We’ve been on the down low for the last month between Grace’s infected throat and Ann’s (Grace and Nigel’s ma)pneumonia. Keep them in your prayers, whether you say them on a rug pointed to the East or into a salty beer.

Sometimes people ask me what my lyrics mean and I’m forced to kind of stop and say, "Uh... you tell me." I didn’t use to be like that, but at some point I subscribed to the Beatles’ theory of "It sounds good, we’ll figure out what it means later." The lyrics got better since I did that.

So when I wrote the lyrics for our songs, I wasn’t really sure what I was writing. Hell, I just wanted something that sounded good. But after hearing them all together, in a dizzying array of soul power sung by Grace, I think I can see what I mean.

You see, yesterday something weird happened. I tend to be a spectator to odd events. I like to collect people’s weird stories or watch funny confrontations. In that spirit, I went over to watch the fireworks between the campus fire-and-brimstone preachers and the students vainly trying to talk sense into them. I laughed at the guy who was shouting, "Love! I’ve got more love than you can ever have!" while holding up a sign that said "God is ANGRY at homosexuals, liberals, Mormons, left-handers."

Then I snapped. I ran up and got right in his face, screaming, "You’re a Pharisee! You’re a Pharisee!" At least I didn’t call him a dumb motherfucker, but still, I totally lost it. And what did it do? What hate-filled rhetoric hiding behind the Bible did it end? Nothing. He just ignored me and turned to the other students. Nothing I said made a difference to anyone but me, left wondering "What the hell happened to me?"

"One At a Time," when I look at it, is about that kind of powerless railing. All my protesting of the Iraq War and my clever tirades aren’t going to stop my brother from going to Iraq, and that’s bitter. It’s so bitter that it came out in the song. I can’t change Mr. God-Hates-Your-Mormonism’s mind by shouting at him, but I can’t change it by talking to him in a reasoned and calm manner, either. Nothing will do that. I really feel sometimes like a dog chasing my tail and thinking I’m going to catch something substantial. And our beloved President is the blindest of all, bleeding the blind.

-Spencer

Good morning and welcome to Bad Motel! Here we have free rock your face ass-kicking service, also towels.

So we got a three-song demo done, and for that we thanks Nigel’s many sacrifices of local squirrels to obscure Sumeric deities. We hope you like it. The songs are downloadable, so share the wealth. Make CDs for a loved one, or better yet, an ex.

We’re insanely grateful to Aaron for recording us and his sly discount, and all the support from our friends and family, especially Chrissy, Dani, and the Moores. Ann and Rick, your pom-poms and miniskirts are on back order.