on 59th. And those are just the reputable artists off the top of my head (Iggy Pop, Barry Manilow, Bobby Womack, Springsteen, Billy Joel, the Ramones, and Simon & Garfunkel, respectively). Who knows what Big Apple-themed opus lingers in the catalogues of, say, these guys?



(At the beginning, you may find yourself thinking "Okay, Birdmonster, this is just a crappy cover of 'The Final Countdown, a song equally notorious for its ad infititum overplay at every European sporting event and as George Oscar Bluth's magic show theme song. I am not impressed." Just wait for the singing. For the love of everything that is holy, wait for the singing).

It gets so that I can't walk around New York without a scenery inspired soundtrack, and that's without ever having been in Hollace on Christmas. I bring this up because we're visiting NYC next week and the earworms have already started. I woke up this morning with "Rhapsody in Blue" in my noggin, which, after last nights research, I learned was inspired by the sounds of a locomotive at Grand Central. (The San Francisco Bus System, unfortunately, has not impelled a song of similar quality, unless you count the peanutbutter-mouthed mumblings of backseat hobos, which, of course, we should).

So then, what are we doing in New York? I'm glad you asked. Much of it will be business, the details of which you will be politely spared. The rub here is freeness: specifically, a free show. We're playing the Mercury Lounge on May 28th at 7 p.m.; it's an invite-only thing and this here blog is your invitation. If you'd like to come, go ahead and email birdmonstertickets@gmail.com and we'll write you a confirmation response, applauding your on-the-ball frugality. Email early, as we have a limited number to spread around.

Yep. That's it. I think I'll spend the rest of the day pondering the victory of the San Antonio Spurs, who, in their own special way, are the embodiment of crushing inevitability. If there's one thing I won't be thinking about in New York, it's good basketball.

An exceedingly helpful "How To" post that will completely and utterly change every fiber of your being

I'm here on my couch, simultaneously unemployed and yet wearing a suit, an incongruous situation owing to a morning spent impersonating a low-rent mobster for a corporate team building scavenger hunt. This, apparently, is my life. So be it. At least I look dapper.

I'm also typing on a computer that, as of this time yesterday, was not working. I had just finished watching The Young and the Restless---which, first off, is a sentence I hoped I'd never write, at least not until I transmogrified into a brandy-soaked grandmother and second, a sentence I need to explain at the asterisk*---when I was greeted with the unsettling aroma of melting plastic. Since I hadn't been smoking crack out of an Evian bottle lately, I was understandably perplexed. Burning plastic is an unholy smell, a smell I'd really only dealt with once, when, as a high schooler, I bought lawn seats to Ozzfest so I could see the 98th Black Sabbath Reunion Tour, and a bunch of countrified rubes made a bonfire out of disposable cutlery and liter-size Pepsis. It literally took my breath away, in a "wow, I can't effing breathe" sort of way. I learned two valuable lessons that day: thou shalt not burn plastic and thou shalt sing the guitar solo to "War Pigs" with thousands of inebriated longhairs. But I digress.

It didn't take long to note the fact that the Macintosh I was using had stopped charging and that the olfactory problem was emanating from my crotch. Not my loins, per se, but the computer that sat on top of them and, since this isn't my computer, well, this was a problem. (Also a problem: burning crotch). The central issue was the AC power cord, which had melted, and my wallet, which has been dieting lately. I needed a new cord and I needed it to be free.

Which brings us to today's helpful blog post: "How to Navigate the Horrible Labyrinth of Customer Service Call Centers, Retain Your Relative Sanity, and Get Free Shit in the Process."

(Note: Between copious touring for the last album, I worked at a call center which shall hereby remain nameless. It's not a job I'm proud of, but it paid much better than pretending to be a mafioso while drinking far too much coffee and perplexing nearby patrons. Onwards)

1- We begin with a rule taken directly from the great and knowledgeable Patrick Swayze (also known as "The Swayze") in the highly underrated film Road House. The Swayze plays a "cooler" (read: glorified bouncer) who is recruited to turn a bar named the Double Deuce (owned by Locke's dad from LOST, to my unending pleasure) from a seedy dive frequented by toothless, violent alcoholics, to a swank yuppie bar where floozies do coke in the bathroom. It is from The Swayze's opening speech to his cadre of bouncers where we take rule one: "Be nice." You will be frustrated by this phone call. You will be transfered, you will be left on hold listening to Tesla, you will be asked to repeat the same information at least ten times, but you will be nice. Just be nice. It's just like when one of the Double Deuce bouncers asks The Swayze, "What if [a customer] calls my mother a whore?", and Swayze answers "Well, is she?" then continues "Just be nice." That's rule number one.

2- Have a goal and clear your schedule. You're not calling in to Apple or United Airlines or Verizon to let them dick you around. You have to know what you want, what you'll accept, and whether they're the same thing. The only thing standing between you and a waived fee or a complimentary ticket is dedication.

3- So you missed your payment or you're being charged some magical fee for something you never agreed to or, say, a cord melted on your wang. The company you're calling does not want to give you anything. It screws with their profit margin which screws with their investors who pay the salary of the people at the company who make the rules which prevent you from getting any recompense. The first person you'll speak to in this Kafkaesque Mobius Strip is a "Tier One" representative. These folks cannot help you and, largely, they are either very new or very stupid. But remember, be nice. "Sir, your computer isn't under warranty anymore and we can't get you a new power cord," is something they might say. To which you politely respond "That's unfortunate. I'd really like to get this problem fixed. Is there anyone else there I can speak with?" You will be transfered because you were nice.

4- Here's where it gets hairy. Odds are, you will be "escalated" up several layers of the diabolical call center hierarchy. You'll talk to at least one unbelievable idiot whose only goal is to frustrate you into hanging up. You'll speak to a middle manager type who, depending on your problem and level of nice-ocity, may be able to help you. You'll start growing tired of repeating your case number, your serial number, and your account number, but that's their strategy. A call to a customer service center is like the Ironman Triathlon: you don't so much finish it as it finishes you. But ask yourself, dear reader: would you rather fall in a heap during the bike ride or at the finish line, coated in blood, gatorade, and a brand new power cord? Exactly.

5- Empathize. The guy or girl on the other end of the phone hates their job. They spent all day dealing with irate pricks who were less wronged than you and who pointlessly feel that reaming some anonymous phone jockey will alleviate their sadness and financial loss. Things like "I'm not trying to be difficult" and "I used to work in a call center too, man, I understand" go a long way towards the ultimate goal. And empathy is reciprocal. And it's transfered. When you're escalated to each ascending level of the call center, the workers talk amongst themselves about you and your case. If you're empathetic, casual, and pleasant, they'll say things like "I really want to help this guy out; he seems like a decent sort" instead of "Fuckwad on line 2."

6- Do not, under any circumstances, hang up until you get what you want (or, as we discussed earlier, what you'll accept). They cannot hang up on you. You'll notice that most customer service reps say things like "is there anything else I can help you with?" or "is that all, sir?" That's because you have to conclude the call. It's the ultimate trump card in this war of attrition.

7- And lastly, call early. Find out when the call center opens and catch them before a whole litany of uptight cheesedicks has ruined your chances for positive adjudication. This isn't highly important---indeed, it can be counterproductive, as sometimes the aforesaid cheesedicks make your overall niceness seem even nicerer---but its worth keeping in mind. Definitely don't call at the end of the day. Think of it like going to a Chinese food buffet ten minutes before closing: sure, it's still open, but don't page me when your innards are liquifying.

And now, for my infomercial-tastic conclusion:



"Using these seven simple steps, I turned 'I'm sorry sir, you aren't under warranty' to 'We'll get that out in the mail today, sir. Sorry for the inconvenience.' Birdmonster's program is simply amazing. It changed my life. Even a baby can do it! Thanks Birdmonster!"

* To explain: my girlfriend's aunt had a brief cameo on the Young and the Restless, so I parked myself on the couch to watch her three scenes. Of course, now, I desperately want to see how the first issue of Restless Style turns out and if Nikki will marry David. I hope she doesn't. They just don't seem genuinely happy, you know?

Cancel Church. It's the Third Sunday in May

San Francisco, alas, can at times be a parody of itself. While we aren't all eating Tofurkey in our plastic shoes, championing Communism, and scoffing at middle America, The City is often portrayed that way. Just a few weeks ago, for example, Barack Obama made a rhetorical boo-boo in town, and nearly every article mentioned how his "elitist" comment was made in San Francisco, noted hotbed of Liberaler Than Thou sanctimoniousness. It was a bit absurd, really, and the shock nearly made me drop my Sun-Dried Tomato Avocado face cream. I mean, haven't they been to Berkeley?*

Now, granted, The City does it to itself. We do have Cafe Gratitude, a restaurant where you don't order "Enchaladas," you order "I Am Elated" (and, I'm told, your waiter sits down to dinner with you and asks you "What are you grateful for?" while you decide between answering sarcastically or punching them in the face). But for every Cafe Gratitude there's something like Hardly Strictly Bluegrass, a free outdoor banjo-soaked celebration of inbred musicality or, as is the case this glorious weekend, Bay to Breakers.

For the uninitiated, Bay to Breakers is a seven and a half mile run through the streets of San Francisco. And while that, in it of itself, sounds like nothing special, its the spirit of the race that makes it so. Bay to Breakers is the day where you can see a middle-aged Silicon Valley man's exposed testicles, see someone's Grandma doing tequila shots at 8:15 in the morning, see police men taking bong rips. It's the day when the entire city throws up its collective arms and says "Screw this, I'm getting wasted and I'm doing something stupid." I love it.

There's also the "running" aspect of the whole thing. In the front of the pack, out on the streets before even the most diligent revelers, there are those people with Clydesdale legs, coasting through 5 minute miles while I'm fumbling with the Maxwell House tin. They're followed by semi-serious runners, joggers, and weekend warriors. (Parenthetically, I told myself I was going to run Bay to Breakers this year, so, a couple weeks ago, I went for a jog. It ranked somewhere between "agonizing" and "I can't feel my legs." I've now convinced myself that wiffleball and Online Boggle qualify as exercise). But after the actual racers are past, the real fun begins: elaborate floats pushed by exhausted frat boys in afro wigs, girls drinking Franzia out of the bag, and hundreds of people who no one ever wanted to see naked, well, naked. The last part isn't "fun" so much as "funny," though more in that "remind me to soap my eyeballs" sort of way.

I'm always a bit sad when tour keeps us away from home on the third Sunday in May, so I'm overjoyed that we're here to get blotto with our fellow San Franciscans. Speaking of tour, we don't have much planned right now---we're currently wading in that infuriating limbo-period between finishing the album and the album coming out---but we will be in New York at the end of the month and will be playing at least once while we're there. And we're doing our damndest to reinvigorate this here blog with posts of some regularity. It should be easy now that I'm jobless and below the poverty line. Writing, after all, is free. Food, unfortunately, is not. Until soon.

* Sorry Berkeley. That was a cheap shot.