Parethetical Girls

Once Upon A Time In Vienna.

Following my brief stint as a furniture mover in rainy Bedsty, we broke free from NYC for the distinctly collegiate confines of Poughkeepsie, NY. The 148 house--much talked-up some weeks prior by our compatriots in the Dirty Projectors--was appropriately inviting. Having never properly attended college, I've historically reveled in the opportunity to immerse myself in the environs of higher learning, especially when those environs are of the right coast persuasion. And though I did take a great deal of pleasure in Vassar's apparent 5'9" and below entrance policy, my time in Poughkeepsie began the groundswell of dread that would follow me throughout much of our tour--the paranoia of facing the embarrassingly chasmic age divide between myself and seemingly every single other person I would come to interact with. In spite of old man Pennington's desperate self-loathing, our 148 gig went down fairly successfully.

(Photo by Winston)

Our slow departure from Poughkeepsie--which included an extended stop at a Goodwill store whose unkempt vinyl selection was comprised roughly of 65% Christmas albums--further rattled my already crumbling psyche, resulting in a quiet, appropriately infantile hissyfit. We split for Albany.

Eddy and Matt's Third Reich-ian radar perked up upon our arrival in capital city, responding very favorably to Albany's epically lit architecture--architecture we later found was the product of Nazi refugees. Score another one for Himmlerwatch, 2006. The warmth and goodwill in Brooke's ridiculously beautiful apartment--along with her culinary-inclined entourage--were no match for the arsenal of painful inside jokes that we had already managed to amass in our travels... not to mention Matt's shoeless feet on the coffee table. Brooke, et. al.: I'm very, very sorry. And Andrew: the food was amazing.

With Eddy and Matt already knee-deep in their search for the endless party, I finally caved to peer pressure at Valentine's--which ultimately turned out to be for the best, if international talent scout (and sometime Little River Band session man) Johnny Neon [please click on this link] has anything to say about it. That's right... Parenthetical Girls have officially been DISCOVERED. Neon interactions include (but are certainly not limited to): Johnny's awkward urinal trough conversation with me during the Brent Gordon set about how Brooke is "a PLAYER"; Johnny's lengthly conversation arguing about whether or not I had at some point "discovered myself" in Europe; Matt intentionally complimenting Johnny with the confusing (and oft-abused) "prolific" descriptor; Johnny attempting to convince members of our party that he was an "inventor"; Johnny claiming to be friends with Whitney Houston and Stevie Wonder; Johnny telling Rachael about "human buffets" and his opera, "Once Upon a Time In Vienna." Thank you for your vote of confidence, Mr. Neon.

After three consecutive junkies approached us with change requests and awkward goodwill following our show, I rashly decided to sleep in the van--an over-reaction, to say the least. Returning to NYC early so as to see the sights for once, we hit Manhattan with our borrowed Not For Tourists guide to see the most glaringly touristy things imaginable: Central Park, Times Square, the inexplicably elusive Rockefeller Center, and, of course, H&M. Eddy finally got his trousers.

Turns out the fates had again lined up against me in NYC, as the folks at the Cake Shop had neglected to actually book any other bands to play the show--resulting in our mad dash to find anyone we knew in New York who would possibly play at such short notice. Thanks to Elliot from the fine folks of Flying for coming through at a moment's notice and shining brightly, to Sara for the assist, and also to that weird Swedish garage band who closed their opening slot set with the suggestion that the audience promptly leave for another show down the street at Piano's. Thanks to BJ for bringing me a much labored over copy of The League of Gentlemen's Apocalypse. And most of all, thanks to the scant attendants at the Cake Shop that evening--as it was with your help that I finally felt good about a show in NYC.

love madly,
Zac Pennington

I ate too much dessert in Brooklyn. Whiling your time away at a literal Cakeshop (not just a cute name), leads a person to transgress into territories such as birthday cupcakes backed by oreo cake slabs without even wincing. And then to avoid the inevitable sugar comedown, I night-capped with fistfuls of candy corn at Steven's sweet apartment, and slept the fitful sleep of an engorged trick or treater. To Steven, thank you for your presence, your whimsically placed refrigerator, and beautiful patch quilt that I took great pleasure in sleeping with. And of course the candied corn.

The next morning, we woke sans Matt, who had stolen away in the early hours to find this "Museum of Modern Art" they supposedly have in the city. I'm not sure if he found it, I'm not sure if it even exists.

Catching a quick bagel breakfast with Steven and gang was very nice, though I was in sort of sour spirits due to having dug a chunk out of my cheek the night before in an attempt to burst one of those unfortunate subterranean blemishes. If I met you in between Brooklyn and Boise, please forgive me if I was unable to look up. I was existing in a state of shame on account of my marred face.

Has it been mentioned in this blog that 3/4 ( I won't mention names) of Parenthetical Girls are physically addicted to the burritos at chain restaurant Chipotle? Well, it's true. And we map-quested our way to the nearest fix in Brooklyn before departing for Providence. Like a true junkie, I can't even tell if it's satisfying anymore. "I" being any 3 of the Parenthetical Girls.

Upon arriving in Providence, we spotted RISD, which is no big deal to me, but is some sort of teenager's wet dream to Zac. So for him, I mention it. How many slices of pizza I ate on this tour is embarrassing to recollect, but I will say that I ate my favorite slices that night before our show, at the Pizza Queen. It made me feel like I had just eaten a cheeseburger.

I wasn't sure how I felt about Providence until we were walking to the venue and I heard a man report to an understanding police officer, matter of fact, that he "went to the tittie bar, but there were no titties!" Count me in.

When we got to AS220, the crowd was being plied by the sounds or Mad Happy [please click on this link], "a guy/girl electronic duo with a distinctive sound, blending electro, hip-hop, folk and pop." A hard act to follow, to be certain, but the Providence audience was very kind to us. Particularly our hosts Emily and Lee, who I had met earlier that evening when I broke up a confrontation between Emily and a drunken man with a video camera. (I later discovered that this man was the founder of AS220.) A gentle shout out to our kind Providence proprietors, for your lasagna, for your cat in a crate, and the use of your lovely home.

The next day, with time to kill and a need for R & R, we made our way into NYC for a little time at the museum of television and radio. I highly recommend going, if you've got a taste for 10 dollar TV in a dimly lit console. Which I really do. Our individual playlists included: a 1970 Saturday morning children's television show called "Hot Dog"; the first episode of "Saturday Night Live," featuring Jim Henson's not-yet-ready for primetime puppets; the pilot for "Parker Lewis Can't Lose"; an early 80s PBS performance by Phillip Glass; a compilation of Woody Allen's early TV appearances; and Julie Andrews on Sesame Street.

The drive from NYC to Bronxville was almost disappointingly short (no time to nap), but thankfully, this means we made it in time for a Sarah Lawrence cafeteria smorgasbord with Matt, our show man.
Which leads me to a confession: for those of you whom it concerns, it was I who abandoned my toast in the toaster that night, which set off the fire alarm, which caused a total evacuation of the cafeteria and throngs of students to be turned out into the rain, which brought the fleet of fire trucks, which in turn brought me the sort of mortification that I haven't felt since grade school and things are still embarrassing. But, tragedy + time= COMEDY. Right? ?

Eddy, in front of the mess I made.

And as far as our show was concerned, I adhere to the notion that the torrential downpour was what accounts for the lack of turn-out. It could be true.

That night we slept in real college dormitories, complete with discarded condom in the trash can. I'm very grateful to have experienced college. Zac, Matt and I even stole food from the campus store, like the cool kids do.

The next evening in fair Philadelphia, we really didn't know what to do with ourselves. Matt, who had been sporting heavy snow boots for a couple of weeks because he lost his reasonable shoe, had spotted a Foot Locker on our way in, and somehow convinced Eddy to trek with him for what was possibly miles until they found this locker. Zac and I, we just went to Rite Aid. I bought a fake perfume (aerosol).

We all partied really hard that night at Upstairs at Sal's, especially me. Played a good show. Got into some brawls. Took a lot of PICTUUUUURRES.

We stayed afterwards with Eddy's nice friends Morgan and Nick, in their fancy yet inviting abode. And with another bagel breakfast in us, compliments of Morgan, and a free day ahead of us, we made way for the Philadelphia art museum (ROCKY!). This, in my opinion, is almost the perfect activity for a group of people who have been cooped up with one another, only interacting with one another, for upwards of 2 weeks. Of personal excitement were the Joseph Cornell boxes, whose biography I had been reading in the car, and a Duchamp's "Given: 1 The Waterfall, 2. The Illuminating Gas.", that is supposedly his last piece of work, found posthumous. It reminded me of Enchanted Forest, except for the dead woman's body inside.

Sincerely,
Rachael Jensen

He's Got A Thing For Girls In Tube Tops.

Tardy Tour Text continues, this time with conflicting missives from Misters' Crichton and Pennington. Let's get right to it, shall we?

Zac's Shack

When last we met, we were stealing away from our powerfully triumphant stop in Chicago, IL, wherein we played our first awkward encore (+1), went to a "punk" bar that turned out to be a "pop punk" bar (-1), and rolled so so deep with the many fine felines in Nathan and Jen's cat menagerie (+5). We'll call it a solid five stars.

Our exit from the city of angels was fraught with misfortune, which I think it's safe to say was mostly my fault: first, there was my selection of the aptly titled "Chicago Pizza", which, being a sit down restaurant, turned out to be a somewhat time-consuming affair. Secondly, there was the complete disregard with which I treated Ann Arbor, MI maven Sarah Stedman's time zone change reminder. Two missteps which lead us quite conveniently into our next paragraph--that of our precarious journey through states both Indiana and Michigan.

Balls-hauling our way atop the inexplicably construction-coated highways of the middle west, I somehow made up for the bulk of the hour the government had taxed away from us. We finally arrived at the headquarters of WCBN, though with more than one member of our party nearing the crest of rational breakdown--a stress soon tripled by the powerfully superfluous anxiety of our sound engineer whose insistent double "groovy" (eg "groovy, groovy") has become something of a tour battle cry. Thank god for the even-handed focus of the lady Stedman, who even-handedly ushered us through our whirlwind tour of Ann Arbor. In spite of the rush, we managed a reasonable broadcast at the studio, though there a heathy chunk of dead air at the beginning there, as I don't actually remember anyone telling us that we were "on". Sorry for the dead air, U of M.

(Photo by S.Stedman)

I've only played on the radio a couple of times before, and each experience has been arduous in a classically "character building" sort of way. One peculiarity that has remained consistent through out, however, is the nagging sense that most of the students tied comfortably to the sunlight-less basement couches of whatever technical building the school shoved the dog-earred vinyl library a few decades ago just seem more than a little annoyed that you're sidling in on their party--little to no acknowledgment, tempered with occasional blank stares. This isn't meant as a dig on college radio volunteers, as I think that this dynamic is probably a lot different if they don't think that your band totally sucks, but it's always a little strange to walk into a chat-filled room only to be met with a sudden awkward silence. Sorry for sucking so hard, U of M.

Ushered quickly over to the extremely well-lit temporary home of UMMA, we prepared for a much more successful jaunt on our part--running through the taxing entirety of our performing catalog while unintentionally belittling the no doubt categorical individuality of the whole of abnormally polite audience. Sorry for being such a dick, U of M. Due to the retail bureaucracy of UMMA, the fine, hands-tied folks at the gallery had to kick me out of the building for merch duty, leaving me looking like the common street urchin of my Out Da Trunk days.

(Photo by S.Stedman)

Much credit due to Sarah Stedman, who single-handedly made this tour possible. Sorry for stealing your parking pass.

Next morning was the always nerve-racking Canadian border crossing, and though this time we approached with the confidence of a temporary work permit, Matt's ubiquitous six pack of shrooms was making us all a little nervous. Tensions rose as we were ushered into customs, were me soon befriended an aging, leather-clad rock band from Chicago called L@st Vegas (who apparently have a song on Guitar Hero 2? WHAT?!?!), whom one of the suspicious border guards simply couldn't believe we weren't together part of some grand bird flu smuggling conspiracy. We talked primarily about the rhythm guitarist's impending divorce, wherein which we were instructed not to "get caught" before the papers were dry, or it might cost us another 20 Grand. Sagely advice.

During our interrogation, Rachael and I politely asked the matronly border guard to use the facilities, having learned from our past drug-running trip that they are particularly wary of letting young people relieve themselves, in fear that we might be desperately emptying heroin suppositories into the toilets. She obliged without hesitation. Some minutes later, however, as Matt rose to use the restroom, a steely-eyed Mountie solidified his inherent superiority, exploding with a "Hey! HEY! Where do you think YOU'RE going?!?" "Um, the Bathroom?" "I don't THINK so... I'm gonna have to ask you to TAKE A SEAT." Matt feverishly complied in fear that defiance might cost us entrance, but speculated in retrospect about the possible effects had he replied "I'm going to read the Koran". I guess we'll never know. We made it into Canada.

After sharing a sweet BK meal with our new (SO BADASS) friends from Chicago, we made our way to the Boat--a beautiful, nautically themed bar in Toronto's International District. I'll let Eddy field this one, as it was really his night in the sun. Whatever that means. I wonder how L@st Vegas' night went? So badass, I bet.

The next morning we awoke in the damp, strangely luxurious screening room in Eugene's basement to load our oppressively trashy equipment into the van in the same alley where the previous evening we saw a creepy old skunk wandering around. Then things got a little French Canadian.

I'm a little ashamed to admit this, as it's a pretty classic example of my brash, occasionally cartoonish ignorance to the world around me, but before this trip I've always had a pretty hard time telling the difference between Toronto and Montreal. I mean, I had pretty vague idea about the whole French thing, and I've seen a couple of Leonard Cohen documentaries, but the preponderance of my understanding ended there. Though I left Toronto without much greater comprehension, we stumbled upon the first sign that things were going awry enroute to Montreal at a mid-highway food court--a food court which featured a stand dedicated almost entirely to french fries saturated with beef gravy and cheese curds. This was the first of many curd-related distractions that would occur in greater French Canadia. Another observation: Gas station attendants in Quebec (or at least the three that I spoke with) have virtually no interest in assisting customers with basic directions, even if the customer's destination is literally five blocks from said gas station.

The route was long and the route was hard, but we finally arrived in time to traverse the precarious stair case at the Friendship Cove, an arts collective that was to be our destination for the night. The show, for reasons having absolutely nothing to do with us, was ridiculously packed with party-hungry Canadians--exactly the sort of Canadians who would appropriately have little patience for/interest in our fey, navel-gazy musings. People were surprisingly respectful, however, and though marred by technical problems and frazzled singer person, things went somewhat better than poorly. (Incidentally, thanks to Dan at Said The Gramophone for letting me waste bandwidth with my unfortunate musings. After a soul-replenishing sleep at Romy & Sabrina's (together with the world's largest cats), we broke free of Canada's death grip to make our way to the greatest city in the world: Brooklyn.

Amid frantic set-up and virtually endless technical difficulties, our show at the Lucky Cat was yet another in our long line of shows fraught with misfortune--misfortune made all the more embarrassing due to the presence of friends Eric Irving and B.J. Rubin. This would be my fourth consecutive NYC show that I blew entirely--the three previous some years ago in classic Sam&Zac formation. I guess I just get a little psyched out. Fortunately, BJ offered us a chance at redemption some five city blocks away in the form of a loft birthday party hop-on.

Another precarious flight of stairs later, and our growing entourage came through, reeking both of sweat and failure. Our set followed that of a French duo, whose drummer performed some six months pregnant. Following their set, the super sweet birthday girl cautioned us to expedite our set up and performance due to noise complaints--a task we were happy to comply with. Our attempts to do so, however, were met with no small amount of interference by said French band's tour managers/merch guys/hangers on, who insisted that we wait for a full 15 minutes until they tore down all of the band's equipment to begin our set up. In that 15 minutes, dudes did little more than chit-chat with party-goers, maddog us, and shit-talk/threaten to spill beer upon our equipment--elements of which they ultimately decided to use as impromptu merch tables. With all due respect to the French band (who, to be fair, did have considerably more right than us to be there): you guys seemed pretty nice, but your crew were all kinds of dicks. Yet another fine notch in the bedpost of NYC failures on my part. (Allow me to direct you to a video by young Corey Smith, just to reinforce the disaster that was with a visual model.)

Thank Christ for BJ and Fiona. For their mid-living room elevator, for their Mighty Boosh, for their fancy deli sandwiches, and for their endless hospitality. We are a rough brood to accommodate, and you did a superb job. As for the Parenthetical Girls--disaster will simply not evade us.

Eddy's Eddy

(Photo by S.Stedman)

We arrived in Ann Arbor quite late for our radio performance. I have been on the radio a half-dozen or so times in my life for on-air requests, concert ticket contests, and a highly regrettable and ill-informed call I made as an eight year old to Phoenix's sports radio station, KTAR 620 AM, in which I expressed the opinion that the Cardinals would have surely won that day's game had they given Johnny Johnson the ball and just let him run it around the outside for a TD. My reason for believing this to be sound wisdom was that everything I knew and probably everything I will ever know about professional football is based on Super Tecmo Bowl, and in the reality of Super Tecmo Bowl, giving the ball to Johnny Johnson and sending him around the outside is TD guarantee. I laid out this Lombardi-inspired strategy for the host and the KTAR listeners and I was informed on-air (rather harshly considering that I was just a child) that Johnny Johnson no longer played for the Cardinals and I felt immediately and publicly crushed.

This 1990 radio humiliation was weighing heavily upon me as we prepared to perform on U of Michigan's campus radio station, and the stress was only compounded by our tardiness and its affect on the aforementioned "Groovy Groovy" dude. We eventually got everything set up, got some appropriate levels in our cans (headphones), and awkwardly banged out four songs for the U of M listening populace, which I believe was limited to the students hanging out in the radio station lobby. Next was our show at the UM Museum, where I was surprised to find Groovy Groovy manning the sound board. I thought it was one of G.G.'s classic "jokes" when he told me that our tiny snare drum was too loud. Equilibrium be damned, though, because I really pounded that tiny drum in the Museum.

Toronto was a weird time. I didn't so much have a night in the sun, as you may have been led to believe
by Zac. Rather, I looked directly into the sun and I got burned. We were inexplicably headlining an all-grunge bill, highlights of which included an apparently anti-rape song that was preceded by what I am pretty sure was very pro-rape banter (Grunge singer: "What do you guys think of rape?" Audience: "WOOOOOOO!" Grunge singer: "Yeah.") and an authentic '91 Cobain-style drum jump/guitar degradation. P. Girls were to play immediately after the demolition session and we feared that we could not deliver the high-energy rock that they audience was now accustomed to. Our fears were only half-realized, though.

Most of the crowd did exit as we started, but those who remained somehow were able to incorporate our set into their party time. There was a couple dancing with large stuffed bear. There were two ravishing ladies; one tube-topped, the other halter-topped (the sun to my burn), who loudly encouraged Rachael throughout our set by yelling "Girl Power" at whatever times they could sense that Rachael, as a girl, was not adequately empowered. After we finished playing there were accusations made by some members of the audience that we appeared to not be having any fun. I denied this at the time, and would like to now assert with total honesty that I had a blast at our gig in Toronto and I am fairly certain that on this particular topic I am speaking for Parenthetical Girls as a whole.

Our Toronto host, Eugene, took us to his home and fed some of us jellybeans and put us to bed. We woke up to a mysteriously wet floor that left my favorite pair of socks too hopelessly wet to continue on the tour with us. Eugene took Rachael, Matt, and me on a brief walking tour of his neighborhood and filled us in on the hippie mafia that runs Toronto and the fact that French Canadians secretly eat horses.

(Photo by S.Stedman)

Despite the best efforts by Google Maps to keep us from getting anywhere near Montreal, we overcame. The Cove and it's audience treated us well, though I did overhear two nonplussed girls discussing the fact that Parenthetical Girls' sound is so West Coast as to not be able to successfully cross the Rockies.

We stayed the night at Romy and Sabrina's high-rise apartment, and, except for the locked swimming pool, had a deluxe stay. In the morning Romy and Sabrina took us to a Montreal bagel eatery. People (Romy, Sabrina, Melissa Auf der Maur) will tell you that a Montreal bagel is not only unique to Montreal, but also superior to all other bagels. I simply don't see it. Our bagels were certainly unique in that they were somehow cut into 5 quarters, all of which were exactly 1/4th of a full bagel. But, other than the impossible mathematics behind the bagels, it was simply a very pleasant bagel.

Literally nothing happened in Brooklyn. Literally.

The pitter patter of little feet.

Rumsfeld has resigned, KFed got served, and the Democrats have stolen America from its stalwart defenders: a lot has happened since (and arguably because) the Parenthetical Girls have left for tour. In the controlled environs of our cartoonishly over-packed Plymouth (six scarves among us, thank you very much), things remain strikingly static.

We're trying something new out for this tour. Simul-blogging. Let's act like we coined that one. Today's entries come from your friends and my band mates Matthew "Cornwall" Carlson, and Rachael "Leanne" Jensen. We've had surprising little luck with internet access, so these are a few days old, but hopefully we won't fall too far behind.

RACHAEL'S CORNER

I've never driven so much in my life without driving. Being the only one in this musical group without a valid driver's license, I've been passenger for roughly 50 hours within the last 5 days. Bandmates are under the impression that I've somehow won in this scenario, but it's not the truth. The monotony is never broken save by my homespun car diversions; such as writing words in as many fonts as I can, keeping books, tending to my cuticles, and relying heavily on my ability to sleep anywhere, anytime, in any way. But it's not so bad. At least the pre-tour toil is over, nothing now but the faint tenderness of a stress-induced glandular bloat in the armpit area.

The day we left I spent morning to early evening cleaning my borderline ferally tenanted bedroom for my subletter Sam, and frantically packing for unpredictable Eastern elements. Two jumpers, 4 dresses, 1 pant, 6 shirts, 4 tights, 3 jackets. That night we played as a local band in our hometown Holocene. My priorities were aligned towards saying good-bye to all of the friends that I had been regretfully neglecting for the last month due to my total lack of down-time, but despite my head-space not being fully dedicated to "musicianship", we played a decent show.

The next day Eddy, Zac, and I met Matt and ex-pat Brenna in Seattle. At the Paradox were were warmly met with appetizers, poodle, Xiu Xiu with their brigade of stuffed mascots, Longstreth band, & Grouper Liz. It was an intimidating wall of performers to contend with for our first show, but I feel like whatever incompetence I felt was won over by the sheer enjoyment of spectating the event. By the time Xiu Xiu finished up with their devastating(in a good way) set, I felt like we hadn't even played that night. And oh God, Dirty Projectors with their voices.

That night we stayed the first of two nights in Edmonds, WA where we got to meet the great folks who made Matt Carlson, and who essentially made this tour possible with the kind loan of their Plymouth Voyager. Thank you Carlsons, for your Breakfasts, car emergency kits, and travel bag of Halloween candy.

We watched Borat at the Alderwood Mall during the day, and that evening was a private birthday party at a space called Art Works.

Jenny, I've never met a person who decided to turn 30 before their time, or who decided their age at all for that matter. For this I commend you. We played a special Morrissey cover song that night for Jenny, who has lyrics from this song tattooed on her body, but we flubbed it on account of only having practiced it only once, which is too bad because it's a good song.

Night two at the Carlson's- woke at 5:30 AM for the 19 or so hour drive to what we thought was the reasonable goal of Bismarck, ND on our route to Minneapolis. I slept through a lot of this honestly, but was stimulated during most of our daylight hours in the state of Montana. Aside from it being ridiculously beautiful, a lot of my more vivid childhood memories were made in MT. First and last attempt at water skiing (hated it, ill-fitting wet suit), a near death experience on a 4-wheeler, first "F" word heard in a movie, and first and last taste of chaw at the hands of heathen 2nd cousins. By 2 AM, we were still 100 miles away from Bismarck, and being the first to acknowledge defeat, we pulled off for lodging which we found in the form of the maroon-carpeted haven MOTEL. Just MOTEL.

Another day of full driving, and we were in Minneapolis at the Hexagon bar, where they have both Meat Raffles and a covert clientele of Minneapolis hip kids. We played after the great Best Briends Forever, which is a hard act to follow on the enthusiasm front. I felt like a sad old dog in contrast to their exuberance, but Minneapolis was still very kind to us. Jess took us to a cafe in the morning where they call out your name like they know you when your order comes up.

Hexagon Bar

Chicago, I thought you would hate us or just not even show up, but instead you were one of the best audiences ever. I loved Chicago, and the hospitality of Nathan and Jen was unsurpassed. If I could give you (Chicago) any constructive criticism, it would be to stop putting the sauce on the top of your pizza, it's just not reasonable.

MATT'S ROOM

blog. this is a blog. a parenthetical girls blog that is a tour blog? what is a blog? you are a blog? is it true that blogging is an activity that someone could possibly do on a band tour? the truth about a blog is something that can be elusive at times, for several different reasons. Has Websters defined blog yet?

There was a rock concert in Portland, Oregon. I, Matthew Thomas Carlson, was at the time under the influence of a malevolent pre-tour cold that threatened to change the way I thought about playing rock concerts on a band tour. My greatest fear was that the cold would never decide to pack up its bags and depart from the confines of my physical body. But luckily my obsessive consumption of generic Wall-borne (which is itself a generic version of Air-borne) won out over the cold and Portland was the only night I felt like utter shit.

Thoughts inside of my brain during the show in Portland:

"I can't believe I'm going to be doing this every night for 3 1/2 weeks."

"These earplugs are making it hard for me to accurately judge the balance of sound."
"Heinrich Himmler is probably going to be at our show in Rhode Island."

A scrambled half-assed morning of trying to get ready, sans breakfast. Brenna and I made what turned into a 4 hour rain-soaked drive to Seattle, where we were re-united with world champion trickster David Horvitz and the entire touring ensemble of the band Xiu Xiu. The element of the drive that I enjoyed the most was that by the time we got to Seattle I felt fully qualified to give an oral news bulletin about current national and world events. Now, I'm completely positve that right now you're saying to yourself: "That's ridiculous. There are trained professionals who spend their entire lives working to be excellent radio news reporters and they still struggle to do a competent job reciting the facts. What makes you think that you could just jump in and do it from listening to the radio for 4 hours?" Well, the truth is that I'm a fast learner. And I've actually never failed at a single thing I've attempted in my entire life.

Now, I'm really not sure what your opinion about Birthday Parties are. What do you think? Do you predict that one day birthday parties will cease to be cool? That they could potentially damage someone's family? I don't really care what you think, but we did play at a birthday party on Saturday night. I was pretty scared the entire time we were there because someone told me we were going to be the first band they had ever seen live, and I felt like that was a lot of pressure and that our performance could potentially determine their opinion about live music for the rest of their life. After the show they told me that we were "Aiight."

Only 2 things happened on Sunday. I can't tell you what they are becuase they've now become band secrets. I guess I can say that it was a long day. Zac told me that he didn't want me to talk about either of the things that happened while we drove to North Dakota. Why were we going to North Dakota? Well, have you ever heard of "Motel" in Dickinson? For me, personally, it's always been a big dream of mine to make a trek out there to check it out and see if it lives up to the hype. Before we got there I got scared that the state of Montana was actually a conscious being that had swallowed us like a piece of a chicken wing. When we woke up Eddie commented to me that walking out of a rural North Dakota motel in the early morning felt exactly the way that walking out of a rural North Dakota motel in the early morning should feel. I'm pretty sure I agreed with him, but honestly I can't trust my own feelings most of the time these days.

"PICTUUURRE!!"

Monday was a fucking piece of shit day. I hated every fucking second of that drive to Minneapolis and I wanted to punch Zac, Eddie, and Rachael in the face each for different individual reasons. By the time we got to the venue I had actually decided in my head that I was probablly gonna quit the tour and go back to Dickinson and just hang for a while. But the second I walked into the Hexagon Bar in Minneapolis everything changed. They had the Seahawks Monday Night game on plasma screens, giant German-style mugs of beer for $1.65, and open pool tables. This is me in my element. I can never relate to the rest of the band with their "dapper" aesthetic preferences towards drinking establishments and their general aura of corporate culture and white-collar crime. Did you know I'm the only one in the band that uses a Macintosh computer?

Topics of conversation from the drive to Chicago:

Most surreal things you could see on the freeway. (see my other blog.)
Ranking the world's bodies of water.
Different concievable circumstances which could lead to a situation in which every car on the freeway was shooting firearms at each other out the windows.
The Isreali-Palestinian conflict.
The most standard worthless musician arguements.

Our show in Chicago was last night and it was quite possibly the nicest, most enjoyable, good-sounding and well-recieved concert we've ever played together, complete with an awkward encore from a Chicago audience that supposedly never request encores on principle. This, combined with news of the likely Democratic takeover of both branches of congress, alleviated the depressed state I had been in from hearing news of the mediocre reviews our recently completed Christmas EP received. ("One star. Definately not their best work." -Indietorrents. What do they know about Christmas music, anyway?)

This morning we kind of had to rush out, but we did find time to snap a couple of quick pics of us in front of Chicago.

Right now we're frantically trying to reach Ann Arbor, Michigan. We forgot that we lose an hour thanks to the retards that invented time zones.