Tuesday, April 16, 2002
Holy sweet lovely events! California is an amazing, amazing land, a fact that had been almost totally forgotten by we are scientists. But then we returned, and it was sunny and temperate and lovely and green and mountainous, and we remembered. But then we realized that we couldn't see the mountains behind that smog sheath, and it took us over 2.5 hours to traverse LA county and get to the beach in Malibu, where we discovered that the sun was totally obfuscated by what a friend in the know dubbed "the marine layer," and also it was a little too hot, the sort of temperature that makes a skinny, unfit kid very sluggish and unwilling to get on with his life, and so he must hide himself away in the Rejuvo-Booth that is a darkened movie theater with popcorn and Pepsi until the sun goes away. And that is exactly what 2/3's of WAS did whilst in LA for four days. Twice.
But people don't get any better than Californians, we say. They are all fed on organic greens and good nachos, and they are sort of delirious from breathing all that smog, and so they are incredibly friendly and receptive when presented with a trio of enthusiastically hard-rocking scientists. Our two shows in LA this weekend were two of the best ever, hands down. Lots of jumping, lots of screaming, lots of near-fainting, and that was just the band. The crowds were huge, and knew the tunes, and bought all of the copies of Safety, Fun, and Learning, (In That Order) that wed made available exclusively for them. Amazing. Thank you. We may or may be back sooner than you thought, or else you might not have acted as if you weren't going to see us for another year. We will know in a day or two. Check back.
Special thanks to Andrew Jennings, Andy Beetley-Hagler, and Shea Lawrence for the generous use of their equipment. Thanks to Anthony Dines for the moral support and the attempts to make our shows even better. Thanks to BARR for ruling, and Dave and the Sweatpants for having us over for rock on Friday night. Mostly, though, thanks to Speechwriters LLC for facilitating our Claremont return, and for enduring our manifold transgressions whilst in their care and company, and for being an amazing band and an even more amazing couple of guys.
Friday, April 05, 2002
It's a cold, shiny Friday here in Man Hat Town [ed.: the Scientists are actually right on with this; the etymological derivation of 'Manhattan' can be traced back to three foundational elements 'Man', 'Hat', and 'Town'], and we're starting to wonder about a few things.
As a band, we're wondering:
How long 'til the fame comes? Where is it and when will it be here?
When it does come, how will we know it? Will it be artfully personified? Will it look like Danny DeVito? Or not?
If so, what would that mean for fame to "look like Danny DeVito"? I mean clearly it can't look like Danny DeVito, per se. So I mean, what the fuck?
Michael is wondering:
Which is my right thumb, which is my left?
Clearly one happens to be attached to my left hand and one to my right hand - it's not difficult to determine which is which. But the point is am I supposed to accept that as the definitive factor? That's a leap of faith I'm not exactly psyched about making.
If you look at my thumbs and ignore the hands they're attached to, you see that there's really no visible difference. None whatsoever. Further, I have noticed that sometimes when I tell my right thumb to move my left thumb moves instead of my right, or intended, thumb. When I say 'tell it to move', of course, I don't mean that I literally just say the word "move!" aloud while eyeing my thumb; obviously I'm talking about a neural command being issued by my brain, I'm talking about crossing my eyes as tightly as I can, then saying aloud, "Brain. Now hear this. Tell the right thumb to move please. Kindly do this ASAP." And then the brain moves the thumb; though - and this is what I've been getting at - not usually the correct thumb these days.
This all leads me to the conclusion that my thumbs may be on the wrong hands or - best case scenario - there's no way to tell.
Keith is asking himself:
Where do they have cats that I can get cats?
I want one for this weekend - can you even get them that fast, cats?
I could pretend it's an emergency.
That's not strictly speaking untrue. I need to snuggle! I need to snuggle wuggle wuggle the kitties!
Then I will bury them in the yard.
Chris is wondering:
Do the russians mean what they say? Specifically about the cement boots and swimming with the fishes?
Would they really go to that much effort over me? The effort of casting me a pair of cement boots?
Might it forestall the rooskies if I pointed out that with cement boots on I would not really be able to "swim" with the fishes? I would pretty much just stand there on the ocean floor and maybe interact with them in a minimal way, like swat at them or something.
That's clearly a pretty unexamined juxtaposition - the cement boots thing and the swimming with the fishes thing. Initially the pairing may suggest itself just cuz they're both underwater activities, but they're really pretty much totally incompatible.