Jack Barakat Says I Smell Nice

Remember how I talked about going to a concert when we were in Vegas, and I that we were going to talk about it in detail?
Are you ready for this kind of thing today? 'Cause it's happening.

Reginald Kitty is not amused.

Back in August, when I found out that All Time Low were going to be in Vegas while we were, I signed up with their fan club to get pre-sale access (seven bucks for membership was worth it for me to not have to wait four extra days for public sale); in the post where we talked about ordering tickets, I mentioned that this membership came with the opportunity to win Meet and Greet, which is totally separate from the album signing that came with some of the tickets (mine included). So, a few weeks before the show, I filled out my entry form for the contest, and thought little about it -- after all, what possible odds would I have of actually winning in the first place? Yeah, tell that to the girl who decided to check her email five minutes before she went to LOVE, and ended up jumping up and down in her dress tights when she found out she won.
I would be lying if I told you my mother wasn't relieved at this turn of events: "you go on, have a good time. Now that you've won this thing that I can't go to, I guess I'll just go with your dad, instead of to the show with you." Really? 'Cause when I got the tickets two months ago, you told me you didn't want to leave me alone in Vegas, regardless that I'm 100% legal. And to think, the day of the show, as they dropped me off at the House of Blues inside Mandalay Bay, all I got was this warning before they left: "You know not to sleep with any of them, right?"

With her quizzical look burning into the back of my skull, I skipped off in the direction of the line that was already stretching into the casino. For the next twenty minutes, I used my supersleuthing skills to ascertain that I was fortunately positioned: not only was I incredibly near the front of the line itself, but I was sandwiched between people who had also won Meet and Greet. Knowing that I would need someone to take photographs if I chose to go that route (because I battled with that concept for a couple of days), I made friendly with the girls in front of, and behind me. They looked, sounded, and behaved just as you would expect young fangirls to -- I didn't understand half of what they were talking about, including eyebrow disco-techs (my summation, not theirs), their Tumblr followers, and how they seemed to be surgically attached to their phones. The first time I used a polysyllabic word, I was met with blank stares; knowing I needed to blend in with the natives, I decided just to smile and nod for the next few hours. From two o'clock to around 4:30, I was surrounded by a generational gap. Now, don't get me wrong, I have been where those girls are. I have been fifteen years old, standing in line to meet people around whom you have built your identity, your emotion, your brain-power, your leisure time. Similarly, I have also been to enough Paul concerts to know that if something is your "thing", you're essentially two people -- the carefully crafted you has disconnected from the real you that is kept well hidden so you aren't locked away in an asylum, and anything is bound to happen when real you won't shut her gob.

The best part about joining the line early was watching the band arrive. It became a game with "the group" to point out who was walking around. I think they eventually lost interest, since I saw people they didn't, and kept my mouth shut about it.

When the last of the band and crew were inside the venue itself, I knew it would only be about another hour to soundcheck, and get set up for the album signing itself. My guesstimations were right, and, before I knew it, we were all rearranged into different lines. Everyone in "the group" was lined up for the album signing, ticket in one hand, copy of "Don't Panic" in the other. They had been fangirling so hard, I eventually gave in and joined them. By this time, I was getting excited for the Meet and Greet, and, more pressingly, trying to make sure I didn't make a fool of myself as I talked to the band at the signing -- after all, I was going to be seeing them again shortly enough for them to remember if I did something idiotic. I tried to maintain a sense of dignity, coolly handing Flyzik my ID as he looked for my name on his list; he checked me in, and the girls I had been talking to waited for me in the dark, sunken hallway to the venue.
"I really feel, like, we've all bonded, or whatever," said one of them, pulling our her cell phone. "Can we take a, like, a group picture?" The other two followed suit, flicking through menu options on their phones for their camera setting. I felt like a grandma, with my real camera slung around my shoulders (which, miraculously, was not taken away from me). They giggled and made faces, and I wondered if this was partially why youth suicide rates have gone up: they're too damn trusting, and they're emotionally fragile. As they put their tech gadgets away, conversation continued. Somehow, the topic turned to how old we all were in 2004.
"I was eight," said one.
"Seven," said her friend.
"I was only four," said the third, to "awwww's" from the others.
I felt six eyes bore holes into my face as I said, "I don't wanna say how old I was."
Silence, their stares starting to singe the first few layers of my metaphorical skin.
"I was thirteen," I eventually said, lifting my head in what may have been mistakenly understood as a gesture of superiority.
"HOW OLD ARE YOU?" asked the youngest, in a tone suggesting that she was now concerned that I would try to somehow soil her precious purity and innocence.
As I told the little nippers I was twenty-one, one of them said "wow, you look really good. Time is on your side."
No one spoke for the rest of the time we were waiting, and I was afraid I may have made a fatal mistake in my picture-person excursion. As I was planning how to fix the giant hole I had just blown into my own plan, the doors to the venue were opened, and a line of overly-excited girls was lead through the bar, past the proscenium arch, and near the exit to a table that had four slightly-uncomfortable-but-hiding-it-really-well guys, all holding Sharpies.

It was only when I got close enough to the table to start hearing the blend of the band's voices in conversation with the slightly hysterical girls in front of them that I realized I was going to have to use my people skills, and try not to sound like my usual ridiculous self. Or, worse yet, what if I just completely went silent?


My social anxieties were not calmed by the fact that Jack Barakat was first; I was totally alone, with absolutely no crutch to lean on, about to awkwardly say hello to the guy I have personally referred to as "a sweet little puppy". It also didn't help that he is, indeed, a sweet little puppy. As the few people in front of me went down the line, I tried to see what everybody was doing in an effort to prepare to not make an ass of myself. Jack would high-five everybody, sign their album/talk with them when spoken to, pass it to Rian, who would follow suit, passing to Alex, who would sign/chat for a moment with the folks, then pass to Zack, and then you were directed to the exit. By the time I had it figured out, it was my turn.

"Hey!" Jack said as he high-fived me.
"Hi, how are you doin'?" I asked in my god-awful Texas hick accent.
"Doin' good," he said, signing my album, still holding my hand from the high-five.
"Thanks for comin' out," I said to him as he passed the album to Rian.
"Thank YOU for comin' out!" he said, holding on to my hand as I was shoved further into the line. He made a little face at me, let go of my hand, and moved on to the next over-excited female. I barely had time to thank Rian before he passed the album to Alex, who quickly scribbled his flowery signature.
"Thanks for comin' out," I said to him.
"Thank you, thanks for having us," he said with a little smile and nod.
Zack had already signed my album, and I thanked him as I was shown to the exit, and directed to the Meet and Greet line. I made sure I would have a free moment, and further widened the generation gap I had felt all damned afternoon by sending my very-first-in-the-history-of-ever text message. My mother had wanted me to keep her informed on my whereabouts, and neither of us are tech savvy enough for that sort of thing. It took about five minutes to type out, and read (and, yes, I know I meant to say the album signing, but I wasn't really thinking about my vocabulary choices at that moment):

Hour 2. Made it out of meet and greet without being abducted, drugged, or sold into black market slavery.

Hey, if I was paying to send it, it was going to be worth that twenty-five cents.

I wasn't at all nervous for Meet and Greet until I got in line for it. I turned to one of the girls I had waited with and asked "do you know what you're gunna say?"
"No," she said, her monotone suggesting that she was totally uninterested in the entire process.
Internally, I was freaking out. I had spent the last week trying to figure out something small to say to each of them, and I had it pretty well planned. I rehearsed that plan in my head as we were run through security. The lady waved the metal detecting wand over me, and the dreaded question came:"Your camera. Does the lens detach?"
"What?" I asked. I was totally detached at that point.
"Does this thing come off?" she asked, pointing at my brand new camera.
"I don't know, I only got it a few days ago," I told her.
"Well, when you come back out, check it in," she said, without further instruction.
"Holy hell," I thought, "they actually let me keep my camera!"

We waited a little longer, and then it was time for Flyzik to check us into the Meet and Greet. When my turn came, I was so nervous that I just handed him my entire wallet -- money, credit cards, ID, room key and all. When I realized I had just handed a total stranger a great deal of my personal information, I said, "I can take it out of that sleeve if you need me to."
He took one look at my pitiful self, and said, "it's OK, I can see it", as he handed it back to me, and told me to go wait in the sunken hallway again.

This wait was much shorter, as there were only about twenty people to check in, rather than the somewhat sizable crowd for the album signing.
We were lead inside, where we were given a speech similar to this...


Flyzik then made small-talk with the crowd, asking who was of age to gamble, and explaining that they had been playing Christmas music during the Meet and Greets that week. As Kenny G was piped through the speaker system, the band came out, starting a free-for-all as the twenty of us scattered our separate ways, and to separate people.

Knowing I might need her help, I tagged along with one of the girls I had waited in line with. She made a beeline for Jack, so I did, too. She asked for a photo, and for them to sign her t-shirt, and then, it was my turn. Before I knew what I was doing, I had turned into such a little southern belle, Scarlett O'Hara would have been impressed. I held out my camera and said, "would you mind too terribly much if we took a picture?" I acknowledged that the two people within me had separated when I both reluctantly and forcefully handed the fourteen year old my brand new camera, which I had just spent the week falling in love with. With equal sensory input from the split person I was in that moment, I became annoyed as the girl said "hey, it puts little boxes on their faces to find them!" (something I didn't know, because I exclusively use the viewfinder), and got that Chris Matthews thrill-up-my-leg as I felt his face brush the top of my head. She took the photo...

...I said, "thank you, Jack," and he took his leave quickly. At about five feet away from us, he looked over his shoulder, made eye contact with me, and said, "you smell nice".

"Thank you," I said, wringing my hands. I felt the girl glare at me in a fit of fangirl rage, and followed her to Rian. She went through her spiel, and my split personality fused back together for a few minutes. "Do you mind if we take a picture?"


She quickly moved to Zack, and we repeated the process.


We found our way to Alex, where the girl went through her spiel yet again. Before I had the chance to ask for a photograph, though, he turned around, and walked away. I don't even know where he went, the only thing that registered with me was that he had just been standing there two seconds ago, and now he wasn't. Taking her chance for vengeance from the Jack incident, the girl shouted "DENIED!" right in my face. I was diligent, waiting for him to finish with another frantic fangirl before taking my opportunity.


I don't even know what I did to get his attention, but he halted mid-stride, his momentum making him rock sideways. He smiled awkwardly at me, and gave a small wave; I blame that wave for the splitting of my two people, because I turned into Scarlett O'Hara, again.
"Would it be possible to get a picture, maybe?"


He obliged, and struck up a conversation with me.
"Your hair is so long, I like it."
My brain started screaming, "of all the people on God's green earth, Alex Gaskarth wants to talk about my stupid hair?" I went into my usual it-just-grows-really-fast spiel, which he called a "crazy hair gene".
I don't remember exactly what he said, but it equated to "you have very nice hair". I may not remember exactly what he said, but exactly what I said has been burned forever into my brain. Before I knew what I was saying, I heard that second person say "well, the same could be said for you, sir".


Oh, dear God in heaven, I facepalmed myself just typing that sentence. I still can't believe I did it. The worst part is that I had absolutely no control over it. The way I see it, though, is that he hates to talk about his hair, and I hate to talk about mine, so we're even.
To his credit, he was very nice about it. "It's not mine", he said quickly. "Wait, no, yes, it is."
I just stood there, the stupidity of what I had just said fully hitting me -- particularly the "sir" bit.
The girl I was with took her opportunity to ask him why he wasn't wearing proper pants, and we all had a conversation about Korean fashion, and how he doesn't like to wear pants when he's at home. The event was so traumatic, I don't even remember what happened after that. The next thing I can remember is that the floor space was empty as people gravitated toward a good place to stand at the barricade, and Jack was the only person left in the room. As he left, he walked right up to me, and held his hand upright, flat and low. I thought he was just randomly high-fiving people again, but he stood there with our hands touching for a couple of seconds, staring at me, then high-fived the girl I was with. She asked me to take a picture of her hugging him, for which he made a face; unfortunately, her camera didn't go off the first time, and the resulting second attempt came out fuzzy. As I handed her phone back, I told her I did my best. She glared at me with a small fire burning in her brain (I know, I could feel it), and I never saw her again.

Realizing that time was of the essence if I wanted a spot at the barricade, my two people morphed back into one, and I got the perfect spot. I used my supersleuthing skills to plan where I knew they always put the mosh pit, and where they took crowd surfers through after their questionable journey.


I avoided that area entirely, and ended up on the left side of Jack's mic (bonus points for it being far enough to his side to not obscure his face), and where I could watch Alex's and Zack's guitars while they played. I had a fabulous location, and could lean up against the barricade for the entire show. I was situated quite pleasantly. Especially when Jack came out to play with the drum kit for a few minutes. When he left, I sent my folks the following text:

Managed not to get raped. At barricade, stage right. Jack Barakat says I smell nice. More later.

As I planted my feet firmly on the floor, so as not to be shoved out of this amazing spot, a young girl walked up next to me.
"Ohmagawd, I got to talk to Alex," she said, still half in shock.
"I know, I heard some of what you said, you did very well," I told her, because I have also been that kind of fangirl, and know that you need someone to tell you that it's all going to be OK when you come back around to your senses. She somehow started telling me her entire life story: all about how she had gone to a YouTuber's convention, where she met the Vlog Brothers, and Charlie McDonnell. At that moment, I knew I had been placed there by Providence because, once again, I have been fourteen, and gone to nerd conventions, and idolized people who upload stupid things onto the Internet.
"Was Alex Day there?" I asked.
You would have thought no one had ever asked her about her vlog-related interests before, so she showed me her photos and told me her stories. I internally shook my head in wonderment because that was me seven years ago, and I didn't have an impartial third party to let every single one of my fangirly feelings out to. Apparently, she didn't, either, so I was elected. All I could think of was a fifteen year old girl, sitting stranded on a bridge from Canada to Michigan, listening to the same Paul McCartney song on repeat, wondering what she was going to do with her life when her everything had been destroyed. I'm just glad the girl I talked to hasn't had to deal with the let down that can follow, and made every effort to let her know that she had handled her most recent fangirling endeavors splendidly.

More waiting, until one of the opening acts came out. I wasn't impressed with them, but that's a personal opinion, I suppose. Another wait, and our good ol' friends in The Downtown Fiction came out for a set. It was a rather fun show, actually, and they played my favorite song of theirs, which translated well live. Yet more waiting, and The Summer Set came out and did their thing. Yeah, I know, I wasn't too pleased with seeing two of the same openers as the Plain White T's had last year, but at least I knew what to expect. Either way, this was my general impression...


Finally, it was time for the main act. I sent my folks one last message before the show:

Last opener has played. Main event should be starting soon. Talk to you afterward. Hope you had fun at the mob museum.

I was mesmerized by the incredible view of each guitar I had, so I kinda focused on hands. I do it at Paul, too, where I watch him play more than actually just watching him. The setlist was shorter than I had anticipated, judging from the stories I had heard prior to my own show. I was puzzled by it, until, at the end of the concert, Alex said that they had to end the set early, but they would be going to The Foundation Room, and to see them there; with that, security told us all to move as quickly as possible, because another event was starting in thirty minutes. So, essentially, the band and the audience were screwed over because of poor booking -- which, by the way would be the venue's fault. It's just further proof that both shows I went to at the House of Blues displayed poor management.

The poor management skills were further made public at the merch table. I had spied a couple of tour shirts that I thought would look nice in my closet, so I made my way past there on my way out. Apparently, there is a curfew in Vegas for kids under twenty-one, and their merch sales somehow fell under that restriction. By the time I got to the front, I had ninety seconds to get my stuff; their merch guy was in the middle of having an argument with venue staff as I got there.
"The curfew goes into effect in two minutes."
"Is this the kind of thing that you'll throw me out for if I keep going?" he asked.
"Exactly," replied the staff.
"Then I'm selling 'til you throw me out."
And, good on him, he did just that.

Pleased that I made it out alive, I headed to the Foundation Room. I had texted my folks, telling them I would be there, and they came to keep me company. After a few minutes, they started shuffling about, acting like they were more than mildly uncomfortable, so they decided to wander around until I called. A few minutes after they left, the band walked right by, were accosted by a few fangirls, and, just like that, the evening was over. By that time, I was glad to be able to sit down somewhere. People with bad backs should not stand up for nine hours straight.


It was only the next day that I discovered my battle scars: I was bruised on the undersides of both arms from the elbows up; on both sides of my ribs; both knees -- the left worse than the right, because I was trying to protect my camera from getting broken as I was being relentlessly shoved into the barricade (remember, I was supposed to "check it in" when I went back out? Yeah, I didn't end up going back out until after the show); and the top of my foot. I think it was when this happened...

(I was standing right next to the girl filming this; to give you an idea of where I was at, I was looking over his left shoulder, watching his hand on the fret board while he played.)

Even through the severe bruising (I limped for a week), the severe embarrassment, and the angry letter I wrote to the House of Blues and never sent, the evening was awesome. If you ever get the chance, you really need to go see these guys, 'cause it's just plain fun.

At the end of the experience, though, I have one question: in His infinite wisdom, why did God make me look perpetually fourteen years old? It's starting to cramp my style.
I also think it's somewhat funny that I went to Vegas the week I turned twenty-one, and the only person that asked for my ID was Matthew Flyzik. My life is a sham.

Goodwater: Services Unavailable

Remember how I mentioned that I needed my "over twenty-one" papers because we were going to Las Vegas that week? Well, that trip's story and slide show has been conspicuously absent from my blog, and it needs to be shared with the collective Internet, by jove.
The lucky part for you, dear reader, is that it will kinda sorta be split into two separate entries, because there's one event that was big enough to warrant a whole 'nuther post, and I plan on boring you to tears at a more in-depth level when we talk about what happened.
For now, though, we can start with general fluff.
Aren't you excited?
Well, pretend.

Reginald Kitty is not amused.


*One of the most entertaining things to do in Vegas is people-watch. Where else can you see folks even more outlandish than the People Of Walmart? Two favorites from this trip: the man who was simultaneously flailing, and power walking while leaning halfway backward, making it look like he was melting; and a very normal looking guy carrying a giant purple inflatable alien through a casino -- there was no outwardly logical explanation for the alien's being there, but it happened.

*The Lowell Observatory in Flagstaff is always a fun stop to make. That particular night, there were two "spooky science" demonstrations. The first one explained such mysteries as black matter, black holes, and space sounds...

... and was presented by one of those adorable people that get so excited about something that their love for it makes their eyes shine and their cheeks dimple. He had to pause numerous times because he couldn't get his brain and his communication skills in synch; when they did start working, he used Superman analogies. It. Was. Precious.

The second presentation acted more like a science experiment, where we were shown how to make our own meteors at home out of dry ice, dirt, and potato flakes. They pulled out the little electricity thing that makes your hair stand up, and showed us how you can light up a florescent bulb with your hand if you aren't grounded, but my dad got the biggest kick out of the liquid nitrogen demonstration; freezing flowers, then balloons, drizzling some on the floor in front of him, and concluding in a seemingly major explosion.
Of course, he likes the big telescope, too.



*I contemplated not including this highlight, but I don't feel I can do the trip justice by leaving it out. That, and I try to avoid any kind of political talk I can manage.
I have been a Paul Ryan fangirl for years, so it was a real treat to shake his hand, and hear him give a small speech.


Earlier that day, though, we went to this rally.


It's important that you know that I'm glad I got to see a sitting president, but that can't change my values. Before we had even gotten in the car to go to the venue, I had prepared myself to keep from making comments, or getting hot under the collar about some of the things he would inevitably say, since that's what usually happens to me. We got there about an hour before he came out, right as an announcer asked the crowd to recite the Pledge of Allegiance. What I did not expect, however, was that hearing that crowd pledge to the flag would start a torrent of tears. I don't know whether it was the way that they said the pledge, or whether it was that exact moment -- as I gazed at a small flag hanging from the canopy behind the lecturn -- that I realized there was no possible way of circumventing another four years. The rest of the crowd danced to a live band, and applauded when some Hollywood star came out to ask for votes, treating the event like the biggest and bestest party they had ever been to; I was at the edge of the crowd, bawling my eyes out for nearly three hours. It was the culmination of a lot of things that cannot be explained here without making me sound absolutely crazy, but I felt like I was at America's wake that afternoon.


*We all know how much I have loved everything to do with the Titanic since ever, right? After years of pressuring, I convinced the family it would be a good idea to see the Titanic Exhibit while we were in town. It was absolutely amazing to see pieces of the actual ship, read the stories, and see recovered relics. The experience was enhanced tenfold the first time I saw Dr. Robert Ballard's name on the wall, as the words and images from the lecture he gave earlier this year filled my brain.
Of course, they also know that a good portion of their visitors are fans of the film, meaning the gift shop was filled with cheap knock-offs of the Heart of the Ocean necklace. Personally, I think they're missing the boat (see what I did there?) by not having prints of Jack's drawings, 'cause somebody would probably pay good money for something like that.


And I was shocked that I didn't hear this anywhere near the place.



*I couldn't help it, I had to see LOVE again. It was the best version of LOVE I've seen yet (yes, except the one we saw with Paul that one time), and I really don't know how they keep topping themselves.

Look, it's my flower guy! Awww.


*This is kinda where "Las Vegas 2012: Part Two" comes in. I went to a concert, and met the band, and I kinda fangirled so hard that I keep hiding my face in shame every time I think about the fool I made of myself. That's why it has to go into a different post. Don't worry, we're going to talk about that very soon.


*I got an amazing camera for my birthday. Really, it's awesome; look, it takes panoramas!




Speaking of my amazing camera, are you ready for holiday slides? Fair warning, most of these were taken in the Bellagio garden, because it was bloody gorgeous this time.

Surprise Pineapple!

Who thinks it's a good idea to drive for nine hours on a Tuesday, then drive those nine hours back home on Wednesday?
Apparently, we do, 'cause we did that.
It's not like it's the first time we've done something that blatantly silly; sometimes, I don't talk about the whirlwind excursions we go on simply because there isn't always that much to tell. This trip to Austin, however, proved quite entertaining.
Do you want to hear about it?
Oh, come on, there's a slideshow at the end!
Well, it'll be over soon enough.

Reginald Kitty is not amused.

*It has been several years since we went to the capitol building, and even longer since we had walked the beautiful grounds. Camera in hand, we strolled the several-acre park at leisure, taking in the remains of fall in the hill country, and the peculiar wildlife.

Yes, that squirrel was blonde. I named him Fabio.

All was going well, until...


...buses of school children -- ranging in age from "Miss-Dunwell-I-hafta-gota-tha-baathrooom" to "lyke-ohmigawd-Justin-Bieber-just-tweeted" -- were lining up on the far end of the lawn. We took refuge in the visitor center, hoping the little buggers would go to the capitol itself before stopping by the museum and gift shop.
We were pleasantly surprised by the beautiful archetectural detailing in the visitor center, which was built in the 1850s: intricate wrought iron staircases; elaborate window designs; a fascinating back spiral staircase; and the views of the capitol and garden could be seen from the best angles possible. All too soon, the nippers infested the building like swarms of locusts, screaming, shoving, and sighing their way through the entire building, their lazy footprints and unbroken voices echoing violently from the stones in the floor and plaster on the walls.
It was nice while it lasted, anyway.

*We got a small taste of a hill country Christmas. There were elaborate lighting displays on homesteads lining the highway, while some of the small towns decorated their decaying town squares. Fredericksburg, as usual, wins the award for best dressed; greenery hung from every lamppost, while strings of garland draped over the street, flanking a giant glittering "MERRY CHRISTMAS" greeting. Even the shops looked festive with their twinkling window displays.

*The biggest thrill of the trip, though, was that it happened to fall on the one day only screening of "A Christmas Story" in movie theaters. It's one of my favorite films of all time, as briefly explained previously on this blog, and I had to see it on the big screen; the picture was released eight years before I was born, so I knew this might be my only opportunity to ever see it in a theater. The experience was simply magical. There are so many small details that cannot be seen on a television, but have to be experienced in the cinema: patterns in curtains, wallpaper, costuming; writing on newspapers; actors performing in the background that otherwise go unnoticed. It was like watching the film for the first time, but coupled with a lifetime's worth of nostalgia -- completely new, yet totally familiar.
As a side note, how did we not know about the Cinemark Classic Series before this? It certainly made us want to see the rest of the season's programming; we may have missed "Miracle on 34th Street", but we can still see "Home Alone" (side-side-note: someone please tell Jack Barakat about this, as I am too chicken to do so myself), and "It's A Wonderful Life"!

Are you ready for a super-awsome slideshow now?
But, look! It's pretty!

"Do You Say 'H-oo-stun', Or 'H-you-stun'?"

What's big, loud, and the best possible way to spend three hours with a man?
Going to see Paul McCartney.
Why, what did you think I meant?


We packed up the car, and drove down to Houston just for it.
Would you like to hear some of the highlights?
Of course you would!

Reginald Kitty is not amused.

*Limo watch was, somehow, even more awesome than usual. There was a rather large, dedicated crowd that night, all singing, dancing, and talking right up until we saw the tell-tale black SUV coming 'round the corner at the far end of the street.

This was the best picture I got. There is no possible way to keep a camera still when you're shaking like I was; I had to convince my mother that I didn't need to set down, and that we needed to get in line right-the-hell-now before all of the merch was gone.

When it was all over, the girl behind me started bawling her eyes out, repeating "he was right there!" and pointing in the general direction of the street. I asked her if it was her first Paul show, to which she nodded, soggily. I patted her arm, told her we had all been there, and to have fun at the show.


*Since I insisted that we run like the dickens to get in line for the ticket scan, we were fortunate to hear the ENTIRE soundcheck. I about wet my britches when he played "Every Night", pulling my mother's sleeve and whisper-shouting "HE HASN'T PLAYED THAT SINCE DENVER IN 2002". I fangirled harder about that one than the others he played during the soundcheck set, but, in all honesty, I was just happy to be there.


*What has come to be known as The Great Poster Debacle. For every show, I get the collector's poster to frame with my ticket; sometimes, they have plenty of posters in flat boxes behind the table, while others are a limited edition. I ran to the merch table as soon as we were let into the building; panting, I screamed savagely at the poor guy behind the counter "POSTER!" while trying to catch my breath. While I continued going absolutely mental at the merch table (I still feel extremely guilty about it), I forced my mother into the role of double-checker, making sure we didn't repeat the Denver Incident. Disgustingly pleased with my selections, we battled our way through the crowd, and started looking for our seats -- of course, they were on the opposite side of a ball park that was only partially open to foot traffic (more on this in a minute). We're halfway to our seats when we start talking about the poster.
"He didn't charge us near enough for the poster," my mother said.
"I'm just glad I got one, and it's not glossy, like the ones for Tulsa and Dallas," I replied.
"Oh, it's glossy," she said.
We argued for a minute before pulling it out, and realizing it was the wrong thing.
After I had run through, dodged, slipped by, and shoved every moron carrying a mustard encrusted hot dog, my mother told me she had never seen me move that fast before. Fortunately, the issue was quickly resolved, and I didn't have to start murdering people. What was unfortunate, however, is that we now had to get through a massive crowd. By massive, I mean, massive. I was nearly trampled by a rather large, inconsiderate man, and was glad I didn't die before the concert.

They have room for a barn dance in that train compared to what we were dealing with.



*Paul was having hair trouble. Try as he might, he could not keep his fringe out of his face. It was precious.
May I now take this opportunity, then, to petition to The Universe At Large for the late-80s/early-90s Paul hair?

Look at it. It's magical, like a unicorn.


*Paul Flub of the Night: he beautifully butchered a verse in "Maybe I'm Amazed". It was wonderful.


*Personal favorite moment of the show: during a heated guitar solo, he turned around to his drummer (which he does often, and I love it, and judge other artists by how often they do the same thing), smiled adorably, and started rubbing the neck of his guitar on top of one of the amps. It was glorious.


Does this sound like a fun evening, or what?
Well, if you'd like to get a small taste of what goes on, this two hour and twenty-five minute video is probably a good place to start; they've taken the best of each YouTube video from the show, and edited them together. I haven't had the chance to watch it yet, but it sounds like an awesome project.



Don't have that much time to spare? Take this, and we can fangirl together.

Fun Fact: I fell in love with this version before I ever heard the actual "McCartney" album version, mostly because the "Back in the US" CD was on repeat on my Walkman for years. If I'm listening to this song, odds are high that it's this version. And he still sings it just as beautifully ten years later. And that's when I died a little.

Prince Albert In A Can

I was home by myself for the majority of the day yesterday; the arrangement worked out splendidly, as I needed to take a final exam. Despite making arrangements with everybody I knew by telling them not to call me while I was busy, I still got a number of strange phone calls in the afternoon. And we all remember how much I love telephones, right?


At around 1:30 -- just as I had started the timer on my exam -- the phone rang.

Me: Hello?
Phone: *silence*
M: Hello.
P: *static, fuzz-fuzz* Is this the lady of the house?
M: Yes. (We all know I'm not, but he wasn't to know that.)
P: This is Mike from the National Committee of We-Still-Want-Your-Political-Funding, how are you today?
M: I'm sorry, Mike, but I really don't have time to take your call. Thank you so much.

Why are we still getting political calls? The election was a month ago. It's over.


The two hour exam went by quickly; I decided to take a small break before moving on to the next task. Just as I was fixing my lunch, the phone rang again; the line was merely static, so I thought nothing of it, and moved on. That is, until it happened again a bit later; I was a little peeved at being met with silence on the other end, but it does happen. I figured it was just some bored kids on a Saturday afternoon looking for a good time.
When the phone rang for the third time within the same hour, I was about ready to blow a gasket. I picked up with a curt "hello", and was met on the other end by a high pitched voice saying "oooo", as though hearing someone on the other end of their line was the most fascinating thing that could ever have happened to them -- or, to put it another way, it was similar to the noise I made when Katharine Hepburn bought those fabulous red shoes in "Summertime".


The "oooo" continued until they hung up. Yes, we were definitely dealing with kids on this one. I contemplated whether it had been the same kid each time, or if the other incidents had just been a technological failing in some part; we live in a small town, with limited telephone/Internet services, so it was possible. When the phone rang less than a minute later, I had prepared my most stern, "grown-up" voice. As I gruffly alerted the other end of the line that I was there, I heard a quick expression of kiddy babble. "I can't scold a kid that little," I told myself, so I quickly changed course.
"I think you have the wrong number," I told the kid in a dripping-yet-highly-annoyed tone, hoping they would just hang up, and not dial my number again.
"No, Aunt B! It's Quincy!" came the surprised voice of my niece. She said it hurriedly, like the fate of the Universe and Everything hung in the balance of my grasping that she had called me.
"It's Quincy?" I asked, genuinely puzzled. I was so shocked, I may as well have been saying "they took a llama surfing?" My groggy brain searched for a comeback. The best I could come up with was "well, how are you, then?"
She laughed maniacally, and the line went dead.
As I hung up, I thought long and hard about the previous calls, and determined they were not connected to a surprise conversation with my niece. I also tried to piece together the possible ways that she could have gotten hold of her mother's or dad's phone. That was when it suddenly dawned on me that I had just been prank called by a three year old.
At least she didn't ask if I had Prince Albert in a can...


...but, I suppose, stranger things have happened.

Thirty-Two Years

Of the several posts I write each year -- birthdays, holidays, anniversaries, general shenanigans -- the one I write for December 8th is always the hardest. I usually bounce ideas around in mid-October before my mind gets lost in the shuffle, and December 1st then rudely smacks me in the face; at that point, I usually sit in front of an empty composition page, watching the little character indicator bar flash mechanically at me, daring me to say something that sounds neither corny, nor trite. Each year, I try just that little bit harder, attempting to make something better, and miserably failing; this year, I'm approaching the subject differently.

Tonight, the Imagine Peace Tower will be shut off. The giant pillar of white light will not grace the skies as it has for the last two months, and won't again for a little while. Somewhere in that message is a sad symbolism: the light that is turned on to commemorate a birth shines only for the shortest time before it is dimmed. While the act is poignant, and accurate in many ways, it is not indicative of my point of view. To me, the man that light was designed for has never had his metaphorical light turned off. Thirty-two years later, the ideals he believed so strongly in are still being sought by masses of like-minded people whose cause has adopted a more than worthy poster boy. While there are many facets to John Lennon, the most publicized one must surely be his and Yoko's crusade for peace. Here's one way to look at it: how many artists can record an anti-war Christmas song that receives radio play over forty years after original release? What other artist could create an anthem as iconic and widely embraced for their cause as "Imagine"? It's all just as relevant now as it was then. Looking from my view, the light is bright, without any sign of fading. As long as those like-minded people keep that core value safe, the light should never go out. It is important, then, to take a minute out of your day to think peace, act peace, and imagine peace. Maybe, while you're at it, think of John.

Big Gulp, Fidget Pete, And Me

Warning: the story you are about to read is entirely true. The events described were actually a whole lot funnier than I am able to convey in text alone; because of this, you may possibly lose faith in humanity.

My life in the Outernet (get it, life outside of Internet is the Outernet?) has been brutal the last few months.
Y'all don't mind if my stories are a bit aged, do you?
Well, lie, then.

Reginald Kitty is not amused.

The day before my twenty-first birthday, I decided it would be a good idea to get the ball rolling on my "over twenty-one" papers, etc. The DMV in our ridiculously hicky town just so happened to be closed on that day, and I kinda needed my temporary papers before we headed out to Las Vegas, which was two days after said date of birth. With no other alternatives, I hopped in my little Beetle (could you seriously see me driving any other car? OK, maybe a '61 Plymouth Valiant), and headed forty miles north to an even smaller, hicky-er town. Apparently, the staff from our DMV go to the smaller town one day a week, and set up shop in a makeshift office. Since there is no actual DMV office in that itty bitty town, I pulled into a parking spot in front of a conspicuously vacant-looking building bearing the address I was given over the telephone. The windows were boarded up with flaking pieces of MDF board, wires were strewn across the facade, and the roof seemed to be fluttering about the place like tiny tar snowflakes. On the door, there were peeling letters revealing the building's former life as some kind of shop that had long been out of business, and a newer, handmade sign taped above them simply stating, "OPEN". Walking through the door, there was a vestibule piled high with office furniture from the 80s, leaving only a small pathway to a larger room. The larger room looked like an unfinished, gritty warehouse, and was empty but for four ancient voting booths; their yellowing red, white, and blue curtains, coupled with the fact that the building didn't seem to have any heating on that seasonably cool autumn morning, gave me an eery feeling. This certainly did not look like a place I would want to be caught dead in, but it was looking like that could be an option.

If it hadn't been for the flickering of an almost-burnt-out florescent tube light, I would never have noticed the unusually thin doorway that lead down a long, sterile hallway. At the end of the hall, there was a door displaying another handmade sign: "9-3:30". I guessed that meant we were where we were supposed to be, so I opened the door to find several high schoolers, their parents, and a few elderly folks lining the walls in metal fold-able chairs.

I walked up to the line that had formed in front of a clunky wooden desk that was cluttered with paperwork and semi-functioning pens with other business' advertisements on them. Next to the desk was a tall filing cabinet with a printer perched precariously on top of it, and a box on the floor beside it, which was covered in shoe prints. Wires stuck out of the wall in a disordered jumble, connected to a giant wall-mounted box with violently flashing lights, and heaven knows what else. It was at this point that the man in front of me started to get slightly irate.
"He's taken this test twice already!" he shouted, gesturing at a teenager that looked more like a thirty-something -- shaggy mustache and all -- excepting his Justin Bieber haircut. "And now," he started up again, "I've got to go legally change my address at the courthouse so he can do it again?"
"Yes," the lady behind the desk said, curtly, "but you can leave him here to take the test while you're gone."
And so, he did, leaving Bieber-boy to wait for his turn on the only public computer in the entire building upon which he could take the written portion of his driving exam.
I got my paperwork to fill out, handed it in, and there I sat with the rest of the schmucks. Bieber-boy talked with a girl he knew who was also waiting, while I tried not to get accosted by the nans in applique'd sweaters.

Perhaps twenty minutes passed before Bieber's dad came back with the proof of address, and the lady behind the desk could take his photo for his temporary license.
"Can you move your hair out of your face?" she said to him.
There was an awkward laugh as he tried to move his fringe.
"No," she said, "I need to see your brow line."
This continued for a few minutes until the girl he knew decided to try and help; she offered to pin his hair back with her spare bobby pin. There was a slight kerfuffle while awkward laughter filled the small room, and every one in it watched as the boy questioned all of the decisions in his life that had led him to that moment.
"I think that's as good as it's going to get," the lady said, motioning for him to sit down. The photo was taken with a prudent flash-and-click, and I was given more paperwork to fill out. As I handed it in, I heard the lady behind the desk tell Bieber's friend that she needed her guardian with her to take her exam; desk-lady had to explain that an auntie wasn't a legal guardian, and that she'd have to come back later. As one of the nans had her eyesight tested, I was given more paperwork, and Bieber was allowed to start his exam. The waiting room cleared, and I sensed that the experience might not get much more painful.

Oh, how wrong I was.

In came hoards of people, most of whom were eventually turned away for having the wrong bloody paperwork. When no more folding chairs were left, the crowd spilled into the hallway. By this time, Bieber's mother was growing impatient; she pulled her cellphone charger out of her Mary Poppins-sized bag, plugged it into the wall socket, and proceeded to play Angry Birds. A burly lady with several tattoos sipped loudly on a Big Gulp, and a fidgetty good-ol'-boy bounced his foot up and down nervously.
I was given more paperwork.

The white noise of a DMV was interrupted by the lady behind the counter. Pointing at Bieber, she loudly announced to the room as a whole, "he failed the test". His mother unplugged her phone, grabbed the kid by the arm, and lead him out of the room briskly. More people were turned away from the questionable operation, quickly leaving an abundance of chairs. Now, there was only Big Gulp, Fidget Pete, and me. The two strangers had struck up a conversation about having to prove their citizenship on a previous visit to the same office.
"Yeah," said Big Gulp, "I had to do that, too. I told 'em that I've been in state prison for fifteen years, so I had to be a citizen of some kind." Nervous laughter came from the people left in the room, including the lady behind the desk. Much to his pleasure, Fidget Pete was still emitting false giggles when he was called up to the desk. He explained that he had just moved to the state from Louisiana, and needed a new driver's license; unfortunately for him, because he was over a certain age, he had to either prove state driver's education, or take it all over again, plus the written and performance tests. His poor foot stopped bouncing as he weighed his options and made frantic phone calls. Desk-lady suggested he could cheat the system by getting his girlfriend to do the online portion of the driver's ed requirement for him. By this time, Big Gulp was, thankfully, occupied by a newcomer, to whom she complained about a local policeman who "follows the letter of the law", and how he had pulled her over numerous times. Just as she was coming to the point in her story where her ex-husband had "gotten her in trouble in this god-awful town before", and as Fidget Pete gladly proclaimed his proof of state approved education, the desk lady stepped on the box beside the filing cabinet to retrieve my papers; she told me to "have fun and party for me" on our trip.

With my papers in hand, I was free to go. I took one last look at the sign over the door that said "No Cellphones. No Outside Food Or Drink." Shaking my head, I walked back through the frigid hallway, the warehouse storeroom, and the misused foyer; as I crossed the threshold and entered the glow of the glittering afternoon sun, enjoying the warmth after three hours in a windowless room full of convicts, transplants, and morons, I knew it could have been much worse. I mean, at least the zombie apocalypse didn't break out while I was there; since I was the only one in the room with a brain, I'd have definitely been the first to go.

Justin, Justin, Reginald, And Frosty

It is one month to Christmas, folks. Let that sink in.

Sunk in? Good.

No doubt the pleasant aromas of your Thanksgiving leftovers still linger in the air with Auntie Sally's perfume, and, perhaps, Auntie Sally herself (don't we all have "those" relatives that never bloody leave?). Is there any rest for the wicked? Apparently not, because the Christmas rush has already begun without me. I mean, I've had my shopping done for ages now, but it's time for the Christmas tree fluffing, the gift wrapping, the holiday television specials, and, of course, the music. I'm listening to a duet by two people I've never heard of, all because they're singing "Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas".


Before we get too far into the Christmas Grinch-ery, let's talk about Thanksgiving.
Every year, my family has two Thanksgivings: one for my mother's family; one for my dad's family. Traditionally, Bufords (mother's) are on Wednesday, Vogels (dad's) are on Thursday. Wednesday is a pleasant day, filled with absurd company (I can say this because I love them), and fabulous food (because my mum and I cook it); Thursday is filled with tension as the introverts and extraverts mingle clumsily with each other in an attempt at forced merriment. This year was no different.
Would you like to see the extreme opposites that make up my family?
Well, pretend; it'll get you away from Auntie Sally.

Reginald Kitty is not amused.


Wednesday marked our very first all-vegetarian Thanksgiving, and it went down a treat!

Mashed potato; crock-pot tofurky and cranberry sauce; roasted tofurky; cashew bake; and sweet potato dumplings.

And, Buford Thanksgiving staple, Rum Pecan Pie.

See that pretty crust? I made it from scratch. Praise my baking prowess.

After the feast was devoured, my Grandy and I played Buford Gin (so called because it isn't traditional gin, and nobody but the Bufords know how to play it [apparently, it's harder than actual gin]), my mother cut his hair, and -- like the introvert he is -- he went home. It was a pleasant day, and he was thoroughly impressed with the vegetarian edibles.

And then, Thursday happens.
I made my deviled eggs, and my now-famous Spiced Eggnog Rum Cake with Eggnog Icing...

This cake is awesome. And, yes, I love to cook with rum.

...we packed up the car with tofurky leftovers (since I'm the only strict vegetarian in my family), and headed for certain doom.
There was an awkward buffet full of carnivorous treats, making me thankful for my ingenuity in bringing veggie-friendly goodies -- particularly after a tasteless story about slipping pork to kosher friends. Afterward, I was forced to play Hearts, which I don't actually know how to play, yet still ended up winning. Near the end of the game, I somehow resorted to drawing aliens, and my gruesome Stick Man character (he takes meaningless or overly-dramatic scenarios, and manages to either mutilate himself -- including several deaths -- or his property) on the score pad before looking through old recipes. Of all of these, um, events, the one thing that was unanimously voted as the evening's smash? My cake. Go me.

It was probably the only edible thing the carnivores ate all day.

As I enjoyed my latest sweet experiment, I saw Entertainment Tonight playing on the television; I watched with mild interest as they played an interview with Hugh Jackman (I somehow didn't care that there was no volume), and switched to the host, who was introducing something with the banner "Mariah and Justin!"
I expected this...

...and was greeted with this...


I had a 90's kid moment, and silently felt very old.

Maybe I should have put this on my cake.

That night, as we drove home, we officially began the Christmas Music Season with a rousing rendition of "Frosty the Snowman". Here's something I had never thought of until then: there is a great deal of evidence to suggest that, though Frosty is a magical snowman, his two little coal eyes still make him blind. Firstly, all that "thumpaty-thump-thump-thump" business up and down hills? Self-explanatory. "Down to the village with a broomstick in his hand, running here and there, all around the square, singing "catch me if you can": he must be using the broom as an improvised walking stick, and is clearly asking the children for assistance. The children then chase Frosty through town until he "paused a moment when he heard [the traffic cop] holler 'stop'". You notice he never saw the traffic cop? Coal eyes, folks.

It's all clear now, isn't it?


So, as I sit here, happily digging into my perfectly flaky pie crust (seriously, this pie crust is awesome), I contemplate what Thanksgiving 2012 has taught me.


*When introverts get together, it's short and sweet. When introverts and extraverts get together, it's like trying to wallpaper a mole's house with double-sided tape and paper towels.



*I should probably stop analyzing Christmas music. We all know from past experience I'll go slightly nuts about it, anyway.



*I am too young to feel this old. I mean, really. All thanks to an overly-popular name.

Fun fact: I was at this concert. Take that, Bieber! In my ancient files and documents, I found our ticket stubs from the show; we paid about $49 a head, which is more expensive than either All Time Low or Plain White T's tickets were over a decade later (not to mention that I met Plain White T's and All Time Low, and talked to them while they signed their respective albums for me). They really know how to hit teeny boppers hard, don't they? (Or, more accurately, their parents.)


*Contrary to my numerous fears, Operation Veggie Thanksgiving went splendidly!

This is what happens when I'm left with pen and paper.


*This Thanksgiving, I was thankful for this photograph.

PAUL.


*And I really don't like that Photobucket now makes your most recent upload your welcome screen.

Dr. Child Of The Corn

Warning! The story you are about to read is entirely true, and was not exaggerated. If anything, I made it a touch lighter than it was as the events unfolded.

My niece's third birthday party was on Saturday. Since it is generally my job to put up streamers and balloons (I say this because it has been proven true for three out of three birthday parties), we arrived early to help out. Just as I was finishing up, and before some of the guests had arrived, my niece asked me to play with her. I told her, after much bartering, we needed to play with something we could put away quickly, because people would be coming over soon. She settled on "Doctor" -- and, by settle, I mean that she told me to lie down on the floor while she pulled out her doctor kit. Her kit is quite sophisticated, with little pliers, tweezers, a scalpel, scissors, and the little light thingy they shove in your ear.

All mine had was a box to store your plastic bandages in.

It always annoyed me that the cast didn't fit in the bandage box; not that it mattered, because I used the bandage box as storage for my Polly Pockets. I also used the pill bottle to keep a stash of M&Ms, and the bag when I pretended to play Titanic.

So, at this point, I've been forced by a small child to lie in the middle of my sister's living room floor between a shelf full of puzzles and a pretty-pony-clippity-clop-clippity-clop rocking horse, she's got folks coming over who could arrive at any moment, my niece has pulled out a seven thousand piece medical kit, and I'm thinking that this game needs to end abruptly.
I peeked over my knees to see her personalized hair bow bobbing up and down as she decided how best to start our game. I twiddled my fingers, which were laced over my chest, and waited for her to do something. She turned back to me with a deceitfully innocent grin on her little face, holding a blue and red plastic scalpel in much the same way as a character from "Tales From the Crypt" might.

Yeah, actually, no, Aunt B does not want to play "Doctor" anymore.

That's when I started to fear for my person.
As I was wondering how I'd gotten myself into this, she gingerly tip-toed -- yes, tip-toed -- wee-tiny-baby-steps up to me before hesitating slightly, lifting the scalpel over her head, and actually cackling.


She gleefully uncrossed my hands, and proceeded to make a long "incision" down my front. Then another. And one more, just for good measure.

She skipped back to her other supplies with joy, and I was eerily reminded of a game her mother and I used to play (in the same way I was roped into playing "Doctor") where she would have me stand in front of the kitchen window when we were unloading the dishwasher; she would take a knife out of the silverware caddy, and "stab" me until I withered, making a ghastly silhouette play as I put away our cutlery. This kind of crazy simply has to be inherited.
Before I could get to thinking of other peculiar entertainments we sisters used to get up to, the child comes back with a blue pair of pliers, and tells me to open my mouth.
"What exactly are those for?" I asked her.
"To pull out your teeth," she said, too excitedly to make me comfortable.
"What else is in your bag?"
My answer, apparently, was not enough for her, because she settled on a suitable place on my arm to pinch. When she was satisfied, she gamboled back to the pile of instruments. I took my opportunity to appeal to her practical side.
"People are gunna be here in a minute for your party!"
She was having none of it.
Instead, she grinned widely as she dramatically opened and closed a pair of red scissors, aiming for the same place on my arm as before. She traded tools in a flash, pinching my arm hair with a pair of red tweezers.
"Your party is gunna start soon, we should put our toys away," I said, making another appeal to her sensibilities. I sat up, and offered to help her put her kit back together; she, of course, was having too much fun for her own good, and pushed me back on the floor with a "no, you stay there".
"But --" In one ear and out the other as she brought out a thermometer, and we had a prolonged fight about why it wouldn't go in my mouth, either. Speaking of ears, the special light was unceremoniously stuffed into one of mine as I was offered party punch to sample. Just as I was being assaulted with a stethoscope, her mother found us, and forced the toys back into their box on the shelf of puzzles. Disheveled, I picked myself up off the floor, and was glad to have made it out with nothing more than a busted lip, and a few scratches. I probably looked like I was beaten up by a cat. Or, more accurately, I felt like I was beaten up by a cat.

Guess which of us is which.

I learned several things from this experience.

*Regardless that I love my niece, and she is generally an exception to my shenanigans, children continue to freak me the hell out.

All children are Children of the Corn, so far as I'm concerned.

*Some things are inherited. Creepy factor is one of those things, and she and her mother will have oodles of fun with this in the future. I sense several dramatic reenactments of the shower scene in "Psycho".

Fun fact: I bought my sister a "Psycho" shower curtain for Christmas one year, and she used it until it fell apart. It matched the "Bates Motel" door sign I got her at Universal Studios.

*Even though I hold "Awesomest Auntie" status, Aunt B is never playing "Doctor" again. Ever.

Yeah, no. Ever.

International "John Lennon Is Awesome" Day

Every October 9th since this blog's creation, we have taken time out of whatever schedules we're juggling to pay tribute to the one and only John Ono Lennon on his date of birth. The last couple of years, this has proven somewhat difficult: in 2009, there was a short but sweet gloss over some creative points; 2010 was a huge Lennon milestone, and gave everyone a better chance to celebrate John's many facets; 2011 talked about how this day has spawned numerous events worldwide. The question now stands at what can be said for 2012? Everything has been rehashed so many times that fact and fiction blur into an urban legend of mythic proportion.
To that end, as with everything I do surrounding John, I say we keep it simple.
Have some beautiful clips of a beautiful person.












Also keep in mind that Yoko will light the Imagine Peace Tower at three o'clock Central Time today.

My guy is seventy-two! I can't believe how quickly these years have gone; I hope there will be so many more that we can hardly stand it. My dear, thank you for everything then, now, always, no matter what; quite simply, you're the best, and we all know it. You know that every year I say it, and every year I do it: raise your teacups to toast the birthday boy!