This is the first headline I saw when I turned on my computer. Something like: Does airline travel have to be a grim prison sentence?

My sentiments exactly. They really need to crack down on the murder, drug abuse, violence, rape, dehumanization, prejudice and all-around hopelessness that’s so widespread in the airline industry today.

I know what I’m talking about. The last time I flew to Los Angeles, I was delayed almost an hour AND I had to remove my shoes AND tell a perfectly attractive security person the nature of my trip. It was pretty traumatic. I might not ever enjoy vacationing again.

So we started streaming a few songs from the upcoming release. In case you’re interested, here are some thoughts I have regarding the songs.

1. Cruelty to Animals.
This is one of my personal favorites from all of my tunes. But before anyone writes to the site scolding me about advocating such a thing, I say this: It’s a metaphor. Sure, I’ve won a mind game or two in spectacularly cavalier fashion, but I have never been obdurately cruel to anyone/anything.

This begs a question I don’t feel like answering right here. Say a protagonist is an unlikeable prick, does that mean the author/writer is? I guess it’s neither here nor there. My song is a love song.

And for the those who are offended by my use of French in the tune, I say, “Hang on, Stringbean. That’s Canadian you’re hearing.”

2. Somerville.
You know, Boston is far from being the greatest city ever invented. But I’m from there, and I miss it. I have friends in Toledo, El Paso and Detroit who feel the same way about those towns.

I wanted to write a tune that tipped its hat to “It Never Rains in Southern California” and Nick Flynn’s book. The latter contains, among other strokes of brilliance, an entire chapter of nothing but different expressions for being wasted. It’s very funny. Then it’s very sad.

3. Grudge F*** (2006)
This is tune I always wanted a second crack at. And crack we did.
I’ve told the tale at shows, but in case you weren’t there, here’s the very short version: The song is kind of a companion piece to the Gin Blossoms’ smash hit, “Hey Jealousy.” I liked that song just fine, but always thought it wasn’t potentially mean enough. I wanted it to be unclear as to whether my protagonist was sincere or obdurately cruel (which is something I would never abdicate. Irregardless, it’s a mute point. I’d just assume cut off my own head.)

“If only some other people would exhibit such grace.”
Surely, Joyce was not talking about me. I might not be a lot of things, but graceful is definitely one I am not not.

Joyce, before this little pissing match gets ugly, I hereby call a truce. I shan’t take part in any more jabs, underhanded or otherwise.

“I swear, on the souls of my grandchildren, I will not be the one to break this peace we made today”–Don Corleone

Barry Bonds is still second on the all-time homer list, and Pluto has been stripped of its status as a planet? I guess that’s a cheap shot at Barry. I just like baseball a lot so I took that route. You can plug in any name into the following sentence, like a mad lib:

“I cannot believe (proper noun) is still the/a (noun), and Pluto has been stripped of its status as a planet?”

If you read Joyce’s last blog, you might notice she, in a markedly less sophisticated way than I’ve done here, clumsily tried to make me, Joe Pernice, the proper noun in the above mad lib. Such shameless straightmannery on her part.

Mad Lib story 2. I bought a book of Mad Libs for the band to do while criss crossing the country on our last tour. It got very boring very quickly. Everyone kept inserting words like “pouch of douglas” and “bulbous spungeosis” for nouns, and “fistulated” for an adjective. Snorsville, USA.

Mad Lib story 3. I’m a bout 12 years old. My sister Kara is 10. She comes up with an adjective and noun that complete a Mad Lib that still cracks us up:

“All my life I wanted to be a scientist. Now I’m nothing but a hairy candle.”

In my opinion, you could put a byline punctuated by Theodore Roethke or Phil Levine after a line like that.

Anyway, Pluto doesn’t need me or anybody else speaking for it.

“So, until next time, go and invent a (noun), and (verb) until your (noun) becomes inflamed.”

First of all, Chiefy, you did a great job on the new site. We know you have (had) a peronal life, so thanks for the hours. Thank Lady Chiefy as well.

Okay, this is my first official blog on the new site. I assume if you call it a blog there has to be some degree of regularity implied or otherwise. I’m actually going to try and write often. Early mornings are proving to be the perfect time. Without getting into too much detail, I have been a father for about three weeks now. I’m way into it, but the kid is a most-efficient need machine with (to borrow a phrase William Gibson told me a few years back) “all buttons pushed flushed to the console.”

Expectedly, a lot of people are telling me I ought to write kid’s songs. Well, I tried it the other night while pacing the hall with a gassy kid. Tell me what you think of this chorus: “Please don’t shit on me again. I’m begging you.” Has a nice G.G. Allen thing going on. Watch out Dan Zanes. I’m gunning for you.

A few years ago, when I was a grad student, my oldest sister asked me to “write a little story for (her) kids.” I did. It was about a young oyster who started getting headaches. When he asked his mother what was up, she told him it was a pearl beginning to grow. How wonderful, no? No. That was no pearl. And it turned out to be inoperable.

Another question I’ve been asked more than once lately: Isn’t having a baby going to make you start writing happier songs?

Well, let me put it this way: I have been in a great relationship with my wife since 1998. Never happier. Give “Chappaquiddick Skyline” or “Yours, Mine and Ours” a listen when you get a chance.

I just got a new MacBook, and I’m hoping I don’t have one of those faulty batteries. This thing sure is getting hot on my lap. Good thing I got this after well after the kid was conceived.

As of monday, I went “back to work” trying to finish this friggin’ screenplay. It must be done by the time we start rehearsing in October for the tour. It’s turning into one of those calculus limit/derivative problems where the a rabbit is 10 feet from a carrot, and with every hop he halves the distance between itself and the carrot. How many hops will it take to reach it? An infinite number. The poor bastard never gets there. he starves to death, having gnawed on his own leg for a snack along the way.

This reminds me, after the kid dozes off in the middle of the night, I’ve been catching this show called “Survivorman” on T.V. I must meet this Les Stroud. He gets dropped off in the middle of nowhere for a week, with nothing but video equipment and the clothes he’s wearing. Places like the desert, Costa Rican jungle, the Arctic. I think you get the picture. I want Les to tour with us. The other day I learned something very useful: If you’re in the wilderness (or even in your back yard), you should test any leaves out by rubbing them against your arms. Wait a while, and if no rash appears, it’s probably okay to wipe “other” parts of your body with that kind of leave. I shall keep that in mind. (Les, if you’re in Toronto, email me here at Ashmont, and I’d love to buy you a drink.)

Aother thing about the upcoming tour. Jose Ayerve, who has been our tour manager for some years now, will be playing bass. For those of you who do not know, Jose has a band called Spouse, and he’s a fantastic musician/engineer. Though he was a top-notch tour manager, he was certainly underemployed. And he can sing. Now we can work all of those Spanish harmonies back into all the songs.

Today I must push on with printing the pre-order CD covers. I’m hand rolling each linocut print. Reminds me of a few years back when I phoned my Nonni (God rest her soul) and asked her to talk me through hand rolling some dough to make pasta. Holy crap, I almost had a heart attack. After what seemed like hours of wrestling with the stuff I had about 10 noodles that were keepers. Still, I boiled them up and ate them with a thimble of sauce. Boy, life was so much simpler then. Back then when the chances of surviving a sore throat were about 50/50.