The Blood Arm and Art Brut: Together at Last

Q: How much do we love Art Brut?

A (Q): How much does a fat kid love cake? How much did Hitler hate the Jews? How much do the deserts miss the rain?

We were finally able to perform with the inimitable Art Brut at the Insomniac's Ball this past Saturday in London. It was epic, though all I really remember is being thrown on the ground by a bouncer when the most Brutiful Eddie Argos called me on stage, and the lovely Christopher Svensson being physically assaulted for defending my honor. When I woke up this morning, Art Brut drummer Mikey was spooning me, Zachary and guitARTist Jarvis were passed out on the floor, and Zachary's head was shaven clean.

Best night ever.

More coming soon, when I figure out a way to charge my computer.

I love you all, but especially Keith Boadwee on his birthday.

-Ben Lee Handler

Kris's KoRner; Identical Twins Stranded on a Deserted Island with a Dumb Nanny

Did you know that in sixteen hundred and something-or-other, King James of Scotland sent a set of newborn twins to a deserted island with a dumb nanny? And left them there for five years, without any human contact other than one another and their dumb nanny? And that when they were picked up on their fifth birthday, the twins were fluent in ancient Hebrew?

It's true. You can read it in any history book.

We did shows in Edinburgh and Huddersfield, but I will type about them later when I am on my own computer and not the one belonging to the lovely Chris Svensson. For now, you will have to make do with the first installment of 'Kris's Korner,' a column that will appear very irregularly on this site, wherein our dear friend (and sometimes lover) Chris Cain of the We Are Scientists weighs in on the most pressing topics of the day.

Without further ado, here's...


People come to me with questions a lot -- I chalk it up to my mustache, simultaneously avuncular and oracular. And while mind-reading is not among my skill sets, I can, with a 95% confidence interval, predict what someone is about to say when they approach me tentatively, finger raised, eyes narrowed. Inevitably it will go something like this:

"Hey, you know Ben Lee, right?"

or

"But so what about this Ben Lee character? You're part of his gang, right?"

or

"I want to now steer the discussion toward a topic I know most of our audience is... shall we say... VERY eager to hear about: Ben Lee Handler." Calamitous applause.

and

"Let me bounce a name off you: Be--"
"Ben Lee," I interject impatiently. "I know."

Fair enough. I do, famously, associate with Ben Lee. I am, notoriously, a vice-sergeant in his gang, The Ferris Wheels. I can, on a whim, call him up and leave him an encrypted voicemail that sounds, if you listen to it and you are the Uninitiated, very serious, very grave, but is in fact a request for him to pick up a bottle on his way to the party.

That's right, I party with Ben Lee. What's he like at a party? He's like a kangaroo in a pit paved with thumb tacks, and the pit is just a couple feet too deep for him to jump out of. He's flipping nuts. He's like an 80 year-old woman who's been doing adrenaline/PCP shooters.

I structured that last example as a simile, but there's more literal truth to it than you'd guess: I can take you to a certain very underground sex club in Prague where they actually serve a shot that's half adrenaline, half PCP. It costs the equivalent of 60 bucks American. "I'll have a Ben Lee," is all you have to say, and throw down your 1300 Koruny.

The club is called "Ben Lee".

Pre-Tour Party Ejaculations

I'm told London is supposed to be foggy and rainy, but it seems that every time we've been here it's sunny and pleasant. Either global warming is real, or everyone I know is a liar. (My guess: it's the latter.) Regardless, the sublime weather enabled us to go on a 48 hour drinking binge with our dear friends Chris, Kristina, Dania, Michael, Cat, and a few 18 year-old whose names I can't recall. The debauchery was so immense that it covered half the city, two hotel rooms, a game of frisbee on Primrose Hill, three apartments, and more pubs than one can even attempt to count. Between the six of us (Chalkie included), we took a 5,067,982 collective days off of our lives. (It remains to be seen whether or not Chalkie actually survived the weekend.) We had fun, basically.

Pictures coming as soon as the beautiful Chris Svensson emails them to me!