This is what it sounds like when spuds cry

This Friday, Malvador slams the ol' meaty airship down to marinade in the Hudson River, where we'll mosey on over to Olive's vegetarian restaurant to introduce ourselves to the citizens of Nyack, NY (with a little hot B12 injection to help them out with any potential vitamin deficiencies).

We join our friends, Mr. Bighead, with whom we have engaged in mutual ear-tasting on three other occassions, seemingly always in congruence with some kind of gastronmical theme. The first two meatings were at the Tuscan Café in Warwick, NY, a hip coffee dive well known for its stage. The third took place at O'Reilly's in Newton, NJ, where they joined us for our one-year anniversary to indulge in deaf shepherd pie and head bangers and mash. All such clamorous banquets!

This time, it's on their own turf, and we must admit that we're a little excited to swap the fauna for the flora and pass some juicy root veggies through our gullets. Despite their apparent lack of cognition, we can only hope plants are, in fact, aware of being furiously devoured.

For the uninitiated, Mr. Bighead is a silly romp through funky fields of wacky wheat, torches and rakes in hand, chasing Frankenberry into a cartoon candy windmill and roasting him alive. As a similarly bizarre troupe, we very much appreciate our acquaintance with such an uncategorizable outfit. Together we shall embrace our outlandish ways with cartoon violence, chord variations, and stylistic deviation.