More than you really need to know about Birdmonster

In which Birdmonster ponders its harrowing lack of McDonald's while one-fourth of Birdmonster serenades you next week

2010-08-09T22:08:00.000-07:00

Looking through some old notepads the other afternoon, I happened upon one that contained scribblings of a heretofore unrealized post about an Anecdotal Fast Food Manifesto. The idea was simple: like the undomesticated American Trucker, the Touring Band is often faced with culinary questions that bedevil even the greatest philosophers of our time. Will you choose the liquid-beef shit-farm that is Arby's or the poisonous gut-riot that is Bojangles? What is the true and proper order at Taco Bell? Is there a difference between Hardee's and Carl's Junior? Respectively, the answers are neither, crunchy tacos, and at Hardee's you get melted plastic on your American "cheese." They are the fine points, surely, best left unanswered save by the most harried connoisseurs.

When I was writing this, fast food had had it's fair share of the crap-spotlight in recent memory. "Fast Food Nation" explained the mad-chemist-underworld of Yum! Foods and their various subsidiaries. "Super Size Me" allowed us to watch a real live human devolve into a joyless greaseman with erectile disfunction. "Harold and Kumar Go To White Castle" reminded us that stoners eating burgers are funny. But what was missing from the kinda-sorta-recent spate of fast food commentary---with its dour nutritionists, angry foodies, and Guinea Pig-Men--was a simple user's guide. We all know fast food is bad. What you might not know is which fast food is more badder.

Of course, we're touring less these days. The four o'clock drive-thru is a thing of the past, replaced instead with a robust and varied diet of ham, ham, and ham; my sweat smells of piglets. I no longer feel like I had the clout and vigor and expertise to properly handle a subject fraught with intricacies like "which kind of disturbing creamy juice should I allow be slathered on this pseudo-beef or that quasi-chicken?"

There are things I miss about living in a van, sleeping in gecko infested hotel rooms, and meeting various and sundry folks from hitherto unknown townships. Fast food? Not one of those. Playing music every night? Absolutely one of those.

We've all coped with this distressing lack of harmony in our own personal ways. David raps about his hard-knock upbringing as a middle class Street Fighter aficionado; Zach plays drums on the bellies of his kittens. Me? I watch Tombstone on an endless loop in a quest to create a Wagnerian opus that will make you change your pants after you crap your pants after you shit your pants. Peter, meanwhile, spent a few weeks and weekends in Maine, recording a solo album that, if you'll trust your humble narrator, is seven kinds of happiness.

This brings us to the whole point of this here missive. Peter, known on Tuesday, August 17th as Sonny Pete, will be playing a gig at Hotel Utah. He's promised me he'll dress well, which I assume means a taffeta evening gown with an understated aquamarine veil, and he's promised me it's going to be lovely. I don't know about you, but I'm going. He'll have a single there, so you can pick that up as well, and, well, it's Tuesday. I'm sure that the Real Housewives of Greater Bakersfield is on but that's why you sprung for TiVo. Come on out and enjoy some merriment. There's a poster and everything:

Details? We got your details:

Where: Hotel Utah
Yeah, but where's that: 500 4th Street, at Bryant (San Francisco)
When: August 17th
When, part two: 8 o'clock
How much: 8 bucks
Who else: Night Genes & Ricky Lee Robinson
Can I be young: NO. You best be 21

Do come out, enjoy, and say hello. We'd love to see you.

A Press Release From Birdmonster HQ

2010-07-15T16:01:00.000-07:00

As you may have heard, the Golden State Warriors were sold today. Birdmonster's bid of $45 and a complimentary acoustic cover show comprised mainly of Kool and the Gang standards was rejected. We were saddened by the process but understand the outcome and wish the Warriors and their great fans the best of the luck.

Further, we've decided to turn lemons into rock and roll juice drank and play tomorrow night (that's Friday, July 16th) at the Uptown in Oakland. Misirlou will be joining us and we hope you will too. The set will be dedicated to Dan Gadzuric. Doors at 9, kickassness following shortly thereafter. Do come out.

In which Birdmonster plays Bottom of the Hill twice, saves planet once

2010-01-15T16:59:00.000-08:00

It's 2010; it's officially the future. As a child, John Lithgow promised that this was "The Year We Make Contact", and, while that was a little ambitious, I was at least hoping for flying cars or a robot harem who would peel my grapes and fan me with palm fronds. Instead, we've got smart phones we can watch "The Jersey Shore" on. I'd rather not think about the ramifications.

Beyond wishing you a happy year of the tiger, we're chiming in with news, news about a pair of shows and a compilation CDs that's for a good cause so if you don't buy one it means you hate planet Earth and you should feel really guilty about it.

01- As you're all abundantly aware of, we enjoy Bottom of the Hill. In fact, I don't even have a house anymore, just a cot in their kitchen. They leave me a little bowl of kibble at night and I bark when raggamuffin come around. It works out well for everyone. But next Friday, the 22nd, we're actually, you know, playing there. We're playing with West Indian Girl and it's $10 and we're supporting, so if you come, come early. Chat. Drink. Chat while you drink. It's been a while and we're feeling frisky. (18+, by the way).

But wait: there's more. We're playing at Bottom again the next month, February 19, with Boy in the Bubble, Here Come the Saviors, and Girl Band (may or may not contain actual girls). That one's 21 and up and they're both ten dollars and we'd love it if you came. Details for both shows here.

02- Mentioned above, we're on a complilation CD called 1% For The Planet. There are some fancy folks on there like Jackson Browne (a crossword favorite) and the always lovable Submarines. We put one of our favorite B-sides on there ("Yuma"---which, by the way, there are some videos of on our website) but, really, you get forty one (41) songs for nine dollars and ninety-nine cents ($9.99). It costs more to listen to a busker and not feel guilty.

And that's that. Happy New Years, people.

New Music, Old Books, Free Books or, These Are A Few Of My Favorite Things

2009-09-14T16:19:00.000-07:00

Greetings all,

They say good things come in threes. The stations of the cross, for example, or the remaining members of Boyz II Men. Tomatoes, mozarella, and basil. And of course, triangles. Who could forget side angle side, angle side angle, the Pythogorean theorum? I could, as it turns out, so, really, let's just move on.

We're emerging from our hibernaculum for a trifecta of awesome. Please enjoy the following:

01- B-sides

Yes, yes. A while back, we recorded a CD. It was called "From the Mountain to the Sea." Perhaps you bought it. Perhaps your friend bought it and burned it for you. Perhaps you stole it out of my man purse. No matter. When we were recording, we ended up with a handful of songs we still loved but that were deemed too awesome for the CD. Either that or we'd already selected the stuff we thought sounded best. Again, I can't quite remember. The point is, we're putting out the B-sides, we're letting them out for air, and we are letting you know with this longwinded, rambling paragraph. Plus, with the economy blah blah blah jobs blah blah unemployment, it's a bargain at $4.99. It comes out on the 22nd, but only on iTunes. It's because I'm Steve Jobs in one of those Scooby Doo masks.

Please check out a free sample. It's like walking by See's candy, except with music.

02- Listening party

Since we're putting out new material we thought we should get drunk. Or at least listen to it in a bar. So that's what we're doing. On the 16th, we'll be pow-wowing at Mini Bar on Divisidero around Fulton and McAllister. There's no cover and, since the EP's called "Blood Memory," we'll be making drinks with blood oranges. See what we did there! You can also get other booze, but you will be mocked mercilessly. We'll be DJing too, between Birdmonster jams. If the odds of me playing "Apologize" or "Lady in Red" were race horses, they'd be chalks.

03- Bottom of the Hill Benefit for the Potrero Library

We're heading back to one of our favorite Ess Eff haunts to raise some money for a library. Reading, as you well know, is fundamental. And free books are fantastic. Please join us on the 26th of this month, during the day, from 1:30 onwards. The money goes to a good cause (read: not Birdmonster, but Librarymonster) and we'll play an extra fantastic show, since we're playing for the good of Mark Twain and his closest million friends.

Alright lovelies. Have a fine day.

A brief something for your Monday

2009-08-03T13:11:00.000-07:00

Greetings one and all. Just a brief note today to inform you that a) since I fell out of metal when Limp Bizkit hijacked it (all for the Nookie, so they say), installment three has taken copious amounts of research. By research, I of course mean watching videos in which half-naked women resort to cannabalism and goateed longhairs sing like a larengitis-ed Cookie Monster. It will be up shortly, as soon as I understand the difference between "Black Metal," "Doom Metal" "Sludge Metal" and "Sludgy Black Doom Metal."

I'm barely joking.

B) is simply a heartfelt thanks to everyone in Berkeley. We had a phenomenal time, and, though Pete's vocal cords sounded the next day as if he'd been gargling with pebbles, we'd play again rightrightright now. Circularly, I even got to talk metal with Irish women, one of whom called Opeth "brilliant," which I've discerned is the British/Irish way of saying "awesome," yet, somehow much cooler. Loved the Mother Hips too. They were awesome. Or brilliant. Or brilliantly awesome. You can slice that anywhichway you want. The best time I've had at a show in quite some time so, definitely, thanks one and all.

C) Sorry about Chico. See below for salty bitterness.

The wisdom of Lionel Hutz, or, News about Chico tonight...or rather, not-Chico tonight

2009-08-01T13:15:00.001-07:00

Lionel Hutz, as you should well know, was a criminally incompetent lawyer on the Simpsons. This was before Phil Hartman's wife got all stabby and they had to retire the character, thus setting back the cause of comedy for dozens of Rob Schneider-flavored years. Those were dark days, friends.

There's this Halloween episode where Homer has sold his soul to the devil for a donut and the Simpsons hire Hutz to try and get Homer's soul back. After the Devil's prosecutor calmly asserts that Homer signed over his soul in a contract, Lionel Hutz offers this rebuttal: "That was a right-pretty speech, sir. But I ask you, what is a contract? Webster's defines it as "an agreement under the law which is unbreakable." Which is unbreakable! Excuse me, I must use the restroom."

After which, of course, he escapes out the window above the shitter.

Now, I bring this up, because we signed a contract to play Chico tonight and a contract, supposedly, is unbreakable. Lionel Hutz said so. But then the promoter and contacted us and said "Oopsies, nevermind. Will you play for a handful of M&Ms and a small burlap sack filled with mysterious, soggy things?" to which we said "No thank you." Then he escaped out the proverbial bathroom window.

Point being, we can't play Chico. I was all giddy about it too. If you bought tickets and were similarly screwed by unscrupulous jackassery, please feel free to email us birdmonster@gmail.com with a confirmation of said sale and we'll throw you on the guestlist to any show of your choosing. Unless, of course, it's the promoter's wedding. That's a private party for which we're getting $400,000. Oh wait. Hold on, my phone's ringing. Uh-huh. No more $400,000 wedding? What's the offer? An expired gift certificate to Starbucks? And a jaunty cowboy hat? We'll get back to you.

A Short History of Metal (Part Two of Several)

2009-07-09T08:55:00.001-07:00

(Part One)

Consider General Ambrose Burnside: general, inventor, gun nut. Well liked in his day, Burnside is remembered as a somewhat inept Civil War General, known most for his bumbling failure at Fredericksburg and his frothingly patriotic "General Order Number 38," which made it a criminal act to express any opposition to the war. His postbellum life is marked by his invention and patent of the Burnside carbine, a device that prevented hot gas from leaking from a rifle (presumably a really good idea), and was tapped to be the first president of the N.R.A. And yet, despite a military career that can be best described as "goobery" and a postbellum career that positioned him as the Original Gangsta Charlton Heston, Burnside is largely forgotten by all but a handful of bespectacled scholars and hyper-sensitive re-creationist nutjobs.

Or so you think.

Because, for all he accomplished in life, and there's plenty not included above, mind you, Burnside is known to every living American because of his hair.

See, Burnside had sideburns. Or, rather, sideburns had Burnside. The man had muttonchops so massive, so resplendent, so utterly sasquatchian that an entire facial hairstyle was named after him. If sideburns were people, Burnside's would have been the love-child of Goliath and Edward Gorey. While lesser men got morsels of soup stuck to their beard, entire sub-species of rodentia evolved in Burnside's muttonchops. And, though the magnificence of Burnside's sideburns can hardly be undersold, there's a certain sadness to the reason for his fame: here was a man who improved the rifle, who presided over a massively important American society, who fought valiantly (though poorly) for his country, and he's remembered for what?

Looking like a dumbass.

Which brings us to Glam Metal. See, like Burnside, Glam Metal had definable successes: taking metal mainstream, for example, originating the bizarre, ironic, and incredibly lucrative Christian metal subgenre for another. Glam Metal launched the careers of iconic groups like Motley Crue, Poison, and Europe, whose signature single "The Final Countdown," reached number one in a staggering 26 countries before being religated to "the song to which European footballers run onto the field" and "the song to which G.O.B. Bluth embarrasses himself." But, like Burnside, Glam Metal is looked upon with suspicion, with a certain head-shaking resignation. And, even more like Burnside, Glam Metal bands are remembered most vividly for one solitary, simple thing: looking like dumbasses.

See, Glam Metal is most commonly referred to as "Hair Metal." As Burnside The Man became Sideburns The Hair, Glam Metal The Genre became Hair Metal The Joke. The genre was typified by grown men with angular guitars mincing about, coifed in hair that even a Houston matriarch would find ostentatious, men in spandex and headbands taking an already excessive genre to levels of excess hitherto unimagined. Also: power ballads. Lots of power ballads.

Musically, Glam Metal was smoother, more refined than its progenitors. The lyrics migrated away from Tolkien and Satan and killing tons of suckas and stuck to that old metal mainstay of screwing broads like it's going out of style. But this genre was metal's crowning "triumph of style over substance" moment. Sabbath, Zeppelin, and the New Wave of British Heavy Metal bands remain influential to not only current metal bands, but certain punk and post-punk acts as well; many still enjoy radio play. Hair Metal remains influential only to a select group of ironic hipsters and women from Jersey. And though metal has never been renowned for its sober, celibate intelligence, Hair Metal seemed to drag the genre into a morass of libidinous, hubristic idiocy unknown since Caligula. Typical is this quote from David Coverdale, singer for the mostly forgettable band Whitesnake: "This is the sexiest music my guys have ever been involved in, and they are the sexiest fucking musicians. When they play, it's sex." Which, really, is undeniable.

Perhaps most associated with the glib Hair Metal revolution that briefly curdled the American brain was Motley Crue. In addition to pioneering the use of unnecessary umlauts, the Crue took the debauchery to levels that can best be described as "you should probably be dead." Musically, really, they are largely unremarkable, a band that, by any other name, would be forgotten in the $3.99 bin at your local record store, but Motley Crue were impressive self-promoters and legitimate menaces to society. A few lowlights (with bonus Ozzy coverage):

- Whilst strung out heroin, Nikki Six (bassist), pulled a gun on a radio because he thought it was talking to him.

- Vince Neil, singer, wrecked his car in 1984, killed his passenger, served eighteen days of a monthlong sentence. The band then released "Music to Crash Your Car To," which is the third definition of "classy" in the New American Heritage Dictionary.

- Tommy Lee has a big wang.

- And then there's this, which, really, sums up both Motley Crue's debauchery and the fact that Ozzy Osbourne probably looked at them as harmless, fey kindygarteners: on tour (Motley Crue's first major tour, by the by), Sixx snorted a rather phenomenal line of cocaine. Ozzy, unwilling to be outdone, snorted a line of ants off the street, peed on the ground and licked it up, then dared Sixx to do the same. Sixx peed and, before he could commence his own personal homage to "Waterworld," Ozzy was already on all fours DRINKING MOTLEY CRUE'S PISS. Moral of the story: you never never never try to out-filth a man who's bit the head off a bat. Game. Set. Match: Osbourne.

Basically, they drank, they did oodles of drugs, they screwed promiscuously, they cleaned up, they broke up, they reunited, they unreunited, they rereunited. They even wrote a book about it, so long as one of the definitions of "wrote" is "dictated it to some dude they were probably throwing mixed nuts at." But the thing is: their songs are largely forgotten. They're remembered not as a band but more as a traveling circus of death-defying excess.

One point that should be made is that Hair Metal allowed the entire metal genre to become something other than the province of sallow loners, table top RPG players, and occult aficionados.

It was, in a word, popular. Hair Metal was metal at it's most successful. Though the late '90s would see a resurgence in mainstream headbangerness with the wholly execrable "Nu Metal" movement, Hair Metal remains the most lucrative subset of the usually marginalized metal genre. Hair Metal was to metal what the Nintendo Wii was to videogaming: the moment that finally convinced the fairer sex that they should join the party. Beyond that, Hair Metal allowed for lyrics that didn't sound like the poetry of that kid with the trench coat at the back of Biology class. They were fun. They were boisterous. They had a sense of humor, which is understandable, considering they were sung by men in testicle crushing pants and hair more closely associated with victims of electrocution. Van Halen is sometimes lumped in with the Hair Metal movement and, while I don't think that's fair, it does show the ethos of this Glam Metal style: while traditional metal seemed overly worried about appearing bad ass, Hair Metal realized it was ridiculous. It was a largely goofy movement, but a self-aware one. And that lack of pretense, I'd argue, is laudable.

Which, in fact, brings us to Van Halen. One thing you should know here is that Van Halen are among the most successful musicians ever: 80 million albums sold worldwide and more Billboard Mainstream Rock number ones than anybody (I swears). Another thing you should know is, as I mentioned, they are considered by some to be the first Glam Metal band. I think this is a limiting view but there are certain undeniable bonds between Van Halen and Hair Metal: the broad appeal (both literally and as a pun, intended), the lack of slobbering machismo (see Roth, David Lee), and the sheer boisterousness of the band. From inauspicious---and might I add, really charming---beginnings, Van Halen grew into what can probably should be considered America's Great Metal Band.

It begins like this: Eddie Van Halen and his brother Alex get a drum and guitar set, respectively. While Eddie goes off on his paper route (ain't that adorable?), Alex begins messing around on his drums, which infuriates Eddie, whose revenge is playing Alex's guitar. They would remain this way for a good three and a half decades, with Eddie Van Halen reaching canonical guitar deity status and Alex becoming a renowned drummer in his own right. When they were still called "Mammoth" (which, admittedly, is a pretty kick-ass metal band name), they rented a PA from David Lee Roth, but, deciding it would be cheaper to just let him sing, actually, well, they let him sing. Voila: Van Halen.

(This is discounting bassist Michael Anthony, but, well, without being insulting, he's a pretty distant fourth here. We're not talking about Jaco Pastoralus or anything).

Like so many metal bands, the Halen was oft-maligned in their early days. Gene Simmons liked them enough to bring them to his management---but not before suggesting they change their name to "Daddy Shortlegs," which is, really, about the crappiest band name of all time---who decided that they had "no chance of making it" (presumably as either Van Halen, Mammoth, Daddy Shortlegs, or Colonel Ketchup's Ragtime Mega Special Fancy Boyfriend Jam Jamboree, a name they never actually considered but a name no less braintarded than the "Polka Tulk Blues Explosion," which, if you'll remember, was championed by a man who snorted insected and licked up urine).

Van Halen had been playing around Southern California to decent crowds, largely thanks to their habit of fliering at high schools, and, eventually were picked up by a pair of A&R reps from Warner Brothers, who funded their first album and, currently, are living in a mansion made entirely of ambergris and naked women.

This first Van Halen album was wildly successful; indeed, it would earn them a spot opening for Black Sabbath at the end of Sabbath's heyday (or, well past it, depending on who you listen to), reach number nineteen on the Billboard charts, and would contain the first instance of heavy metal finger-tapping, a guitar style of which Eddie Van Halen is apocryphally considered the forefather. (He was preceded---among others---by the nineteenth century violinist Niccolo Paganini, who, in delightful congruousness, was once thought possessed by the devil because of his sheer virtuosity and lithe, vaguely sinister appearance. Indeed, he should be considered the first heavy metal string player, having wowed Europe with his bravado, his chops, and his unreal range---he had the ability to bridge three octaves in a single hand span, a talent borne possibly from a genetic disease that resulted in elongated digits or hyper-mobile joints. Further, Paganini was said to have "lashed" the violin violently, as if possessed, and that he could make the instrument cry. He was also rumored to be a sexual deviant and made no attempt to dissuade people of the notion. Point being: dude was metal. In a couple hundred years, he no doubt would have resorted to drinking the "Mystery Bucket" or lapping pee from the streets of some American metropolis. But let's move on).

This first Van Halen album was---and, most often, is still---considered "hard rock," a classification rife with overtones of all-consuming lameness (sorry Aerosmith). But, arguably, it is the progenitor of Hair Metal. First off, it's fun: even the song "Running With the Devil"---a major reason this album sold ten million copies, by the way---is boisterous despite the Sabbathesque title. The record employs the tongue-in-cheek ethos of Hair Metal, the virtuosity of all metal, and boasted a front man up until now unseen in metal world: a mincing lunatic capable of singing two notes simultaneously (Tuvan throat style, son), a man who played a slide-whistle on a metal song, a man who's been known to show up at parties wheeling his own bar, complete with chips AND dip, a man, needless to say, who is many clicks removed from the pee-drinking slobs and diabolical mutton-chopped manchildren who had fronted famous metal bands up till this point.

A good question here is: why, then, shouldn't you consider Van Halen Hair Metal? Quite simply, it feels limiting. Hair Metal was most assuredly not innovative, whereas Van Halen was. Which is to say, where Black Sabbath and Zeppelin pushed blues into a cesspool of distortion and sheer, impervious volume and while the New Wave of British Heavy Metal bands dragged it into a place that was punkier, faster, and ultimately more contemporary, Hair Metal just sort of sat on the sidelines, looking at itself in the mirror, assuring itself it looked fabulous.

It was content to do so.

Van Halen also didn't succumb to the Glam Metal cliches of power-ballads (at least till “Right Now”) or, quite simply, the ridiculous manes and come-hither posturing employed by the leaders of the genre. Furthermore, while Hair Metal is largely considered an eye-averting joke of a shenanigan, Van Halen receives---and indeed, deserves---respect. Call it Pop Metal, if you must. But they, unlike the near entirety of Hair Metal bands, toured and recorded consistently until the turn of the millennium, albeit with two additional lead singers, tequila aficionado Sammy Hagar and ex-Extreme frontman Gary Cherone. They pioneered---or at least re-introduced---new guitar techniques.

But, in the end, whether you decide to consider Van Halen a Hair Metal band or a hard rock band or, even, a pop band ("Jump" being a fantastic argument for this), they were legit. Hair Metal, to be kind, was anything but. Beyond that, Van Halen predates Hair Metal, and, though parts of their general aura and overall aesthetic were co-opted by Glam Metal, they somehow remained above the fray: they used keyboards, they innovated, they weren't, as Motley Crue and so many bands of the same era were, sideshows. If that style over substance ethos defines Hair Metal, Van Halen cannot be lumped in with them. Perhaps their style informed the movement, perhaps it even birthed it, but Van Halen remains above it simply by virtue of their actual skill, the quality of their songs, their status as a music-first-bitches-second metal cohort. They took metal out of the dungeons of sludge-like Sabbath grooving and past the NWOBHM blues-free metal into an era of major chords, shredding, and straight up fun. There were, by way of conclusion, totally fucking rad.

Next week: More metal, less hair.

A Short History of Heavy Metal (Part One of Several)

2009-07-01T19:06:00.000-07:00

With the possible exception of ferreting through Dad's closet in search of his mythical porno stash, nothing is as overtly masculine as Heavy Metal. It's music by men for men, the natural outgrowth of the "Get Rid Of Slimy GirlS" club, the place where fancypants musings on love and loss are usurped by heady ballads about pillaging, nuclear war, and how kickass dragons are. Critics call metal "subliterary" and "banal." Fans found those critics and got biz-zay with some truncheons.

Now, admittedly, this is the narrow view. Bands like Van Halen and Def Leppard enjoyed wide appeal and the genre itself was ostensibly created by Led Zeppelin, who are, well, not exactly a niche group. But if you find yourself at a metal concert these days, you'll notice a few conspicuous facts: namely the utter lack of women, the total absence of dancing, and the enhanced probability of early onset tennitus. Modern metal is loud and it's fast and it has no use for your sissy Y chromosome. Sure, you'll find a few anomalous womenfolk milling about, but you'll have to Where's Waldo them out a sea of suffocating dudeness.

So today, we begin examining this most macho of Western musical genres. Women are allowed but will be treated like Demi Moore in G.I. Jane.

-----------------

While it's impossible to pin down the beginnings of blues or jazz, with heavy metal, our task is easier. Antecedents include Blue Cheer's cover of "Summertime Blues", Iron Butterfly's "In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida", and that lovable Charlie Manson favorite "Helter Skelter." What these songs have in common is an almost quaintly gritty, distorted quality as well as a hefty helping of fuzzy blues guitar. Yet, listening to them now, they feel remote, which is to say: the link between the Beatles and Slayer is tenuous to the point of preposterous.

Some argue that the real beginning of metal comes with a band famous for raucous live shows, virtuosic musicianship, and fucking groupies with mud sharks. That band, of course: Led Zeppelin.

Zeppelin was indeed a pioneer in the "White Guys Playing Blues (With Distortion)" movement that evolved into what the genre is today. In particular, the soaring, chromatic run-down in "Dazed and Confused" still sounds heavy and menacing, at home even in these grisly days of metal excess. Lyrically, Robert Plant tended towards barely coded couplets like "Baby, squeeze my lemon, till the juice runs down my leg" and Lord of the Rings references that number somewhere in the low trillions, which, when coupled with the band's well-documented weakness for drugs, loose women, and Dr. Morreau-style cross-specieal orgies, you can see why Zeppelin is considered the priapic granddaddy of metal.

We, however, take a different view.

Because, for every "Dazed and Confused," there's a "Tangerine." For every "Immigrant Song," there's a "Fool in the Rain." Which is to say, Zeppelin was, from the very start, staggeringly eclectic, a veritable goulash of nearly every American brand of music. In fact, they don't exactly have a "metal album" or, really, a "metal song." "Black Mountain Side" plays like a manic, Hindu hillbilly jam, "Thank You" as a Beatles-esque love song; Zeppelin's "Three" is very nearly a bluegrass album. And that's just their early albums, to say nothing of the dirty funk of "Trampled Under Foot" or the Elvis flavored jamboree that is "Hot Dog." What we're getting at here is simple: Zeppelin were simply too schizophrenic to be considered the first metal band. That distinction, my friends, belongs to Black Sabbath.

Originally billed under the ludicrous moniker "The Polka Tulk Blues Company" and later "Earth," Sabbath began as a blues cover band, until guitarist Tommy Iommi left momentarily to join Jethro Tull, a band which, laughably, won the first Heavy Metal Grammy in 1989, prompting frontman Ian Anderson to claim "well, sometimes we do play our mandolins rather loudly."

Iommi's stint with Jethro Tull lasted a month.

It's after that four month flute-drenched failure that heavy metal really started. While Led Zeppelin were off screeching about Gollum and using citrus juice as winking shorthand, Black Sabbath was becoming, well, Black Sabbath. The story goes that bassist Geezer Butler wrote the song "Black Sabbath" before the band became "Black Sabbath" (and then, in a bout of still unparalleled creativity, released an album called "Black Sabbath") after he read a Dennis Wheatley book, fell asleep, woke up, and hallucinated a hooded ghoul at the foot of his bed. At that point, Sabbath was still Earth, and their eponymous song was, to be sure, a dramatic departure from the improvised blues jams Earth was never famous for.

The song "Black Sabbath," then, can be seen as the beginning of the band that began heavy metal and, quite frankly, there is no more appropriate song. For one, it's one of music's famous examples of the tritone, the interval between a C and an F# (or, in this case, a G and C#), an interval known once as "the devil's interval" or "diabolus in musica," which, even for those students flunking Latin 1, should be an easy translation. It's one of the two major discordant relationships and in the same way "Ode To Joy" makes you want to spoon and cuddle, the tritone has an "and the call was coming from the basement" sort of feel to it. Plus, the song's about the devil. Or, to put it less in perspective, it's a song that has the same name as the band that has the same name as the album that has the same name as a horror movie that uses the devil's interval to sing about the devil ---it's like a Mobius strip from the dollar bin at Alastiar Crowley's garage sale.

"Black Sabbath" sold well. In fact, it went platinum. But, like the patently undiabolical Billy Joel, critical reception did not jibe with public fanaticism. Fancypants critical fops like Lester Bangs called Sabbath "Cream, but worse!" but Sabbath soldiered on. While their first album & Zeppelin's "One" were in certain ways similar, each band's following effort took them in their own separate direction. Zeppelin's "Two" is bluesier while Sabbath's "Paranoid" is, undoubtedly, the all-time metal album, containing not only the iconic title track, but "War Pigs," the surprisingly funky "Faeries Wear Boots" and "Iron Man," which is so metal that just listening to it is like injecting cadmium straight into your face.

Both Zeppelin and Sabbath released their first three albums in two calendar years, Zeppelin spanning 1969-70, Sabbath 1970-71. Interestingly, both were British, the Brits having long distinguished themselves as savvy co-opters of American musical styles. The American contingent in the early days of metal is a fairly sad collection without any one band that can be honestly called trail-blazing or original. In fact, it takes until 1974 and the formation of Kiss to arrive at anything approaching a truly innovative American metal band, if you can even call Kiss metal, which, I'd argue, you shouldn't. In fact, when you get right down to it, metal is one of the truly international genres: while metal began in Britain and indeed flourished there, with bands like Judas Priest, Iron Maiden, and Def Leppard being later torch-bearers, Scandanavia, Germany, and, yes, America (particularly Southern California and Tampa Bay) have all produced massively popular bands, with scenes that continue flourishing to this day. Further, as metal grew, it subdivided into near countless subgenres, each defined with a near-medical precision. While Death Metal, Doom Metal, and Black Metal might seem basically identical to the layman, a proper metalhead will put down his Neil Gaiman novel, toss his ponytail to one side, and guffaw audibly if you so much as suggest that metal has been overly stratified.

Yet, if metal began as the aforesaid "White Guys Playing Blues (With Distortion)," what exactly happened that changed the genre into what it is today? What, in other words, makes metal metal?

You know, besides these guys:

Let's get our learn on.

---------

The year is 1974. Hank Aaron breaks Babe Ruth's home run record, a Floridian TV anchor commits suicide on-air, Watergate proves to an entire nation that Richard Nixon is, as they'd long suspected, a jowly shitbag.

Led Zeppelin and Black Sabbath have both managed five albums in a mental state that can be generously described as "hyper-medicated." Metal isn't exactly stagnating---indeed, Sabbath's fifth album "Sabbath, Bloody Sabbath" is perhaps the band's finest effort and even contains a song called "Fluff" that plays like the instrumental CBS uses when it's recapping a round at Augusta---but it isn't exactly flourishing either. Arguably, it's still a two-band genre---bands like Deep Purple, Uriah Heep, and Grand Funk Railroad have released fine singles off perfunctory albums, but nothing certifiably new-fangled has emerged outside of the Zeppelin/Sabbath quinella.

Which brings us to Judas Priest.

Behind our two-headed Godking, "Sabeppelin," Judas Priest is arguably the most important heavy metal band ever. The reasoning here is three-fold. First, Judas Priest were the first metal band to significantly stray from the crunchy blues ethos that still formed the foundation of the genre. Their sound was less jam-based, crisper, more succinct. And while the importance of this cannot be understated, other bands, namely Motorhead, would break far more abruptly with this framework around roughly the same era. Beyond that, while Zeppelin and Sabbath still dressed, essentially, like hippies who power-dried their shirts into tiny near-rags, Judas Priest pioneered the S&M flavored metal wardrobe. The chains, the leather jackets, the metal studs: for this, you can thank Rob Halford and company. But fashion isn't the reason the Priest belongs in the revered pantheon of heavy metal. No, what Judas Priest should be lauded for is far simpler. Namely, Judas Priest deserves its propers for the two guitar attack.

If you've ever been in a Guitar Center, well, first off, I'm sorry. But if you've ever been to a Guitar Center, you've probably heard dozens of teenagers in the orgasmic throes of an arhythmic shred-a-thon.

Which is to say, quite simply, a lot of teenage boys are metalheads and a lot of metalheads want to play guitar. With apologies to metal drumming---a maddeningly complex, precise, sometimes tribal style---heavy metal IS the guitar. Most specifically, it's sweep-picking, it's tapping, it's show-offy pentatonic cadenzas, harmonized, cod-pieced riffage, unwashed, six-string virtuosity. And while Tommy Iommi and Jimmy Page remain interstellar guitar deities, it was Judas Priest who popularized the idea of dueling metal guitars. Judas Priest drew the blueprint for harmonized riffs and traded solos that would become commonplace as metal grew out of its toddling years. Iron Maiden, Metallica, Megadeth, Slayer, Cannibal Corpse, and hosts of other lighthearted headbangers have continued the tradition to the extent that a typical metal band these days is far more likely to utilize the two guitar ethos than not.

With Judas Priest's influence in tandem with Motorhead's mutton choppy brand of punk/metal/50s rock and roll, metal was finally evolving. It was becoming faster, less bluesy, less "hard rock." It was, in essence, becoming heavy metal. This era is typically referred to as "The New Wave of British Heavy Metal," and also contains personal favorite Iron Maiden, the monstrously successful Def Leppard, the still-below-the-radar Saxon, and Metallica-inspirer Diamond Head, whose initial drum kit, according to a retrospective article in the UK Guardian, consisted of "...a biscuit tin, a cow bell and some empty sweet jars." This was the movement that punted the blues influence and, though Maiden was and still is tremendously popular and Def Leppard went on to become one of the most successful bands ever (no shit), most of these NWOBHM acts were working class Brits, playing metal for metalheads. Centered around the Soundhouse club in Kingsbury, the movement was one of those special little moments where a genre blossoms in a specific place and the bands take cues from one another. Albums were self-released. Failures were rampant. But metal was blossoming quickly.

By the early '80s, building off the modest but important successes of the New Wave of British Heavy Metal, the genre would reach some measure of mainstream cred---well, not mainstream credibility, per se, but success, certainly. And hey: with metal accounting for a full fifth of American album sales in 1983, credibility could kiss metal's ass. Heavy metal was reclining on a couch in its forty-room estate, eating peeled grapes fed to it by big-tittied slatterns.

But success came at a price. (Cue the "Behind the Music" score, please). Metal became less and less dangerous by the year, wussifying itself until it became downright saccharine. If metal was once all bravado and pointy cod-pieces and satanic imagery, this 80s brand of metal was a flourescent spoof, a risible mockery of a once-proud counterculture. If old school metal, as Lemmy Kilmister once said of his band Motorhead, "...moved in next to you, your lawn would die," 80s metal would edge your lawn in its brand new riding mower, give a pony to your children, and fuck your wife when you went to work.

What follows is the story of Glam Metal. We'll get to that next week.

On Independence Day----though, for clarity's sake: not the Will Smith movie I secretly love

2009-07-01T11:33:00.000-07:00

My Fellow Americans,

About two hundred thirty three years ago, we, the fine citizens of the United States, fed up with Britain's tweedy aloofness and insistence on calling pants "trousers" and underwear "pants," decided to get our Independence on. So Thomas Jefferson took a break from having awesome hair and boning his slaves and wrote the Declaration, effectively telling Britain to take a dirt nap because the uncouth colonies were in charge of themselves now, thank you very much. Then, you know: the fighting, muskets, the French, Indians, Paul Revere, et al. After that: This land is our land, you monarch-lovers. Keep your trousers on.

In the years since, we celebrate this momentous occasion by getting blotto, staring at exploding celestial doodads and eating lots of low quality pork. This year, Birdmonster's getting into the act, playing July 4th at the El Rio with a whole slew of bands, celebrating the best way we know how: hours of loud music and dozens of jingoistic fist-pumps.

Since it's a barbeque, it starts at 1. According to the El Rio website, there is also a "totally fabulous happy hour" till 3. This gives you two hours to get totally fabulous. Plus: eight bands for eight dollars? That's a bargain. We're on near the end of the day, but please, come early, stay late.

The El Rio's at 3158 (at Cesar Chavez) and we're playing with Two Sheds, Low Red Land, Birds & Batteries, Finn Riggins, D Numbers, Writer, and Murray the Thief. And yes there is food. And yes it will rule.

Hope to see you there.

A brief something before a long something

2009-06-26T16:24:00.000-07:00

Greetings, greetings. While we've got a few surprises in store for next week (such as obnoxiously long missives about things you may or may not care about and a July 4th barbeque at the El Rio with some local bands I adore with all of my heart and a sizable portion of my crusty, brittle soul), I'm just dropping in to note that we've got a show this weekend up in Sonoma Saturday night.

Details:

- Sonoma, CA
- with the fabulous Deer Tick
- 6 p.m.
- at Gundlach Bundshu Winery. I just want to say "Gundlach Bundshu" over and over, like Hobbes saying "smock." In fact, I'm going to do that right now.

Come on out. I mean, music at a winery on a Saturday? I don't think you can go wrong there.

2009-06-15T17:22:00.000-07:00

2009-06-15T17:21:00.001-07:00

thanks ocie!

A can't miss attempt at fiscal solvency

2009-05-27T08:30:00.000-07:00

We live in trying times. Dick Cheney has emerged from his bunker to sneer ghoulishly at moral reason, California's Supreme Court is shitting the proverbial bed, and Kobe is two wins from the NBA Finals. Frothing loonies are everywhere. I am troubled.

But nothing is more troubling than the global economic meltdown. Perhaps you've heard about it. American auto giants are crumbling, upstanding companies are claiming "oopsies!" on their balance sheets, and hordes of bankrupt rubes are wishing they read the fine print. In these dire economic times, what's a man to do?

Get rich.

Quick.

I've had a few ideas. The first is starting my own cable movie channel, a la HBO or Showtime or Starz or, God forbid, Cinemax. But, being that there are plenty of reputable options out there and, further, considering that HBO has offshoots like HBO Comedy and HBO Action, what you need is a niche.

Which brings us to my first idea: "Flopz." Your HBOs can have their collection of Oscar winning weepers; they can keep their fancypants original series about invective spewing frontier types and stabby gangsters in Baltimore. Showtime can continue being HBOs less cool stepchild and Cinemax will never stop cornering the market on soft-core laffers like "Cheerleader Summer Camp" and "Take Your Shirt Off 6." On my channel? It's all flops and nothing but flops. Or, rather Flopz.

"Gymkata"? We'll get that. "Roadhouse"? For sure. "Waterworld," "Battlefield Earth", "Superbabies: Baby Geniuses 2"? Those are mine. Every time you turn on Flopz, I guarantee the movie you're watching will suck. In fact, that's our slogan. The best part is, while all those tweedy fops at Home Box Office and Showtime are bidding for the cable rights to "Slumdog Millionaire", I'll be in the other room, getting "The Hottie and the Nottie" for three sacks of aluminum cans. Admit it: you're excited already. I know I am.

Of course, there's a problem. It's enormously expensive to start your own channel. So I need to get rich quicker before I really get rich quick. Which brings us to idea number two: "Facester"

See, you kids nowadays: you love your Twitter. Me? I don't.* I thought Twitter would flash in the pan and die, largely unmourned. I admit, it's the fanatical language nerd in me that hates all that internet abbreviating, the constant updating of what people are doing 2nite, what movie they're going to c, the consistency of their latest bowel movement. It's all a little tedious. But, as the proverb goes, "If you can't beat 'em, join 'em."

I figure, if we're moving towards a world in which everyone knows what everyone else is doing at all times, and if those updates are simultaneously getting shorter, let's just cut out language all together. Paragraphs are for turds and lameoids; words are so twentieth century. That's why you need to use Facester. It's all emoticons, all the time. No more composing tiresome sentences, no more reading. Just colon end-parenthesis. Or colon begin-parenthesis. You get four generous characters to sum up your feelings at any given time. Woke up this morning hungover? Sad face. Took a long lunch and your boss didn't notice? Happy face. Feeling ironical? Winking face. I imagine President Obama returning from Mideast peace accords, logging into Facester on his Blackberry and typing

:/

Take that Ehud Olmert.

I don't see how this can fail. When I'm rich like a Saudi sultan, you can hang out in my treasure bath with me, watch "Firemaidens From Outerspace" and let the world know we're both :)

While I'm designing the Facester website, though, I'll need something to do with my nights. Like, say, play shows in Berkeley. In fact, that's what we're doing Friday. We're heading over to the Starry Plough with Mumlers and Winters Fall in two days (the 29th) and we're headlining, so drink your coffee. Please do join us. We made a poster and everything.

*(Parenthetically, I'm aware of the irony of crapping on Twitter while writing on Blogger. I'm a big smelly hypocrite. Glad I got that off my chest).

The Birdmonster Blog: now with all new Free Goodness, Live Music, Self-Congratulatory Linking

2009-02-05T11:13:00.000-08:00

So I was writing a missive about our Sundance experiences which was maybe the most hilarious piece of prose since Ben Greenman's "Blurbs" when my life devolved into a decidedly unfunny, splintered mess. My sulking time has been filled with the ever soothing Al Swearengen and Fionna Apple and, now that I'm feeling more human, I'll have that up next week. It's got chuckles in it, ya heard? I need 'em as much as anybody. I'd also like a mulligan on 2009. Let me know if you can make that happen.

In the meantime (which, if I remember right, was a Spacehog song that I thought was better than it actually is, though, still: nice bass line), there's some serious fancypants Birdmonster stuff going on this week and that's what I'm here to report.

Lastly, I'd like to note that I'm one of those people who emails columnists. Sometimes, this is to stroke their tender egos while, other times, it's to crap all over everything they said. I'm that guy. But a funny thing happens when you write these people something thoughtful---even if it is the aforesaid "your suckiness has melted my brain" email---they write back. For these people actually employed as scribblers, the comment section is like the pit at the Old Globe: it's for the rabble and, while it's nice that they're there, they aren't exactly going to join them in the cheap seats. Birdmonster? We like the comments. Debra Saunders? Doubtful. She's too busy eating poor people and prank calling Chris Daly. To get back to the lecture at hand, I was innordinately happy that harrassing Jon Carroll (a not-that-sercet favorite of mine---see links to the right there) landed me in Monday's column. I read it and popped my collar thusly. The moral? Harrass the ones you read. They like it.

Now that I'm done decrying how totally fucking awesome and famouser than you I am, we've got a trifecta of good Birdmonster news. Let's do it like a list:

Goodness the First: We done made a video all by our damn selves. As I noted in the email some of you may have received, the production quality can be best described as "cheap if not free," but we like it. And "Cheap if not free" is going to be my 2009 mantra, after "Thanks for the karate chop to the groin, aught nine." View below.

Goodness the Second: We're playing a show at the always lovely Bottom of the Hill to celebrate BAGeL radio's splendiferousnessocity. It's this Saturday and though we're headlining, the other bands are quite fantastic as well. Ted's got good taste. Mostly. His hatred of Dr. Dog and Hall & Oates has become a point of contention between us, but I suppose it's possible he just hates Philly. I demand answers. At any rate: come out, drink, dance, and commiserate about the dickpunchingest year in recent memory. It'll be fun.

Goodness the Third: A few years back, we recorded a CD called "No Midnight." It's in fact the reason the blog began and its one of the highlights of my life. Seriously. It was a total ground-up effort, using our own money, producing it in a cat dander filled home with a singer who's allergic to cat dander, and generally just having the experience of doing what we love for weeks on end. I count myself lucky for that. Since it's ours and since we're still so proud of it---not unlike our firstborn child, though the EP's kind of our first born child, but he was short and walked with a limp so we forget from time to time---since it's ours and since we can, here it is for free. Or you can give us a couple bucks. Or a couple thousand. Hey: not picky over here. Also: would prefer the thousands. Keep that in mind.

A brief something before a long something

2009-01-22T13:43:00.000-08:00

I'm here at work, patiently crafting the story of our journey to Sundance, a tale that involves Wynona Judd, urban camping in a Mormon stronghold, aggressive I-Spying of "That Guy"s, and the Stephen King-esque horrors of driving through an ice fog. But, since the following request is time sensitive and I don't think I'll have the Saga of Utah finished till later this week, I thought I'd shoot this out now.

We here at Birdmonster are up for a vote to be in regular rotation over at MTVu, the last MTV station where the "M" stands for "music" and not "massive-amounts-of-bros-with-shaved-chests-braying-at-each-other." We'd love it if you could help out and share some love. Like is here.

Thanks. Further, funnier, Utah-y-er subjects shall be discussed post-haste.

What I learned in Elementary School. Both times

2008-12-15T19:31:00.000-08:00

Here's what I remember about music in elementary school: In third grade, there was this mousy woman who looked like a cross between Gilda Radner and Rhea Pearlman. She came twice a month with her plug-and-play Casio and we sang "Doo Wah Diddy Diddy" and "Rockin' Robin" and that song about the hole in dear Liza's bucket, dear Liza a hole. They were, in other words, some of the most annoying songs ever written.

Because of this rather unfortunate introduction, making music didn't seem all that fun to me. You can only sing "It's a Small World After All" a dozen or so times before even the most innocent of nine-year-old brains begins pondering the pros and cons of in-class sepuku. Music wasn't something that seemed enjoyable at that point: it was just another lesson. And a sucky one at that.

Time passed. Third grade dissolved into a summer of "Gremlins 2," "Dick Tracy," and "Ghost Dad." I went back to school and embraced such ferociously dweebish pastimes as the Spelling Bee (I stank) and the Science Olympiad (I ruled), while Gilda Rhea Radner Pearlman's Musical Gulag receded in my mind, replaced by more important things like the origin of Spiderman (radioactive spider) and the best teams in "Tecmo Super Bowl" (Bills, 9ers, Bears). Then, near the end of fourth grade, the way I thought about music changed forever. And for that, I owe thanks to a pair of teachers from our local middle school who, like the biblical Noah, brought a pair of every conventional instrument into our elementary classroom.

"Try them out," they offered, doling out the shameful tuba, the effete piccolo, the bitch-ass oboe. And so, for a good hour, the room was filled with the singular noise of ten-year-olds test-driving brass, woodwinds, and string instruments, a sound which reminds one of an elephant with Montezuma's Revenge.

My fixation was the saxophone. This might've had something to do with Lisa Simpson or the Sanborn albums my Dad played at home; I can't be sure. But what I do know is that on that day I realized that people like me can make music themselves. While Gilda Rhea Radner Pearlman's Musical Gulag was a remarkably sterile proceeding---a woman with half a voice playing two-fingered chords while disinterested students half-heartedly sang or whole-heartedly Milli Vanillied their way through various obnoxious ditties----this "band" idea was something wholly different: namely, kids---us---me!---making music. This was a profound realization.

So I played the saxophone. From fifth through eighth grade, from "Hot Cross Buns" to "Theme from Jurassic Park," I played in my school band and I enjoyed it. Then, high school rolled around and the stigma of being a "bando" reared it's ugly head and, tragically, I stopped. I hate that I did. It wasn't as if abstaining from band was enough to evict me from the "Magic: The Gathering" dorktown I then inhabited. I don't even think I thought that it would. It was just that I and all my friends just, well, stopped. It felt like one of the many phases you got through growing up: you're obsessed with something one day and the next it's gone. A few years later, maybe knowing something was missing, I picked up a bass, learned to play by figuring out the songs on MTV (this was, of course, when the "M" stood for something), and have been playing some instrument pretty much every day of my life since.

All this went through my head when we were given the opportunity to participate in the America SCORES program. As an introduction, America SCORES is a national non-profit that, in their words, "develops programs that use the world's most popular sport, soccer, to energize and inspire public school students. All of our programs require that our children use the teamwork they learn on the soccer field to support each other as poets and authors in the classroom. The combination is unique and it works." Which, of course, begs the question: what the hell was Birdmonster doing there? Well, America SCORES sees the logical offshoot of poetry as song writing and, in a few cities, invites musicians to come into the classroom and write a song with the enrolled kids. We were some of those musicians.

So, a few weeks back, three of us Birdmonsters* descended on Bret Harte Elementary. The first thing I remember is one of the kids asking, "Y'all the Jonas Brothers or something?" I had to disappoint him. Basically, it works like this: a band (or, in most cases, a solo artist) goes into an elementary school for a total of three days. The first two days are spent writing a song, the last recording it to tape (it's worth noting here that a good number of the kids we rocked out with were unfamiliar with the concept of a "cassette tape," which made me feel old and sad, especially when I had to restrain myself from beginning the explanation with the words "Back in my day"). And while you usually get six hours total for this, our session was split by gender: boys for an hour, girls for hour, three hours each over the course of three days. In other words: we're not talking about a Leonard Cohen schedule here. We got right down to business.

We began by noting that one of the first rules of writing lyrics is to chose something that's important to you and sing about that. For Elvis Costello, it was the enigmatic "Allison"; for Captain & Tennille, it was muskrats fucking. Our group of girls chose their families and their feelings, while our group of boys chose a tomato plant that lived in the gutter. And if that isn't proof that boys and girls are inherently dissimilar, you need to put down that Judith Butler book.

One of the refreshing things about writing a song with a bunch of nine to eleven-year-olds is that they don't overthink anything. Pete was the first one who articulated that and, looking back, it's one of the things I think I learned here. If a girl wants to sing about purple bananas, she's just gonna scream out "let's sing about purple bananas!" and then, all of a sudden, you're singing about purple bananas. It's that simple. We've always tried to maintain a spirit of improvisation in our band but nothing shows you how structured you really are then when you're doing the same thing with kids trying it for the first time. And indeed, the girls did sing about purple bananas. They sang about riding dolphins into the sea and being among their friends and dancing in their dreams and how cheetahs like playing soccer. In short, they sang about any damn thing they pleased. We came up with a few chords and a melody and, really, that's all there was to it.

As for the boys, I found their tomato plant song weirdly touching. It was called "The Tomato Blues" and it centered, as noted above, on a tomato plant that was growing in the gutter. The lyrics focused on how much they loved that tomato plant, a plant that was run over, crushed, and smushed indiscriminately by vapid motorists. They loved it even though (and, in fact, because) it had been neglected and near destroyed but that it kept persevering. How very American, I say: the story of the loveable underdog. Since it was "The Tomato Blues," we tossed together a simple 12-bar blues thing, then neglected that since the lyrics didn't exactly fit the classic 12-bar format, and settled on a weird bastardization of that and what sounds to me now a little bit like "Black Velvet."

Which is really the meat of thing. We practiced the songs during the second session, learning a cardinal rule of children's music: if you give them a tamborine, they will shake it; if you give them an egg shaker, they will wing it at somebody's head. We recorded on the third day, then, like that pair of musical Noahs I remember fondly, let them hammer away at our banjos, guitars, drums, and harmonicas. And in the end, that's what I hope came out of the three days. Sure, the kids used the teamwork skills they learned in soccer and the writing and peer review skills they learned in their poetry lessons, but what I pray is that a few of them learned how deceptively simple it is to write a song, to play music, to sing about something because you care about it; that music is fun. I was lucky enough to have somebody show me that at a young enough age for it to mean something. Here's to hoping we returned the favor.

(One of the songs and some purty pictures can be found here. I tried linking it proper but my technological skills have atrophied to the point that it took me an hour to get that picture of Lisa the right size. Sad but true).

* Our fourth was in Mexico. Dave traded in the subtle and sweet joys of musical instruction for the more tangible joys of shitloads of tequila.

And now for something completely different. Or, actually, not that different. But it's in a different place, so there's that

2008-11-09T22:22:00.000-08:00

Touring always renews our faith in humanity. We're essentially a band of roving hobos (and, really, all hobos are roving hobos. I've learned that there are three brands of homeless people: bums, tramps, and hobos. Bums don't travel and refuse to work (see: San Francisco, Market Street). Tramps travel but also refuse to work. They are not to be confused with traveling college student. Then there are bums: they travel and work. Mostly, I think, they paint fences. That's what I've been led to believe).

Where was I? Hobos. Faith in humanity. Right. We go to towns, we've got no place to stay, we've got no food to eat. Granted, we have money, which I understand can be exchanged for these things, but you get the idea. We simply arrive.

But see, sometimes, people take care of us. They feed us, they put us up, they clothe us in the soft furs of their livestock. One of these people is a man named Kevin. He has a blog called So Much Silence. He also has a lovable but decidedly psychopathic bulldog named Oliver that David often threatens to abscond with.

A while back, he was nice enough to ask me to scribble something for him. And guess what? I done did it. It's about music and I think you'll like it.

Check it out.

In which Birdmonster applauds America, shames California, and goes to Hooters. Everybody wins

2008-11-07T20:28:00.000-08:00

Well done, America. A few months ago, you had me worried. Despite the selection of an aggressively ignorant rube as his running mate, Jowls McCain was leading in many major polls and I left for tour fearing unmitigated badness. However, our economy, a leaning Jenga tower when we departed, kept swaying, swayed further, and, while it didn't quite topple, the financial atmosphere last week felt like that Jenga tower but after somebody let a toddler high on Vault Cola and Pixie Stix into the room. Which is to say: precarious.

In the end, some say that Obama was elected because of this uneasy situation. We could argue whether that's true. Personally, I could give a shit; I'm just proud of us.

Of course, it's good to remember that not everyone feels this way. Despite what I thought was a rousing, somber, optimistic speech, the first non-Birdmonster, non-family member analysis I heard was from an obese man filling the candy machines at a rest stop in Pennsylvania. He said to his cohort, "You know how much I hate that guy," barely able to keep the anger from quavering his voice, and then postulated on how long Obama would remain alive. It made me sad. Then I reminded myself he was morbidly overweight and his job was putting Butterfingers in a coin-op vending device in the middle of Amish country and somehow felt happier. Point being: it's good to remind yourself of that. 56 million people disagree with me at this moment and many of them are handling more important things than year old Zagnut bars. But we all get on; we live together, eat in the same restaurants, talk at the same bus stops, and spend our money on each other's products. It's how the whole thing works. I lived in Bush's America for nearly a decade and made it out alive. Now it's Baby Ruth's turn.

What I'm not proud of is California. We voted for Prop Eight. I mean, really? What are we thinking here? It's like walking out the Red Lobster bathroom with the ass-flap of your overalls unbuttoned: it's embarrassing. In the words of Mark Jackson, NBA commentator extraordinaire: Come on, California. You're better than that.

I truly don't understand. I've tried. I've listened to the arguments for denying gay folks the right to marry. One is that gay marriage violates some deeply held religious tenet. Well, fine. But we separate church and state here. Nobody's not saying gays have to be married in your church. Your church is your deal: eat communion, wear a yarmulke, do the Cabbage Patch. But in America it's supposed to be about equal rights, right?

Then there are those who say, hey, gays can have "civil unions." We must protect the sanctity of marriage, meaning marriage as defined as a union between a man and a woman. On which I call "bullshit." This is just another way of saying "A rose by any other name is still a rose." Which is also bullshit. A rose by any other name isn't a rose anymore, it's a rose by another name. I'm confusing myself, but bear with me. Let's say I called someone's religion a "cult" or a "superstition." That's done with intent and with purpose, that purpose being to ridicule the thing; to set it apart; to demean it. And while the religion remains as true and vital to the practitioner of it, to those calling it a "superstition," sooner or later it becomes something lower, something more akin to throwing spilt salt over your shoulder than to the path of spiritual enlightenment. That's how words work.

So shame on you California. We actually voted to take away people's rights. That's pathetic. The Supreme Court will rebuke us in the next generation.

Meanwhile, in a less political vein, I have two things making me happy today. One is that on the compass in the van, there's a "W." That's right. We're going home. I couldn't be happier about that. My bed, my house, whatever it is I call my shabby, duct-taped semblance of a life back home is rushing towards us at a brisk 67 mph. I can't wait. And also, I can't afford it. I look forward to demeaning myself in some hilarious way for money during the Christmas season. Maybe I'll get a job at Baby GAP.

The other thing making me happy? We went to Hooters. There were hooters. And chicken sandwiches. And Allen Iverson on the Pistons. It was the confluence of many wonders. I'd never been to a Hooters before and, first off, was surprised by the clientele. I expected the five or six tables of single, fugly looking dudes with wing sauce on their bibs, but what I didn't expect were the families: Mom, Dad, and their two daughters; an elderly couple sharing curly fries, a dad with six elementary aged boys in tow. I think that last dad was planning on taking those kids to a cock fight afterwards.

Anyway, a bizarrely unbizarre experience. If that means anything.

A few band related shenanigans before I go. First off: we had a ball in Ohio at Case Western, thanks in no small part to our showmates, Ha Ha Tonka. They're incredibly enjoyable, fun Ozark-natives who do four-part harmonies and are as lovably country as that sounds. But not "walking out the Red Lobster bathroom with the ass-flap of your overalls unbuttoned" country. I needed to clear that up. Past that, we've got a show in Oklahoma City tomorrow, had a radio thing in Missouri today (it went smashingly and we'll share when we get the tapes), and another radio thing in New Mexico a few days from now and...well...that's it. Then that "W" on the compass means something: not just going home but being home. I can't quite believe that yet. I don't think I will until I'm on the couch, drinking a Tecate, looking for a job as a Christmas tree cutter-downer. For now: roll on Zach. Drive.

In which Birdmonster half-asses Halloween, full-asses New York City, and feels a faint sense of nostalgia and foreboding

2008-11-03T09:59:00.001-08:00

Look: you're nervous. Me too. Tomorrow, 'Merica chooses between Jowls McCain and Ears Obama. I'll be out here on the East Coast, absentee ballot safely mailed, three hours ahead of my home state and the usual experience of going to sleep thinking a Democrat won and waking up to apologizing newsmen and a fistful of Zoloft. I will not be sleeping well.

Part of me simply wants to avoid the television all together---the silly race to call states first, the color-coded, kindergarten-easy way they analyze the election, the panels of eighteen well-groomed say-nothings yammering at ever increasing volumes: it's tiresome, really. But I know I'll watch. There's no way I don't. I'll be on Pete's parents' couch with a bottle of Rossi, slowly drinking my way to a proud and inclusive optimism or a dejected, ethereal sadness. I'm sure many of you will be there with me. Though not on the couch in Pete's folk's house. It only seats three.

Since every iota of mass media, individual conversation, and, yes, even your bowel movement (I saw Palin in mine this morning) will be revolving around the upcoming election, let's give ourselves a break. I know our exploits are far less important but, you know, in a way, it's good to be a bit frivolous in times like these; you can only vote once and, no matter how much TV you watch, only one of those guys is winning. Take deep breath. Watch a crappy movie. Read the next few paragraphs. I promise very little will have changed by the time you're done.

----------------------

Last we spoke, we had been rejected by Canada and I had mistaken John Goodman in King Ralph for John Candy in Canadian Bacon. I hope you can forgive me.

We spent our two forced days off like we spend most of our time: sitting in a van that, despite our best efforts, is smelling more like a junior high locker room daily. We made it to Boston on time and didn't get rejected at the "Are You Wearing Yankee Apparel?" checkpoint and, like Lee Greenwood, felt proud to be an American. After all, there's nothing like spiteful rejection to make you love what you've got.

And here's the thing about Boston: they drive worse than New Yorkers. Pete brought this to my attention and, after an afternoon of getting cut-off by Celtic-bumper-stickered pick-ups and an evening of people refusing to wait in toll lines because they're better people than us, I thoroughly agree. It's like this: in New York, everyone's so aggressive that they expect you to be aggressive too so, deep down inside, they've got their guard up, their palm poised anxiously above the horn. In Boston, everyone drives with a sense of entitlement. They cut you off but they don't expect you to do the same. Of course, both Boston and New York pale in comparison to LA, where driving is not a priority when you're behind the wheel. I've seen people text messaging with one hand while mascara-ing with the other. I wish that was a joke.

We played Boston on Halloween and I bought my costume a good three hours before the show in a Goodwill thrift store that was resembled something out of Los Angeles in late April of 1992. For those who are curious, I asked the Rumble Strips what Halloween is like in England. They said that, basically, it's celebrated but not with the tenacity and vigor it is out here in the States. Furthermore, in Britain the emphasis is on being positively creepy while out here it's just on dressing up. Which is to say, in America, you could dress up like Elton John or a koala or a hot dog, whereas in the U.K., you'd have to be Bleeding-Out-The-Eyes Elton John or a koala with rabies or a hot dog.

At any rate, my costume sucked. I found some nurse scrub pants and a muumuu with pelicans on it and sort of looked like a skinny Dr. Moreau. It was embarrassing. The show was good as Boston shows tend to be and I gave my muumuu to an old friend who never really wanted it in the first place.

Then: New York. What a phenomenal place to end our stint with the Strips. They're still there, in fact, recording their second album beginning today. But New York was a blast. We saw some old friends, family, and, apparently, Jimmy Fallon. We played a fine set at a gorgeous venue. We ate pizza while a probably-homeless man regaled us with Beastie Boys verses. It was one of those days that was fabulous but no fun to write about since, well, who wants to hear a guy revel in his joy? Stories of Canadian-infused suffering are far funnier. Even I know that.

So, before I go, a few important things:

First, to the Rumble Strips: Godspeed, boys. You are a ridiculously tight, completely enjoyable live band. We loved our near-month with you and will be salivating while you record the second disc. Strangely, we've heard most of the songs already, which is an experience afforded to very few people. Thanks for dragging us along through America with y'all.

Second, to our van: thanks for not exploding. Three thousand miles to go, big guy. I know you've got it in you.

Third, to our friends, girlfriends, and family back home: we miss you immensely and smell terribly. Take us back in a week or two, please.

Lastly, we're heading back across the US of A starting National Election Hangover Day. We'll post the days on our website (though I do know the next thing is Cleveland on the 5th at Case Western University) and hope to see anyone we missed on the way out. And back. And out again. We really have to route these things better.

In which Birdmonster turns Canadian lemons into a contest - with fabulous prizes

2008-10-31T10:52:00.000-07:00

Canada, that land of Michael Moore's wettest dreams and birthplace of the only sport to make prominent use of brooms (apologies to Quiddich), hates it some Birdmonster. As chronicled recently, we were yet again shut out of the country we share our northern border for reasons that can be best described as "arbitrary" and "asinine."

The whole ordeal (in addition to a similarly infuriating adventure two years back) has turned me off to the whole country. I'd rather vacation in Bosnia.

But we also realize that perhaps unlucky circumstances have conspired against us. Maybe we're being unfair. So, in the interest of further knowledge and a better understanding of a country that is, to quote the great philosopher E-40, "on my shit list, my rest in piss list," we thought we could get your input.

Here's what we want: your Canada stories, whether they're from the 11th circle of hell known as the Windsor border crossing or, conversely, yarns that redeem the place, should such things exist. We, the jury, will gather evidence and present what we feel is the best (read: most amusing) anecdote over on the blog, plus send that fantastic human some free signed stuff for setting the record straight.

So, which is it? Canada: the land of stability, hockey, and antlered mammals. Or Canada: grotesque hockey-loving freedom-haters? You make the call.

Please send your stories in to: birdmonstercontests@gmail.com - contest deadline Sunday, 11/9/08, and we'll post the winning entry on our blog the week of on 11/10/08.

In which Birdmonster returns to Canada, or at least its border. Then the suckiness began

2008-10-29T23:50:00.000-07:00

Amongst the record-defying majesty of dolphinboy, the pre-prepubescent gymnasts of the host nation, and the perfunctory ass-whoopings of American Basketball, I rediscovered my fondness for the Olympics this past summer. There's something incredibly fascinating about the fittest people from every cranny of the globe competing in events as patently bogus as trampolining. And, like many people, I found myself not only rooting for my home nation but for plucky athletes from Monaco, Guam, and unpronounceable former-Soviet Republics. That, I think, what the Olympics are supposed to be about: spirited competition on the one hand, global tolerance and unity and other hippie-type shit on the other. I wasn't rooting against anyone, certainly. After all, most Olympic athletes recede into the shadowy obscurity of Home Depot after spending two weeks competing and screwing and subsisting solely on McDonald's. So I cheered for everyone. I felt good. I was a Citizen Of The World. Not anymore though. From now on, I root against Canada.

You heard that Canada? From now on, when a Canadian diver bellyflops after losing her equilibrium on the high-dive, I laugh. When the Canadian hockey team plays Russia, I root for Ivan Drago's man-spawn. John Candy? I just threw King Ralph out the window of the van. I defenestrate you, King Ralph. SCTV? Forget it. You're gone. And don't bring up Alex Trebek. He and I are no longer speaking. Not until he brings back the mustache, at the very least.

See my fine northern neighbors, it's not that I hate you. In fact, I've enjoyed the company of nearly all the Canadians I've ever met. I like Neil Young. I like the Arcade Fire. And syrup. I like that too. But the people who work your borders? The English language, colorful as it is, cannot fully express our sickened anger. Words like "hateful," "petty," and "punchable" come to mind. So does "anus-brained."

A couple years back, we had a dust-up with the Border Patrol in Windsor. (I've linked it here and found rereading it weirdly cathartic). Long story short is that we ran into a spiteful, bitesized powertripper who, after identifying the Cheeto detritus on the floor of our Chevy as weed, tore the van apart in hopes of finding some way of fucking us over. He succeeded in that we didn't declare our merch at a window of a man who couldn't speak English and never asked us about any commercial goods at all and could therefore claim we were "accidental smugglers" and attempt to legally extort about a thousand dollars from a band that was playing for dinner, drinks, and hotel money. Ever since, he's been my first round selection in the "People I'd Pay Good Money To Watch Eat Shit" draft.

Today, we met his sister. If not his biological sister, his spiritual sister. If not that, his wife, and if so, their children will destroy us all.

It went like this:

We drove across the 96, across crossed not across? the Bridge to Canada, and we got up to that first window where the English Mangler began our travails last time around. I was driving; we were prepared.

"What's your purpose in Canada?" he asked. "To play music," we replied. "Do you have any firearms?" he wondered. "Of course not," we answered. "What's in the van?" he ventured. "Instruments," we told him. "And merch! For the love of God, we have merch." He smiled. He looked like Victor Krumm from Harry Potter 4 but in the end, he was on our side.

Next up were the customs agents, cohorts of the vile little fuck who sent us away during our last attempt to breach the Canadian border. They brought "the dog" who barked wildly. While agents were scurrying through our van looking for pretzels and puffy cheese things that looked like narcotics, we chatted up the other three agents who stood around getting paid. We learned that once, when Keith Richards was rolled for heroin in Toronto, part of his sentence was community service by way of a benefit show at the very place we were supposed to play that night. We sat by calmly while a female agent looked through my bag that contained a motley collection of Stephen King books, canned ham, and Cracker Barrel car games. We smiled. We joked. We reveled in our shared humanity. Sure, they destroyed the interior of our van looking for our phantom booty, but they found nothing. After all, we'd spent twenty minutes vacuuming the van out a Citgo for just such a contingency. We were, as I said, prepared.

These agents gave us a couple forms, made us pack up our van, and sent us Immigration. We were riding high. "This band is unstoppable!" I thought. I smiled. Almost done. This here's the easy part.

Then we met Her.

I use this word to denote only the gender of the anus-brained bitch-beast who would have been edited out of an especially absurd Kafka novel. In fact, it all begins with novels. Knowing from experience that the Canadian border crossing can be an interminable affair, we'd all brought the books we were reading into the building, having read all the Canadian Border Patrol pamphlets ever printed last time we were detained. Literature in hand, we walked into her lair.

It went like this:

"Is there a reason you have those books?" she asked. Not "hello" or "can I see your paperwork?" but "Is there a reason you have those books?" Asked it, in fact, in the tone of a woman who's spent the last six years fighting a malt liquor hangover.

We looked at each other. "So that we've got something to read while we wait," we said.

"You don't need those. Take them to your car."

"Can't we just take them to the waiting room so we---"

"ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME?!"

This was going poorly.

"TAKE THEM TO YOUR VEHICLE."

In hindsight, I wished I would've peed on her through that space they push documents through. That would have at least given her a reason to treat us like shit. If you've heard the expression that someone obviously "woke up on the wrong side of the bed," it's definitely apt here. Except, she probably doesn't sleep in a bed. She probably sleeps in a cave littered with baby skulls.

But I didn't pee on her. None of us did. Instead, we split up, sending some back to the car to deposit the hated read-y-things and while the rest of us pushed her our passports.

Basically, what you need to picture here is this: there are three rooms. On the right is Customs, the left Immigration, and in the middle is a plastic holding pen where the sad victims of bureaucracy wait to be yelled at by anus-brained bitch-beasts. After dropping off our books and passports, we all gathered there, noted the defeated souls around us, and felt a keen sense of foreboding. After about five minutes, Dave noticed she never took our immigration papers and went back in to give it to her. From my vantage point, everything was muffled talking and gesticulating. Dave came back and informed us she hadn't started processing anything because she was, quote, waiting for us to get rid of our books. Now, that makes sense! Thanks, sug.

So we waited. We waited and didn't read since books are illegal in Canada. I contemplated "upper decking" the place---which consists of taking a crap in the upper chamber of a toilet, the part that doesn't flush---but then discovered their toilets didn't have tanks on top. Of course, I had to ask permission to even use the bathroom, which was at first denied because I asked the people at Customs (a full eight of them sitting there doing nothing) who said that they couldn't buzz me in, regardless of the sign that said "ASK CUSTOM AGENT TO BUZZ YOU IN." Immigration, he informed me, had to let me shit. I laughed. I shat. I rejoined my bandmates in the plastic holding pen.

"Birdmonster," she called through the intercom. Dave went in.

Here it's important to know about the two types of clubs, as far as the Canadian Border Patrol is concerned. One are exempt clubs---clubs that sell tickets, host shows regularly, and, if they are small enough, do not require work permits to come play. The other are non-exempt clubs, clubs which, from the government's view, are really just bars that sometime have shows and that you do need a visa to play. Make sense? I didn't think so. We were informed that the club in Toronto was exempt while the one in Montreal was not.

"Well, we played that club last time without a permit," we said. She didn't care. She looked up the club on the internet and she didn't think so. "Which website?" we asked. She didn't remember. "Our tourmates went through two hours ago with identical paperwork," we offered. We were informed that they didn't. Of course, they did. Of course, reality has little power in a place such as thing. We offered to cancel the Montreal show; Anus-Brain said she wouldn't believe us. We tried calling some clandestine Canadian organization that determines which clubs are exempt; they were closed. We showed her our contract and our paperwork that said the club was exempt; she refused to believe these legitimacy of said papers. We called our booker and the club, begging for help.The club (the Zoobizarre in Montreal, for the record) tried to be helpful.

"I could fax her our Myspace page," he suggested.

"Eh?"

"Well, that's what I did with the Rumble Strips. They can see our schedule and our size and that we have a whole bunch of shows and that we qualify as exempt."

Now, that's an idea...I guess.

So we got the fax number and the fax arrived. Bitchdevil looked at it intently, the tiny obese gerbil of her brain spinning itself to exhaustion. She summoned us once again. Pete, at this point, had been crowned our "Spokesperson," because she refused to speak to all of us, apparently worried about burdening us with her brilliance more than once, so Pete alone went in and absorbed the brunt of the jackassery.

It went like this:

While the fax she received, the contract we showed her, and the exemption paperwork she was given suggested that everything we'd said was Gospel, the ineffable website she couldn't remember claimed otherwise. These competing verdicts boggled Anus-brain's mind. She decided that our situation should be deemed "confusing" and that in a "confusing" situation, she was allowed to do, well, whatever the fuck she wanted to. Which, in case you're playing along at home, was kicking us the hell out.

Of course, Pete asked for her supervisor. After acting extremely put-out by the suggestion that she may not have acted in good faith, she let us speak to a woman who was simply a more polite flavor of worthlessness. She told us that since she wasn't there during our first conversation with Anus-Brain (a feat which would have required omnipotence), she couldn't necessarily overrule a verdict based on an arbitrary, still unknowable website, which made about as much sense as everything else had up till this point. We were then "asked" to sign a form which said we were "allowed" to leave a country we never actually fully made it into. We tried to stall for a call back from our booker or some other deus ex machina but were told that if we waited around after being asked to leave we'd be detained---in other words, if we didn't leave, they wouldn't let us leave.

So we left. We came back to America, where the beer is cold, where the S'barro's is barely warm, and where we can travel to and fro without being subjected to the sort of logic that would confuse Lewis Carroll. We canceled Toronto and Montreal, not because we wanted to, but because Canada hates us and everything we stand for. The question is: do we, like Jesus of Nazareth, turn the other cheek? Or do we, like Clint Eastwood in Unforgiven, nurse an unhealthy grudge that will eventually drive us to grimacing vengeance?

I think we'll sleep on it.

Newport KY show cancelled...sadness

2008-10-27T11:55:00.001-07:00

Due to a sore throat of our lovely tourmates' troubadour, tonight's show
in Newport/Cincy has been cancelled. We're scrambling for a new spot
and, if successful, we shall let you know.

Sincerest apologies,

birdmonster

In which Birdmonster recounts various adventures, mocks mythical heroes, and bets something, yet wins nothing

2008-10-26T14:12:00.001-07:00

I know this much: a stupid bet deserves a stupid wager. I also know that nothing stops a stupid argument like a stupid bet. Children, instinctively, know this. "Wanna bet?" was a favorite rejoinder in my monkey bar days and, if the kid I heard at Cracker Barrel this morning is any indication, the phrase remains popular in the kiddy vernacular, alongside "Your mom!" and the golden oldie "I don't shut up, I grow up, and when I see your face, I throw up."

It should go without saying that, yes, we get into silly arguments. And when we do, we bet lotto tickets. It's like betting for a chance to gamble. Actually, it's exactly like that. And there's the outside chance that you'll become a thousandaire, when, in reality, you're basically wiping your ass with a dollar. Everybody wins. Even the Wisconsin school system.

Me? I'm a roll. I won a scratcher a while ago betting Dave that Palin wouldn't drop out of the race. Then we doubled down on whether she'd debate in the first place. And the scratch off I've got in my lap at this very moment? Won off Peter for insisting that Darth Vader said "When we last met, I was but a learner; now I am the mastah." That might be exact, but Pete swore it was "student" and not "learner" while I remembered it was George Lucas and not someone who had a passing familiarity with conversational English. Easy money, in other words.

I'm telling you this because I'm bored. Oh so bored. And because I'm saving the lotto ticket for the end of this blog. That's what passes for excitement in my life. Sad, I know. I'm sorry for dragging you down with me. At least it's warm down here. Warm and smelly.

But I digress. Or rather, I haven't started saying anything of import at all. Either way. Where were we last? I believe it was California. That was a bizarre trip, honestly---not bad in any way, being that its the home state for three of us and contains the hometown for all of us---but because we went home in the middle of a tour. This was a first. The layover in San Francisco was barely twenty-four hours but it was incredibly rejuvenating. I ate food from places called "kitchens." I slept on a bed that didn't feel stuffed with hooker cadavers. I woke up to something other than "Housekeeping!"

Plus, I picked up my absentee voter envelope. I hear there's someone named "Alabama" running for President, which makes me pretty excited. Also, I'm apparently supposed to know four different people who deserve a seat on the San Francisco Community College Board, which is a lot like asking me to choose the four people with the coolest name. Rodel Rodis? You've got my vote. In fact, I'm just voting for you four times. I'm writing you in for President too. Sorry, "Alabama." You lose!

Of course, since California, we've gone back to the East Coast. In between, we enjoyed the Pacific Northwest, which was completely gorgeous in mid October, all red leaves and fog---the hills looked like they were on fire, and---well, to be fair, we're not on the East Coast yet. For some reason, my brain lumps Chicago and Minneapolis in with Boston and Philadelphia. It's wrong, I know. We're in the midwest, have been since our hellish Seattle to Minnesota drive. Yeah. That's 1800 some-odd miles. You know that guy who ran a Marathon from Marathon to deliver a message back in the "olden days"? He's a bitch. I'd like to see him drive ten hours a day on a diet of Olive Garden and McDonald's.

Things have happened, of course. We got joshingly heckled by a pair of self-described "repugnant queens" in Portland---one of whom liked "Gummo," which, really, when somebody tells you that, walk backwards slowly but never take your eyes off their hands. We tried to eat at a Red Lobster before discovering that we were actually too poor for Red Lobster, then wept ourselves to sleep. We played a gamut of fantastic clubs, though the Doug Fir in Portland and the Casbah in San Diego are my personal favorites---the former of the pair is very "Twin Peaks-y" according to everyone else in the band who has, you know, seen "Twin Peaks." To me it looked like a creepy futuristic log cabin. Maybe those things are one in the same. I do not know.

I feel boring though. Really boring. I'm basically rotting in the van as we speak. My brain isn't working anymore. But wait! I've got this lotto ticket. It's called "Krazy Eights." Ok...scratching. Not an eight. Not an eight. Mayb---nope, that's a nine.

That's what we call an "anti-climax." I'm going to slink into the back seat and try to recover from my Gunslinger withdrawals with a new book. Have a fine Sunday.

In which Birdmonster gets all fashionable, smiles at New Orleans, and finally finishes "The Gunslinger," thus giving me my life back

2008-10-22T10:33:00.000-07:00

Some people are Abercrombie folks; others prefer H&M; still others opt for Nordstrom's or Salvation Army or, God forbid, Big Dogs. We've all got our own personal style, in other words, from the hipster who looks like she walked out a Pat Benetar video to the one-eyed cowboy with a taste for Wranglers and Carhart. But see, Fashion is fickle. What's cool now will be dreadfully lame in a month. That, when added to the simple fact of my overwhelming poorness, keeps me steered clear of trends like Crocs or those tribal earrings that are leaving an entire generation with saggy lobes their children will laugh at. So, call it "classy" or "chickenshit," I've tended to opt for the American Uniform: jeans, t-shirt, and some ratty sneakers. It's simple, it's easy, and, hell, we get free shirts at radio stations and via merch trades. What I'm saying is I don't really buy clothes anymore. I simply don't need to.

Unless I'm at The Thing.

On the surface, The Thing is an impressive gas station on the 10, a gas station which boasts advertisements for two hundred miles in both directions, billboards which would surely infuriate Abbey's Monkey Wrench Gang but which fill me with childlike joy and anticipation. The Thing, longtime readers might remember, is the first place our new van made it to after Patrick Stewart, our erstwhile lemon, died on the way to Phoenix. It's a magical place where you can pay 75 cents to see "The Thing" (a thing that doesn't even warrant capitalization, sadly) and spend much more on useless bric a brac to burden your friends and relatives with. Merry Christmas Dad: I got you a plastic die-cast gila monster. Thanks for sending me to college.

But the Thing is also all about Fashion. Last time around I got a shirt with glitter on it and what I thought was a unicorn. Upon closer inspection, it had no horn, which made it what I believe zoologists call a "horse." This time? Way more super awesome. It's a shirt with a giant tiger jumping at you, ready to tear your face off. But wait! If you turn around you see the tiger's ass and tail. Eat my shit Versace.

By the time we made it to Arizona, we were in the Tour Zone. Which is to say: used to spending eight hours sedentary in a van reading the Gunslinger (I've finished now, by the by), used to eating McDonald's at the last possible moment, used to stumbling out into a different climate each time we stop, used to playing music every evening. That first week is always a bit surreal---it takes a while for it to sink in that you're actually going to spend the next month and a half rolling across America. Part of me never believes it. By now, that part of me is dead. I left him in Pennsylvania so he could vote in a swing state. And also so he could hang out by the Rocky statue. I know what does me.

What I'm saying is that the shows themselves have all been, well, they've all been good. Not to toot our own horn, but by the time everyone's mentally settled into the aforesaid Tour Zone, we simply play better*. It's not just us, either. Every band we've ever played with gets better playing every night, simply by the serendipity of enjoyable repetition. It's like a good basketball team: you can throw Karl Malone and Gary Payton or the Lakers but without the time to gel, they end up losing to the Pistons. Just writing that makes me happy. And not simply because 'Sheed is involved, though, admittedly, that's at least 51% of the thing.

Last we chatted, we were just rolling into New Orleans and I was hoping that it resembled the vacation I took there not the ill-fated, mildewy hotel, aftermath of Katrina NOLA we visited as a band. And you know what? It was some place in between. Closer, certainly, to the lively and bizarre New Orleans of 2004 I vaguely remembered through a brandy milk punch induced haze. We played the House of Blues, which is a nice enough room and a venue kind enough to dole out meal tickets to the bands playing, but, really, do you want to be eating out a House of Blues in New Fucking Orleans? I don't. I want my fresh oysters, my proper gumbo. Eating at a House of Blues in New Orleans is like playing nickel slots at the Bellagio: you can do it, sure, but don't expect me not to heckle you.

In a spasm of indefatigable genius, we decided to go from the west to the east to the west to the east to the west coast this tour. Brilliant, I'm aware, but the refreshing postscript of this plan was that we were able to come home to California smack dab in the middle of the thing. I wrote that story, but really, we're already quite up there in paragraphs. Tomorrow, then. We're covering the entirety of North Dakota then, so I should have a minute or, say, seven hundred.

* Toot, toot.

In which Birdmonster trades in Georgia, plays in Florida, and now is wallowing in a smelly smellhole in Loisianna

2008-10-11T00:37:00.000-07:00

There's something off-putting about seeing a man drink while he's behind the wheel of a truck. It's like watching somebody build a home without blueprints or eat a bran muffin on the toilet: it's not just ignorant, it's aggressively idiotic.

We ran into one such man at a Penzoil in Adel, Georgia. We chatted him up. He wasn't driving at that time, but he looked like he was on mission to spend his off-day swerving through the streets of that tiny Southern town, careening off lamp posts, mailboxes, and Piggly Wigglys. That said, he was a happy drunk. He fingered us as a band with the greatest of ease and demanded a CD. We said, sure, but even with the "getting blotto in the driver's seat discount," it was still going to cost him ten bucks. Cashless, he offered to pay for a sixth of our oil change, which the Penzoil man agreed to, and, voila: some weird, three person pseudo-barter was enacted. It was like Burning Man, except there were no hairy armpitted womyn on mushrooms.

While we were testing the principles of a trade-based economy, we also have noticed the real economy is a clusterfuck of colossal proportions. Yes, yes: bad shit and heaps of it. The whole situation is unraveling so fast that we, men without newspapers, internet, or a coherent idea of which weekday it is, have been left behind. I'm so incredibly ignorant of how all this works that I'll refrain from analysis: just hope everyone out there is keeping their head up and investing in the only tried and true commodity left on the planet: Birdmonster t-shirts. Stockpile them while you can.

Right now, the South's unfolding into a kudzu-choked straight-away outside of Louisiana. The old-man beards of Spanish moss are fading behind us and New Orleans, in all it's culinary and musical splendor awaits us. I was lucky enough to visit this singular city before Katrina with my girl on what I used to call a "vacation" and now call a "ludicrous pipe dream" and it was one of the best trips I'd ever taken: all beignets and shellfish and alligator tours lead by toothless swamp men with half-fingers, courtesy of the aforesaid reptiles, men apparently ignorant of the lessons of the grown-up man-boys Peter Pan and Happy Gillmore. By which I mean the lessons of Captain Hook and Chubbs. By which I mean: dude was chewed up. I'm really curious to see how the city is now. The band visited back a year or two ago, in the fairly recent aftermath of that destructive hurricane (our hotel still had the entire bottom floor closed due to mildew from flooding) and, as has been reported many times (in many waaaaaays) the city was uncharacteristically somber; slower. Quieter. It's a beautiful, unique, singular city---in fact, the only city which smells so much of rum and upchucked rum that you could call beautiful. No offense Isla Vista and Chico: y'all are ugly. I'm optimistic; I've heard I have every right to be.

Speaking of optimism, I had little of it heading into Orlando. If I associate a city with a mouse and a duck with no pants, a creative yet horrible despot, and general humid mugginess, I tend to approach with caution. But you know what? Shut my mouth. Orlando was great. The club was a little leaky and there were no drink tickets (a veritable sin of omission), but the crowd was great, and, well, sometimes places just surprise you. Orlando was one of those. Hats off to that.

But man, oh man, does it rain in Florida. They've got these things they call "white outs," where the rain comes with such force that you can literally not see through it. And since it's humid as all get out and up in the high 80s, getting across the parking lot to your car is like taking a shower with your shoes on then stepping into a sauna. In other words: unpleasant.

Alright. The Gunslinger book I'm reading is demanding my attention. Be still, my pet. I'm coming.

In which Birdmonster recalls great cinema of the motel room, meets its tourmates, and edges closer to the brilliant, ineffable beauty that is Rocky

2008-10-07T09:07:00.000-07:00

- We've seen some bad movies on tour. Anacondas 2: Search for the Blood Orchid sticks out in my mind as a particularly egregious offender, though Crackerjack 3 sucked in a uniquely derivative way. I think I watched You, Me, and Dupree, in a theatre no less, but I've bowel movements that were more memorable. David and I share the distinction, I think, of being the only two people alive who watched both Cheerleader Ninjas and Killer Tongue on the same day. My parents: so proud.

Point is: we seek out bad movies and they, in turn, seek us out. If you've had occasion to turn on the television at two thirty a.m., you know what I'm talking about. There are no Citizen Kanes in the small hours of the morning, no Platoons or Dog Day Afternoons.There is, however, Ice Cube on a motorcycle. Or Mark Madsen squinting at something. Or Cuba Gooding Jr. co-starring opposite Skeet Ulrich. And somewhere, an angel is crying.

My favorite bad movie I've seen this tour doesn't quite hold a candle to Chill Factor, the aforementioned apex of the Skeet Ulrich experience, but it sucked enjoyably. It was called 300. It's original title, I believe, was Naked Men Stabbing Each Other In Slo-Mo, but Warner Brothers thought that was too long.

If you haven't seen 300, don't. But if it finds you, as it found us, you should definitely watch it. From this movie I learned there are three modes of conversation: screaming, yelling, and hollering. I learned that McNulty from "The Wire" should fire his agent. I also learned that killing hella fools is a hilarious good time. These are the important lessons of our times.

- First things second: We're not playing Atlanta tonight. We did not cancel this. It, like 300, simply happened to us. Sorry to all you Georgians who were planning on coming. And that includes the Georgians fighting the Russians half a world away. Though, if history has taught me anything, it's that you never go to war against the Russians. Unless you're Rocky.

- Speaking of Rocky, we played in Philadelphia a few nights back, which, as you should know, is the land of Rocky. We even had sausages one morning that came from the butcher Rocky visits in the first movie. Or so we were told. I didn't press the issue because I'd rather not quite know for sure. A world in which I eat the food of Rocky is a world I want to be a part of. And this is where you remind me that Rocky's not real. And then I remind you he has a statue in Philly and you don't. Neener, neener.

- That Philly show, beyond bringing us closer to the radiant sun of Rocky Balboa, introduced us to our tourmates for the rest of October: the Rumble Strips. I've seen them three times now, there, in D.C., and last evening in North Carolina and, well, they ooze kick assitude. It's hard to describe the music---bands like "Dexy's Midnight Runners" and "The Band" are often referenced---but the end result is something unique, fun, and incredibly catchy. Incredibly nice guys too. Oh, and there's a trumpet. And a really shoddy acoustic guitar. These things please me.

- I saw a road killed rat in the back of the club in D.C. and it made me happy and a little homesick, which is to say, I've reached a point in my life where rat splatter fills me with joy. I'm not sure what to think about this.

- Beyond the euphoria-inducing collection of rodent carcasses, D.C. was phenomenal. And you know what? It always is. We've played there on Labor Days, Memorial Days, Sundays, and all the other manner of non-concert-going days and each time we've had a boisterous, enthusiastic, lovable crowd. It's been my personal favorite so far. Thanks to everyone in (McCain time) "Warshington" who came out, sang, danced, and sent us shots to play songs we hadn't played in over half a year. I've already circled D.C. on our next tour, which of course exists only in my mind. We're opening for Daft Punk and Jethro Tull.

- Our next stop is Orlando, a town that, like Anaheim, is awash in Goofy, Snow White, Bambi, and all the other animated scamps created by that lovable ~~Nazi-sympathizer~~ animator, Walt Disney. I'm curious to see what kind of hotel we find there. Part of me thinks it will have race-car beds. I don't know why. We hope to see you there, but only, I realize, after you've ridden the Matterhorn a few dozen times. We wouldn't have it any other way.

In which Birdmonster rolls through Virginia, plays with precocious teenagers, and ponders the myth and majesty of Bob Barker

2008-10-04T13:08:00.000-07:00

When I was in college and even poorer than I am now, I went with a large group of people to "The Price Is Right," hoping to secure a car, a vacation, or at least a poorly made gazebo. Before the show, everybody stands in one of those snaking lines like they have at Disneyland, waiting for their chance to interview with the dour gentlemen who choose the contestants for that day's show. Being that I was nineteen going on thirteen, and being that my enthusiasm level was somewhat below the caffeinated cocker-spaniel level required for Price Is Right contestants, I was passed over. Of course, you don't know this beforehand, so you spend the entire filming in a state of rabid anxiousness while old midwesterners with Bob Barker on their shirt get chosen, and, subsequently groped by the man silkscreened to their bellies. It's very post-modern.

There are two great things about Price Is Right. At least, there were. First off, there was Bob. Retired now after fifteen decades of hosting, Bob Barker was the consummate emcee. He told lame but enjoyable jokes during the commercial breaks, never missed a beat, and admonished everyone to have their dog's balls removed. He was also a decidedly dirty old man. I recall one occasion, where, during a commercial break, Bob was chatting up a particular group of ladies with customized shirts saying things like "Pick Me, Bob!" or "We Love You Bob!" These were not what you'd call attractive womens, especially if you were Bob Barker, an octogenarian who spends most of his days surrounded by ninety-pound Barbies. This did not stop Bob. He walked over to them during the break, and, into that weird, skinny, candy-apple microphone he used to have, said "Nice shirt, honey."

"Thank you Bob! THANK YOU! WE LOVE YOU!" she responded.

"Why don't you" (and here he laughed in a disturbingly Cheney-ian way), "take it off and throw it over here."

And he continued flirting with her all show. And not just her. Pretty much every woman in a ten row radius of the stage. It was like going to Hooters with your Grandpa and watching him pinch asses and "drop" chicken wings.

The second great thing about the Price Is Right is screaming. On the more staid gameshows like, say, Jeopardy or the one with no whammies, you aren't allowed to yell the answers at the contestants. Not on Price Is Right. No, no. Here, you can shout anything you want: "Seven Hundred Fifty!" "Forty five Rupees!" "Man's Search For Meaning!" It helps if you've had some Brandy milk punch for breakfast.

I mention this because at the beginning of every tour, we play Price Is Right with our overall mileage. Guesses are made, scratch-off lotto tickets are bet, prognostications are recorded. This time around, the estimates range from eleven thousand miles to seventeen thousand, one hundred and eleven, the last being mine. In the past few days, however, we've all reconsidered. I think my guess, ludicrously high on its face, is now dangerously low. We've gone 3,300 miles already. We've been gone for a week. Barely. And, in total, we're doing west coast to east coast to west coast to east coast back home to the west. Which is to say, if we were on Price Is Right, I'd probably win, though, as they tell you when you're sitting down: "Men are discouraged from hugging Bob Barker." I wonder if Drew Carey is as squeamish a homophobe.

Since we spoke last, we've enjoyed Virginia, both in Charlottesville and Fredericksburg. We were pre-empted in Charlottesville by the Sarah Palin Show, which we missed, but that's okay: I'm dumb enough already. I don't need the extra help. Charlottesville is a gorgeous old city, all bricks and trees and pedestrians, and our showmates, Bird Lips, were both tall and excellent in equal measure. They're a folk duo (keys and twelve-string) that sounds nothing like you're assuming. Our best to them.

And then we went to Fredericksburg, VA. Fredericksburg is just one of those places, which is to say, a place we happened upon, fell in love with, and hope to come back to every time we're on the East Coast. This was our second time there and we played in a 222 year old bookstore, one which has a truly inconvenient post in the middle of the "stage" but one which sounds surprisingly great. It's got a strange, cozy, D.I.Y. aura to it and the kids that come are really, really fun people to have at a show. They sing along, they clap along, they hoot constantly. And you know what? We've played with three bands from Fredericksburg and they've all been amazing. When I was 16, I was playing horrible metal cheese in my family room. These kids are writing catchy pop songs and playing the shit out of them. So, if you're in the area and you ever see "Rocky's Revival," "Carlos I'm Pregnant", or "Tereu Tereu" at a show, do yourself a favor: go see them. They will blow your mind.

Tonight: Philly. We meet the Rumble Strips. I will make an ass of myself. I look forward to it all.

In which Birdmonster accidentally descends into filth yet escapes, unscathed

2008-09-30T20:03:00.000-07:00

When you spend twelve hours a day in a van, you feel a certain solidarity with the truckers of America: you eat at the same Subways, drink the same cocaine-strength, coffee, and get hit on by the same crusty, wizened wait staff. Also: muscle atrophy. It's a glorious life.

Recently, however, I've learned a few things about truck drivers that live underneath the cliches of fatal corpulence, "accidental" thefts, and the gargling of meth-amphetamines. Both have roots in a fundamental politeness that is most often overlooked when pondering the American trucker. First, there's a secret language of headlights, hazards, and brake lights on the road. Second, they love blowing each other.

While both are intrinsically linked in a rugged system of do unto others etiquitte, it's important to stress that both are not done simultaneously. The first is, as I noted, a special vernacular on the highway: when a trucker passes another and has gotten far enough ahead to make going back into the slow lane safe, the passed trucker will flash his brights two or three times. Duly informed that he's safely ahead, the trucker in front will enter the same lane and put his hazards on for a few seconds in gesture of thanks. It's like Miss Manners, if Miss Manners was an hyper-obese teamster. I've taken to doing it myself and, when a trucker flashes the hazards back as thanksgiving, it's almost like falling in love all over again.

Then there's the other thing. There's a liquor store up the street from me where I purchase my Tecate, Rice Krispies, and Peter Pan peanut butter. Near the cash register, there's a rack with surprisingly filthy porno on it. Words like "cockmeat" are bandied about. I mention this because trucker graffiti makes that porno stand seem like a commercial for plug-in potpourri. The thing is, the graffiti is explicit: meet me in this stall at this time on this day and I'll...do things to you that would make John Waters blush. Trucker graffiti is the exact opposite of the Victorian novel. Unless I missed that Bronte novel called "Wuthering Testicles on Your Chin."

I figured that the wall-scrawlings I saw in Wyoming would be the filth-nastiest thing I saw on tour. Or, failing that, at least a couple days. And then we went to brunch in Denver.

See, there's this diner in Denver called the "Bump and Grind." During the working week, it's your typical diner. Think a hipper version of Denny's. On the weekends, however, they do something they call the "Petticoat Brunch." Nothing changes, really, except the waiters. And they change in a very specific way: they cross dress. Badly. Really badly. Really, really badly.

I'd describe our "waitress," but like the man says, a picture is worth a thousand words:

Yeah. Exactly. If trucker graffiti can make John Waters blush, the Petticoat Brunch would make Caligula faint. It's not the sort of place you take your children, that is, unless you want your child to get pegged with a bean-bag shaped like a boob. Or, say, have a gentleman put cream in your coffee in a manner that could be heavily undersold as "suggestive."

But the thing is, I was almost crying by the end. It was one of the most thoroughly enjoyable eating experiences I've ever had. Our shim waiter-ess was hilarious, my egg roulade scrumptious. My cheeks hurt from constant laughter. If you live in Denver, you need to spend one weekend at the Bump and Grind. You will not regret it.

Much.

Of course, the tour has not been a carnival of disturbing male sexuality. No, no. We've put down 2,400 miles in a few days and played both Denver and Omaha. In Denver, we played at a Sunday barbeque that was decidedly Country flavored. I broke my bass (a near tradition) and we got to stomp our ~~boots~~ sneakers and twang it out for a night. A few old friends made the night special and, for a kick-off show, I couldn't expect anything better than friendly faces.

On the way to Omaha, we listened to both Springsteen's "Nebraska" and that Counting Crows song "Omaha"---it's like being in Lodi. Sometimes you just have to. It was our first time in Omaha and I didn't break my other bass. That's good. Also good: the show. Not much to talk about there except our first Omaha-seasoned evening made us want to return over and over again. Not to go to Boys Town, but to, you know, play music. Had to make sure that you didn't think I was going to go on Sally Jessie and end up being spittled upon by a cue-bald failed Marine.

And now? Well, now I'm detoxing from a dinner of ham on Wonderbread, smothered in fries and that cheese sauce you put on nachos at the ballpark. My blood is turning to oil. It's great. I think I'm going to go hibernate.

Well, sure. But I still love the "Secret of N.I.H.M."

2008-09-23T14:08:00.000-07:00

I'm always conflicted before a long tour. While most of me is overjoyed at the prospect of trundling across America with my three closest friends, playing music nightly, and clogging our arteries with all manner of regional grease, there's that other part that hyperventilates over the loose ends and responsibilities I'm leaving behind. Have I saved enough money for rent? Why hasn't my absentee ballot come? Should I get that fungal bloom behind my ear checked out? These are the important issues.

And so I began the perfunctory week-before-tour last Friday. Uncharacteristically, I'd made a list of to-do's, a two page list filled brim high with errand running, duct tape instrument surgery, van maintenance, and preemptive boozing. And of course, there are contingencies: an old friend inviting me out for a going away lunch, for example. Or a sudden onset of Stephen King addiction. Or a Kurt Russell movie on T.V. Or, say, a bunch of rats in your kitchen.

That last one can really ruin your plans.

It started on Sunday. Which is to say, we noticed it on Sunday. A gnawed apple behind the oven, the scuttling of vermin feet, tiny turds on the hardwood floor. We responded with violent alacrity: cleared the counter of produce, cleaned the kitchen with Michael-Jackson-strength bleach, purchased rat traps. We caught one instantaneously and, after allowing ourselves the hallucination that maybe we only had a rat, a second one came and made our problem plural.

Ew.

Now, if you've been in a similar situation, you're familiar with the emotions that come with rat/mouse/roach/guy-who-won't-get-off-the-effing-couch infestation: a sense of invasion, anger, and straight ickiness. Or, if you're of a more philosophical bent, perhaps a knowledge of your own fragile mortality. To put it another way: you never know when a spring-loaded trap is going to fly down and crush your brains.

However you feel about it, it's unpleasant. For us four Birdmonsters though, it's a prelude to what we can expect out of our motels this tour. No. That's not fair. It's what we can expect out of non-chain-motels. Because, while being a San Franciscan means you're supposed to hate chain stores because they gut the community, displace small businesses, and take money out of neighborhoods, touring has proven to me the overall greatness of chain motels. The gecko we found under the covers in Florida? Not a chain. The possible-blood-stain on the bathroom door in Oregon? Not a chain. The decapitated hooker under the bed? You get the idea.

But it does, in it's own weird way, highlight what touring is about. If I was at home, I'd be engaged in an epic battle of wills with a legions of vermin, simultaneously grossed out and bonding with my roommates over small triumphs like squished rat heads. Instead, I'll be in a new town every night, bonding with my bandmates over small triumphs like making it to soundcheck on time and selling the last XXL yellow Birdmonster shirt. What I'm saying is that the whole affairs reminded me how much different bar/van/hotel life really is that normal life. The things you deal with at home, even the mundane ones like making your bed or going grocery shopping, simply do not exist on the road, replaced instead with stripping your bed of the herpes-infected comforter and deciding which fast food you'll be choking down at this particular rest stop. It's not better or worse, per se. Just different. And, of course, incredibly fun.

Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to get my Pied Piper on.

On parenting, video-making, and the continued persistence of all things Rocky. Well, more about the first two things.

2008-09-19T10:48:00.001-07:00

Lately I've been surrounded by bad parenting. Not from my parents, per se (though they did send me a letter bomb and the shriveled body of my childhood fish "Mr. Gillsworthy" last week), but from parents at large. First, there was the couple who brought their baby to "The Dark Knight," the parenting equivalent of Operation "Just Cause" (which, for clarification, was when the US Army played "Welcome to the Jungle" as loud and as constantly as possible to frustrate Manuel Noriega into surrender back in '89. It worked. Guns 'N' Roses then ran for Senate and lost to Paul Anka.) Then there was the set of parents I heard exchanging all sorts of vibrant language while bottle-feeding their pair of children; I'm no expert on child-rearing, certainly, but I doubt a conversation comprised largely of racial epithets, blue language, and multiple synonyms for male genitalia is setting up baby for success. Though, if the ever do a celebrity roast at his preschool, he could emcee.

Then, there was last weekend's plane flight. See, we were flying to Seattle to do an honest-to-God video and I had the good fortune of getting the "screaming baby seat," a seat nearly as coveted as the exit row or the one behind first class with the extra leg room my dad calls "Poor Man's First Class." It was supposed to be like this: Mom & baby in 23A, Dad in 23C, me in 23B. But nobody wanted that, so I did what any normal human would do: let the happy parents sit together by trading seats with Dad, that way, he could enjoy the miracle that is child rearing while I could finish the Stephen King book I'd just started*. Everybody wins, right?

Wrong.

About 15 minutes before we're taxiing, baby starts crying. No big deal. This is to be expected. What's not to be expected is Dad's knee-jerk reaction: "This is why I didn't want kids." I hope he remembers that for the baby's next birthday: "Blow out the candles, my little mistake. I wish I could take a mulligan on your whole existence, yes I do! yes I do!"

Of course, Dad's surly commentary did not calm baby. No, no. This baby was angry and it needed to let everyone know about it. So it cried: cried through taxiing, cried through the intelligence-insulting "here's how a seatbelt works" speech, cried through chapters 6-10, cried through the take-off. Indeed, kept crying long enough to hear one last gem from Dad. Mom had to fetch some more fake-milk from her purse and so, handed little baby off to Dad, who, by way of greeting said "Shut up, you goddamn baby."

If I'd had a few beers in me, I probably would have said something. I would have tried to be cutting, incisive, didactic, and flippant. But it was 2 in the afternoon and I was tragically sober so I went back to reading about the gunslinger while trying to explode Dad's head with telepathic brain-ju-ju. When we landed, I called the Bellagio and put $50 on an "impending divorce" / "maternal custody" quinella. They're shit odds, but sometimes you gotta bet the chalk.

We were flying to Seattle, like I mentioned, to film a video for a track on the new album. Since still photographs make me moderately nervous (I'm afraid they're steal my soul), the idea of film had petrified me into a state agoraphobic inertness. But this had the possibility of being something truly fun, so I ditched my fake psychosis and flew to Seattle. And you know what? It was. It was fun, I mean. Strike this paragraph from your memory.

Without spoiling any of the surprise for when it's actually completed and because lists are the crutch of writers who no longer feel like writing transitions or being vaguely linear, I've decided to do a brief list about what I learned while filming our video. Onwards:

- There was a twelve-year old kid in our video. We liked him. When I was twelve, life centered around "Magic: the Gathering," video games, soccer, and trying to drink as many cans of soda as I could before my heart erupted from my ribcage. I was a sad, sad, child. This kid, less than half my age, had already achieved one of my life's goals: to be an extra in a zombie movie. Regular readers will know that my acting career is to encompass only one faze: a complete cornering of all wizard-related roles when I'm 70 and older. I'll be growing that beard starting two decades before, smoking cigarettes to sag my face into a look of wizened genius, and wearing only sparkly muu-muus. However, I've also always wanted to be devoured alive on camera, preferably in some low-budget C-movie and preferably by a zombie eating either my innards while I lie on a table yelling in mock-agony. Anyway, the kid in our video had his brains eaten in exactly one such movie. I wish my childhood had been less dorky and more zombie.

- There was also an old dude in our video. We liked him. I almost told him my wizard idea, but I didn't want him to take it. I know I've got a good forty-plus years until this plan goes into action, but you can't go blabbing it to real actors. That's like telling a joke to Carlos Mencia; you know he's stealing that shit.

- Part of the conceit of the video involved a family room and it's eventually plant-related destruction. Now, since we couldn't afford Michael Bay or ILM, we were allowed to, you know, actually destroy an entire room. That was great. Nothing brings people together like building things, unless that something is breaking things. Unfortunately, we had to fly home before the room was completely and utterly razed. And, in a way, that's good. It'll be new and exciting to me when I see it. The gentleman who built the room was also the point man for it's controlled demise and I kept thinking about that Simpsons where Bart sees his future, employed as a wrecking ball operator and says "I can't believe they pay me for this." I just thought I'd share that.

- In fact, everyone on the set was great. And I'm not just saying that. When you're in a situation that's new to you, vaguely intimidating, and under a serious time-crunch, it takes a whole crew of good folks to get it done and get it done well. We had that. It's a luxury to a band that's been to bars where they've had to do their own sound or restaurants where they've had to make their own salads.** So thanks to one and all.

- We had maybe 5 hours of off-time in Seattle and we managed to watch the beginning of Rocky III and the end of Rocky II, which proves a thesis from the last post: Rocky is always on TV always no matter what. That's comforting to me.

Lastly, and not related to anything video-y or horrible-parenting-y, we leave for tour in seven days. I'm nervous and overjoyed simultaneously. This also means copious bloggery because, you know, I'll actually be doing something instead of, say, spending a half-day critiquing Rocky IV. I'm happy about this development.

----------------

* Its been a while for me and Stephen and I foolishly chose the "Dark Tower" series, an 8,000 some-odd page epic which has addicted me like only a heroin-crack-nicotine muffin could. At least I know how I'll be spending my free time for the foreseeable future.

** I hate salad bars, by the way. As if a sneeze-shield can make me forget about the guy in overalls who just fingered his ass-crack before going thumb-first into the Jello. I'd like my food prepared behind closed doors where I can't see that stuff happening.

This Is What We Talk About When We Talk About the Internet

2008-09-10T11:35:00.000-07:00

Technology, it has been said, is neither good nor evil; it's the people that make it that way. Essentially, nothing says it with more subtle class than the shirt Richard Kiel wears at the end of Happy Gilmore: "Guns Don't Kill People; I Kill People." Ah, Happy Gilmore, forever the bringer of wisdom.

But don't take Mr Larson's word for it. Let's discuss. The fork allowed the European aristocracy to avoid eating only with knives, which presumably cut down on hideous facial scarring, but also kept clumsy white folks from using chop sticks. The advent of radio provided instantaneous news, serial dramas, and music in every home before it became the province of xenophobic race-baiters, wacky drivetime douche bags, and Hoobastank. Or take robotics, the surest symbol of technological advancement, which allowed for lightning quick production of taquitos while the robots themselves simultaneous plot our Terminator-inspired genocide.

And then there's the internet. At its best, it's a massive amalgamation of a library, a jukebox, an international news stand, an atlas, a high school reunion, the postal service, the yellow pages, your phone and TV, and the only way you can order a Ped Egg without staying awake in an insomniac stupor waiting patiently for the one eight hundred number. On the other hand, the internet teems with emoticons, misinformation, accidentally horrifying image searches, neurotic abbreviators, look-at-me! contrarians, and videos publicizing David Hasselhoff's alcoholic beef hankerings. In other words, "The Internet doesn't kill people; LOLCATS kill people."

Now, while our band's mealtime conversations are usually confined to arguments about Robert Downey Jr., the general scuzziness of our current eatery, and what style of bowel movement today's fast food will bring, one afternoon in Clovis, we found ourselves talking seriously about Old Man Internet. I worried aloud, not unlike many toothless Luddites before me, that as the internet becomes more ubiquitous, it has the potential to actually make people's memory worse. If you had the internet, say, in your home, your car, on your phone, belt, shirt, and Dr. Seuss underoos, what's the point of committing facts to memory? I'm not saying we'll lose our memories completely, but, to put it another way, when's the last time you did long division? Sure, maybe you still remember how, but, meh, there are calculators everywhere.

And let's be clear. I'm not claiming that the internet will be to blame when we devolve into a race of android mole people, masturbating furiously at our computers, our t-shirts streaked with Cheeto resin. The robots will get us long before that, anyhow. I'm just saying the internet has already made memory less valuable. Personally, I resort to online driving directions with Pavlovian regularity, trust the Interwebs to solve most of my factual arguments, and have looked up the same goddamn Hollandaise recipe fifty times. My descent into slurry-brained curmudgeonitude speeds ever onward. So, since the internet will eventually replace my brain, there seems only one thing to do: make it a better place.

Which, of course, brings us to Rocky IV.

See, twenty-three years after it was released in the theatre, Rocky IV remains a benchmark of popular culture, male bonding, and horrible man-kimonos. In fact, if you have cable, you're probably watching Rocky IV right now. Since I live significantly below the poverty line, I do not have this thing you call cable but I do in fact have the Rocky box set, and I keep Rocky IV playing on a continuous loop in my squalid hobbit hole.

Now, in case you haven't seen it (and, really: may God have mercy on your soul), Rocky IV is yet another retelling of the David and Goliath fable, this time around with a decidedly Cold War flavoring. Our Goliath is Dolph Lundgren, a thespian who would later star in Masters of the Universe, Universal Soldier, and Fat Slags. Here, Dolph is Ivan Drago, the impossibly burly Russian colossus who fustigates Apollo Creed to death, which thereby obligates Rocky to avenge Apollo by abandoning his child, flying to the Soviet Union, and getting all Italian Stallion on Drago's face. Rocky's plucky performance wins over the once hostile Soviet crowd, brings out the individualist in Drago, and brings fake-Gorbichov to his feet with the stirring "If I can change...and you can change...everyone can change!" speech. To put that in perspective, it'd be like if they made a movie about the 1940 Olympics and a Jewish pole vaulter made Hitler cry. In fact, let me write that one down.

While Rocky IV is brilliant in many ways, part of me believes that Sly wrote Rocky IV on a cocktail napkin while watching the Miracle on Ice. See, Rocky IV doesn't really have much dialog. Or a script. Or what I believe you movie snobs call "scenes." No, Rocky IV is more of a delicately constructed series of montages, flashbacks, montages, screaming, and montages. Which brings us full circle, to making the internet a better place. "How so?" you might ask. Well, if we're considering Rocky IV the apex of horrible-awesomeness, I think its important to map out just what makes this movie as horribly-awesome as it is. My theory is that it goes beyond the not-all-that-touching death of Apollo Creed, beyond the fact that a man-sized 80's robot has more dialogue than the central villain, beyond the Cold War posturing, the thoroughly questionable fashion decisions, the sheer 1985-ness of it all. What makes Rocky IV truly unique is the near-complete lack of original footage, dialog, and actual on-screen happenings. Rocky IV is so badgood because it isn't actually a movie: it's a clip show.

So, with that premise, I set out to watch Rocky IV for the six hundredth time. These are my findings:

(Spoilers abound, but, really, if I've still got you by now, I'll assume you've seen Rocky IV. Or you're incredibly bored. I'm not picky.)

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0:00:00-0:00:45: Perhaps the greatest opening credit sequence in all cinema history: two boxing gloves, one upholstered to look like an American flag, the other a Soviet hammer & sickle, float around for thirty seconds then slam into each other and explode all over your face. That's called "foreshadowing." Cut immediately to Mr. T screaming.

0:00:46-0:03:29: Forty-six seconds in and we're already flashing back. The rest of our credits are a montaged rehash of Mr. T. tenderizing Rocky to the tune of "Eye of the Tiger," followed by Stallone's "improbable" comeback. But wait! Then we're treated to the entire last scene of Rocky III, which might be amusing had I not watched Rocky III last night. Did I mention I don't have a job?

0:03:30-0:14:21: Our first spell of new footage not entirely comprised of boxing apparel explodinating everywhere is actually a rather long one. I begin to rethink my hypothesis. Our new footage does contain Rocky's son slow-dancing with a robot, which is weird and wrong.

0:14:22-0:14:50: Honorable mention to this scene, where Rocky and Apollo actually watch Rocky II during Rocky IV. It's like the play "The Murder of Gonzago" within Hamlet, except with waaay better dialogue.

0:14:51- 0:23:09: Apollo agrees to ~~get pummeled to death on live TV~~ fight an "exhibition" match against Drago. Paulie calls a Russian "Comrade Bigmouth." I seriously consider playing online Boggle instead of watching the rest of this movie.

0:23:10- 0:25:44: Nothing says streamlined plotting like a two and a half minute James Brown performance, especially when James makes no attempt to lip sync into the microphone. The song? "Living in America." It's about how awesome it is to live in America. The vast amount of well-endowed dancing ladies provides ample proof.

0:25:45 - 0:40:54: After saying "Man, I feel born again" and "I feel so alive," Apollo promptly dies. "What started out as a joke," says one of the ring-side commentators, "has turned into a disaster." I feel the same way about spending four hours writing about Rocky IV.

0:40:55 -0:45:12: With Apollo dead, Rocky decides to mourn by driving around at high speeds, ignoring the road with criminal negligence, and sinking into a four minute, hallucinatory montage. Here, we're treated to flashbacks from not only Rocky I, II, and III, but Rocky IV as well, which is ponderous, since we're watching it...right now. That's called "padding." Stallone also remembers the most infamous scene in all Rockydom, a scene so badgood, it has been captured on YouTube for constant consumption:

(There's so much to love here, even beyond the horribly awkward dry-humping-in-the-crashing-waves-y-ness of it all. Personally, I enjoy how Carl Weathers is obviously jogging while Stallone sprints with the a look somewhere between "pained" and "I'm having an aneurysm.")

0:47:58 -0:48:41 & 49:44 - 50:30: Rocky flies to Russia, which is of course introduced via Survivor-scored montage. "Can any nation stand alone?" they ponder, in song. The answer, we learn, is sort of. But only if that nation has Rocky. AMERICA!!!!

0:55:02 -0:58:11: No Rocky movie is complete without the obligatory "Training Montage." While Drago trains on ultra-hyper-mega-futuristic weight machines, Rocky lifts big ass logs over his head and grunts. It's a pleasant reminder of the days when Americans were frightened by Soviet technological might. Whereas now, we're just scared of Putin. I call that progress.

0:58:12 - 59:21: Rocky's vigorous training has transmogrified him into a hipster. He's sporting a "I'm in Russia now" beard and women's pants. Apparently Adrian has arrived, but since she's horrible and shrewlike, we will ignore this development.

59:22 -1:03:31: And we're back to the training montage, which comes in at a staggering six minutes, eighteen seconds. I'm glad too, because that full minute of dialog had me exhausted.

1:03:32 - 1:07:59: Finally, it's fight time. I'm not sure when, but Rocky shaved his beard, which makes him less likely to ride his fixed-gear to a PBR happy hour.

1:08:00- 1:09:17: After the fighters enter the ring, we get a minute more of padding in the Russian national anthem. Why Drago is on the flag is never fully explained.

1:11:02-1:16:05: During the years in which all the Rockys are set, the World Boxing Association declared blocking illegal. Rocky begins the fight with his patented "deflect punches with face" strategy before he opens a cut over Drago's eye with a mean right cross.

1:16:06- 1:19:45: After two real rounds, we spend the next twelve in full-on montage mode. Rocky takes enough punishment that he'll have to retire in Rocky V due to overwhelming brain trauma...that is, until that movie sucked really hard and they made Rocky VI and he fought again and then they made made money with that so now there's going to be a Rocky VII, in which Rocky fights incontinence and Lou Gehrig's disease.

1:19:46 - 1:26:39: Rocky wins, to the surprise of absolutely no one. The final shot is indicative of Stallone's subtle impressionism: Balboa, bloodied, triumphant, draped in the American flag, cheered on by thousands of once-hostile Russians. And fade out.

First: the dry facts. Counting the spinning gloves and the post-modern "watching Rocky II within Rocky IV" scene, a full twenty-three minutes and twenty-six seconds of Rocky IV's anorexic 86 minute running time is entirely composed of montages, flashbacks, extended musical performances, and a shocking lack of anything approaching a plot. That's 27 percent of the movie, a total that, not unlike Cal Ripken's record for consecutive games played, will simply never be equaled.

But a funny thing happened on my way to the end of Rocky IV: I realized that its inherent awesomeness has little to do with the obvious lack of actual movieness and more with its bizarre, uncontainable spirit. I'm probably a sucker, but I love Rocky. I love the fact he speaks like a mentally disabled teamster; I love that he wears a man-kimino; I love that he's always the underdog. When Rocky VII comes out (and God willing, it shall), I don't even care what Rocky's doing: making pancakes, fighting hobos, convalescing, whatever. Whatever it is, you can be damn sure no one will believe in him, that he'll only have himself to lean on, and, in the end, he'll whoop that pancake's ass.

So, did we make the internet a better place? Doubtful. But I rediscovered my long dormant love of Rocky IV. It's like that friend who lets you make fun of him, doesn't take it personally, and continues surprising you, even when he shouldn't. And, in case anyone wants to know exactly how long the Rocky driving montage is, I've got them covered.

My Football Experiment

2008-09-08T12:38:00.000-07:00

Despite a total lack of knowledge, mental investment, and simple giving-a-shit-ness, a good friend of mine goaded me into joining his Fantasy Football League. My ignorance was exposed during our draft, when I selected a guy with a season-ending hernia in the fifth round, to the delight of everyone who paid some modicum of attention to the NFL. It's a safe bet that if you select a guy whose intestines have fallen into his ballsack, you're probably going to lose.

Knowing this, I still decided to give football another try yesterday. Because, you see, like most red-blooded American males, I'll watch a football game, but unlike most, I'm not really that interested. I prefer the hectic artistry of basketball, the sweaty Victorian ridiculousness of tennis, the divine boredom of baseball. Football is forty seconds of replays, screaming, and some robot dancing over a Chevy ad, followed by three seconds of action, followed by more replays, screaming, and robots doing "The Lawnmower" next to a Ford ad. Rinse, lather, repeat.

But still, I'd decided to follow along. Because, really, all fantasy football is is an excuse to send vulgar, expletive-laden emails to your friends while they're at work. I can get behind that. Indeed, I don't need an excuse to do so, though sometimes, I like having a reason. And what better reason than feigning knowledge about a sport I tolerate from afar?

So I sat down to watch. I figured, maybe there's something I'm missing. On a fundamental level, sumo-sized ubermenches running into each other at dramatic speeds then going to the sidelines to breath oxygen out of tubes is funny. So is constant and excessive celebration. I imagine wide receivers at home, putting the salad fork in the correct place, then performing an elaborate, three minute jig.

But, actually, now that I think of it, that's my problem with football: it seems so...joyless. Everything feels scripted and stilted. Teams have massive playbooks and quarterbacks have radios in their helmets and everything's so painfully thought out that the moments for improvisation are slimmer than in other sports. I want to be wowed by fantastical athleticism rather than clock management. I want reaction, not action. And while I realize that football allows for some impressive displays of speed, acrobatics, and bludgeoning splendor, it so often devolves into failed play after failed play after commercial break after commercial break that I have trouble sitting still for an entire half. I start with the best intentions before suddenly, poof, I'm playing online boggle.

So yes: I failed. I failed Sunday, thinking that maybe, like broccoli or jazz, football would be something I understood and enjoyed as I got older. It didn't. I'm sure I'll end up watching the Superbowl like every other human on planet America, but it will be as a mere bookend to yesterday's failure of understanding. You can't like everything, even if you try.

A smorgasbord of factiods gleaned on an incredibly brief "tour," at the coffee shop, and at home on my ass

2008-09-05T13:49:00.000-07:00

- Growing up in San Diego, there were pretty much two places to see shows. One was the Casbah, a venue we've played extensively, loved exclusively, and which is in possession of one of the premier Ms. PacMan machines in the continiguous United States. The other was Soma, a club named after a fake drug which became a real drug and which, at the time, served an exclusive dinner of SoCal "punk" rock. The Casbah was where I always wanted to go, but, being not yet of boozing age, I was barred from entrance; Soma frightened me and smelled sort of like cheese.*

The result of this unfavorable dilemma was myriad drives to Los Angeles for shows. And largely, these shows were at the Troubadour. I was lucky enough to see At the Drive-In in their hey day, Q and Not U with and without their bassist. I saw System of a Down there, back when they were sufficiently small and I was sufficiently stupid enough to crowd the stage at a System of a Down show. I remember spending half the time in awe of spastic, supreme rocking and the other half dodging the steel-toed Doc Martins of crowd-surfing chronic depressives.

So in a way, finally playing the Troubadour early this past week was a kind of bizarre home-coming. And I must say: sheer greatness. The staff is as professional (and skilled) as they come, the sound is ear-shatteringly fantastic, and the dude at the door filled our parking meter out of the kindness of his heart. Also, they put a door on the shitter. Bravo: "A plus."

- I watched the Republican National Convention last night in a state of mind best described as somewhere between "cautious pessimism" and "outright dread." And while I'll spare you the political commentary, I will mention one thing. There was a guy in the crowd with a sign that read, simply, "Mavrick."

Now, I'll admit I'm not the most diligent of editors. This blog has been rife with misspellings, accidental syntax errors, and the ramblings of a half-drunk banjo-entusiast at three in the mornings. But if you're going to make a sign in support of your candidate and if your sign has only one word on it, you should probably do a quick spell check on that sign. In fact, you don't even need to use a dictionary (long the tool of the high-minded liberal elite, anyhow). Just check that spelling against that surprisingly re-watchable Mel Gibson movie or that tragic Dallas-based NBA franchise**. There's an "e" in there somewhere, unless McCain is so maverick-y that he refuses to even spell the word right. If that's the case, he's going to be a mean Prosdent of Merica.

- It's nice having a new album. We've been pimping "No Midnight" for over 800 midnights now and actually holding a CD in my hand made me beam. Not so coincidentally, I put a link over there on the right if you want to buy one. I tried to do that as un-shamelessly as possible but I see I've failed.

- While enjoying a bagel at and some Sea and Cake album I couldn't quite place at the corner coffee shop today, a guy came in with a parrot on his shoulder. I was disappointed when he did not pay for his latte in gold doubloons. In fact, he was about the most unassuming guy I've ever seen: cargo shorts, skate shoes, plain t-shirt, that one haircut every barber does whether you ask for it or not; and yet, he had a parrot. I was very confused. At first I thought: maybe this parrot is his conscience and to be without it for even a second would mean a descent into an ethical morass. Then I remembered we're talking about a species of animals who believes it's nighttime when you throw a scarf over their cage. So I just sat there staring until he left, hoping the bird would poo on his shoulder. It did not happen.

- I meant to put this up last week but the complete and total lack of reliable internet access kept it under wraps. We done made a little video. Hope you enjoy:

- After a mere three days of eating Taco Bell, Burger Shack, Rubio's, and Froster's Freeze, my arteries and brain are clogged. After forty or fifty some-odd days of the same, I may be dead. If so, I'd like my tombstone read: "He Died As He Lived, Surrounded By Poison Cheeseburgers." Thank you.

- Speaking of worthy thank yous: Thanks to anyone who braved the Great American Music Hall at the ungodly hour of 8 p.m. That's the earliest we've played since we did an acoustic set at St. Jude's Home For Enfeebled and Insomniac Geriatrics. A few stalwart folks showed up at nine, asked when we were playing, then almost punched me in the eye. To those folks: apologies. Except for the man who expressed his disdain in the following sentence: "I'd be angrier if I wasn't stoned." That cracked me up.

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* The original Soma, that is. I hear there's a new one I have to visit, but the fragrance will surely be an improvement. Unless they went from "gouda-stench" to "eau de open sewer."

** Go Warriors

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

2008-08-28T09:11:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-26T10:23:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-13T13:44:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-08-05T06:58:00.000-07:00

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

2008-07-23T11:05:00.000-07:00

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

2008-07-22T12:38:00.000-07:00

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

2008-07-15T11:26:00.000-07:00

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)

2008-07-10T13:11:00.001-07:00

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

2008-07-08T12:31:00.000-07:00

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

2008-07-03T13:12:00.000-07:00

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

2008-07-01T12:49:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-27T16:02:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-06T14:16:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-02T17:01:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-28T23:01:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-21T14:40:00.001-07:00

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

2008-05-21T10:13:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-05-20T12:56:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-14T16:40:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-12T11:43:00.000-07:00

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.

Hooray for shows

2008-04-08T13:01:00.000-07:00

Greetings, one and all. We're home in San Francisco and I'm not-so-patiently waiting for a serendipitous phone call from an employer I probably forgot to contact. We're in that always excremental time between tours where you aren't around long enough to lie your way into a proper job yet around just long enough so you have to. Of course, that's why God invented temping, which, coincidentally, is the closest most people get to having a pimp.

But we're not talking about my descent into joyless whoredom. No, no. It's a good week, with not one but two shows in the Bay Area and tickets to the Warriors-Nuggets game with all the other monsters. In actuality, all those things happen within about thirty hours of each other, a fact which promises to make my Saturday an epic, Demolition Man-filled celebration of sloth. Details, details:

Friday the 11th finds us at the hotbed of conservative, fundamentalist flimflammery known as UC Berkeley at noon, followed by an evening time date at the always splendiferous Bottom of the Hill. The Berkeley show is, yes, at twelve noon in a place called "Lower Sproul Plaza," a location that surely exists but sounds like it should be in Hogsmeade. Bottom of the Hill is, well, at the bottom of Potrero Hill (see how they did that?). Here's a poster for the later:

That's a purty poster. Anyway, if you're a Bay Area-ite, please stop by at either. Or both. The UC Berkeley thing is zero dollars while Bottom of the Hill is all ages, ten bucks, and will be filled with copious revelry. You can get tickets for the Bottom show over here. See you soon, but I'll see Steven Jackson sooner.

In which Birdmonster reaches new cosmic understandings, tours Westward, and wishes pain on others

2008-03-24T12:03:00.000-07:00

You know how in those Matrix movies, there's always some dweeb using two keyboards and staring at a whole mess of computer screens cascading neon green ASCII characters who can translate that soup of letters and numbers into an understandable narrative for the movie goer? They call that "seeing the Matrix." Or maybe they don't (and by "they," I'm referring to the Wachowski brothers, who, in their spare time, make J. Edgar Hoover and Divine seem conservative), but the phrase has worked its way into our cultural vernacular. We use it when we're doing really well at Ms. Pac-Man or when we're changing lanes on the freeway at just the right moment. It invokes an understanding beyond just a superficial grasp of a situation, a more interior knowledge of not only why and how something works but why and how it will work in the following moments. I bring this up because, after three years of being in Birdmonster, I can finally see the Taco Bell Matrix.

See, when you're traveling through large swaths of the country where the only food choices are reconstituted burger-chum, liquified roast-beef slurry, and probable-meat wraps, Taco Bell becomes a great option. But Taco Bell is not a place where you can just roll in, order any old thing on the menu, and devour. No, no. There are rules, both subtle and important, that must---I repeat MUST---be followed to avoid all manner of Giardia-style agony.

My bandmates Peter and Zach have long since seen into the Taco Bell Matrix. They are, in their own special way, two white Morpheuses, but, you know, without the penchant for overly hip sunglasses and painfully lame trench coats. They taught me the first, indeed the all-important, rule of Taco Bell ordering: NO SAUCE. It doesn't matter what flavor said sauce is masquerading as---be it "baja" or "chipotle" or "I hope that isn't human sperm"---do not eat that sauce. It will do bad things to your innards and your innards will punish you for your courageous idiocy. The T Bell sauce can be replaced with it's quote unquote salsa, which, in the words of Ralph Wiggum, "tastes like burning." My Siamese-Twin-Morpheus has another rule: thou shalt eat ground beef and only ground beef. In fact, the only true Taco Bell order is, in the purest sense, several crunchy ground beef tacos and a toddler-sized cola. You must err on the side of simplicity; Taco Bell is, in essence, a fast food Zen rock garden.

It was here that we reached our impasse. The ground beef they serve at T Bell ranks somewhere between prison sloppy joe meat and dog food. I tried to eat it on a few wasteful occasions but, alas, to no avail. I was at a loss. I certainly wasn't going to Arby's, but then again, I wasn't getting a Baja Calexico Gordito Supremo either. And while Cheez-Its might've tasted better, I'm not sure they have the requisite vitamins needed to survive or not-turn-orange. It was then that I had my revelation: if two people I trust can stomach ground beef that is not ground beef, couldn't I endure chicken that wasn't chicken? And suddenly, I felt like Harold Perrineau: I could see the Matrix. All the menu items made sense. The Taco Bell Universe telescoped into a singular, streamlined vision: chicken crunchy tacos, no sauce, smothered in the burn juice. I ordered, I ate, I survived.

This might not seem like a big deal to some of you. I assure you, it is. As frightening as this sounds, I now look forward to Taco Bell, whereas gut-holocausts like Burger King, Subway, Wendy's, Arby's, Sonic, and the like remain impenetrable mysteries. The "NO SAUCE!!!" rule applies, I believe, to all non-In 'N' Out Fast Fooderies, but beyond that, we are but babes in the woods.

I first saw the Taco Bell Matrix in Clovis, New Mexico, after choosing the Bell over a drive-thru only Domino's Pizza, a choice I stand behind with both of my feet and at least one of yours. We'd just finished playing the Lyceum Theatre, a thousand-some-odd person room filled with much less that a thousand-some-odd, a theatre that once hosted Buddy Holly and John Phillips Sousa, who, wrote music only for summertime parades and Benny Hill fast-forward sketches.

By the time we left Clovis, I was literally praying for another forced T Bell stop, but the Highway Gods would not oblige. We played in Tucson at the always wondrous Plush, where I spent half the evening sleeping off the inevitable tour sickness in the back of the van before playing a show covered in feversweat. Here's a great thing about Tucson though: we had a fifth member. His name was Tom. Hi Tom. Tom played the pedal steel, which (factoid alert) is one of the most---if not the most---recently invented, widely-used instrument. Tom was one of those musicians who can sit down and improve songs he's never heard in his life with, at best, a chord sheet drawn out twenty minutes prior and at worst, a bunch of Birdmonsters staring at him smiling. He was a great sport, a great man, and part of a band called These United States.

We would then travel further Westward to San Diego, Orange County, and Los Angeles. In San Diego, I reunited with an old friend who now does Jujitsu six nights a week and is built like a real life action figure. I laughed at all his jokes. In Orange County we played with the Henry Clay People, one of whom I went to college with and saw the Murder City Devils with, which is neither here nor there, but proves something about the world, namely that it's small and that screaming-horror-movie-punk-rock brings us all together. Los Angeles found us at a gorgeous little bar called the Bordello, which looked a bit like a miniature Great American Music Hall (good), had scantily-clad bartendresses (also good, yet very L.A.), and perhaps the weakest sound man ever (definitely not good). We did a song called "I Might Have Guessed" where I play the mandolin (see the video from last post, if you will) in front of a microphone he didn't feel like turning on. Sure, he watched us play, but he couldn't be bothered to, you know, make it sound good. Oh, and Dave's mic wasn't on either. And it wasn't just us. The next band (the Afternoons, who are parts of Irving, who are both fantastic) spent their set singing into mics that were sometimes on, sometimes off, and sometimes feeding back maniacally, all while the sound man sat there in his designer black shirt, getting paid to suck professionally. I hope he goes to Taco Bell and drinks a cup of Baja Sauce.

And now? Well, now, we're home. It's noon-ish Monday and we're finally finalizing the sequence for the upcoming, still unnamed, next Birdmonster album in an hour or so. So I should probably change out of my robe, wash the egg yolk off the cast iron, and get moving. If you're a Pacific Northwesterner, we'll be up in your general vicinity this weekend(ish) for shows in Portland, Seattle, and Spokane (twice). If you're not, well, you probably aren't getting rained on as much as they are, so take off that vinyl hat. You look ridiculous.

In which Birdmonster sleeps in New Mexico, gets saddened by bad film and, yet again, gets all Texas-y. Also: free music!

2008-03-21T13:28:00.000-07:00

Greetings from Clovis, New Mexico. We're here in a rather bizarre little hotel which has, on the one hand, a coin-operated Battletoads game, a regulation-size Ping Pong table, and one of those over-chloronated swimming pools capable of chemical burns and Michael Jackson-esque skin bleachery. On the other hand, it smells like cow shit. I guess if you live in a place where the bovine populous outnumbers the human one, you get used to the aroma. Let's just say they won't be bottling Eau de Outside Our Hotel anytime soon.

Clovis is about as close to Texas as you can get without actually being inside the Lone Star State. In fact, the final town we passed last evening was called Farewell, Texas, which is oh so cute, I know, and is close enough to the central time zone line that, if you played your cards right, you could have a twenty-five hour Christmas or two New Year's Eves. We spent a good six days in Texas this year, doing the San-Antonio-just-don't-make-fun-of-the-Spurs-or-the-Alamo-and-you'll-be-alright-thing, the free-pants-music-music-music-South-By-cacophony-thing, and the oh-my-Lord-how-was-that-so-effing-cool?-Dallas-thing. We also watched the Miami Vice movie that came out a year or so back, which is perhaps the worst movie we've ever seen on tour, a list that includes Crackerjack, Hide and Seek, and Showdown, a veritable trifecta of motion picture incompetence. I've already filed a class action suit against Michael Mann and Colin Ferrell for emotional distress.

But I digress. This year's journey's to Austin was far mellower than usual. Whereas prior years had found us playing several shows a day in infernal temperatures, this year we played a single show at the Fader fort, recorded a couple brief sessions, and got our fair share of free crap while wearing last year's free crap, all in a pleasantly mellow clime. South By is, by nature, a bit overwhelming, what with the four billion bands and industry folk schmoozing frantically, everywhere, but there's still time for enjoyment. For example, we saw what ranks among my favorite shows---ever---at the aforesaid Fader spot. The band? N.E.R.D. In a world where great drummers are in short supply, it seems plainly unfair that N.E.R.D. gets two, but goddamn did it sound good. It was one of those shows where I actually laughed, not at the band, mind you, but because cheering and hooting just weren't quite enough. It was the laugh of some maniacal supervillian who, having captured and tortured a tuxedoed secret agent, ransomed the head of the U.N., and fire bombed Orlando, can only marvel at the inarguable awesomeness unfolding in front of him. So yeah: they were alright.

We also did some fancy pants recordings here and there too and while only one of those has made it onto the tubes of the interwebs, we're proud of it. The always fine folks at WOXY were the catalysts here and please, do check it out.

But South By is still South By. It can be a little Disney Worldy. The crowd is 90% exhausted bands, beer reps, girls hawking Nintendo products, 'zine peddlers, A&R guys, PR girls, B&O Railroad---people, in other words, with other things to do. That's why you go to Dallas.

See, Dallas was one of those shows. We started out playing to the bartender, the other bands, and a handful of dedicated stalwarts and ended up sweating and hooting to a bar full of blotto folks shaking tambourines, screaming requests, wrapping duct tape around my arm, stomping, and generally, well, being Texans. And that's a big compliment. It's essentially the opposite of doing the much maligned crossed-arm-hipster-"Is this cool enough for me to enjoy?" dance that's sweeping the nation. So thanks Dallas. You are the little straw that stirs our coffee.

In which Birdmonster escapes Arizona unscathed, flees to Texas, and quickly replaces its lost friend

2008-03-15T14:53:00.000-07:00

Arizona was the last contiguous state admitted into the Union, is the political home of the least-frightening-but-not-by-much Republican Presidential candidate, and the roost of a fatally flawed but lovable basketball team. It is a place, much like Palm Springs, that was largely uninhabitable before the advent of air conditioning and, much like Palm Springs, it is a place that is teeming with old men in funny pants and old ladies who give you those hard candies that look like strawberries but taste like that fruit-flavored wax dentists use. It is also a state that, historically, has crippled Birdmonster: we've had three vans over the life of our little band and Arizona---no joke---has crippled every one, including the one we were forced to buy inside Arizona, after the 48th state reduced our prior van to the vehicular equivalent of a tubercular leper. In the 2006-07 fiscal year, Birdmonster actually contributed 2% of Arizona's gross state product, barely behind crappy Southwestern, coyote-themed art and far ahead of the Cardinals, who, by all accounts, ceased being a professional sports team around the time Tecmo Super Bowl came out.

A thing like that can give you a complex. As soon as the border is in sight, I say three Hail Marys, a Shema Yisreal or two, and a Salah. I also sacrifice a cloven-hoofed beast, just to cover our bases.

So it was a surprise when, this trip, while still covered in pig's blood, we made it to the show without anything approaching a catastrophe. We exited the van gingerly (I expected the earth to rend apart, personally) and loaded out with extreme care. We played a show to more than six stalwarts and nothing exploded or melted, then sat around all evening waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Amazingly, it never did.

Now, I'm not saying we've conquered Arizona. That'd be like saying Apollo Creed got some good punches in against Ivan Drago. But what we did do is travel from one side of Arizona to the other without hemorrhaging cash, played a damn fine show to some damn fine folks, and lived to tell the story. Special thanks to Kevin from So Much Silence for putting the evening together, letting us sleep on his various couches, and play his hilariously out-of-tune piano at three thirty in the morning. Kudos.

Texas, on the other hand, has always been kind to the Monster. Whereas Arizona has traditionally stabbed us in the shower, Texas has always healed our wounds with energetic concert goers, incredibly cheap beer, and the total absence of fruits or vegetables. And, where Arizona had once melted my bass amp only to have Texas provide another (albeit far more expensive) one, Texas once again came through for us in the clutch, this time with another mandolin. The lesson, of course, is that Texas giveth, while Arizona taketh away. Well, hopefully not anymore. We're traveling back through AZ in three or four days. I hope this doesn't bite us in the ass. I'll be wearing chain mail.

So, yeah, a mere four days after the shattered corpse of my mandolin was found in the darkness of our van back seat, a San Antonio store called Spacetone Music provided a new, strangely similar, potato-bug looking mando. And, although this new one was roughly a third of the price, it's somehow far superior, namely because you can play it above the fourth fret without it sounding like a middle school orchestra playing Hot Cross Buns. This was rather fortuitous, as we had several acoustic thingies to do in Austin at South By this year and, while we all love the banjo, if I play it too much, I start wearing overalls and getting this urge to eat Funyuns.

(And by the way, when we get the recordings of those sessions, we'll post them. Hopefully later in the week. Back to the regularly scheduled blog.)

San Antonio, as always, was lovely. Instead of the Limelight, this time around we played the Rock Bottom Tattoo Bar, a decidedly grimy venue whose floor was covered in some strange colored water that was dripping from a ceiling made seemingly of garbage bags and duct tape. We played with some great acts, including the Whigs who are worth crowding the stage, trampling toddlers, and elbowing your mother for.

Austin followed San Antonio and Dallas followed that, but, judging by the carpal tunnel cramping I'm getting, I've been typing too long. We shall return shortly with stories of SXSW and our show in Dallas (easily the most fun I've had all year). Until then, I'll be walking around the greater Dallas area in my Warriors hat, hoping not to get pummeled. Au revoir.

A brief something to listen to

2008-03-12T09:04:00.000-07:00

So, I was writing this post about our unusually triumphant jaunt through greater Arizona---a state which has taken from us countless hours, a bass amp, our second and altogether worst van, and a good percentage of my dignity---when I realized we were mere hours away from Austin. This not only means a probable heat wave and some definite tinnitus, but, in the purposes of the interweboblogosphere, free music. Yes, yes. We're taking an hour or so to play some songs for our old friends at WOXY and, if you so desire, you can hear it live. We'll be on at 3 PM Central, 1 PM Pacific, 4 PM Eastern, and 5 AM tomorrow in Pyongyang, which I felt you needed to know. There will probably be some sort of interview too, during which I'll say something I wish I hadn't and the room will go silent and then the Feds will come. I'm certainly looking forward to it.

In which Birdmonster confronts staggering intelligence, leaves home again, and, like Elton John, has a Funeral for a Friend

2008-03-09T16:39:00.000-07:00

I've never been one of those misanthropes who, upon each of life's many screwjobs, throws up his hands at the overall idiocy of humanity. "Everybody's an idiot," is one of those things you'll never hear me say---it's like that saying: If you meet ten assholes today, maybe you're the asshole. To wit: if you think everyone's a dumbass, I'd recommend checking your criteria.

Unless you're at U-Haul. Then everyone's a dumbass.

See, we'd been killing our van (the Donald) for the past few years by not tugging a trailer; the shocks needed replacement and sometimes, there's this peculiar noise when you back up, like a robot with emphysema. So we decided to bite the bullet, get a hitch installed, and rent a trailer. Unfortunately, this necessitated not one, but two trips to U-Haul, which is essentially like going to the lobotomy ward at St. Judes Hospital for Adult Mongoloids. See, when you call U-Haul to make a reservation, they keep you on the phone for an hour an a half so that when you come in the next day for your hitch-installation appointment, they can confess that, no, you have no reservation, but they can take that information they took yesterday over the phone yet again, just so long as you're willing to sit there and watch an eighteen year old hunt and peck on the keyboard like some Ukrainian peasant whose knowledge of computers is confined to watching Gorbachev's kid play Tetris in a state sponsored video from 1989. Oh, and you'll get your hitch, even if it takes three times as long as you were advised. Just don't reserve a trailer because there's no way you're getting the size you ordered, but if you want a trailer anyway, they'll do their best to charge you for the only size they have left because, well, ~~the customer's always right~~ the customer can always suck their balls.

So, say you make it through that an your have a trailer and a hitch. Now you want it installed? That'll take another hour and a half, regardless of the fact you were told it would take twenty minutes. In the meantime, you can wander around in circles, hollering invective. It'll be fun. Promise.

In the end, the best you can do is chalk it up as some bizarre rite of passage. You are mentally prepared for trips to the DMV, gas stations in central Ohio, and conversations with George Bush apologizers. It's like developing callouses on your brain. Of course, if I were you, I'd just take my word for it.

The end result is, thankfully, that the Donald is running like a dream, albeit a dream that smells vaguely of socks and rotten bananas. It's like sitting on a barcalounger that's sitting on a cloud that's can't go faster than sixty miles an hour.

And with that, we were back on tour. We are back on tour. Either way. In fact: both. Unfortunately, the overwhelming dumbassitude of U-Haul rubbed off on me personally, as I left all my keyboard doohickeys in my folk's garage in San Diego, which I discovered last night, right before I found out that my mandolin had been broken in half by a careless foot, right before I (yet again) spent a good few minutes wandering around a parking lot screaming words I'd rather not write, as my mother reads the blog from time to time. But more on that later. Rest in peace, little mando.

Our first night was San Diego's Casbah, which, admittedly, is pretty much the only place we play down in my childhood home, but if you played Scollari's Office the first trek down, you'd stick to the Casbah too. See, at the Casbah, they book less than eight bands, you're never really in danger of getting shivved, and no one screams "ROCK IT CALI-STYLE BROS!!!" at you the entire set. These are good things, although I'm not personally opposed to rocking it, Cali-style. I've plenty of nice things to say about the Casbah---the attentive and professional sound guys, the Churchillian amount of free booze, the astonishingly fantastic Ms. Pac-Man in the back room---but I've said them all before. I'm just happy we can keep coming back. It was always that club I wanted to go to in high school, but couldn't because it was never all-ages and my fake ID claimed I was a forty-year old Hindu. It's good to be old.

The jaunt to Los Angeles was, as always, too long, too slow, and filled with brown air, but it was worth it. The Pehrspace wasn't the cushiest club you've ever seen, but a $5 cover and a BYOB policy tends to make for happy evenings. Indeed it did. In fact, it was probably our favorite L.A. show to date. There were birthday girls, an old friend out for her first Birdmonster show, much dancing, and nobody doing the too-effing-cool-for-this, arms-crossed, Los Angeles non-dance.

That night had a little sadness as well: the aforementioned, mangled corpse of my mandolin. Lame. The worst part is that the thing was over a hundred years old (made by some long-dead gentleman named W.C. Cole in Boston) and that, in that century-plus, over who-knows-how-many-owners, no other buffoon managed to fustigate* that fragile little fellow. And then came me. And there went that. Let's just say I wouldn't recommend letting me hold your baby. Or your fine china. Or your cup of coffee. I'm like Mr. Magoo over here.

However, we've let that go. I'm carrying it's skeleton home for a proper burial, to be attended by my banjo, Dave's old Stella nylon string, Pete's old wheezy harmonica, and Zach's collection of cracked cymbals. Services will be at noon. Bring tissues.

We did the Arizona thing yesterday but, given our history with Arizona, I can't write about the state until we've actually left. In fact, writing that sentence just gave me heart palpitations. Let's just forget about the whole thing, Arizona. Just let us out alive.

Until soon.

* Fustigate is a perfectly cromulent word. It embiggens the soul.

Of Brown Tooth, Burritos, and Music, Music, Music

2008-02-19T13:02:00.000-08:00

The city of New York is rightfully famous for its cuisine. New York is where bagels taste like bagels, where pizza can make you cry, and where hot dogs that fester in off-colored water are somehow appetizing. When Sinatra sang "if I can make it there, I'll make it anywhere," he wasn't talking about success, he was talking about food. He also wasn't talking about burritos.

Because, see, New York burritos are shit. Sloppy Joe meat inside inside a leather tortilla does not a burrito make. That goes for you too Michigan, and you Chicago, and Ohio, please, Ohio, don't make me come over there. The rule, essentially, is this: if your state isn't touching Mexico, I will not eat your Mexican food. It's that simple.

So when our producer Tom arrived from New York that first week, I wasn't that surprised to hear him hankering for a burrito. I wasn't too surprised the next day when, less than twenty hours later, Tom wanted another. I wasn't all that surprised when we returned for the third and then fourth days in a row. In fact, it's hard to say when I really did feel surprised. I suppose it was when Tom's head turned into a burrito, somewhere during the third week.

Of course, we're getting ahead of ourselves here---in fact, I just deleted a very long "history of the burrito" paragraph out of common human decency. We should still be talking about the beginning, or, as the case may be...

The First Burrito
---------------------
The front door at Hyde Street Studios is always locked. As we've mentioned before (and trust me, will mention again), the Tenderloin is like the Thriller video and it's best to keep the brain-eaters outside when you're working. But that first day, no one was answering the door. We knocked. We kicked. We pounded. Then, we noticed the phone. You know how in action movies, there's always a bomb and Van Damme or Vin Diesel has to choose which wire to cut while that little digital clock ticks down interminably slow? That's how touching that phone felt. Which end has been in whose orifice? Which bumbling lunatic has spent all night calling his home planet? These are questions you never wants to ask yourself. Unfortunately, there was no other way in. I would wash my ear a hundred times that day.

That first afternoon was, let's face it, a bit boring. Microphones got placed, cords were run from room to room, engineers talked in abbreviations I couldn't hope to understand. We did a lot of crosswords and played some banjo. And then, of course, we got a burrito. But when we returned, we jumped right in. Our strategy was to get as many live takes as we could, so we set up Pete in a little glass cave in the corner, while the non-singing Birdmonsters cavorted around in the main room, which housed all manner of drums, guitars, and keyboard flavored instruments. And then we started.

By the end of the evening, we'd finished two songs and discovered our local liquor store, of which: more below. But that first night was a special one. We recorded one of my favorite tracks, we discovered damn near instantaneously that Tom was the perfect choice for the album, and I didn't get ear cancer from the phone.

The Second, Third, and Fourth Burritos
----------------------------------------------------
It didn't take long to fall into a routine. By our second dayrrito, we were arriving in the afternoon, enjoying trucker-strength in-studio coffee, and tracking about four songs daily. With keyboards, microphones, mandolins, and all manner of noise makers scattered around the room, choosing which song to do was never predicated on "what won't be a pain in the ass right now" but rather "what do we actually want to play." This was a luxury thus far not afforded to the Monster and we took full advantage.

Now, I've griped about the Tenderloin but here I should give it the props it fully deserves. See, if we were recording in the Minnesota wilderness or a barn in Oregon or even in the Mission District of our fair City, I would have, you know, actually wanted to go outside. Not at Hyde Street. It was like being an exiled Russian author in Siberia, except, you know, we actually had a cheerful outlook on life, and have yet to offend any tsars, communist party officials, or avuncular men with bizarre noggin stains. So, in other words, we just plugged along. There was really no reason to do otherwise. In fact, the only refuge we had was a place called Brown Tooth.

Actually named The New Princess Market, Brown Tooth earned its moniker when, on the first day, a gentleman with a mouth full of rot and fungus accused David of stealing some kind of bagged snack 'em. Dave claims this man worked there, but, on umpteen subsequent trips, he was never seen again. Still, the name stuck, and Brown Tooth become our daily destination for beers, cheap loaves of bread, newspapers, deodorant, and all manner of various sundries. Brown Tooth was also the home of the failed product. You couldn't buy Triscuits at Brown Tooth, but you could get Low-Fat Rye Triscuits, in case, maybe, you're a vaguely overweight mohel. You can't get peanut butter or jelly, but you can get Goobers Peanut Butter and Jelly in the same jar, which, most likely, has been opened and sampled by a customer who you wouldn't even share a bus seat with, much less some sandwich innards. Brown Tooth was the place where shivering drug addicts would emerge from the rain, cut in front of you in line, and buy six snowcones. It was, in its own weird way, a microcosm of the Tenderloin. It is, let's hope, a place I'll never go again.

But enough about Brown Tooth. By Tuesday night, we had half an album in the bag, and each of those was an honest-to-goodness live take, from the drums on down to the vocals. In fact, pretty much the whole album is that way. Sure, there are overdubs and harmonies and the like, but the album is, at its base, a live one. And, for us Birdmonsters, it was the right move.

And so we begin again

2008-02-12T13:15:00.000-08:00

If I stop and think, I can remember the exact moment when my brain stopped working normally. It was a Tuesday. We had been recording for almost a week and half and I'd been doing that 18th century-Frenchman thing wherein you wear the same clothes for weeks on end, regardless of their slowly advancing funk, which is just a bad idea if the sweatshirt in question is white and you have a penchant for dribbling coffee down your chin. I was on the phone that day, talking to my girlfriend in an alley behind a wrought-iron gate that we later discovered was a popular urinal for passing hobos, and I asked her how the season premiere of LOST was. After a moment of speechlessness, she informed me that no, she had not seen season premiere, as that would have necessitated a car ride with either Dr. Emmett Brown or Marty McFly. "Ah," I remember thinking. "So, there's a Thursday now. Why was I not informed?"

See, we weren't going outside much. There was a rather pesky storm that hung around San Francisco like a family relative with foot fungus who watches TV-poker all day and drinks all your beer and, when you couple the weather with the always frightening environs of the Tenderloin, well, lets just say no one got a tan in the last few weeks. In fact, I'm sallow and translucent. Sad to say.

At this point, I'm coming back. I understand today is another Tuesday (they just keep coming, it turns out) and we're on a self-imposed two-day break from mixing. I went outside yesterday, saw humans with jobs and some semblance of hygiene, fell back in love with our City (or maybe it was just civilization), watched "King of Kong," and ate food that didn't end in "uritto" for the first time in, well, some time. Bear with me. I'm still re-calibrating.

So, with no small amount of effort, let us hop in that aforementioned Delorian and go back to the beginning. I think it was a Friday. It could, of course, have been a Wednesday.

------

The joke started on the first album. We had a grand total of three days in a real studio before going to our then-Producer's house to finish, well, everything. For four guys who'd squirreled away money from their straight-jobs for months just to throw together their first album, three days seemed like putting on your kid sister's First Communion dress: really tight, vaguely horrible, yet incredibly exciting. With this dramatically truncated schedule, with essentially our entire budget front-loaded into three days, and without having ever done anything like this before, it was definitely time for concentration, focus, and clutchness, which I'm aware is not a word but will be using anyway. In other words, it was Robert Horry time.

Now: I know. "More basketball," you're thinking. "First Shaq and now Robert Horry. You are a scrawny white boy. You must remember this." Thank you. I do. But when I think of being good when you have to be good, I think of Robert Horry, who, despite being one of the laziest men in professional sports, is also known as Big Shot Bob. You don't leave Big Shot Bob open when the game's on the line. He will make it and he will grimace at you and you will be sad.

Anyway, it's become one of those stupid running jokes friends have. When someone's suffering through the flu on tour and has to play for 45 minutes while sweating and hallucinating, it's Robert Horry time. When you have to drive 100 miles in an hour or you won't be able to play Toronto after the Canadian border tried to confiscate all your merchandise, it's Robert Horry time. When you have to eat beef brisket for breakfast, again, it's Robert Horry time. Granted, it isn't that funny, but we've spent three paragraphs getting here, so, uh, sit tight.

So here was the plan: the day before we recorded (WednesFriThursday, I believe that was), I set out to get a Robert Horry tattoo. Not a real one mind you, as my body is a temple of the holy ghost. No, a henna tattoo was what I was after. I figured it would be hilarious to roll up my sleeve on our first day of recording, say "it's Robert Horry time" and, you know, actually have Robert Horry on my arm.

Since I live near Haight-Ashbury, that famous district once home to a burgeoning counterculture, now home to the mush-brained remnants of that selfsame counterculture, I figured this would be easy. Why? Because henna is from India and hippies love India. I walked in the first place I saw, chatted up the European lass at the counter, and produced the following picture:

"I want this is henna on my arm," I said.

"It is impossible," she said.

Hmm. Maybe a Pistons fan. "Why's that?"

"Too intricate."

Here, I looked at the henna book on the counter. It was filled with all manner of looping spirals, paisley teardrops, and carefully constructed flora. I was confused. "This stuff looks way harder," I mused.

"I cannot shade in henna," she said. "It could only be an outline."

I thought for a moment: a miniature albino Robert Horry is better than no Robert Horry at all. "That's ok," I said. "How much would it run me?"

"It is not okay," she said. "I cannot do it."

"Why not?"

"Because I cannot."

"Ah," I said. "I see."

But really, I didn't see. I still don't see. If I want to waste some money and have the racially ambiguous torso of Big Shot Bob on my forearm, isn't it my right to have it? The medium didn't seem totally averse to my plot; it was just this woman, I told myself. She would rather draw squiggles on tourist's wrists. That's okay. Robert Horry is an intimidating man. So I went down the street and found another henna place. Then another. And another. Then I went home with bare arms, tried to draw a stick-figure Robert Horry in Sharpee, only to have it look more like Oswald Cobblepot, before washing him off dejectedly and breaking down in the bathroom, a la The Crying Game, except, you know: no trannies.

In the end, when we loaded into Hyde Street that first day, I was Bob-less. But by that evening, while enjoying the first of many cheap American lagers and playing an almost-in-tune piano, nothing mattered less. After all, Robert Horry was a joke; making a new album was serious.

...ah, who am I kidding? I'm still pissed.

A first dispatch from the studio

2008-01-24T11:43:00.000-08:00

We're five days into recording and I've officially lost all track of month, year, time, and reality in general. Sunday or Tuesday? Afternoon or evening? Rottweiler or centaur? These questions matter not to a Jedi. And due to this overall lack of cognizance, the details forthcoming may or may not be true. But veracity isn't what we're concerned with here. It's more a Impressionist thing. You know, if the Impressionists drank Tecate and played banjo. Which, really: prove to me they didn't.

This all began last Saturday. I spent Friday night not-sleeping and not-letting-anyone-else-sleep like the toddler-before-Christmas I knew I'd end up becoming. It had been a good year and half since we last recorded and that session was fraught with time constraints, questionable instruments, and an overall lack of good sense and experience. At this point, I wouldn't call us "mature" per se---I'm still laughing at this, for example---but we've certainly matured. We've gathered vintage. Eighteen months ago, we were a Charles Shaw whereas now we're, uh, whatever costs a little more than that. Carlos Rossi, maybe. I don't know.

So after a sleepless Friday night and a breakfast of "natural" cereal (which is really just a euphemism for "tastes like some twigs"), after a morning packing up everything we own that makes sounds, and after a harrowing drive to the studio, through the Tenderloin, a drive which at best reminds you of playing "Paperboy" and at worst gives you heart palpitations and an unhealthy dosage of misanthropy, after that, we were ready to go. Well, not quite. All manner of loading was done, all manner of tones were dialed in, but really: blah, blah, blah. What I really want to talk about is Tom.

In a profession where crazy eyes, hunchbacks, and borderline mania are the norm, Tom is a breath of fresh air. (Literally: before our first album, we had a face to face chat with a prospective producer whose halitosis wilted a large sycamore in the vicinity. Needless to say, we went elsewhere). And since a recording session is essentially just the band and the producer, its important to find someone whose personality, tastes, and sense of humor are compatible with your own. And, beyond the assumed normality of dental hygiene, Tom is working out perfectly. He's low key, spontaneous, and hilarious. And yeah, I know it sounds like I'm trying to hook you up with him on a blind date, but really, I'm not. He's a castrato anyhow.

So honestly, by the end of the first day, we knew everything would be fine. We tracked a pair of songs in the evening and it just seemed, well, it seemed effortless. Everything sounded like we wanted it to, nothing caught on fire. And five days later, we're nearly done getting the skeleton of the album on tape.

I only wish we could be showing him a less squalid part of our fair city. Unfortunately, we're in the Tenderloin. Instead of the Golden Gate Bridge, Angel Island, the cultural milestones of North Beach, or the best urban park going, Tom's seen prostitutes of mysterious gender, drug dealer-hobo fisticuffs, brown-mouthed liquor store attendants, public defecation, and a general lack of persons with employment, good sense, and the gumption to shower once a week. I went grocery shopping so I'd never have to go outside. And, while a twice daily peanut butter and jelly habit might prevent me from seeing something depressing yet hilarious, like a man with underwears on his head playing chess with a cardboard box, it also prevents me from seeing something depressing and downright haunting, like that man losing to the cardboard box.

But Tom's been here before. He has friends here, knows the names of various neighborhoods and the names of far more low-rent strip clubs and bars where there are probably roosters fighting in the back room. It's not as if he'll leave San Francisco thinking it's forty-seven square miles are nothing more than one big George Romero movie. Which is good.

Making good on those answers

2008-01-23T11:42:00.001-08:00

I'm here on my couch, in my robe, drinking coffee out of a mug that sports a torso of a mallard and the phrase "not playing with a full duck," laughing at that pun for the four hundredth time, and it dawns on me: I haven't put the crossword answers up. Now, I can either make excuses like "I'm recording an album" or "I was busy watching Tom Cruise cackle maniacally at nothing at all" or I can just admit I blew it. Of course, we have been recording an al---nevermind.

Here are the answers to the aforementioned crossword. Complaints, gripes, bitches, moans, vitriol, and mail filled with weaponized diseases can be left in the comments or sent to my house. More soon:

And now, for something completely different

2008-01-16T12:59:00.001-08:00

I'm aware of most of my Grandma tendencies. I enjoy making small talk with neighbors in the street, I can get down with Tony Bennett, and if I had a purse, you better believe it'd be stuffed with butterscotch. Ever since a particularly unsightly accident in which I concussed one of my closest friends, I drive at a speed more closely associated with the elderly, except, you know, I've still got depth perception and don't choose to wear those geriatric sunglasses that everyone over the age of 65 is required to wear by law. You know, these. But the oldest and most persistent of my Granny habits is a daily addiction to the crossword.

Now, sure, crossworders come in all adult ages, certainly, but to me, the crossword will always and forever be associated with my Mom's Mom. She was voracious. Every morning I slept at her house, I'd awake to that morning's crossword, completed completely, sitting on the kitchen table next to what I then craved in the newspaper: the comics. Specifically, Calvin & Hobbes. I think I may have enjoyed Garfield at some point in my life, but I've had those memories removed, Eternal Sunshine-style, because of the groaning agony that strip now produces daily. Of course, it took me until college to become any good at the crossword. That skill was honed largely in thousand-person lectures about subjects I'd soon get "D"s in, largely because I wasn't paying any attention, as, you know, I was actively trying to remember some six letter Greek god with an "R" and an "M" in the middle. Looking back, not my best decision, I'll admit, but in a way, it was strangely more valuable. After all, the crossword has taught me about all manner of vaguely useful things: geography (AGRA and URAL), arcane, discontinued pesticides (DDT), and the unorthodox spelling of Popeye's girlfriend's surname (OYL), while the professor I was ignoring was probably yammering on about Faulknerian wordplay or Hopi genital size. I think I made the right decision.

Crosswords have been around, in their current form, for roughly a century. It's odd to think that when they first appeared in newsprint, they were something of a fad, a fad that, at the time, most resembled the American population's lust for Mah Jong. Newspaper men and cultural prudes condemned the practice as fleeting, bogus, and silly, a diagnosis that should have been saved for pogs or troll dolls or any of the other risible absurdities that followed---and yes, Crocs count. Sorry. Crosswords eventually appeared in most American newspapers, either originally or syndicated, even in the papers that bemoaned their supposed idiocy and frivolity, most notably the New York Times, the paper which editorialized against the puzzles diligently before becoming the purveyor of what essentially is the gold standard of all crosswords. That's called "irony."

So, somehow, after spending oh so many mornings and far too many lectures and a few guilty times at my desk at work doing the crossword, I got it in my head that I should try and make one. I figured, "hey, I know all the ridiculous non-words they use, I'm well-practiced; how hard can it be?" The answer: really effing hard. I spent a large majority of my secular Jesus day vacation trying to make one. I had weird, obsessive dreams I haven't had since a relatively embarrassing Tetris addiction I suffered when I was nineteen. My brain started hurting. Yet, after probably twenty aggregate hours staring at a piece of pentimento-laden graph paper, I ended up finishing on the plane back home while my sister stared at me, probably praying she was adopted. If I'd been wearing a collar, I would have popped it.

Now, with Birdmonster about to cloister itself in a dank studio for three weeks, the upcoming posts will be, largely, about the album. After all, that's the idea of this here blog dealy, and, after months of practicing and writing, we're like a bunch of toddlers on Christmas Eve, only if Christmas was twenty-one, twelve hour days with ear goggles on. We start Saturday. But today, we take a pre-emptive break and, like so many of my other mornings, we do a crossword.

(And since I didn't spend several hundred dollars on a fancy-pants program, you'll have to print this one out. Sorry)

Clues:

ACROSS:
--------------
1- Shady deal
5- Floral groupings
9- The cheap seats
13- Face in Grenada
14- For an additional time
15- Bootlegger Butler of fiction
16- Bus beginner?
17. Org. for Cardinal, Volunteers
18- Speak
19- What this puzzle was nothing but, once
21- Kingsley Shacklebot's vocation
22- Brad and Ed played him in Fight Club
23- Digit
25- U2 single, 1992
28- 60's, 70's Browns quarterback Brad
32- Sport which involves paddling?
37- "______ little dream"
38- Consumer
39- What's hidden in 9 & 35 down, 19 & 59 across
41- Avoid
42- The Great Desert
44- Civilized meal necessities
46- Taken without permission
47- Lemony drink
48- Lemony auto
51- Dio's genre
56- Sambuca flavorer
59- Nervous system study
62- Bad, bad first name of song
63- Give's partner
64- Beloved
65- What a parent might take on a big day?
66- Free from fluctuations
67- Overhang
68- Cubs slugger Sammy
69- A pause in the music
70- Part of a RR sched.

DOWN
----------
1- "Move over"
2- Like a Waters film
3- Steve's successor in Journey
4- 23rd State in the Union
5- Causer of hardship
6- Contain, abbr.
7- Gave kings or queens
8- The sound waves make
9- What the Knights of Ni were, pre-Aurthur
10- It may be brought up
11- Ralph and Milhouse's bus driver
12- Hip ender
15- Aimless sort
20- Corn or cotton
24- Not yet stained
26- Wanderers
27- Producer of 25 across
29- It's often had with sushi
30- Recent Romanian President Constantinescu
31- Brief sleeps
32- One may be sour, perhaps
33- "___ the sign", 90's lyric
34- Brand of 35 down
35- Fizzy, fruity drink
36- Wildebeest
40- Probable hr. of homecoming
43- What might ruin a pirate's photo?
45- Verne sea captain
49- It takes you down a line?
50- Exit
52- One who should be respected
53- "How ___ Fried Worms"
54- Cactus juice
55- Troubadour's instruments
56- Mount Blanc is their highest peak
57- Famous Roman fiddler
58- It's more often brown than green
60- Four stringed instruments, familiarly
61- 90's rock musical

The Where

2008-01-13T12:46:00.000-08:00

When selecting a recording studio, it's important to examine a variety of attributes. Are there instruments on site? What is the room made of? How much will it run you a day? Who else has recorded there? How many low priced hookers can you fit in the control room? These are issues of paramount importance.

For some time, we'd assumed we'd be traveling outside of our San Francisco home to record in less familiar surroundings. We did Los Angeles last time, but the poison cocktail of cat dander, couch hopping, apocalypse-flavored air quality, and general lack of a proper night's sleep soured us on a repeat trip. We tossed around ideas of New York, Minneapolis, Ohio but nixed them because, respectively: too expensive, too effing cold, too Ohio-y. That was before we stumbled serendipitously on Hyde Street Studios.

The bad first: it's in one of the scuzziest, stinkiest, bum-laden, pimp-infected areas of San Francisco. It's not the sort of studio you step outside from for a breath of fresh again: again, the air smells more of B.O. and methamphetamines. It's the sort of area where you might wear a SARS mask, a nose plug, earmuffs, and a condom, just in case. Better yet: I'm just going to have Zach roll me into the studio in one of those human-sized plastic hamster spheres.

Now, the good: everything else. Hyde Street Studios began back in 1969, when hippies were still making curious and innovative music instead of demanding my nickels for weed on Haight Street. San Francisco, as you probably know, was a mecca for these smelly artists and many of them, including Credence Clearwater Revival, Jefferson Airplane, Crosby Stills Nash & Young, Jerry Garcia, recorded some of their early work at Hyde Street. Of course, such success was not to last (said in the style of those "Behind the Music" voiceover, please). A conglomerate named "Filmways" bought Hyde Street and, when time came to replace and renovate, Filmways politely told the management at Hyde Street to suck an egg. While other studio both in the bay and nearby were upgrading to fancy 24 tracks and other once-modern conveniences, Hyde Street was like a geriatric dinosaur and business and employees fled to hipper, nicer studios. That is, until 1980, when the studio was purchased by a partnership of forward viewing music-types, updated, and reopened as it is today.

At least, uh, that's what their website tells me. I read it so you wouldn't have to.

Of course, by 1980, those trailblazing hippies that made Hyde Street so interesting and successful had long since either stopped making music, broken up the band, drugged themselves into an eternal stupor, or gotten straight jobs at brokerages specializing in junk bonds and currency trading. So who has peopled the studio since? A partial list must include Dead Kennedys, Bonnie Raitt, Cake, Digital Underground, Willie Nelson, P.J. Harvey, The Melvins, Tupac, Primus, Knapsack, Green Day, Prince, and E40 (who, really, might be the coolest man on the planet. Hell, Santa Claus is his homie).

Those names are nice and all but all they prove that the studio is a legit operation. I own albums by most of those people but still, something wasn't quite right. We liked the vibe of the studio, the copious keyboards and pianos on site, the availability, the price: everything was right where we wanted it. There was just a lingering doubt. After all, this was quite a decision: we'll be spending twelve hours a day there for weeks on end; it had better be gravy. And then, then dear friends, we noticed one last name of Hyde Street's client list and that one name made it all okay.

That name, of course, is Shaquille O'Neal.

Basketball fans of the 90's and early millennium will remember the imposing monster that Shaq was. I myself nurtured an active and vitriolic distaste for those dynastic Laker teams and was literally overcome with joy when the Pistons finally ended their run of ridiculous domination. But, as overpowering as Shaq was on the basketball court, he was equally ubiquitous off it: he starred in a completely humiliating feature film called "Kazaam" which would probably be his first career mulligan; he pimped the video game "Shaq Fu," which was a money-grab so transparent that Krusty the Clown would balk at it; he even has author credit on "Shaq and the Beanstalk and Other Very Tall Tales," a children's book that enjoyed glowing reviews and that I almost just bought for eight bucks and change on Amazon before remembering I just quit my job. Beyond all that, however, the foray outside basketball I remember most fondly was Shaq's music. Shaq can, perhaps, be credited for being the first in a long line of professional roundballers to crossover into the music industry, which we really can't hold against him but we're going to anyway.* Shaq penned and performed a staggering five albums, had such guest rappers as Nas, Jay-Z, and Warren G, and even released one of those "too soon!" greatest hits compilations (after just two albums, which, let's face it: chutzpah. Let's also face it: shameless).

Most importantly, he recorded one of those albums at Hyde Street. Which one, I really don't know. Perhaps it was Shaq Diesel. Perhaps Shaq-Fu: Da Return. Perhaps it was the gloriously punned "You Can't Stop the Reign." It doesn't matter. What does matter is that if it's good enough for a seven foot cultural behemoth, well, it's good enough for me.

So Shaq, here's to you. I know you're not having your best season and your team is one of the five worst in the league, but when you're a multi-platinum-genie-obese-child-personal-trainer-video-game-protagonist-
four-time-NBA-champion-Miami-police-officer-and-world's-foremost-
Yao-Ming-insulter, you've got nothing to worry about.

* I'm looking at you Tony Parker. Yes, you.

The Plan, or, A triumphant return to Blogopolis, or, I don't really like that second title

2008-01-10T10:41:00.000-08:00

With the exception of curly finger nails, Howard Hughes-types and those less wealthy shut-ins who smell vaguely of rancid cranberries and Grandpa's cardigan, everyone loves traveling. We hear that guy with the brogue during the interminably long commercial break between Double Jeopardy and Final Jeopardy admonishing us to "Visit Scotland" and we picture ourselves in some verdant meadow, wearing plaid, eating sheep's innards. We smell great gumbo and fantasize about a late evening, two-third blotto, watching jazz in a smoky New Orleans dungeon, drinking Brandy Milk Punch. We see a friends photographs from Eastern Europe and we imagine ourselves...ah...doing whatever cold-ass, root-vegetable things they do over there. To a certain extent, we all have a case of wanderlust, again, purposely disremembering about the Spruce Goose building contingent here.

The difference for me? I like actually traveling. Not ending up in a far off distant land, but, you know, the actual act of traveling. I enjoy sitting in the car between shows on tour, reading a Michael Malone book. If I can make it through take-off with losing my airport Sausage McMuffin, I really have no problem with flying, what with the free ginger ale, the little safety cards, the Sky Mall hawking cat massagers and Lord of the Rings themed condoms. Even the oft-maligned (and I'm pointing the finger squarely at myself) San Francisco bus system can be a downright enjoyable affair, if you're lucky enough to find a seat on a bus where a vagrant has yet to have his morning bowel movement.

I'll go as far as to say I've actually hankered for a longer commute. See, when I'm going to work, its about a twenty-five jaunt on the ol' electric bus and, frankly, that isn't enough time to really enjoy traveling. I like reading my book, doing the crossword, enjoying an album, or, doing all three in homage to some many-armed Hindu god of multi-tasking. Of course, most books have sizable chapters which are not easily conquered in short amount of time. Same goes for the crossword, unless its Monday or Tuesday*. As for albums, well, here's the thing: when a band puts out an album, not just a collection of songs but a real album, I have to listen to the whole thing, front to back. Like "Dark Side of the Moon": that's an album. You can't really pick a track or two there. You must hear the squealing woman for the full 43 minutes. There is no other option.

And there's always a new album. Last year, I went through a long, damn near monogamous relationship with "Astral Weeks" again. For a month or so "The Trials of Van Occupanther" kept me wishing for a trainee bus driver who'd yet to develop the "drive away while you cuss at me" move that the guy who usually drives my bus has perfected. "The Body, The Blood, The Machine", Aquemini", "Sticky Fingers": at some point, on some bus, in the not so distant past, I wanted to miss my stop and end up at the Ferry building buying overpriced cheese just so I wouldn't have to upset my listening experience and tread hangdog into the office to write a Motion in Limine no one will ever read.

Thankfully, I don't have to do that anymore. I quit.

Furthermore, the reason that I quit was to do exactly what made me not want to get off the bus in the first place. We're recording an album.

Was that a cumbersome enough way to announce that news? I think yes. But I'm rusty (as you can see from the date of the last post) and I wanted to build suspense. And nothing builds suspense like, uh, talking about the bus. In fact, most Hitchcock movies have extended conversations about mass transit conveyances. Event Horizon, you'll recall, is about a gigantic cosmic bus for a bunch of really unhappy astronauts. This blog is a mere follower.

And, so, it comes full circle. This blog was originally hatched to chronicle the recording of our first album, a few day sprint through all the songs we knew in a city we weren't in love with in a house with cats and a singer with cat allergies. This time? Much more organized. We're staying put in gloomy San Francisco, we're spending more than three days in a studio, and we're keeping Peter in a hermetically sealed man-sized Tupperware. In fact, there are plenty of details worth knowing. But for now, in the interest of brevity and some Christmas shopping I somehow, somehow still haven't done, I'll wrap it up. Until soon.

Really.

* The crossword gets incrementally harder each day, with Monday being the easiest while Friday and Saturday are nearly opaque to most. Sunday's just really, really big; big enough that finishing one has often made me question the reason I'm alive.

How to enjoy your garage sale in seven salient points

2007-11-05T16:24:00.001-08:00

So, we had a garage sale yesterday. And by we, I don't mean Birdmonster, although Zach was there with me, waking up far too early on a Sunday morning, drinking Tecate far too early on a Sunday afternoon, and passing out with my clothes on far too early on a Sunday night. Still, spending a sun soaked weekend hawking your old shoes, your unwanted VHS tapes*, and that one chair that smells like a flatulent Grandma is, in my opinion, a good weekend.

It had been a while since I was a part of a garage sale. In fact, I think I was selling my Nintendo out on my childhood driveway, still safely entrenched in the bowl cut, bespectacled, No Fear shirt/Hammer pants phase of my childhood. And, being that my childhood happened after the Industrial Revolution, I was not used to, well, actually having money. Not that I'm bemoaning the lack of 12 hour, black-lung inducing work shifts during my salad days, but that first garage sale provided a sudden and, at the time, rather exciting influx of money---which I of course squandered on a Super Nintendo, which I later sold at another garage sale after my hands starting contorting arthritically from soda-and-Skittles-fueled marathons of Mario Kart and NBA Jam.

But I digress. Yesterday's sale was for the express purpose of ridding ourselves of four years of pack-ratted bric a brac, all while taking in a few dollars for general house repairs. You know, like new light bulbs, some weather-striping, an indoor toilet. And, all in all, it was highly successful: we cleaned out our storage room, we met new and excited neighbors, we don't have to bury our droppings in the yard anymore---all good things, to be certain. In fact, I thoroughly recommend throwing your own garage sale in the next couple weekends. Here are a few tips, freshly learned, to keep in mind:

1- There are professional garage sale shoppers. They will be at your house at 7 a.m. because they did not realize there's a little thing called "Daylight Savings," the night before. Upon seeing a closed garage and no sale-y-ness occurring, they will ring your doorbell until someone answers it in their underwear and demand your finest merchandise at bottom dollar. Try not to punch this person in the face.

2- Other pros will arrive later, say, only fifteen minutes early instead of the patently maniacal hour before hand. They will buy anything you have that's actually worth a damn, leaving you with a strange smorgasboard of out of fashion footwear, broken stereos, a perhaps-soiled mattress, and a teddy bear with a cigarette burn for an eye.

3- Everything you own is crap. After about 9, all the pros have moved on and are reselling that acoustic guitar that can't stay in tune for a whole song to a pawn shop owned by a Skoal-addicted bigot. At this point, you get the jag-offs who say things like "This isn't jewelry, its garbage" and "This movie sucks, you should just give it to me." These wily souls know that nothing makes a garage seller more eager to deal than a constant barrage of insults delivered by cranky freaks with halitosis.

4- Inevitably, something you thought you were selling will be stolen by one of your roommates and worn for the rest of the day. You must be okay with this. For us, a roomie of mine stole my "Hooked on Jesus" fishing hat while I tried on what I thought was a colorful shirt and turned out to be some sort of skin-tight stripped dashiki, which of course I couldn't get off, so I ripped it down the middle like Hulk Hogan, circa 1987, and it became the Technicolor Dreamcoat. It was strangely enjoyable.

5- By about two in afternoon, be willing to take any sort of money for any sort of anything. You will accept pre-Euro Lira for your old stereo; you will accept spray-painted macaroni for your Buick. You will be overcome with a desire to rid yourself of all your various trinkets simply because you can't bear the thought of putting them back. This is natural. When this old lady was waffling as to whether to take my old desk chair, I threw my first born child, Rumpelstiltskin style, and she took it. Critics may cry "short-sighted" at this exchange, but little does she know: I gave her a toddler I kidnapped. Joke's on you, Gladys.

6- While cleaning out the house, you will find things that alternately shock and depress you. If your house is as old as ours, you're dealing with over a century of who-knows-what. Monkey skeletons? Jimmy Hoffa? Be prepared. We found a backpack full of porno. I threw that in for old Gladys too.

7- By all means, be friendly. Beyond the professional hagglers, the vicious insulting of all your old belongings, and the general disregard for everything you own, you're spending a day in the sunshine, getting free money, and meeting neighbors you never knew you had. It's much better than most of my Sundays, which are spent alternately hung over or nursing my Catholic guilt about not going to Sunday mass.

Now, all that remains to do is figuring out what to do with our modest windfall. Perhaps a holiday celebration is in order. Perhaps I buy back that child I sold. Either way, I see happy times ahead. And again, how many Sundays make you feel like that?

* Lost Boys does not count. Hands off.

The Plan

2007-10-23T10:48:00.001-07:00

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

2007-10-09T11:37:00.000-07:00

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!!!!

2007-09-24T11:15:00.001-07:00

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

2007-09-05T17:18:00.001-07:00

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

2007-08-16T12:23:00.000-07:00

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

2007-08-14T17:17:00.000-07:00

Behold the grace and the glory that is this poster:

A lunch time beverage suggestion, complete with flawless reasoning

2007-08-13T12:14:00.000-07:00

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)

2007-08-08T12:05:00.001-07:00

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.

2007-05-29T11:07:00.000-07:00

"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.

2007-05-23T12:54:00.000-07:00

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.

2007-05-21T12:40:00.000-07:00

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

2007-05-07T12:48:00.000-07:00

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.

2007-05-02T12:54:00.000-07:00

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

2007-04-25T15:12:00.000-07:00

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

2007-04-19T12:31:00.000-07:00

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.