Vampires. Like all of us, they have their positives and their negatives. Here those are:
Key: ‘*’ indicates a pun

  • Can use pointy teeth as a fixed compass, comparing distances on blueprints or treasure-hunt maps.
  • Ability to become mist allows them to ogle girls showering.
    • Negatives
  • Taste in films is shit, shit, shit.
  • If you are a guy in a relationship with a vampire/vampiress, they basically can’t give you oral sex. It basically can’t be done. Which blows*. Which just sucks*, you know?
  • The Science Diaries #7

    The Film Medium

    Figure 1:

    Figure 2:

    You bashful, bashful otters: One

    You bashful, bashful otters:
    One week ago today, the We Are Scientists completed our final day of recording with Chris Fudurich, tall, famous LA producer. What we recorded was our songs Great Escape, Scene Is Dead, and This Means War. What it looked like was this:

    Here’s Chris Fudurich at work bolstering our songs with slamming house beats and samples of women breathing heavy during sex.

    Keith averts his eyes as Michael shamelessly asks Chris F. if he (Michael) can eat the contents of Chris’s shiny box lunch because he’s “hungry and [doesn’t] feel like going to get [his] own food.”

    Because of the wild drugs we took by the pound in order to foster creativity, everything at the studio seemed to be attacking us. A mostly harmless batch of cords became a hissing King Cobra, and a ceiling crowded with friendly old bats started to look like a veritable parking lot for deadly acoustic umbrella things from hell.

    Keith shakes his amp furiously and yells for the “little guy” who “makes the bad sounds” to “come out and fight like a man”.

    At a bookstore/art opening thingie where lots of cool kids were hanging out, Michael distinguished himself by playing Peek-a-Boo with people as they entered the store. Can you spot Michael waiting for his prey?

    Too late! He’s got you! Peek-a-Boo!!!

    The usually sensitive and tactful Greg Fishbein throws Keith for a loop by offering him $30 for a night alone with Michael Tapper.

    An extremely rare sighting: Michael within a hundred yards of a bar that serves alcohol. Actually, this is a trick photograph that uses a very long lens to dissolve the distance between Michael and the bar; it’s that same long lens that gets Michael spinning drunk night after night.

    And since Chris was always behind the camera, here’s a shot of him searching for his harmony in Scene Is Dead, but taken in his office this morning by him.


    name: Malcolm
    query: i am falling for a girl and i think feels the same way about me. we’ve been hanging out steady for the past 3 months and i have really strong feelings for her.
    the problem? she has a boyfriend… so as awkward as this sounds hear this: she has been with this highschool sweetheart of hers for 3 years and they currently live together, but from what i have gathered from her they plan to stop going out once their lease is up this summer and that they will remain friends. so technically they are going out, but at the same time its as though this doesnt apply since they plan to move on…
    so i’m having this party saturday and i want to kiss her or attempt some sort of move, what should i do ?

    There is a rich artery of rock & roll that runs like an aorta through this world, energizing and hardening all who dare acknowledge it — on Saturday, Malcolm, you will tap into that artery; you will drink long and greedily; you will be blind to what lesser men call obstacles, righteous in your penitence to the god of desire, and all the concerns you’ve noted will burn away in the heat of your first long kiss with this girl. Her cuckolded buddy will find a new life for himself, too, a happier, humbler way to finish out his days. Meanwhile you and your ladyfriend will fly like two arrows entwined, striking true your target, sending down feathers and tattered sheets and springs aloft.
    trust us,
    the We Are Scientists

    Scenes from the Boda Dome: New Cat (Intracranial AutoDiary record #6:51-55P-JAN/11/36)

    What’s with your cat?

    Why’s he keep bucking around like that? What the hell’s he up to?

    Is he trying to tell us something? Do cats do that?

    What’s he doing now? Crap, how’d he do that?

    You don’t think he can wield that thing, do you?

    Oh shit, looks to me like he’s wieldin’ it.

    Man, that cat is fucking up your table.

    Dude, this is unreal. I’ve never seen anything like this.

    What the hell’s got him so riled up?

    Sounds like he’s saying rad. Raaaad. Raaaad.

    Is he deliberately changing the channels, or are his swats just hitting the channel button by accident?

    Wow, Charles in Charge has him entranced.

    He’s like, waving at Buddy. And telling him he’s rad.

    Man, he hates Nicole Eggert.

    I honestly think he’s hissing at Nicole Eggert. Look, as soon as she’s gone he stops.

    God, he loves Buddy.

    Nooo, really? Nooo.

    It looks totally normal…

    Can I pick it up?

    Wow, it’s heavy.

    The Science Diaries #6

    Poodles of every faith: This

    Poodles of every faith:
    This weekend, the We Are Scientists will again resume the jetsetting lifestyle that suits us so very well (so well it led Roger Ebert to quip on a conservative talk radio show last week that it suits us “like a fine rolling paper suits my hash — fuck these kids today with their Dan Fogelberg and their plastic bongs!”) Yes, we have booked passage to California, and on Friday evening will be playing our first open-air show since last time we played an open-air show at Pitzer. This show, however, will be called Kahoutek.
    If you’re unfamiliar with Kahoutek — with its glories, its swirling emotions, its wellspring kegs — then let us just tell you abou–… You know what? Better still, let us show you — Behold; an aleatory assay of Kahoutek that we made last year by spinning on a barstool (we bring three barstools with us everywhere we go) and snapping eight photos in quick succession:

    The point of all this being that you should get yourself out to Kahoutek! Even if only in a metaphorical sense by closing your eyes and masturbating furiously.

    Bogus, Lying Assholes

    I’ve met and in many cases maintained friendships with many, many very cool people, people who exemplify many positive traits. But then you have these bogus, lying assholes. What a bunch of pricks. These are the people who, if you ask them a straightforward question, will invariably serve up a lie in response.
    One much-favored technique of their’s — the bogus, lying assholes — is to gild a festering, malicious lie with a sweet cocoon of truth, then serve it to you on a doilie and take great pleasure from your eagerness to gobble down what looks like a sour-apple Jelly Belly(TM). These scum, they are filth. Your innocence, your ingenuousness is to them like sun on the face of an albino, or a vampire, or even, god help you, a vampiric albino: it burns; god how it burns.
    Here’s something to try next time you encounter one of these assholes, these bogus fucking liars. After he finishes feeding you a line of particularly unsavory and malignant bullshit — something intended to trick you into going into a back alley with him where you can be secretively robbed and stabbed by his cronies, or something to get you to fall into an uncovered manhole for his entertainment — smile at him thankfully, say “what wonderful advice!”, and offer him your hand to shake. When he takes it, make sure you have one of those hand-buzzers in your palm, but set to “kill” instead of “stun”. Fry that bogus dick. Shirr his lying parts so they fall away from the bone like the ashen, cylindrical remains of a cigarette giving up its cohesion and snowing down to the sidewalk.
    Or heal him with love, this bogus, lying shithead. Say, “My brother, I can appreciate that your very nature compels you to lie constantly and maliciously, that mendicating is to you as masticating is to a cow: a long, never-finished duty that forms the defining core of your everyday actions. However, my poor fallen brother, you must get a handle on it, lest the next fellow you jest with in your peculiar way shirr you with his goddamn handbuzzer. For will not the world cheer when, charred unto cinder, your body falls away from its frame like dust blown from the face of an ancient tablet by Indiana Jones?”

    The deli where he gets his lunch most days

    Pax is the name of it, and it is, for all intents and purposes, the best cheapish food option in the area where I work, which maybe isn’t but SHOULD be notorious for it’s incredible dearth of decent cheapish food options. There are none, save Pax.
    A person would be tempted to say that Pax has a very good selection; good to very good. They certainly have a lot of stuff — from salads, sandwiches, and soups, to entr�e-style plates of chicken, salmon, grilled veggies, and the like. But something I’ve just seen proves that estimator far too generous.
    I am standing at the the sandwich section of the ordering counter — this was two hours ago — waiting as my order is assembled, and next to me stands a mother and her two young daughters. I imagine them to be tourists from Cleveland; at any rate their appearance suggests they aren’t from New York City. But so, when one of the very friendly, smooth-shaven, more-Spanish-than-English-speaking sandwich assemblers asks the family how he can help them, one of these little blond girls asks, hopefully, “Um, do you have baloney?” It was incredibly cute, but this is no time for reflection. The Pax man is confused; he doesn’t appear to have heard of baloney. He has the look on his face of an 8th grader who does not — simply does not — know the answer to the teacher’s question, but knows one is required, and so is kind of searching his mind with a half-expectancy inspired by his teacher’s full expectancy. The mother sagely deciphers his look, then less-than-sagely rephrases her daughter’s query, framing this second effort with an amicable, matter-of-fact, just-between-us-adults shrug and a hand gesture possibly meant to emulate a slice of baloney lying flat on a counter. She says, “Do you have any baloney?” But it works, actually, he understands her. Either the hand gesture, which firmly placed baloney in the category “flat things”, was revelatory, or the little girl’s vocal register differed by so many octaves from anything he’d heard that day that the Pax man couldn’t really hear what she said. Maybe both. Anyway, he can now confidently state that no, no baloney.
    Which of course we knew all along, you and I, cuz this is a Manhattan deli. But that doesn’t make it right. And I found myself standing there very much wanting a baloney sandwich instead of the salmon and cream-cheese on pumpernickel I’d just been handed.
    Email Pax at and request that they begin carrying baloney (and baloney-related products such as white bread) at their sandwich counter.