May Day

So we haven't formally announced anything yet but I thought I'd see if anyone was still checking this thing out. So far the ideas being kicked around for the Mayday Extravaganza were: a group bike ride, acoustic show / Veggie BBQ at Lancaster City Park, a table with literature, secondhand books, etc. and some sort of house show afterwards with louder music possibly electrified.
If this is really going to happen we need to get together and discuss the event and whatnot. Even though I was not in attendance for the last one I really liked the idea of the group potluck / collective meeting. After all what good is a collective if we don't collect and eat and party. I propose a monthly gathering from now on for heated discussions and wrestling. We have assembled an extremely special little group and it would be nice to organize ourselves in such a way that we might be able to really take advantage of each other's talents and ideas.
Post retorts or comments and let everyone know what you think. I'm excited.



Is this thing on?

Where are the drunks and the bikes?

The only thing I can think of is that everyone must be happy and content. That's good clean livin' in the U.S. of A.


The Ocean Is Just The Weather

Hey kids! Thanks to everyone who came out for the DBC show at Crosstown last weekend. A great time was had by all. There is another show this Friday, January 19th at 6pm at Crosstown, featuring Bar Lights, The Ian Daily Band, Cedar & Jackman, and Deep Shit, Arkansas. Come out and play, won't you?

Speaking of Cedar & Jackman, if you have not yet heard their music, you're missing out. Check 'em out on Myspace, or better yet, come to the show. Some of the best songs I've heard locally in a long, long time.

Also, we're planning a live recording at a house show we're doing, with BOOTH!, Cedar & Jackman, and Deep Shit. Stay tuned for details and location.

Fuck yeah.


The Music There Was Hauntingly Familiar

Newsflash: For those of you who live in a cave or are perma-fried on Robitussin, we have a Myspace page now, where I assume most new info and updates will be posted. Hop on the train, will you?

Also, the debut album from the DBC side-project The Hombr3s is done and resting on the windowsill. When it cools down a bit, we'll cut you off a slice and post it in the Releases section. It's white hot monkey love.

Don't forget to tell your friends about the show at Crosstown Records on the 13th. It'll be magic. (By the by, we need someone--ANYONE--to make a flyer. Volunteers?

We're also canning the message board. I actually bought Cialis and found my subsequent erection to be underwhelming and rather spongy.

That's all for now. Keep coming back.


full body revolt!

A couple of days in vegas were had by a couple members of the DBC! and it was definately fun times all around. Personally, i could have floated away many diferent times.


main point of this little post is to let people know that in a few saturdays we will be getting together to record "a drunken bicycle christmas" or something similarly titled. get out your eggnogg, whiskey and christmas sweaters, the days are soon among us.


Sexy Motherfucker Shaking That Ass

Happy Birthday Anthony! Remember, keep that shit in Vegas!


The Democrats Are Coming! The Democrats Are Coming!

Support love.

Why not?


Don't Just (Not) Vote!

explanation of title here.

Here is a shitty attempt at doing more than not voting. Two covers and an original that somehow reflect how I am feeling on this election day. Part of me hopes that an upswing in quality in life will follow in the following weeks, but I got a really good feeling that it's gonna be the same shit, different day. Maybe every single available republican will be voted out of office, all republican bills will be defeated, and in 6 months, or 1 year, or 2 years, or whenever, when nothing has changed, when we are still fighting wars over nothing, still tearing apart our home, still trying to silince any form of dissent, still pushing our values on everyone, maybe everyone will see the whole thing is fucked and needs to be thrown out with the bathwater.

Or maybe that year's American Idol will be deaf.

Do you think vegas has odds on that?

Anyways, enjoy.

BOOTH! - Election Day Parade
BOOTH! - Rooftops
BOOTH! - Burning Down the House


What's Wrong Is Everywhere

When listening to Dio makes you tear up, there's definitely something fucked up about your life. Mine ain't as bad as some, but of course, I have a hard time admitting that.

Being almost 30 and suddenly single is shitty, especially when faced with the prospect of dating other almost 30 year olds somewhere down the line. They often come with kids, car payments, more luggage than LAX. I see them at work, clucking about the breakroom, tracing the lines of smoother faces in trashy celebrity magazines, pinning the ghost of whatever nameless asshole to the ground with indifference and ill-fitting jeans. They're not all that bad, and maybe not most of them. Either way, I do not look forward to finding out.

Then there's stuff. It's everywhere here--books, nail clippers, multi-colored scraps of paper with words we don't mean anymore balled up and tossed into empty corners. Dividing it all is surprisingly easy, and that's what makes it worse. It's all just stuff, and you feel like it should have more meaning than you're able to give it, but it doesn't. The impulse in harder moments is to burn it in a bitter outcry against the injustice of the universe; in easier moments, to burn it in effigy.

Thinking that eventually someone else's copy of "Moby Dick" will be replacing yours on the hardwood shelf is bad enough, but thinking that he may not own a copy of "Moby Dick" is even worse. The adult thing to do is to wish him luck, let him pass, send him mental bouquets of carnations and marigolds. Sadly, I'm not quite that adult yet, so it's maggot pie and pestilence--unyielding plagues of locusts and plane crashes. But I'm sure he's a great guy. Really. For a totem, a tool, a fantasy.

Failure is a bitch.


sheryl crow and me, sitting in a tree, s-w-e-e-p-i-n-g

I find myself standing next to an empty booth at work, broom in one hand, dust pan in the other. I am staring down at a pile of salt more than likely dispensed by a child or a father being a bastard. Sheryl Crow comes over the speaker and tells me she has been swimming in a sea of anarchy. I smile, knowing that if it were true, I would never have to hear about it on a restaurant sound system. I sweep up the salt and hope that the luck of the person who poured it our will be taking a sharp turn south. I bet sheryl can't even swim.