Tuesday, May 28, 2002
Sometimes there just isn't news, you see. Not official news anyway...
(cue eerie 60's horror film music, the sort that might play over a black and white scene in which the camera slowly pans over the contents of an evil scientist's laboratory, shelves overcrowded with dusty beakers and graduated cylinders, cages with lonely little test animals (monkeys and rats, possums, in cages cruelly small, allowing no room for tae-bo; the animals' gazes, their eyes, betray beneath a studiously calm exterior incredible frustration borne of an inability to come to terms with the necessity of their death in order that the mad doctor might come one step closer to completing this or that formula, this or that equation). Over this creepy, damnably eerie scene dissolves in the title: WAS at Home)
Today we'd like to offer you a glimpse into the dreary, fashionably shabby basement that is our private lives. Many myths will be shattered. Others... oh friends, others will quite likely be confirmed.
Let us begin with a typical morning at the Sci-Cave. Having more often than not spent the previous evening raising ire and expectations among New York's male and female - respectively - film acting community, and that being a thing that requires one staying out til the early morning hours, we allow ourselves uncharacteristic slack when it comes to waking up in the morning. Our feeling is that the body is going to wake up when it's ready to wake up; waking it any sooner than that will just result in a low-energy day, which none of us can well-afford. So no real rules concerning wake-up time - no discipline. As long as we are all up before sun's first rays kiss morning darkness, all is well, is our one dictate.
Breakfast is usually steak, fruit, milk 'n' eggs, larder, fresh-made tortillas, health shakes, coffee, and darkling thrush. Watching us eat is not pleasant; it is, we've been told by teary-eyed maidens experiencing for the first time true disillusion, a real turn-off. For instance: we do not use proper silverware services, with the appropriate number of forks and so forth. Nor do we pay particular attention to which side of our plates the beverage sits on. Nor do we close our mouths when we chew, ever, nor pay particular heed to keeping various chewed things from tumbling down our shirtfronts, into our laps; or down other's shitfronts, for that matter, into their laps, for that matter, you see.
It is at this time, in this post-prandial, high-fuel state, that we think about good things to invent: what they might be, what color they might be, how big, et cetera. How many we should make in the initial batch. That sort of thing. Thinking about inventions: 30-45mins. Carrying out the plans we decide on: up to an hour. Seeing the smiling faces of the children we save or the baddies we put behind bars for life: priceless, you know what we mean? Priceless.
Ka-smack. It is late afternoon at the Sci-Cave, and elsewhere. All is tranquil and steady as a pet parrot's rage. Or is it . . . ? Yes, for the scientists are in Research Mode. During Research Mode, we bone up on various useful data such as the current happenings in the field of physics; also in the field of gastronomy, we bone up, for without gastronomy, what is man? What truly is man, at his essence? Possibly his gastronomic instinct? Surely it's at least possible. And without that essence, without that certain something, that - as the French say - neckerchief, what is man? Merely a caricature? A fresh-shorn sheep stumbling through verdant dewy fields of heather and whimsy? That sheep rounding a massive decayed tree-stump and being frightened by an abandoned hand-puppet lying desperate in the grass? Because the puppet resembles - distantly - the sheep's nephew? Or the sheep's pillow? Or the sheep's handpuppet's pillow's nephew? Which makes him think about his handpuppet? That he lost? Or left back at the hut that day, stuck with the shit-work while he, the sheep, wanders the nice fields? But then he got shorn, or something along those lines? That is a typical chain of thought for us during Research Mode Hour Time. In fact, that exact chain of thought has had us talking a lot lately, talking, that is, to various world leaders about addressing the issue in some sort of co÷perative manner so that it doesn't appear, as usual, to be WAS acting unilaterally on the world stage for their own advancement, in spite of whatever might be best for the starving masses, which would in reality be the case again here.
Speculating about all that sheep and salad and butter and eggs and catsup makes us hungry, and we dine. In the old style. Think candelabras, arrogant manservants, linen napkins, little crabs doddering around the table-top. Typically we eat like kings, however once a month we forgo dinner and take the food that we would have eaten and send it to Gwyneth Paltrow in hopes of getting her to like us enough to stop wanting just sex.
When it is bedtime, that is when we go to bed. Snug in our beds, we bed down, bed-style.
Now that you have been given this rare peek through the window, do not be alarmed if your life seems quite empty, or at the very least a dumb waste of time, by comparison. Feeling this is a sign that you are very perceptive and in touch with reality. This is a positive trait that few can claim.
Thank you. You remind us of children.
Sunday, May 19, 2002
We really are terrible at updating this thing. This is embarrassing.
It's not as if nothing has been going on in our lives. I mean, the sheer number of films we've been attending is newsworthy in and of itself. Keith hates to admit this, but two weeks ago, he managed to see six films in four days, IN THEATER. That's not including the dozens of DVDs he doubtlessly took in at home, or the hundreds of man-hours of made-for-TV-movies he watched on the banks of TVs set up at the local electronics store. So, really, there is tons to report.
Among the many exciting non-filmic goings-on, there are lots of coming updates to the website. These include, and are probably limited to (but maybe not)
- new photos
- new, upcoming shows
- new songs that we write about each film that we see, which is a sort of project that we've thrust upon ourselves as means of making this whole film-going thing pay off in a way not limited to popcorn and Pepsi consumption. We'll let you know more about this as the project develops.
- a new animated video for "The Bomb Inside the Bomb."
Why are these things not up now? Mind your own damn business.
In other news, Chris now lives in New Jersey. That is the sort of "fun fact" that will be on our We Are Scientists trading cards, whenever those idiots from Topps actually get their acts together and call us up and propose that we put together a series of We Are Scientists trading cards. The hardest part about being in this band is waiting for everyone else to catch up.
Wednesday, May 01, 2002
Another tricked-out California show. It feels unbecoming to blather on and on about what a tremendous performance we put on, and how large and vocally enthusiastic the crowd was, and how we really raised the bar on the rock show performance, and how no other band ever will live up to the standard set by we are scientists. So we won't blather on about that.
But thank you to the kids who showed up and wolfed out on Saturday. If we could play shows like that every night, Chris would almost certainly quit his job at the meat packing plant.
Keith apologizes for bleeding on the first twelve rows of kids. We've taken some photos of his guitar, post-show (which was as gory a sight as we ever hope to see) and will post them if they come out well.
We are now going to take a little time and rest while some people in the band go abroad and other people in the band try to find an actual job for once in their miserable lives.