Things that are new for

Things that are new for us:
– new photos
– new advice
– a new animated video for the Bomb Inside the Bomb. soon. probably.
– a taste of humility, for Keith
– we are working on new shows. do you want us? do you want us like we want you? don’t be coy, now.
– for Michael, a raging case of [edited for content]

Elisabeth, Annie, Jessica, and Sarah

Dear Bestest Band Ever (a.k.a. We Are Scientists – that’s you; I aren’t scientist, neither I, nor I),
Driving east on Foothill Blvd, near your old rocking grounds, we wanted to put in a super special cd to brighten our rainy evening. But, we couldn’t find Safety, Fun and Learning (in that order). So we took out our back-up copy of SFL(ITO) next to our flashlight, jumper cables, and flares. Twenty seconds into “Over and Out”, we four Claremont women/chicas were so inspired by y’all, we abandonned our idea to form our own band and decided to play Chinese Firedrill instead. This seemed like a reasonable alternative because
a) we’re lazy.
b) we’re too lazy to list the other reasons.
Now, this was a fun-filled learning activity. Granted, it was not safe. It was especially not safe because it was raining, dark, and we were confused about Chinese Firedrill ettiquette.
Can you tell us whether you should switch seats or return to your previously occupied seat after encircling the vehicle??? Maybe this will help us be more safe next time.
We’ll Chinese Firedrill with you anyday,
Elisabeth, Annie, Jessica, and Sarah
E, A, J, &S:
Let us be the first to recommend that you not engage in chinese fire drilling ever, ever, ever again. Do you want to talk about an incrediby dangerous activity? Okay: ha ha, yay, chinese fire drilling, chinese fire drilling, chinese fire drilling, yeah. Let us go on the record as heartily recommending an evening of unprotected sex, shared needles, and half-odds russian roulette next time you’re looking for a little action and leaning toward a chinese fire drill. The medical journals and the IntroNet (TM) are lousy, absolutely lousy with horror stories:
� The fellow who, during a chinese fire drill, tripped and fell through a sewer grate (he was whisper-thin) � by the time his friends fished him out nearly an hour later, he had missed an important appointment to see about a job. As a result, he did not get that job. He did get another job, but not all of these stories have happy endings…
� The young woman who, during a chinese fire drill, fell into a sinkhole and died.
� The small baby who took part in a chinese fire drill and ended up in a seat other than his car-seat � in the shotgun seat, actually � and who, as a result, kept slipping out of his seat and into the floorboards whenever the car slowed (his diaper was plasticky and slick). He had this to say of the situation, “This is the shits! This is for the birds! Ai mi!”
� The cat who participated in a chinese fire drill and got hit by a passing car.
� The dog who tripped during a chinese fire drill and, tragically, was the object of much ridicule and scorn and even cuffs on the muzzle from an abusive owner.
Here are several things that are safer than chinese fire drilling:
� Walking around in Brando’s living room with pork-chops sewn into the liner of your jacket.
� Time travelling back to The Nam.
� Werewolf jokes if you are a stand-up comedian playing to an audience of the scruffy scoundrels.
Here is a diagram of your typical round of chinese fire drilling:



Girls, if you care anything for life and the finest things it has to offer (WAS, fame, cigarette boats), consider dropping this dangerous habit altogether.
sincerely,
w to the a to the s

Chris came to work today

Chris came to work today with 30 minutes of sleep under his proverbial belt, and only slightly more than that trapped, like singles in a stripper’s g-string, under his actual belt — for the non-scientists, roughly one hour’s total sleep. That’s because Chris has bad baby karma. When he flies the friendly skies, so do a legion of babies. And these are not the babies from the Snuggles (TM) commercials; these are the ones for whom existence itself is an excruciating injustice, in whom breathing and sitting produce righteous indignity; they’re the babies with the weight of history’s cumulative grief on their narrow shoulders — these are also the babies who suffer from devastating gastric cramps. Using spine-tingling screams, these babies appeal directly to the gods for mitigation of their agony. We’re being sarcastic. Babies are fucking drama queens. If a “diva” ever acted like babies do, she’d be fired immediately. Nobody stands there and takes shit from another person the way we do, all of us, from babies. For even the most cowardly among us there is a line the crossing of which causes us to retaliate. Unless the transgressor is a baby, in which case we stand dumb in the face of a baby’s divine right to create sonic atrocities for no good reason. How long will this go on?
The following website address has not yet been registered:
stopbabykind.com. Someone must get on this. Due to sponsor affiliations (Gerber(TM), Children’s Dimetapp(TM), Sippy Cup(TM)), we can’t be the ones to do it. Fanbase, wake up! There’s a war being fought right under your noses, a war with very high stakes and one that, if the babies win it, will be like The Nam in terms of how many people look back on it with a bitter smile and vacant, unfocused eyes.
Some of you may suppose that this is some kind of dimwitted Swiftian satire. For you we offer the following anecdote, which we will not dress up in metaphor or excess verbage: On Chris’s flight last night, there was this baby trying to scream his own teeth out of his mouth — just roaring — for no reason. And whenever his mom tried to quiet him by whispering reassuringly or cradling him, he would strike her in the face with all his pathetic might. He hit her face again and again, whenever she so much as looked down at him. Do you see now?
We still sense reticence. It’s time for the pictures then. Take a look at this photograph of a common baby. Pay special attention to how fucking evil it obviously is:

We hate to do this, but we’re going to have to show you another one to insure that the point has been made:

That’s one evil-scheming baby. Can any among you maintain doubt after seeing this:

Steel yourselves, friends. Witness the final exhibit. We know this isn’t easy:

Four everyday, run of the mill babies, their malice captured quite objectively by a common 35 millimeter camera. You may continue to deny what’s going on if you wish, but it will now be willful, irresponsible ignorance and not simple naivete that is to blame when the babies one day do their macabre little dance on the original copy of the Constitution, when they thrust humanity into an age so dark that we’ll be forced to refer to the Dark Ages as simply That One Time, for it will no longer seem like a dark time, comparitively.
A final exhortation. Next time you see a baby in person, smack its face. Shake your head dismissively at the resulting shrieks. Let the baby know that its hold on you only exists so long as you let it exist. Then terrify the baby and its kind by slapping it again to emphasize that you have ceased to recognize that hold. Then shave a bald-stripe down the middle of the baby’s head, producing an inverted mohawk of sorts, which will make the baby look like a damned idiot, and he’ll be forced to lay aside his pride. Watch him glower at his diaper’s waistband, silently fuming. Taste the nectar of triumph.

And now some music-related news.

And now some music-related news.
Keith will be, for the next week or so, tagging along on tour with our friends Speechwriters LLC, hitting damn near every musical hotspot between Boston and Washington DC, or, at least, nine of those hot spots. For the most part, Keith is just going along for the ride, helping out the LLC by selling merch and shiz like that, but occasionally, he may or may not serve as opening act, all by his lonesome. If you want to watch Keith sweat and swear and cringe behind an acoustic guitar without the benefit of Chris’s thund’rous bass lines or Michael’s benevolent gaze, you’ll want to stop by and check it out. We cannot promise that Keith will definitely be playing at any of these shows, but the ones with the asterisks feature, like, an 85% chance of seeing it happen. In any case, you should come out and say hello. Keith promises that if he’s not playing that night, he’ll take you aside and sing you whatever it is that you want to hear, or at least stare at you dully and wish you would just go away, you hound.
***12 nov. wentworth institute of technology (~8:30pm) 550 huntington ave, boston, ma
13 nov fisher college (noon) 118 beacon st, boston, ma
14 nov the brown u. underground (TBA) providence, ri
15 nov lemoynapalooza (TBA) syracuse, ny
***16 nov TKE @ RPI (TBA) troy, ny
20 nov cb’s 313 gallery (9pm) nyc
***21 nov staccato bar and lounge (9pm) washington, dc
***22 nov frostburg university (8pm) frostburg, md

Other Notable Scientists Who Have Come to Our Attention / Part 1

George W. Bush

Not that it

Not that it

Love Kisses from WAS to You

Here at WAS headquarters, we are–believe it or not–pretty inured to the desperate wiles and grabby gambits of the Entertainment Industry. Most of you probably think of us as sensitive, sincere, even ingenuous; the fact is we’re a hard-hearted little phalanx of cynics, plowing across the mediascape–with its crap buildings, crap streets, crap stoplights, crap infrastructure–inside a heavily armored vehicle with an extra-sturdy cattle guard. We use that ineluctable, ever-skeptical wedge of a truck to blow right through veritable moutains of shit. Mountains. The movies, the teevee shows, the tee shirts, the novels, the comics, the federal warnings: talentless fiberboard set-pieces that WAS loves to go crashing through in our Cynic-mobile, leaving drifts of sawdust in our wake where before there was a hip-hop album. We’ve done it all, seen it all, eaten it all in all the right restaurants, and we’ve been operating under the assumption for quite some time that nothing remained to shock us, that nothing was left that could possibly put a smile of delight under our upturned noses. Will anything ever again elicit from us a visceral response? Is it possible to surprise us, short of actually, physically sneaking up and yelling something much fresher than “boo.” These are the questions that plague us, the questions that exist as drastically-reduced acronyms on our license plates.
And then this happened: the whole fucking castle of cards came crashing down around us; our claustrum collapsed. And there we stood, the crowding walls and sagging ceilings replaced by an ellipse of dizzy blue sky, by a breeze and a quality of light that we long ago wrote off as myth. We were gut-punched — it was excruciating, it was unexpected,
it was great. We huddled giddily around the monitor and read and re-read the surprising contents of an email that, as you�ve gathered, has drastically changed things over here at the Sci-Cave. The author of the email and what it proffered will no doubt come as something of a shock to most of you. But that initial eyebrow raising comprises a minuscule fraction of the payoff. Will it surprise, even delight you to learn that the little slice of pure inspiration we�ve been so elliptically referencing for two paragraphs now is a poem? That the poem�s author is none other than Sean Astin, star of The Goonies, Rudy, and most recently the LOTR trilogy? It’s true: two days ago we got an email from misterastin@yahoo.com asking if we’d be interested in posting “to the Sci-Cave” the poem that appears below. The request was signed Sean Astin. A visit to seanastin.com sent doubt to swim with the fishes. This, folks, is the real deal. And damned if we aren�t proud as hell to be in a position to offer this delicate masterpiece a venue. Let us now eschew ado:
The Fishbowl
God soup
and other reflections from 35,000 feet

by Sean Astin
Looking up –> into the deep rich azure
sky — Beyond the Home of the heart
into the Land of the soul —
with a splash and a flicker down
bejeweled water rippling and undulating
A carpet layer of crystal clear impenetrable Depth —
Oceans of Love spread beneath my feet
miles of sky play before mine eye
Silken spread a
Cloudy Bed
A cry — a sigh — to breathe
to die
Alive
as I strive
for a View Above
The sultry dome of operatic
Love kisses in my ear . . .
By show of hand, who here doesn�t want to read that again? Excellent. Arms held to your sides by the straightjacket of good taste. Guys, gals, have a look at this:
The Fishbowl
God soup
and other reflections from 35,000 feet

by Sean Astin
Looking up –> into the deep rich azure
sky — Beyond the Home of the heart
into the Land of the soul —
with a splash and a flicker down
bejeweled water rippling and undulating
A carpet layer of crystal clear impenetrable Depth —
Oceans of Love spread beneath my feet
miles of sky play before mine eye
Silken spread a
Cloudy Bed
A cry — a sigh — to breathe
to die
Alive
as I strive
for a View Above
The sultry dome of operatic
Love kisses in my ear . . .
Goddamn.

Aw, naw, naw! Baby, don't

Aw, naw, naw! Baby, don’t be so angry about the website having been down for so long. It could not be helped. One thing led to another, and things happened – bad things, things that included, at one point, Keith and Chris attending a musical event sponsored by Teen People magazine, watching slackjawed as Justin Timberlake pretended that he wasn’t the whitest man alive and Avril Lavigne pretended that she wasn’t too short to ride any of the rides at Disneyland other than, like, that Dumbo ride, which, even on that ride she needs to be accompanied by an adult.