The Google

If you look at the comments in the previous post, the fourth one takes issue with my and my friend Lauren's fun at the expense of the President's assumed lack of geographic knowledge. Okay fine. For all I know, George Bush is a geography wizard. It could be that he knows exactly where Carmen Sandiego is at all times, and if he doesn't, he can find her with the most basic clues. If that's the case, than I'm being unfair. I seriously doubt it, but whatever.

Regardless of what George Bush does or doesn't know about foreign capitals, it's obvious that his public articulation is laughably confused at best. Yesterday, he he told this lady on CNBC that he "occasionally" uses "the Google." Reread Lauren's first comment, and then say "the Google" in a generic foreign accent out loud; it will further prove her point. I used to know a kid from the Czech Republic whose favorite Nintendo game ever was "the Excited Bike." He probably uses "the Google," too.

But really, I'm just belaboring a point. Making fun of George Bush's elocution is an easy and tired target. Everyone has a slip of the tongue now and then, and some more often than others. Usually, though, those in the latter category don't fumble and backpedal their way into the Oval Office. In my previous post, I cited plenty of instances in which our disarmingly befuddled president has had dubious reign over the words plopping out of his mouth, but today I have video. I know it's not like Bush is the first President to sound confused, but at least Ronald Reagan* had an excuse, given that he was developing Alzheimer's. For Bush, what might have once been folksy charm has long since degenerated into country bumpkinism. In light of "the Google," I maintain that it's probably safe to assume that upon first hearing the word "Tbilisi," George Bush probably thought it was something he would be eating for dinner that night.

--The Robo-Pirate

p.s.
And I see your most recent comment, Oh really?, but I maintain that he's still an idiot. If you read any of the articles I linked to, you'd find that he doesn't appear to think through what he says before making it public record. For a guy who has a teleprompter in front of him half the time, he makes a lot of mistakes, and that's pretty telling. And furthermore, I voted for him the first time around. I haven't been this disappointed in something I believed in since I found out Santa Claus was really my parents. I could forgive his public ineptitude if it wasn't constantly utilized to spin half-truths and outright lies.

*Plus, Ronald Reagan was a fantastically compelling speaker. Even Jim Wright, who hated the man, will acknowledge this if asked. And so you know, I did.

Stay the course. Repeat.

So you know all the great Presidents? You know, Lincoln, the Rooselvelts, that millionaire playboy who was shot in the head? Did they ever have to eat their words or retract previous statements? Because the one we have right now has to do this all the time. Currently, Bush and his smug cadre of lying self-servants are having to explain what his oft-repeated catch phrase "stay the course" really means.

Said President Bush, "The characterization of, you know, 'it's stay the course' is about a quarter right. 'Stay the course' means keep doing what your doing. My attitude is: Don't do what you're doing if it's not working -- change. 'Stay the course' also means don't leave before the job is done."

I had no idea that "stay the course" was such a mutable phrase. Bush makes its meaning as maleable as the word "smurf."

"Laura, hon, would you stay the course with the ketchup?"

"Oh man, after all them Dr. Peppers, I have to stay the course big time!"

"If we stay the course about these Al Queda ties, they'll have to go along with the invasion."

Sure, it's probably just semantics, but underneath it all, I think the President's usage of the phrase belies one ultimate truth:

"This is way harder than Dick and Karl made it out to be. I have no idea what I'm doing."

--The Robo-Pirate

Exuberance and optimism all because of some french fry oil.

Check this out! Dakine, which makes skateboards and snowboards and the smelly beanie I wear in the winter is sending its skate team up the West Coast in a vegetable oil-fueled RV! Last year, Surfing ran a story about the Malloy brothers and some other guys hitting a bunch of breaks from Oregon to Baha in a bio-fueled truck, and my interest in this stuff was really piqued. I also know this guy who runs his truck on bio-diesel, and he swears by it. Maybe it really is a way for the rest of us to break free from the oilogarchy that's ru(i)nning our country.

Go to Greasenotgas.com and read about it.

--The Robo-Pirate

OUT-FART THE GORILLA AND WIN A FREE RING TONE!

Thanks, MySpace ad, but I'm all stocked up on ringtones. You can take your rapid-mouse-clicking games and shove them up your ass.

--The Robo-Pirate

Gym Class Heroes Kick Ass or Damn I Wish I'd Thought of That #133

From "It's OK, but Just This Once!" off Gym Class Heroes' recent LP, As Cruel As School Children:

"I got no time to player hate--

I'm the type to crash your party with Teddy Ruxpin and a Slayer tape."

Probably the coolest line I'll hear all month.

--The Robo-Pirate

p.s.

This band is tight, like Bob Cratchet's Christmas budget. For those of us in DFW, they're coming to Will Rogers Auditorium on 11/21, opening for the crappy All-American Rejects. Between this show and The Sword on the 5th, November is looking to be pretty rad.

Where I talk about No Shame, Pepper's new album. And also how editors don't always know best.

This is the original draft of my review of No Shame, the new Pepper album. You can click here and read how the editor hacked it up. In his defense, it could have been broken up a little bit, but I maintain that the content in my original is way better than the published draft. I'm just saying is all.

Pepper, No Shame
(Volcom/Atlantic)

There’s this scene in Blue Crush where surfer girl Anne-Marie Chadwick goes to rescue her lil’ sis Penny from a party at the Volcom house on Oahu’s North Shore. And in the movie, Penny is understandably pissed, because her big sister is ripping her out of what appears to be a pretty cool party, abundant with kegs, hot chicks and gnarly locals ripping on a half-pipe. The whole movie paints Hawaiian surf culture as a constant pursuit of leisure, a breezy drink-till-it’s-time-to-check-the lineup sort of lifestyle. Kona Town, the second record by Kona, Hawaii’s Pepper, encapsulated that vibe with its blend of reggaefied rock and boozy aloha spirit--the record is equal parts double-vision party and hangover hindsight. In short, it felt real.

Unfortunately, Pepper seems to have lost their way home. They moved to San Diego in ‘99. They’ve been on the road for five or six years. They made a fan-alienating record with Ron St. Germaine. On No Shame, their fourth outing and first on a major label, there are glimmers of Kona Town, as well as some interesting forays into new horizons (check the single-minded bounce of “No Control”), but a lot of the time, the songs sound alternately forced and distracted. It’s not a bad record, but the band’s talents seem a little misappropriated.

Pepper normally gets knocked around for ripping off Sublime, but this isn’t entirely fair. While dual frontmen Kaleo Wasserman (guitar) and Brett Bolinger (bass) both sing in the same breathy tenor as Bradley Nowell, Bollinger’s voice has the lecherous richness that Nowell sometimes lacked. Besides—it’s far more obvious that they’ve been stealing from the Police.

Predictably, the tracks on No Shame that sound like a Police song are the best ones. Once you skip the annoying intro skit (and there are two more of these, which is never a good sign), the album kicks off with “Bring Me Along,” a sunny reggae shuffle that grabs its licks from “Every Breath You Take” and its heritage from island acts such as Po’ Hana. The guitars echo for miles, the bass flows like mercury and after the next song is finished, you’re fooled into thinking that Pepper wised up and made another Hawaiian record. “Lost in America,” a hooky ode to life on the road perpetuates the ruse, but when the hang-loose varnish starts to crack, a disingenuous grab for radio airplay becomes apparent. It’s disingenuous, because the track is bookended by another stupid skit, the only purpose of which is to distract the listener from the jarring shift of “Your Face,” a gaudy slab of overproduced pop. After you’ve settled into the stripped-down space of a couple clean guitars, bass and drums, getting slammed with a bunch of tacky overdubs and keyboards is pretty annoying.

From there, the album repeatedly shoots for the mainstream, but for the most part, it doesn’t even hit the backboard. “Like Your Style” is a corny attempt at a club hit. “Point and Shoot” is marred by unnecessary raunch. Plus, the last third is broken up with another unfunny skit. Apart from the plaintive low-key rocker of “Zicky’s Song,” the rest of the record tries too hard. It’s shameful that No Shame makes you sit through a bunch of phony grins to find the groove of a real feeling.

--The Robo-Pirate

Just an observation. We mean no harm.

A couple years ago, when I was looking into an Alternative Teacher Certification program (you know, because I was too stupid to have bothered to do this in college), I had to take a test at UT Dallas. It was on a Saturday, so I really didn't get a feel for the campus or the student population.

Last night, Darth Vato played at UT Dallas at the Pub, which is located within the student union building. Though it did resemble a pub, it served no alcohol. I could blather on with a lengthy discussion of form, function and purpose, but this is already a pretty boring post. Rather, I'd like to present my first impression of the students at UT Dallas. I always assumed that it was a commuter school, but there was a decent crowd, and the show itself was fun. We played like crap, though. I think this had something to do with sobriety, but I could be wrong.

Anyway, in pulling up to the load-in spot, we had passed three students talking on phones and to their friends. A fourth student walked past our van, talking on her phone. Kerry looked at me and said,

"I haven't heard any English yet."

--The Robo-Pirate

As if watching giraffes have sex wasn't awkward enough.

Uh oh. Someone had better tell Jerry Faldwell. According to Reuters, there's a gay animal museum in Norway. The obvious implication here is that since animals aren't sentient, being the homogay is not a choice but a natural phenomenon, not unlike ball lightning or the aurora borealis.

From the article comes the following quote, which may be one of the funniest paragraphs I have ever read:

"One photograph shows two giant erect penises flailing above the water as two
male right whales rub together. Another shows a male giraffe mounting another
for sex, another describes homosexuality among beetles."

I think it's safe to assume that the mental image of swordfighting gay whales* was the furthest thing from your mind when you got out of bed today.

In any case, the next time you see a chimpanzee on rollerblades, you'll know that he's not just doing a bit.

--The Robo-Pirate

*or gayles, if you prefer.

THE SHOW MUST GO ON!!!

Every time I watch Entourage, I wish I were an actor. One with a mansion. For almost a minute, I consider the possibility of taking acting classes and think that yeah, maybe this would be something I could do. And then, I remember that actors, though often talented, are almost always aggravating.

I'm not talking about Hollywood dickheads who spend twenty bucks to have a pack of cigarettes delivered to them. These people are as far-removed from my reality as the characters they play, and therefore, they hardly exist in three-dimensional space. I will never meet or know them because for all practical purposes, they don't exist outside a writer's imagination. In other words, there is no real Eva Longoria. When I see her on TV, graciously smiling and waving from within the safety of velvet ropes and red carpets, she is no more real to me than Homer Simpson.

Ac-TORS, however, have been flitting in and out of my life since high school. These people don't make it to Hollywood, though some of them move there. They do theater. And I fucking hate theater. It drives me nuts, what with all the over-acting, and the panting, and the rouge, and the delusions, and the drama that bleeds over from the production into real life.

In high school, I had a good friend who said frequently and with grave determination, "I'm going to be an actor." As if by making such definitive statements, one could make it so. "I'm going to acquire the hope diamond." POOF! Cursed blue diamond, right in my pocket. "I'm going to drive a German half-track." POOF! German half-track, right in my pocket. Same thing in college. I was friends with a few theater people, and a couple of them frequently said the same thing, usually with a nonchalance that suggested they were a little surprised that it hadn't happened already. And then one time, my friend Bryan, who WILLFULLY lived with three other theater dudes threw a party, and the TCU theater department showed up, and when I and my roommate arrived, I overheard one girl say to her friend, "who are those guys?" and her friend replied, "I don't know, but they're definitely not THEATER PEOPLE."

Geez, girls, how did you know? Was it because my pockets weren't rattling with bottles of anti-depressants?

So I find theater people universally annoying. Perhaps you are wondering, however, why I would bring this up. Well, this weekend, Darth Vato played in Galveston, which is a city south of Houston on the gulf. We normally have good shows there, but this one was sort of screwed up in that the opening band cancelled, we had to play for an extra hour (which means playing more covers, which I hate), and we had to compete with terrible metal bands in the adjacent room. But it wasn't a big deal for us, because we have electric instruments that can drown out other electric instruments. Unfortunately, this was not the case for the one-act play that went on before us.

You might think that I am using one-act play as a metaphor or a euphamism for a crappy band, but I'm not. Prior to us, two people, in costume, paced around each other spouting unfunny, circuitous dialogue in some play about a woman who thought she was a superhero. It was dumb and it was irritating, but ultimately, I just felt bad for them.

See, they got started around 9:00, shortly before the first metal band started sound checking in the other room, and it was as awkward as getting a boner in church. The situation sort of went like this:

DELUSIONAL ACTOR 1: So you're saying you're NOT Mrs. Barbara Stanwick of 1572 Lakeshore Drive....

DELUSIONAL ACTOR 2: No, I am Superwoman, and I am here to defeat the League of EEE-ville.

TERRIBLE HIGH SCHOOL METALCORE BAND IN ADJACENT ROOM: JUGGAJUNNNNN!!!!!!

DA 1: But our files say that you ARE Mrs. Barbara Stanwick of 1572 Lakeshore Drive, married to Mike, mother of Jack, 7, and Mary, 5, and they say nothing about any "league of evil."

DA 2: Then your files, Doctor, are CLEARLY erroneous, and have probably been fabricated by the League of EEE-ville themselves!

THSMBIAR: JUGGEDAJUGGEDAJUGGAJUNNNNN!!!!! How you guys tonight? We're called A Dying Death of Dying...

And so on. It was uncomfortable, and it pretty much made the night a total gong show. The cellphones rang. The bar's phone rang. Detuned power chords rang. I finally bailed and went to the other room to watch teenagers with hair in their faces growl and chug away on crappy amps. But this was just as uncomfortable as the shitty play, as their crowd was as many moms as it was friends. The friends were politely standing, but the moms were doing the over-the-head-Michael-McDonald-concert-type claps. To tuneless, rhythmless hardcore.

The nice thing was that we still had some people come watch us, and we made more money than we were supposed to. Eric made us get up at eight the next morning and leave shortly thereafter so he could be back in time for the Cowboys/Eagles kickoff. This made me grouchy, but he really, really likes the Cowboys, so it wasn't like I had much of a choice. He says that the Cowboy's performance affects how the rest of the his week goes, and this makes very little sense to me, but whatever.

At least we weren't leaving early so he could make it to a one-act play.

--The Robo-Pirate

p.s.
I saw The Departed. Holy fucking shit. Just go see it, all right?

Another partial retraction:

Midlake is from Denton. And Midlake is pretty great.

--The Robo-Pirate

I'm an idiot. No, really. I admit it freely.

I have had three hours sleep. This is partly because I'm an idiot. Here's why: Darth Vato played a dismal set in Denton last night. Denton is a funny city where all the cool music is supposed to have come from since around 5,000 B.C. I don't know--the only band from Denton that I've ever paid attention to is the Riverboat Gamblers, and I don't even like them that much. It has this gritty-looking, fairly liberal state university (University of North Texas), relatively famous for its music program. A lot of dudes with glasses and beards go to this school. They're all in bands, a lot of which are "interesting," which really means they are terrible. When someone raves about the latest noise-rock band from Denton, I automatically assume it's a matter of The Emperor's New Clothes.

Anyway, we get paid to play in Denton at this bar, and usually it's fun. Last night the crowd dwindled to tumbleweeds, and frankly, I would have rather stayed at home playing video games. I don't know why that show sucked. Kerry had to be in a meeting early this morning, so I got stuck settling money, and after receiving the check, I headed out. This was around 2;15.

Before I continue to the part where I'm exhausted because I'm an idiot, I need to explain how easily I get lost. You may have noticed that my blog alias implies an interest in pirates, and this might lead you to believe that I have a similar enthusiasm for maps. I do, in fact, love maps. But I get turned around really easily. One time, it took me four hours to get from San Francisco to Lodi, a trip that normally only takes about 90 minutes. Bottom line, I'm terrible with directions, and as such, I departed Denton on the wrong fork of I-35.

Now I-35E intersects I-30, which would have taken me home, but it intersects it at Dallas, which is around 30 miles from Fort Worth. Realizing that the ETA to my bed would now be 30 minutes later, I sought a way to cross over to I-35W. For no reason at all, I chose to drive through Lewisville, a suburb which I have never visited. In fact, there are only two things I know about Lewisville: a person who works at my company lives there and so do firemen who date TCU girls. And really, this latter fact is merely an assumption based upon a girl I knew 8 years ago. So really, I know nothing about Lewisville, least of all its relationship to I-35W, which, it turns out, is completely estranged.

Eventually, I ended up on the North of end of state highway 121. During the day, 121 is the parking lot that threads through a post-apocalyptic wasteland of chain restaurants and mega-car lots, but at 3 am, it's not too bad.

Around 4, I rolled into my apartment. You'd think that this ordeal would have compelled me to go to bed and forget the whole thing, but you'd be wrong. Recall first that I am an idiot. If the gallumphing narrative above does not adequately prove my assertion, then consider the following piece of information: when my ass dragged into my apartment this morning, I did not go directly to bed. Instead, I plopped into my couch,and played Xbox for another hour and fifteen minutes. So, rather than ardently chasing every minute of sleep between my arrival and my alarm's strident beeping, I chose instead to stay up even later making potions.

Now do you believe me?

--The Robo-Pirate

More fake news, this time from FUTURE.

Three months from now, when asked about the success of his stay at a plush Beverly Hills rehabilitation facility, former Congressional Representative Mark Foley (R, FL) replied, "Well, I've got that alcohol problem licked. I have no desire for a single drop of booze. But that pedophilia... Now that's a tough thing to shake." He quickly added, "Did I say pedophilia? I meant pageophilia--I mean, painkillerophilia. Yes. Painkillerophilia. That's a tough addiction to shake!"

Foley later told reporters that his forced exit from politics was "a blessing in disguise," and that he planned to write a "reflective memoir," of his time spent on Capitol Hill, retiring to an as-yet undetermined location. "But probably Thailand or Viet Nam--wherever that Gary Glitter guy went," he said.

--The Robo-Pirate

Last weekend recap, completed on Thursday. Lots of links are involved.

For those of you who don't know about driving from Fort Worth to Austin, here's the gist: it takes around three hours, give or take thirty minutes, depending on the weekend, the vehicle and passenger bladder capacity.

For Darth Vato, it's more like six.

On Friday, we left the Fort at six o'clock to play a midnight slot at a place called Headhunters. We stopped for Whataburgers in Waco, probably for twenty-five minutes. We should have been able to cruise into our motel, pounds some beers, and roll into the club for a longer-than-normal show.

Of course, the Texas Department of Transportation had other plans. It seems that between a place called Temple (which, based upon prior experience is not in Texas but the Twilight Zone) and Killeen, TXDOT decided to resurface I-35 and completely close it. As if that weren't enough, it also closed the frontage road at around the same point, shunting FOUR LANES of traffic into a four-way intersection. If anyone knows a chimp who is looking for work, I hear this office is hiring.

Thus, as a result of someone's terrible idea, traffic backed up for about twenty miles. Traversing this expanse took THREE FUCKING HOURS. You know that part in Independence Day when everyone's trying to leave D.C. because UFOs have blown the White House all to shit? Well that's sort of what this was like. Quoth Kerry, "There'd better be something up ahead that's pretty amazing. Like a bunch of dinosaurs. Having a picnic. Or breakdancing."

As the three of us typically manifest the maturity of an 8th grade health class, you can imagine that the boredom and frustration of such a hassle yielded predictably immature results.

We took pictures of me, sitting on the front of the Grampus, pretending to be a hood ornament.*

We took pictures of Eric and Kerry hanging, Singing in the Rain style, from the door-latch of the semi's trailer in front of us.

We took pictures of Ernie and Vanilla Jesus on said trailer.

We fashioned a urinal out of a plastic gallon jug, a cut-up Dasani bottle, gum and clear packing tape. Eric and I both used it, and Eric got pee on his leg. I blame it on the tape. The reason why packing tape is so named is because it is not good for anything else.

Darth Vato gleaned a few lessons from all of this. The first was that we, as a band, can never adequately prepare for anything. You'd think that allotting double the amount of time to arrive at a gig would be sufficient, but this is obviously not the case.

The second lesson learned was that you shouldn't fuck with semis. Especially when open containers are involved.

The final lesson is a matter of engineering. Regardless of what you've seen on television, chewing gum is not a viable sealant. I would expect that it isn't good for piecing together bombs, dikes, or crumbling marriages either, which are all lies perpetuated by the glass tit.

Miraculously, we made it to Austin by 12:45. Apparently, the soundguy or whatever role "Kenny" fulfilled pushed the bands back a bit, so we still got to play a set to a small, but enthusiastic crowd. From the jaws of defeat, ad nauseum.

After the show, we headed to Motel 6, where I'm pretty sure we witnessed the pre-production stages of a gang-bang movie, as we saw four shady dudes affectionately escorting a single female into an upstairs "suite." Kerry checked us in. "We're in room 213," he said. The tone in his voice suggested that Room 213 housed some ominous connotation; I truly don't pay attention to too many details in life, because apparently, 213 was the number of the apartment inhabited by Jeffrey Dahmer.

This really didn't bother me until Kerry turned on the TV, which was tuned to some channel running a documentary about modern cannibals. And of course, he had turned it on during the Jeffrey Dahmer segment.

I didn't really listen to the show, though if you judged that statement by the doodles I made on our beer cooler, you'd think I'd watched with rapt attention. The truth is, I always doodle creepy shit like that. It's what happens when you spend middle school learning to draw from comic books and then later discovering White Zombie album liners.

Anyway, that was Austin. It turned out pretty good, despite all of I-35's attempts to spoil our evening.

Houston was an easier trip. We took 290 to Kerry's dad's house, as he lives five minutes away from Fitzgerald's. It was a pretty drive, though we did run into some more construction. In Killing Yourself to Live, Chuck Klosterman makes this comment about how there will always be road construction and how this fact depresses him. I pretty much feel the same way.

The show at Fitzgerald's could have been a hassle, but it wasn't. Los Skarnales (the headliner upstairs) cancelled, which meant that five bands were crammed onto our downstairs bill. We had to go on 15 minutes earlier, but a bunch of our friends showed up in time, and we had a decent crowd. Better yet, the club asked us back, which makes the whole trip worthwhile. Later, Eric and I some friends went to Onion Creek, which is a bar that serves beer and Frito Pie. I ate half of Eric's, and then ordered my own. Needless to say, the pyrotechnics in my pants exceeded those of Cinco de Mayo and The Fourth of July combined. Later, I had to share a bed with Kerry (which is sort of like bunking with the San Andreas fault, since he causes the bed to quake by continuously jiggling his legs). He claims to have been awakened by the smell of one of my farts, but I think he's a just big fucking baby.

This coming weekend is Galveston. It's already starting out as a gong show, because the opening band cancelled and the Drew, the promoter asked me to find another one. I suggested The Burning Hotels, some friends from Fort Worth with whom I like to drink and talk shit.

"What do they sound like?" he said.

"Oh you know, kinda like the Strokes, you know like indie rock kind of," I said.

"Yeah...." he said. "I'm not really feeling that indie rock, bro."


In other words, the next time the proverbial emperor announces he has new clothes, I'm going to ask Drew if can see them or not. I probably don't need to tell you what his answer will be.

--The Robo-Pirate

*Except that hood ornaments aren't sweaty, usually.

Modern Man, or How I Became a 21-Century Digital Boy

I've been listening to Bad Religion a lot lately. I run hot and cold with this band, and here's why. When I like them, it's because they're fast and tight and the vocal harmonies soar like a squadron of leather-jacketed guardian angels. When I don't like them, it's because I get tired of Greg Graffin's humorless preaching. NOFX is pretty didactic, too, but At least Fat Mike is a smartass. A lot of the time, Greg Graffin's lyrics come across like a surgeon-general's warning--dire, informative, and kind of overbearing.

In any case, I think Against the Grain is their best record, and it's the one I've been listening to the most. Bad Religion are usually credited with extending L.A. punk rock long past its expiration date, and Against the Grain is a prime example of why. I bought it my junior year in high school ('94-'95), and I credit it for steering me away from bands like Bush. It's arguably the pinnacle of their career (bummer, since it came out sixteen years ago), not only because it features most of the original lineup (admittedly this is a dumb reason to like a record), but because the songs are universally good. Graffin's harmonies sound like a punk rock barber shop quartet. Mr. Bret's solos stick in your head like metastisized brain tumors.* The songs attack with the speed and precision of a team of ninja. It's intelligent, introspective and anthemic, without resorting to the chumpy bro-hymns of Pennywise.**

Following this album, the band signed with Atlantic. I listened to the first two of these albums while in college, and I didn't care for them at all. I missed out on the next two completely, and even when they went back to Epitaph, I've only had a casual interest in their most recent offerings. Though it's remarkable that they continue to churn out albums, I think there's little point in checking them out beyond this one. Okay--Generator is worth a listen, too, but for my money, I remain Against the Grain.

--The Robo-Pirate

*and I challenge everyone to find a more unpleasant simile.
**Imagine a bunch of Orange County frat guys yelling OHHHHHHH/OHHHH OHHHH OHHHHHHHHHH/OHHHHHHH OHHHH OHH OHH OHHHHHHHHHH along with this guy. That's a chumpy bro-hymn.+

+For the record, I love Pennywise.

HOLY SHIT! NEXT SUMMER, BEWARE MY IMPERIAL NAVY!

From the people who sold you the Bug Vac comes Total Pool Anarchy, or, if you prefer, the Bumper Blaster. It's a motorized, inflatable bumper boat with a powerful water cannon on it.

You guys are in so much trouble next summer.

--The Robo-Pirate

Top ten places to hide if you are able to turn invisible

1. In plain sight.

2. Right under her nose.

3. Anywhere.

4. Everywhere.

5. The Oval Office.

6. Wherever you want.

7. Mervyn's.

8. The video arcade around closing time

9. Your favorite bar.

10. The scene of the crime.

--The Robo-Pirate

p.s.
This was Nerdingle P. Nerdlinger's idea.

On Verticals, Q1, Q2, and Other Nonsense

It's not anyone's fault, but hearing conference calls makes me want to put an icepick in my ear.

--The Robo-Pirate

New record day!

Downloaded one, got the other free.

Blood Mountain by Mastodon

Fucking intense. A concept album about ascending some perilous mountain. A bunch of scary songs about monsters. And even crazier drumming than on Leviathan. Remember the shiver you got the first time you heard "The Thing That Should Not Be" off of Master of Puppets? Here, those goosebumps are named "Circle of the Cysquatch" and "Bladecatcher." I'd like to buy the new Mars Volta album and see how the two stack up, as the musicianship is probably equal between both bands, but I have a feeling that the ideas here are a lot more interesting. I hear Amputechture is just a bunch of noodling. With the exception of Black Flag, there is no other band more aptly named than Mastodon. Even if you don't like anything heavy, you should give this a listen. And if you get it on iTunes, you get a video with it.

No Shame by Pepper

Fucking blows. It's hard to be worse than the last one, but you guys did it. Maybe you should stop working with 311. Or if you didn't then maybe just start copying them, as even that would be an improvement on these tunes. The first track fools you into thinking that you're getting some saccharine Hawaiian reggae tunes, but then the record turns into radio-sychophantic Chili Peppers posturing minus the chops. I read an interview with Kaleo, the guitarist, and he said that on this one, they were heading back to the Police-by-way-of-Po Hana fusion found on Kona Town, but that turned into a bit of a fib. Pepper used to know what a hook is; for all the Clear Channel courting going on here, you'd think they'd have at least recycled one or two. The best song here is "Lost in America" which traipses through the speakers in the same flip flops LBDA blew out in "DJs" and "Life Goes On." It's not great, but relative to the rest, it might as well have been off of Pet Sounds. Did I mention there are annoying skits? Well, there are. I hate skits, and on No Shame, there are three of them.

I like Pepper. I really do. They are great live. I love Kona Town, and I can even find nice things to say about In With the Old. This new one, thoug--it's a bit of a steaming pile.

--The Robo-Pirate

Wanna be in a band?

Back when my musical endeavors were limited to annoying dorm neighbors with my repeated mistakes on my bass (live and don't learn, that's me), I had certain misconceptions about being in a band. I thought bands lived an existence of never-ending parties, piles of makeout girls and all the free snacks you could gobble. Oh, and I imagined there were bouts of playing music as well.

I never imagined hassles such as expensive amp tubes, weirdo soundguys, amnesiac promoters or press kits. Now most of those things don’t bother me that much, but I will never, ever enjoy compiling press kits. They are easily the most odious band chore, and this includes carrying speaker cabs up multiple flights of stairs.

I hate them for several reasons, and if you’ve ever been in a band, you’ll probably agree. The first is that I firmly believe that everything included in a press kit (photo, bio, clippings, occasional promotional item, oh and music sampler) except the CD gets thrown in the trash.*
I hate having to mail all that crap to someone, because it costs money, and it usually amounts to nothing. There is more value in giving money to a homeless guy than producing and mailing a press kit, because at least giving money to a homeless guy means that someone will get drunk later. Paying to make and mail press kits is tantamount to wiping my ass with five dollar bills.

Press kits also lie. Since they are basically a band resume, they are rife with exaggerations (DV's is no exception to this), and I presume that they are universally similar for every local band. For example, at some point in their career, a local band that is any good will get to open for a national band, providing them for a possible half-truth to include in their bio or press clippings. I know of a band around here that gets to play the Ernie Ball stage at the Warped Tour every year because they have a well-connected manager. Their bio alleges that they have shared the stage with bands such as Bad Religion, Dropkick Murphys, Rancid and all the other mainstage headliners. This is a white lie, but it's a lie nevertheless. They are playing the same event, but the Ernie Ball stage is pretty far away from where the headliners are. They weren’t sharing the stage with anyone other than the same people they’ve shared the stage with in Flower Mound, Addison or various roller rinks.

Then there’s the universal press kit fib about packing all the local clubs. Sometimes this is technically true, but it's almost always subjective. We packed Headhunters in Austin. This is totally true. But it was the patio, which is tiny. Not that I'm complaining about this; I thought it was pretty rad, and I think the club did too. But I hate having to gently fabricate the size of out of town crowds for the sake of maybe (read: probably not) opening for Pepper or Slightly Stoopid. I feel like it's for a good cause, and if it's fudging just a little, I guess it's okay, but it would be great if I could just tell the truth: “yes we have big crowds at home. Yes we have big crowds in a couple other places. Give us a chance to make a big crowd at your club. It will probably take a few shows though, just so you know.”

As if their potential for disposal, wasteful cost and inherent stretching of the truth weren’t enough to make them a total beating, unwritten press kit law states that you are supposed to include a band photo. Why a photo is important is beyond me, but I know this booking guy around here who passed me the following insider tip:

“You can say you played with whoever, but that doesn’t mean anything. It’s much more valuable to
have a professional, 8X10 black-and-white.”

You’d think that a CD would be a better indication of what a band might do for your club, but nope, apparently it’s a headshot.

Our press picture is three years old anyway, so last Friday, we took some new pictures. We used a professional photographer (our friend Kerrie, friendship thereby making her affordable) and took them at our friend Ira’s house, because he has a rad backyard with two homemade bars. This seemed like the most natural setting for us, but it really doesn’t matter how they turn out, because they will still be an opportunity for mockery. See, this website called Rock and Roll Confidential has a section called The Hall of Douchebags,” which is a huge archive full of the terrible press photos of presumably awful local bands. RaRC merely points out the obvious, that local band press photos are intrinsically hilarious. As such, press kit photos are pretty much a landmine that you, as a band, willingly bury, arm and step on. If you go to that site (be prepared to waste a good hour or so), you’ll find that the person who rips on all these pics is generally right on the money. Press kit photos all look pretty tired. Their settings are usually some laughably stereotypical locale (brick wall, alley formed by brick walls, chain-link fences, train tracks, or a combination of all of these), and when they aren’t, their situation is totally removed from anything that has to do with the band, or for that matter, anything that has to do with reality. This is why Kerrie shot us standing on top of the Grampus, because standing up there was actively ridiculous. We have no reason whatsoever to be on top of the van. We would never play a show from atop the van, nor would we ever just hang out up there. But we did it anyway, at my behest. Anyway, I was drunk. It sounded like a good idea at the time.

Unless a band is comprised of strippers or aliens, no one should really give a flying crippled crap what it looks like. Well, unless it’s a rockabilly band, I suppose. Image seems to be pretty important to rockabilly people. But it’s not like you’d use our mugs to sell tickets anyway. We’re a fat guy, a slightly less fat guy and a short guy. If anything, our press kit photo might be detrimental to getting out of town shows. And as proof to this point, some of the bands on the Hall of Douchebags might be worth listening to (this is completely for the sake of argument), but you can bet I’d never book them. If we show up there (and you can bet I’ll submit our picture), I’ll be sure to let you know.

In the meantime, we will put these things together, stick them in the mailbox and hope for the best. It can’t be any worse than wishing for winning lottery tickets.

Or giving money to the homeless.

--The Robo-Pirate
*if you’re lucky.

p.s.
This is my favorite one.

p.p.s.
And for those from Fort Worth, here's Pimpadelic, being terrible.

Yes, dude, you are totally creepy.

My friend and surrogate older sister Danielle sent me this link about a computer fix-it guy who claims to be non-creepy. To be fair, his rates are pretty cheap. But then again, so are you if you hire him.

--The Robo-Pirate

In case you didn't bother clicking the link, some guy put an ad up on Craig's List about how he'll fix your PC if you let him touch your boobs. Now don't you want to read the article?