Sorry mom, but I have to talk about this because it's kind of cool.

Darth Vato has been in the studio this week recording two new songs. They sound pretty good. For me, recording bass tracks is little bit like taking off all my clothes, putting a flashing light on my head and trying to read Mandarin while being simulcast across the globe. And of course, hearing my tracks over the expensive and super crisp (but not super golden crisp) studio monitors is a great way to remind myself of why I have a day job.

Anyway, I did my best.

The best part about this week is that I have taken most of it off from work, which means I have spent considerable time reddening beside various apartment pools and drinking beer. If there is one thing I am getting good at, it's getting sunburned and fatter. Seriously, I'm glowing like a brake light.

In other news, something really special happened on Monday night, and it happened at the naked lady bar. Now, I want to make it clear that I don't normally frequent gentleman's clubs, as great as their promises of low-priced steaks and Def Leppard sound. It's because I'm not interested in paying money for something I could see in my imagination for free. Also, I'm never sure what sort of face I'm supposed to make while standing in front of a naked lady displaying ultimately impractical limberosity. Do I grin? Do I make eye contact? Do I manifest an aura that obviates the fact that my personal vehicle is a van whose side doors do not open from the inside? In any case, I went with Eric, our rockstar/producer friend Jordan and Maunder, who owns the Moon. Prior to leaving, we speculated on the hats allowed/not allowed policy, deciding that they probably weren't. Eric said, "Crap. Now I'm gonna have to fix my hair," to which Jordan said, "You don't have to fix it, you just have to pay 'em." Truer words were never spoken. Except for in the Bible, of course. And on FOX News--BA-ZING!!!

Anyway, we get there and fork over a bunch of money for over-priced unleaded Buds and the privilege of ogling cheerfully naked ladies. We had heard from the girlfriend of this dude we know who's in a different band that "strippers fucking love guys in bands," so of course, we bided our time for the perfect moment, and then played that card like an UNO Draw Four Wild. Eric gave "Jo" twenty bucks to ask the DJ to play a song off the EP we made last summer, telling her that if the DJ didn't want to, that she could just give him another lapdance instead. So she did, and the DJ loved it, and Maunder got a lapdance to the tune of "Seven Seas." Naturally, we thought this was the most fantastic thing in the history of the universe, and I sent a confusing mass text message to a bunch of people who mostly replied with, "What are you talking about?" What was really cool, however, was that he went on to play two more of our songs free of charge and asked for more CDs to pass out whenever he played it at the club, which we did the next day during happy hour. Predictably, the parking lot was at 5:15 already filling up with trucks sporting rebel flags and Calvin-Peeing-On-Things stickers.

"Man, the creepy pervert factor is pretty high," I said.

"Yeah," said Eric, "and it's about to increase by two."


--The Robo-Pirate