Blog Casserole: What's The Plural Of Elvis? Don't Judge Me.

I sit here, in my floral leggings and knee socks, happily snacking on homemade brownies and hot tea, and I can only think of one thing.


OK. Let me explain.

First off, real life has been getting in my bloody way. Near the end of January, I was hit with one of my terrible sinus infections. You know it's bad when the doctor shines a light on the back of your throat, then reels away with a look of disgust on their face. I was on a strong dose of antibiotics when we left for San Antonio in the first week of February, which didn't work. I was switched to a different medicine, which I was on when we went to see The Who. To be honest, those antibiotics didn't work, either; however, I am a Buford, and I can tough it out with the best of them. Things were starting to get back to normal, and everything was fine. I had outlines for posts planned, and everything was peachy.

Then, March happened. On the 8th, my heart was struck by a profound loss; my beautiful boy, Nigel, died incredibly suddenly of a heart attack. I was with him when it happened, and I know that the last thing he heard was my voice. Though that fact is something I have had a difficult time living with, I will carry that burden if it helped my boy. See, I love Nigel as if he were a dog; we have had that bond from the moment I saw him, and I know our lives were supposed to be shared. Hell, we've had dogs I never loved as much as my Nigel. Without him, there is a giant hole in our home. I never thought I wouldn't like to hear the radio uninterrupted, but now, it feels almost wrong. I refuse to listen to The Redwalls. I almost cried listening to the new Plain White T's EP because I knew he would have absolutely loved "Haven't Told Her", yet he wasn't there to sing to it -- he always responded to pronounced drums, and layered vocals. Now, I don't have anyone to share all of the marvelous new albums I have yet to discover with. For his headstone, I gave him my Woodstock mosaic -- it's so very Nigel.

That same day, we were roped into doing a major garage sale with my dad's mother. The only problem was, it had to be ready in two weeks. So, from March 9th to the 29th, we were sorting through storage sheds, garages, and heaven knows what else. At first, I was glad to have a distraction from what was going on; the longer it went, though, the more apparent it became that I should have gone back to see my doctor when the antibiotics didn't work that second time. One thing that may not be apparent about the Bufords, though, is that we're stubborn to our detriment. Instead of doing what I knew I should, I simply, well, didn't. Maybe some of my feeling sick has been dealing with losing Nigel, I don't know. This all came to a head on Monday night, when, during a high stress event, I damn near passed out. Almost fell flat on my face, and I was the only one home at the time. What home appraiser calls at 7:30 in the evening, and tells you he'll stop by at 11:30 the next day? The kind that doesn't know the lady of the house is out of town for the next two days, and the master can't even be relied upon to relay the message for another hour and a half. It was up to me, then, to finish clearing away the remnants of the garage sale madness, as well as deep-clean the house before said appraiser got there the next day. Wouldn't you have passed out, too? And, I should point out, I'm also in college. All of these activities were going on in addition to my actual job of trying to get a bloody degree. Not to mention dealing with some administrative bollocks from the living embodiment of Greendale.

These are even their bloody colors.


My headspace has been clearing up the last few days, and I seem to be getting back my stamina. Which is a good thing, since I've got finals looming on the horizon, as well as some real life odds and ends.

Somehow, I still hear a voice in the back of my mind saying "surely you've been doing stuff! Having some kind of an adventure in between all of this stupid muddle. Yes?"
In a way, yes.

Sometime in February, I got a call from my sister. I usually know something is wrong when she actually wants to talk to me on the telephone, since, you know, we rarely speak at all. Rather like our communal blog, our efforts toward maintaining constant contact faded out long ago -- even when I held out, and waited for her to come back of her own accord. At any rate, call she did.
This is a paraphrased account of what happened.

Seester: I'm at Walmart, and there are two guys here that look like your type.
Me: I didn't know I had a type.
Seester: Well, one of them looks like a mod, and he's got a weird jacket with some weird buttons on it, and he's kind of weird.
Me: Yeah.
Seester: And there's another one here, that's, like, his friend.
Me: And.
Seester: Well, I wanted to know if you'd be mad if I gave them your blog URL.
Me: You want to what?
Seester: And, you know, they can, like, look it up if they want.

I have to admit, I loved the idea of her walking up to two total strangers, husband and two incredibly young children in tow, and trying to explain her purpose for disturbing them. I pictured her conversation with these two young men in my mind, and was convinced she was doing it on a dare from her husband. With that thought in mind, I told her to do whatever she wanted, and went back to doing whatever it was I was doing. A few minutes later, I got a call from her telling me to keep my cellphone nearby, as she had also included my personal telephone number. Part of me wonders if she actually did it, or if she was merely talking the talk. The other part of me was simply amused; after all, remember the guy I dared to do the Freddie? We all know I'm up for people doing stupid things, myself included. Just like Mr. Freddie, nothing ever came of her tiny burst of extrovertedness. The thought, I suppose, counts for something: the thought being, of course, that she doesn't think I can get a guy myself. She denies this ever happened, but, Thanksgiving 2009, she told me she thought I was going to be a lonely old cat woman. And that was her phrase, not mine. Maybe if she hadn't refused to listen to my Vegas '06 stories -- something else she denied happened -- she would know I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself.

I was fourteen and stupid, don't judge me.


As I mentioned, we also went to San Antonio for a glorious week. I took lots of pictures, but, unfortunately, lost the outline of that post somewhere along the line. I do use spiral paper like it's going out of fashion. We did some lovely things, though. The Japanese Tea Garden...


Found some kind of time machine to the 1920's...


And were given free cookies at the Emily Morgan, and told to roam the place at our leisure...


That, and, you know, cool stuff: note the train.

Last week, my dad burst through the front door and said "I've got a surprise for you".


"I don't usually like surprises, let's get this over with," I told him.
Seeing that this could get ugly, my mother interjected, "don't be mad at him, he didn't pay for these."
And with that, he handed over a ticket envelope. Apparently, a friend of his was unable to go to the Elvis tribute act that was in town that night, and gave the tickets to my dad; and, being entirely honest, my dad doesn't like concerts (I know, how am I his daughter?). So, my mother and I had a fun time watching four fake Elvis impersonators from our free seats -- especially since the price on the tickets was $43 each. Fake Elvis Four took a crowd photograph, see if you can spot the two of us.

If it helps, I couldn't find us, and I am us!


You may remember from the defunct communal blog that I spent an afternoon watching the Plain White T's "Meet Me In California" documentary. In it, they talked about how they'd been gusts on a show called "Greek". As I sat there in my little blanket fort, I realized that I hadn't ever actually seen them in the show. Let me tell you, though, the clips are few and far between. Someone edited together some of them, but not all of them; don't we all know me well enough by now to know that I needed to see it all? Yes. Little clips just weren't enough.


The problem I had, though, was that I just kept watching the stupid show. Until there weren't any more episodes to watch. Don't judge me. Mind you, half the time I was watching, I kept wondering if Scott Michael Foster -- the guy you watched in that clip -- had some kind of band background; he had that vibe about him all through the show, but I had absolutely no evidence. And all that wondering and watching is pretty much where my spare time went from the end of February to about four days ago.


And so, another edition of blog casserole has come to it's natural conclusion. What have we learned?

*Next time my antibiotics don't work, I'm going back to have a chat with my doctor.



*With no help from my sister, I will not be an old cat lady.



*My mother really enjoyed the little choo-choo.



*I'm getting far too good at guessing if guys are in bands. What do I win?



*I have decided that the plural of Elvis is Elvisces, pronounced like appendices.

Uncle Carl Was Right, They'll Break Your Heart

Real life has been a total pain in my arse since the new year. Regardless of that fact, I have been able to keep up with band news, flipping my respective wig whenever something happens, as usual (don't look at me like that, we all know you do it, too). This story is going to involve a lot of wig flipping. A. Lot. Don't say I didn't warn you.


Do we all remember that Tim Lopez dating show thing that was announced last year? Yeah, well, that was originally set to air a super-dee-duper preview episode on March 26th, and premier March 31st. In the wake of Bachelor Monday, I have been semi-looking forward to this travesty rip-off that NBC is going to force me to sit and watch every Tuesday because they are preying on both my reality dating AND band habits. Those bastards. Just as I was planning what I have referred to as the "Tim Tuesday" menu, they pull the March dates, and replace them with an April 9th premier. I thought it was a bit odd, and it didn't seem like it was a well planned out idea, but figured the Tim Tuesday meal could be put off, and I'd just use up my aubergines elsewhere (and they were fabulous in a spicy tomato sauce with an onion and garlic saute). I didn't think anything about any of this on March 29th as I checked the Plain White T's twitter feed to find a link to this video...


Hang on, hang on, just one cotton pickin' minute here, slim. Did that thing say EP? Are you telling me that we've waited over two years to hear anything original, and we're getting a bloody EP? Come on, we all know that Frankenweenie thing they did doesn't count (I felt like they kind of held back on their cover of Pet Sematary, but that's just me). And, wait, hold on, did that say April 9? Hmmm, I kind of get the feeling that something else is happening on that day, but I can't remember what. I swear, it took me ten minutes to figure out that the release of "Should've Gone to Bed" coincides with the premier of Ready for Love.
Let that sink in for a second.


Are we good? OK.

I mean, on a personal level, I've always thought that their post-"Delilah" career has been incredibly commercial (fifteen bucks a head for after show meet and greets that most bands in their genre just do for the hell of it without tables, out by the buses [you know, through chain link fences, while being arrested, that kind of thing] being the most valid instance), and this is another good example of that. Mind you, I'm all for taking advantage of a situation -- free enterprise, anyone? -- but it just doesn't feel right to me. Sue me. I have been grumbling about this since I figured out April 9th is going to be a commercial extravaganza.

Moving on.
So, on Monday, this hit the Interwebbing...


along with the EP art...

and the announcement that the song would premier the next day on satellite radio.

Tuesday morning dawned, and I headed to YouTube to find out what this EP is sounding like. I was home by myself at the time, so I plugged the Bose in, and turned it up loud. That is, I turned this up loud...


After realizing the stream of unseemly obscenities flowing freely from me in the silence that followed, my brain started processing what it had just heard. To be honest, it didn't really know where to start, but the first thing I thought of was that version of "Kiss Me Again" that had Alex Gaskarth in it. All of the fans were excited to hear him on it, but were incredibly disappointed when it was released; his portion was auto-tuned so heavily that it sounded like it was recorded on a tour bus -- probably because it was recorded on a tour bus. The point is, Mr. Gaskarth doesn't need an ounce of auto-tune; I have heard his voice without it, and it's like a little choir of angels in a field of the first snowdrops of Spring's bloom. Or something.

Tom Higgenson's voice is somewhat similar. I know that sixteen year old me took him seriously when he said to listen to his voice in that mega hit; little sixteen year old me fell in fangirl love with it, too. That sixteen year old me bubbled up to the surface when we saw the T's in Dallas. There was a point where the audio went completely out, except Mr. Higgenson's vocal microphone. As a tech ran frantically backstage to get another acoustic guitar, he sang "Delilah" a capella. It was a beautiful moment for me, and reminded me of what I love about music; how that voice sang me through tough nights until the dawn, the unfinished manuscripts, the finished manuscript, the scenes flashing past the backseat car window, and the darkness I allowed precious few others to shine light on. In this new single, that's the voice that's been auto-tuned so heavily I couldn't recognize it. And, for a second, my brain stopped working to let my fangirl heart break a little bit.

Then, I started thinking about the electronic beats (personally, I have always abhorred electronic drums), and whatever else was in there covering up the guitars-bass-drums formula they've had since before Stop was released. What in hell is going on with that? The final straw was when I read a comment saying something along the lines of "dis soundz lyke sumtin one direction wud do, hurr hurr" that I knew I wasn't alone in thinking that something had happened. In the wake of the release, I have considered several scenarios: simple change in sound (which seems unlikely after how Big Bad World and Wonders of the Younger turned out); influence from producers (two words: Hugh Padgham); the old sell out standby; and, most horrible of all, major-label influence (have you ever seen Anthem for a Dying Breed? You should).

Now, I know that I tend to really hate new material when it comes out, and I take a little bit to warm up to it (Memory Almost Full, can you ever forgive my doubt?); I thought that might be my problem. That is, until I heard something that changed my mind. Yesterday morning, the band stopped by their hometown radio station to do a live version of the single.


That's the Plain White T's I know, dammit. You can hear the harmonies, the guitars, even a little bit of bass from Mr. Retondo, and fantastic percussion from Mr. Hamilton. In short, you can hear the talent; it's evident that there's craftsmanship when there isn't so much electronic bollocks in the way of it.

Until I hear the entire EP, I'm going to be on tenterhooks about this. As it is, I'm glad it's an EP instead of an LP at this point, simply because we really don't know what to expect now. In the meantime, I have yet to decide if we're going to have Cottage Pie, or Spaghetti Bake on Tim Tuesday.

Noir Bart

Today was a wonderfully quiet Saturday. The folks were out for the afternoon, so I finally got to watch The Maine's "Anthem For A Dying Breed" DVD (I may have animatedly flailed when they showed fly on the wall footage of spontaneous vocal harmonies. I am still not OK), and drinking far too much tea. It was beautiful. After a while, the folks came back home, and I had to put my pants back on (it's a courtesy, you know).
"You should check your email," my mother said with a sly grin.
I was immediately suspicious. And, after checking said email, I was right to be.

You win this time, sister...

...but I'll be back!

This is the point in the story where we're going to jump into Ricky The K's solid gold time machine, and take a trip back to 2005. To give you some perspective, here is a small list of things going on then: YouTube launched (it was in November of that year that I lost that third of my life that I should spend sleeping to that bloody site); Tom Cruise went and jumped on Oprah's couch; music thief Michael Jackson was still on trial for child molestation (and those weirdos released some doves or something); Ken Jennings and Brad Rutter were battling it out on the Ultimate Tournament of Champions; James Blunt kept telling people they were beautiful, or something; and the music world exchanged Blink-182 for the Backstreet Boys. The biggest part of 2005, though, was Paul's US Tour. November 1st, actually. Our first limo watch! Chaos and Creation in the Backyard, live (and we all know that album is my baby)! Oh, my soul. That was the night I got my Paul burns. Awww. LIMO WATCH REMINISCE TIME.


Are you in that frame of mind? OK.

In February of that year, our little family went down to San Antonio for a week. Sounds familiar, right? In a way, yes, but also no. Back then, my sister would go with us on these little trips; she wasn't married yet, and she didn't think we were uncool. She would research things to do, and create the infamous "Folder of Fun", filled with her information, and, remarkably, a schedule. I think she still does this, but, fortunately, I plan what we do now (and I'm pretty darned good at it, actually). On our agenda for that particular trip we all took together was the McNay art gallery. As much as I like art, I never have cared for the formality of art galleries; the juxtaposition of personal creations -- something that is so organic and humble -- being presented in a stuffy fashion is an unresolved pet peeve of mine (there are people who love to learn, and hate school, too [wait, I'm finding a pattern]).

My mother loaded her two children in the car, and off we went to the art museum. We walked around the beautiful grounds...

Look, little me done a clicky-picture-takey.

...and went inside. I remember looking at the museum itself, which had been the McNay private residence, more than the art on the walls. Quite a bit of tile work in there. As for the art, I vaguely remember a Monet, a Picasso (maybe two?), an entire impressionist room, and an addition to the original structure that is filled with modern art. As we left, I really thought no more about our little cultural adventure.

Fast forward a little bit. Some time later, my sister and I (remember, she still thought I was cool then) were walking around in a shop when we saw a print of this supposedly super-famous piece...


She was quite excited when she pointed it out, saying that we saw it in the art gallery.
Well, this was news to me.
I asked her where it was in the gallery; she said it was at the end of a hallway, and tried to describe the area. I remember the part of the museum vividly: it was a brown tiled room, with large baseboards and cool white walls. On our right hand side were a number of french doors, which let in loads of beautiful natural light. I stopped to look through those doors when my two comrades told me to move along with them, rather than lagging behind. I saw there was something on the wall at the end of the hall, but took fleeting notice of it as I ran right past it, and turned the corner in an attempt to catch up.

Yeah, apparently, that was it.
And I haven't heard the end of it for the last eight years.
My email surprise is proof of the fact that most presidents haven't stuck around as long as this joke has.

Even her kids are in on it!

Stupid effing cat...

Pete Townshend Needs Better Fitting Trousers

If you follow the blog I co-run with my sister, you know what kind of crazy-busy life I've been living these last two weeks. We'll be talking about some of the highlights soon enough, but I need to fangirl about something first.

I'll just be clear: we went to see The Who two days ago, and I'm having PCD (post-concert depression). I really enjoyed going to a show where I could inhale and exhale properly, had a somewhat normal pulse rate, and didn't feel the rabid need to scream; it was refreshing, actually, and I still have a voice after the experience. I also felt like I could look around a bit, and try to drink in the whole experience -- only occasionally, mind, because I was mesmerized by Pete Townshend's guitars. People have been arguing for heaven knows how long that Pete can't play, but I figure that those people have never actually seen him do so. All he had to do was fold his hands over the neck, and he was off in his own little world.

It was also good to see that Pete and Roger were still having fun up on stage; they looked like there wasn't anywhere else they would rather have been, and that made it all the more fun for the audience. Speaking of Roger, I think he was there, but, like I just told you, I was busy watching guitar playing, and windmilling, and leg wiggling, and shirts that were too short, and trousers that were too big, and pedals, and sheet music with little notes in the margins, and little cups of tea on double-stacked amps, and turning tuning pegs while playing, and messing with volume checks and distortion knobs, and spitting picks off the stage. I think I'm trying to say I didn't pay too much attention to Roger Daltrey. Oops. And Zak Starkey "got sick", so we had to make do with a replacement; I was reminded of the Barry Williams incident, and was quite peeved. I suppose that just allowed more time for windmill-watching, so I suppose it ended up better for me. I guess it's a good thing there are some fan pictures online.

The energy in the crowd was little to nothing, which was surprising. I'm more used to shows where people are either weeping/hyperventilating, or you know they are going to weep/hyperventilate sometime during the show and you know you will probably join them. This crowd, though, was the most sedate I can remember seeing. There wasn't any electricity in the air until the band made it themselves. Despite a crowd full of drowsy wrinklies, it was an amazing and historical experience, and I'm glad I was able to go. If you can go see them, do it, because it was a great deal of fun. That, and "Baba O'Riley" is amazing live. And Roger can still kill "Love Reign O'er Me".

The show did have an opening act; Vintage Trouble tried their darndest to get those new hip replacements going, but it didn't do much good. I don't suppose it helped the zoned out audience to be out past their bedtime by playing mellow pre-show music. That, and some of them were drunk before they even showed up; mix that with their prescription medications, and it's a recipe for disaster. Have I mentioned that most of the audience was somewhat old? And that's with my definition of old, not just their number age; they behaved like ancient grandparents whose laps you aren't allowed to sit on when you visit them, but the wizened one makes you, and their legs are too bony, so you feel unsafe being there. They may as well have pulled out the Evening Standard and their slippers, and settled in for a quiet evening with Amos & Andy. Going back to Vintage Trouble, though, they're an alright little group. The only thing I would say about them is that, for the kind of sound they're trying to emulate, they need to realize that distortion and reverb have their place, and I don't think that's it; have they never listened to the Lost Lennon Tapes? I'm always reminded of a quote from Lady Catherine de Bourgh in Pride and Prejudice when I start talking about these kinds of things, because I don't play music: "What is it you are talking of? [...] Of music! Then pray speak aloud. It is of all subjects my delight. I must have my share in the conversation, if you are speaking of music. There are few people in England, I suppose, who have more true enjoyment of music than myself, or a better natural taste. If I had ever learnt, I should have been a great proficient". I do listen intently to music, though, and to the artists, and to the artists' theories, so I feel I have a semi-informed opinion. In that vein, they're opening for The Who, and I'm out in the crowd, so what do I know?



One of the best parts of the show was the venue; BOK Center is where I saw Paul back in 2009, and it was just as wonderful a place to see The Who. We could see the seats we saw Paul in from the seats we watched The Who from. It was pretty cool.

Paul seats from The Who seats.


Hey! It's Paul! This is the gig where I screamed so hard, I started hacking up blood.

Fun connected story time. When we saw Paul, after we had gotten to our seats and freaked out about them, I noticed that some folks had giant soft pretzels.

I thought about getting one, but there is no possible way I can eat directly after limo watch, and immediately before a three hour gig. It just ain't happenin'. This time around, I was bound and determined to get a damn pretzel. So, I did.

It all came full circle. Well, full pretzel, anyway. This story sounded better in my head.


The pre-show music inside the arena may have been boring, but what they were playing outside the venue was lively. As the queue started to stretch around the building, and around the next block, someone was blaring great music; I know I heard Donovan, and Steeler's Wheel, amongst other great things. Somewhere in the mix, someone decided there wasn't enough pop punk, so they put on "All The Small Things". Is this becoming a trend now? To put that song on before a gig? It's played before every gig I've gone to for ages now (not Paul's, 'cause he's too busy playing "Temporary Secretary" remixes [why, Paulie-Pants?]). I'm not complaining about it, merely pointing it out. Regardless, I got some weird looks from the grandpa in front of us in the line when I started humming the na-na-na's. Well, pardon me for not hobbling in on my zimmer frame, sir. I'll be he fell asleep before the encore.
The next day, on our way back home, we stopped off at an antique shop, just for the hell of it. The older lady that ran the place was, as one might say, talkative. She asked all about our business, and we answered her politely. The fated question came from Antique Shop Sally: "what concert did you go to, sweetie?"
"We went to see The Who," I told her, still excited about what we had done the night before. "The last time we were in Tulsa," I added, trying to seem friendly, "we saw Paul McCartney."
"You're too young to like them," she said in an overly imperious tone.
This is not the first time I have been told something similar, it's just never been said in such a forceful way before. There was a part of me that wanted to tell her, in a similar manner, that she was too old to dye her hair that dark shade of brown...

Unfortunately, I know I have to be nice to people, rather than saying what immediately comes to my mind (yet I'm still an unpopular party guest). I told her that, just because I'm young, that doesn't mean I don't have taste. I can go see The Who, and hum Blink-182 in the line if I damn well want to. It's those kinds of small minded people that are holding back the promise of the future, and the reason that I really need to move long and far from the tri-state region. I'll bet she would have wet her britches if I had told her that the last time I was in her city, I saw the Plastic Ono Band.

This was our view, but taken the night before our show.


So, that's my fangirlyness. A fantastic set from The Who:

I Am the Sea
The Real Me
Quadrophenia
Cut My Hair
The Punk and the Godfather
I'm One
The Dirty Jobs (Simon Townshend lead vocals)
Helpless Dancer
Is It in My Head?
I've Had Enough
5:15
Sea and Sand
Drowned
Bell Boy
Doctor Jimmy
The Rock
Love, Reign O'er Me (followed by band introductions)

Encore:
Who Are You
Behind Blue Eyes
Pinball Wizard
Baba O'Riley
Won't Get Fooled Again
Tea & Theatre (Roger & Pete acoustic)


...and a big vafanapoli to the old-not-aged folks I encountered along the way.

It's Like First Grade All Over Again

I have come to the conclusion, after two seconds of research in my archives, that January is a slow blogging month. Let's be honest, my blog is only as interesting as my life is; and, continuing with the pattern of honesty, my life isn't all that interesting in January. I drink a lot of tea, and start planning my Bachelor Monday menu on Thursdays (I'm thinking I need to make up my own recipe for Cottage Pie, since I can't find one I like; this may be my ideal opportunity to experiment with some gravies). Other than that, I'm cleaning out closets, getting ready for some traveling, and I always somehow end up checking out my I-need-to-see-what-they're-about bands during this time of year (I resisted We The Kings for years, and now I'm kicking myself [but I did that with The Maine, too; mind you, I had a feeling I'd like The Maine based solely on their connection to Fearless Records, and it was more a question of "do I have the time to start flailing about records and YouTube videos?", rather than timing in itself]). At the moment, I'm also reading Who Am I by Pete Townshend, since we're going to be seeing the Quadrophenia tour in twenty-seven days...


Let's not forget that whole college thing I do sometimes, too. I have finally gotten to a point in my degree where I need electives; I immediately signed up for the creative writing course taught by the teacher I had for Freshman Composition I. (You remember, when I had to deal with Mr. Do-Its. Yeah.) Though the folks in his class needed to acquire some basic skills commonly used in the English language, the teacher and I got on famously: he liked my work and ballsy attitude, and I liked that he appreciated my efforts in both regards. I talked him up to the people at my in-person class so much (and about how I made over 100% in his class), they used their gutter-tarnished little minds to imply that I hadn't earned the grade in an above-board fashion. You should have seen the looks on their faces when I told them it was an online class, and that I had never met him in person! After that, they wouldn't talk to me.


The incident reminded me of first grade. We were all evaluated on reading and comprehension at the beginning of term; each child was individually tested, and, because I have an unusual last name, I was the last little nipper to be checked. I walked from Ms. Ellis's classroom to the cafeteria/auditorium, where some sort of High Expert On Childhood Literacy sat behind the red curtain, waiting to point out all of my failures. I nervously opened my book about beluga whales, and began to read aloud, just as the Mighty One has asked. I remember turning to page seven, when Her Excellency told me to stop; I closed the book, convinced that I would have to go to "stupid school" because of my mental block against following directions.
"You don't need to finish," she said, "you can go back to class."
Convinced I had done something wrong, or had somehow overlooked the major point of the assignment, I hurried my tiny little feet through the empty hall, and back into the home room. Sneers of "you weren't gone very long" rang from several identical-sounding, youthful voices. I tried not to think about the incident further, and ignored the situation until the evaluations came back. All of the children were split into groups, and told which groups would do what. That is, all of the children except me. Ms. Ellis told me to wait until she had dealt with the others before talking to me. It was an agonizing fifteen minutes, mentally preparing myself for the shame of being thrown out of first grade, and sent to stupid school. When she finally got around to telling me why I had been singled out, she said that I wasn't to be sorted into a group, but that I had to read by myself; I was allowed full, unaccompanied library trips, and complete access to the computer labs. Fifteen years later, I realize that they simply left me to my own devices so they could focus on kids who weren't as advanced as I was. What I wonder about now, though, is why no one ever questioned a random six year old roaming the halls in the afternoons -- I made at least three trips between the classroom, the library, and the computer room daily, no questions asked. This special treatment caused a backlash from my classmates, causing them to completely ostracize me from any and all activities, until they figured out they could use my reading and spelling skills to their advantage. Kids started looming near me, asking what words were, or how to spell them.

How do you spell "quarter"?

As the first week of college classes began on Monday, I took the liberty of looking ahead to a few of the writing assignments; to my surprise, some of them are pretty much like the writing prompts I use as personal exercises. Unfortunately for me, though, this class also relies on the peer review process. I don't like people to tell me how to create, period. Maybe it's my inner control freak, or that I don't believe there's a right or wrong way to make things; it is also possible that I just don't like to be told what to do, especially by people who don't understand where I'm coming from when they can't grasp a concept that falls into my writers-and-iceburgs analogy. Let me work in peace; long jump, short pier. (To put it another way, they need to take what I have presented from whatever inspiration I had, and like it, those ungrateful little snots.) In other words, I don't respect their opinions. There. I said it. I cannot respect the passing thoughts written down for a grade by the people who have already submitted their assignment. In said assignment, we are supposed to introduce ourselves to the class in the form of an obituary that might actually appear in a newspaper. So far, there is the first female president, a drunkard, a semi-normal middle aged guy who didn't quite seem to understand the concept, and a guy claiming to be from the planet Nebula. They haven't used proper English (syntax, or semantics), and, generally, make little to no sense.

I figured that, if those people can see my fictitious obituary, you, dear reader, can see it, too. Names changed, et al.

Archibald Heatherington Nastyface
Died 2100

Wordsmith Archibald Heatherington Nastyface -- better known by her pseudonym, P. E. Burroughs -- died Tuesday afternoon at the age of 108. Early reports claim the writer was suffering from complications related to an incident earlier in the month in which she bet the neighborhood children that she could outrun the latest smart car by, as the tragedy was explained in the police report, "turning the speed on [her] motor scooter up to 11." Speaking to the first reporters on the scene at the time of the accident, Burnham Cavenaugh, aged ten, described what he witnessed in detail. "She started to pick up speed, and she looked like she was really going to outrace the car," he explains, "but she started to get cocky about it, and she got run over when she tried to do a figure eight between the driver's headlights."

Though biographers had eagerly attempted to document her remarkably mysterious life, Nastyface refused to authorize a biography, or agree to numerous proposed contracts to write her story in her own words. In the wake of her untimely death, only one clue remains at the fore of the collective mind of the public domain as to Nastyface's private affairs: her final interview, conducted at age 96, in 2088. General opinion appears to be that the public holds little stock in rehashed soundbites from an interview given twelve years ago when asking the numerous questions still waiting to be -- now posthumously -- answered by this modern enigma. The unauthorized biographers, however, regard the interview as the most accurate source of information the public has ever been granted access to.

What little we know regarding her life, we learned in the '88 interview, which originally aired on the final season of "Did I Sign A Release For You To Film This?", the popular hidden camera investigative series. Set to montages of Nastyface in her garden, her art studio, and her gourmet kitchen with double ovens, she weaves a somewhat spotty recollection of her early life, which began in 1991 in a dusty Texas town. She turned to writing as a creative outlet at age nine, and developed a writing style uniquely her own; in the '88 interview, she credits her self-described "flow" to a lack of outside opinion, claiming that the majority of her writings from the first decade of the 21st century were never read by anyone but herself.

Between bouts of insomnia, she wrote her most beloved series, "Sometimes, I Imagine...", a collection of poems written between 2014 and 2016. It is because of this series that readers worldwide have raised questions; the pieces themselves were confusingly explained by one reviewer as "immensely descriptive, yet nonsensically vague." Though reception to her erratic style was highly favorable, shortly after publication of the collection in 2017, Nastyface withdrew from her rapidly expanding public life, and secretly published the remainder of her printed works under her now famous pseudonym. The scheme to escape prying inquiries from her readership worked for 70 years before she was discovered, causing a national frenzy. As news of Nastyface's identity spread, she reentered the New York Times Best Seller list for the first time since her anthology, Collected Works: Can't You Find Something Better To Collect?, was released six decades earlier.

When prompted to answer simple questions regarding her life in the infamous 2088 interview, she merely replied, "I was married, I had some kids, but I had more dogs than anything." Talking about her creative process, she said, "I type because I like it. Luckily for me, words follow, and I usually like them, too." As she was pressed to discuss her early life, she said, "I did pretty much the same drivel I do now. I write, I cook, I garden, I travel, I try to create art, I like to discover new music, and I still like my dogs better than I like your probing questions, young man." Unauthorized biographers concur that the most quoted soundbite from the interview describes Nastyface best: when asked about her reclusive habits, she responded, "some folks said I was neurotic, and downright paranoid. Every darn time, I'd tell 'em that I just needed a quiet place to write, and a strong cup of tea."

Though the final words about herself add to her cryptic legend, readers rightfully assumed that Nastyface fell silent in the wake of post-interview offers for Lifetime Original Moves based on her life. It has only come to light in the wake of Nastyface's death that she kept all of her material written after the '88 interview in a secret vault beneath her Coeur d'Alene, Idaho, property. Could this newly discovered treasure trove answer any of the questions readers have pondered for decades? Heckle and Schmeckle Publishing is currently in talks with Nastyface's estate to publish the material. Providing the publishers win their case against Lilly, the toy fox terrier to which the entire estate was bequeathed, they hope to begin releasing the manuscripts sometime before 2105.


Do you know how difficult it is to write you own obituary at age twenty-one? It was awesome. Apparently, the teacher thought so, too. I found this attached to it this morning:

Well done, Nastyface. You certainly demonstrate your ability to work within the conventions of a specific kind of rhetorical mode, yet you were able to break conventions nicely with some clever and subtle humorous touches. In particular, I enjoyed Collected Works: Can't You Find Something Better To Collect?.

I look forward to reading (and commenting on) your work in this class.


I figured he was just glad to have me back in one of his classes, considering he liked my previous material. It was the first comment made by the teacher, and none of the students had yet responded to any posts. This act, however, has prompted a small revolt; not only are people not even touching my submission, but the act prompted a class-wide email this afternoon, containing this excerpt:

As for my feedback, the frequency of it, and the extent of it, I usually give the class time to speak first. So, if after a few days from a writing deadline I still have not responded to your work, just know that I am giving everyone else an opportunity to go first. And for these obituaries, I will not be commenting much. Mainly, I just want to get to know each of you in terms of style and substance.


Oops. My awesomeness started another small mutiny. It's like first grade all over again.


So, that's part of why my blog has been quiet. Put simply, my life has been quiet, too. This fact is further illustrated by how easily entertained I am by this angle of happenstance...


Even my picture a day blog thing is slightly boring. I don't know how long people are going to want to look at my concert tickets and cookery experiments, but that's what they're getting, dammit. I mean, if people don't like tasteful angles of my Hummingbird Pancakes with Cream Cheese Anglaise, it's just because they haven't tried their pancake-y, fruity amazingness.

No pancakes for you!

New Year, New Blog

OK, so some things escalated quickly last night. No, not because of the gloriousness of 2013; it all started with an email -- well, actually, a phone call, but the email is more Internet tangible, if that makes sense:

From: Seester
Subject: Project 365

So I am thinking of doing a project 365..,
Care to do it with me?

I have since learned that it consists of taking/posting a photograph for every day of the year. Every. Day. By the time I was able to get to a computer, she had sent me a list of daily prompts, and the URL for our joint blog account -- I, quite literally, only had to show up to the place, which was named, decorated, and has little doo-dads and clicky-thingies that I don't even know what they do.

Let's consider this "Honesty Hour": most of the time, I'm not even wearing pants, OK (as I was Monday morning quarterbacking my Meet and Greet experience, I realized that this was a topic I could have acceptably exhausted, and failed to)? And I'm now taking a photograph every day, to share on the Internet, of my boring life? I couldn't say no when I was asked; my sister and I so rarely do anything together, and I can't even remember the last time we attempted to. After all, we live in different towns, with twelve years difference in our ages: she's a mother of two incredibly young children, and I'm a college student with peculiar habits. By all accounts, the odds aren't really in our favor.

It's five minutes to two in the morning; I'm propped up in my cozy little bed, electric blanket on low, my Writing Playlist set to "Time: Shortest", while Lilly makes a nest out of the flannel. As Tom Higgenson talks me through the night -- much like any other night, really, if I think about it -- I'm wondering how this is even going to work. My blogging style is somewhat unreliable; I usually only blog if I have something to say. In that vein, I usually use different writing styles, photographs, songs, and video clips to get my point across. Even my private writing style is unpredictable: my creative output correlates directly with whether I have some spark of inspiration (last night, I wrote a wordplay based on a billboard in a photograph someone posted on their blog -- the billboard wasn't even a substantial part of the image, and was mostly blurry, but I felt it was my personal duty to play with the concept).

My playlist has switched to material I've used to write with for ages; I've used it in my creative process since 2008, so I've seen a lot of phases with it. Back in '08, I was practically addicted to the Pictures, Poetry & Prose blog. Every day, a new photograph was posted, along with a suggested prompt for what to write about on that day. I didn't always like the picture, but I used the images and prompts to write what I used to call Snippets; I later found out it is referred to as micro-fiction (this is still what I'm most comfortable writing, actually). From one image, a hundred images would spring from my imagination: characters I cared about, gave names to -- I loved one so much that I extended his story considerably, and it remains my only finished short story (he is also my favorite character, incidentally). When the PP&P blog ended, I looked for other alternatives for my exercises; using just a prompt; just a picture; a list of words. Gradually, lack of regular participation discouraged the folks in charge of those blogs, and they slowly trickled to an end. Only recently, I have found a plethora of new resources with the PP&P format, and I have been so very tickled with them.

I keep asking myself, "if you can do it with words, why don't you think you can do it with pictures? Hell, a picture's worth a thousand words, right?" It's now 2:39, the playlist is taking me back to a highway in Austin, and I've been sitting here trying to place my finger on what feels so wrong about this endeavor. It has finally hit me: I've never been good with non-fiction. Making things up has been the chief pleasure in my life, ever since I can remember -- the other kids never wanted to play make-believe games with me, because I was so particular. The first time I attempted to write for pleasure, I was nine years old; I wanted to write something wonderful, but, because of my love of biographies, I was determined that it had to be like the Little House series. I grew tired of that project within about forty-five minutes, and opted to write about scientists that brought a mummy back to life with chemically altered tissue donations (I seem to remember a red convertible in the story, but I cannot for the life of me remember what that had to do with anything). All fiction. Even my photography has been an experiment in semi-fictional storytelling. Whereas I don't believe in editing a photo after the shutter has gone off, I do take a great deal of time to consider angles, lighting, and focus to eliminate the things I find undesirable: humans, buildings, cars, poles, pathways, general human contact with anything. I take pride in the fact that I can stand in a crowded place, and make it look like I was there by myself (mind you, I'm sometimes waiting for several minutes to get the right opportunity for the shot). It's not uncommon to hear me muttering "get out of my frame, dumbass", while I squint into my viewfinder, and squish my nose against the camera body.

So, when dealing with non-fiction, where can I take it? My non-fiction is rather boring. Most days, I drink copious amounts of tea, and occupy myself with college courses, or occasional housework. My nights are usually spent writing until delusion causes me to realize the beginnings of sunrise. I've been looking at the list of photo prompts for January, wondering how I can possibly fill some of them: sun; through; grow. "Meet Me In California" is reminding me of how our elderly neighbor once saw me helping my mother unload groceries from the car, and how she asked me if I was home on vacation from school. Where can a girl like that fit "sun" into photography? How am I to interpret "through"? What represents "grow" in January, anyway? I've never been able to think in pictures, and to imagine showing my life instead of typing it, like I do on this blog, is intimidating.

"Losing Myself" is reminding me that I had similar concerns back in 2008, when this very blog was created (2008 was a frickin' weird year). I didn't think I would ever find anything to talk about, and I wondered how it would work itself out in the first place. Who would read it? More importantly, why would they read it? Now, here I sit, pounding somewhat harshly on a keyboard that endures such regular abuse, and thinking about the screen I saw prior to clicking the orange "New Post" button. For four years, that screen has said "Turret Full Of Ravens", with the various administrative buttons; now, a blog with a title I'm still not sure I understand is on top of it -- I'm so bad at numbers that I've tried, quite literally, to say 535,600 four different ways -- crating a list. I have this new list up in another tab, and have been occasionally looking at it.

It's glaring at me, almost daring me to do something with it. "No posts. Start blogging!" I don't even know how far these dual administrative powers go; after all, I've never had to share my blog with anybody.

I'm not saying I won't do it; I'm not even saying it might not be fun, or something I'll come to enjoy. At this point, it seems like quite the undertaking. Not to mention that I've been through the beginning stages of blogging before, and I'm about to do it again. I'll have to find my footing in uncomfortable territory; for example, do we add captions to these pictures? Do we introduce words, or let the photographs speak for themselves?

I suppose I'll spend most of the day looking for an answer to the innocuous "TODAY" prompt gracing the tippy-top of our agreed upon list. If anyone would like to watch us attempt this crazy thing, please feel free to visit the communal blog. I don't know if there's some kind of subscription box kind of thing, or what would happen if you became a "member", but I'll ask about the layout details later (would you be notified of new posts by becoming a "follower"? I'll admit, I've been blogging for four years, and I don't have any idea how it works -- I write, and get page views, and that's all I know). Hell, I don't know if she's even going to have comments enabled (I don't, but that's because people in my Outernet life are always so quick with their opinions on everything I say that I don't especially want to be interrupted on the Internet, too), if she'll want us to use tags (again, how?), or to write "About Me" pages (since there are three of us participating in the project, she might).

New year, new blog. Imagine that.

Mugs, Bathrobes, And Dogs

Before we start, this just needs to be said.


I plan all year for two specific posts on this blog: the bloggyversary post, and the New Year's Eve post. They're only a few days apart, so I do have all year to think about them. In years past, the New Year posts were somewhat lacking. For 2011, however, I was immensely proud of the final product; it felt like an accurate representation of the entire year. So, I've kinda sorta done it again. 'Cause I can.

Reginald Kitty is not amused.

This is the final day of 2012, folks. It's somewhat funny to think that 366 days ago, we were all wondering what 2012 would be like; now that it's over, it's time to reflect on the wonderful things that have happened.

We went to quite a few places this year; some of them were blogged about, while others were so quick, you'd have never known we went in the first place.

January: Oklahoma City for the Plastic Ono Band
February: Galveston
March: Austin
June: San Antonio/Austin
September: South Padre Island/San Antonio
October: Austin; Las Vegas
November: All Time Low; Houston for Paul!
December: Austin

Favorite shots of the year? I thought you'd never ask!

When we weren't out on the road, we were busy keeping up with our stories.


Seriously, you didn't expect me to wait for Downton to air in America, did you? If you waited, then you're in for one hell of a season.


If you haven't been watching "Call the Midwife", you've been missing out. Personally, I aspire to be an old lady like Sister Monica Joan.


The whole Bachelor franchise was damn near perfect this year. The Bachelorette turned out just like America wanted it to, and Ed was on every episode of Bachelor Pad. Life was good.


What in bloody hell was going on with Fresh Meat this season? It felt like the episodes were aired in the wrong order, and to hell with any character development set up in the first season. This scene, however, was perfect.



Community wasn't cancelled! At least we get a few more episodes.




Least we forget the fabulous ear candy; so many album releases! What wonderful music was released this year. With that wonderful music, though, came the behind the scenes studio stuff that everybody loves.

For example, this Andy Burrows video resurfaced, regardless that these were not part of the Company sessions...



We were all sitting in awe over what Paul did with Kisses on the Bottom, and we don't talk about it at our house, because of reasons...



If you didn't fall in love with Pioneer last year, you were wrong; if you didn't drool all over your shoes when you heard The Maine were releasing their Good Love EP, you were also wrong...



What would this summer have been without the giddy anticipation of Don't Panic? Free downloads, presales, different stories every day, and an official album leak all made for an interesting ride...



And now, our annual New Year's Eve Sap Party, where everybody starts semi-philosophical deep thinking for no apparent reason other than changing calendars.


When I turned twenty-one, I reassessed my life. Not in a midlife crisis way, but more a starting life crisis way. There were a few big decisions to be made this year, some small milestones, fabulous experiences, and a dash of tragedy. It gives me pause to think back about ten years or so; New Year of 2002 -- just after the Ill-Fated Trip To Florida incident -- was the first time I ever said "next year will be different". On the surface, nothing has changed: we live in the same little house, deal with the same people, and we still have a terrible Internet connection. The broader picture, however, is totally different: I have a distinct memory of siting on the living room sofa and writing about 2002 on that New Year's Eve in an actual book (yes, children, before blogging, we kept diaries made from tree skins). While some people have stuck around, others have not, making way for more folks along the road; when I think that I didn't know one of my best friends ten years ago, I start to wonder how I managed without him in the first place -- same for dogs, and canaries. And, even with the terrible Internet connection, indelible connections have been forged: Vegas, Canada, and making up for lost time -- and all because of "The Box".

Every year since then, I have said "next year will be different". Then, without fail, every December 31st, I berate myself for not doing anything to make the years stop blending together; until a few days ago, I didn't realize that I have followed through with that promise every year without even noticing. What I have come to realize is that the core of who you are never seems to change, but the details do; in that regard, my yearly vows are a success. Will I always have an affinity for drinking tea at 10:58 in the evening, listening to Back to the Egg, while wearing my bathrobe, and holding a sleeping dog? Yes; but the mug, the bathrobe, and the dog are what changes. That's how I have fulfilled my promise: slowly, subtly, silently. The years blend together because everybody climbs into their cozy bed at age seventeen and wakes up age seventy-five the next morning, asking where their time went. We waste our time thinking we aren't doing enough -- so much so, that we never detect the trace amounts of forward motion that propel us toward the future.

So, this year, I'll think about the television, and the radio, and the books (if I had mentioned all of the fabulous books I've been fortunate enough to read this year, you'd have been here longer), and the photographs, and the experiences. While I'm patching together the calico memories, I'll say to myself "next year will be different", and I'll realize how true that statement is. As it is, there's already so much about 2013 to look forward to. Paul should be releasing an album. Maybe. I hope. After all, Memory Almost Full was in 2007, and Electric Arguments was in 2008. Seriously. I mean. Seriously. It's not like it's a big secret that he's been working on it.

You look innocent, but we all know you're guilty of awesomeness.

And Paul isn't the only one in the studio, you know...


Hell, rumor has it that we might even hear from One Night Only within the next twelvemonth, so that could be interesting. We could also finally hear the much anticipated Ryan Ross solo debut. And this needs to happen, like, yesterday, 'cause that little feature spot on another band's record just is not enough...


So, here's to 2013, the big decisions, and Reagan's America.

Rockin' Around The Beatles Tree

Well, folks, Christmas Eve is upon us.


My little family is having Christmas tonight, just like always.


The occasion calls for pecan pie...

...and bourbon balls...


Considering that we all got a wee bit tipsy with my Bourbon Cream Cheese Icing, the bourbon balls are a little strong; this should be a fun Christmas...



Keep in mind, though, that we may need to make time for awesome Christmas cartoons...



And, naturally, we should all be having a Wonderful Christmastime!



Have a happy Christmas, everybody!



(The official video for the song is near the end of the clip, and it does contain somewhat disturbing images -- starting at the 6:10 timestamp -- so viewer discretion.)

The Twelve Songs Of Christmas

I only just now realized what day it is.


With that said, I have finally wrapped every last present, and meticulously placed them around our tree; I have been baking cookies as fast as people will eat them (my Toasted Pecan Bourbon cookies with Bourbon Cream Cheese Icing was by far a stand out, with over three dozen disappearing in three days, and only three people live here in the first place); the Christmas music has been driving me insane for the last eleven days -- I've been counting; and almost every house on our block has been decorated with glowing lights, forcing me to wear my sleeping mask well into the night. Despite all of these festive doings, my granddad -- the bastion of Christmas cheer, and good will toward man (figuratively, that is) -- begged the fatal question just a couple of days ago: "do you have the Christmas spirit?"
I couldn't disappoint him; he asked so sweetly, with a child-like zeal in his blue eyes. "Not yet," was the best I could muster.

Truth be told, I haven't had "the Christmas spirit" since 2005. Thinking back to everything that was going on about that time, I can see why: that second Paul concert -- our very first limo watch! -- was a major life changing event for me (it was less about "I'm going to see that guy that used to be a Beatle" to "dear-God-I-love-this-man-more-than-most-of-my-family-members"); couple that with our exciting first trip to Las Vegas having been finalized two days before Christmas itself (yeah, a lot happened on that trip) and it's no wonder that the holiday spirit has rather forsaken me. I say forsaken because I try so hard every year to be festive, and it never bloody works. This year is no exception, either. After finals week, I decided I was going to be festive, damn it. I pulled out my Christmas jammies with the vintage Santas and puppies on them; I rifled through my drawers to find my Christmas socks; I went to my closet to pair up my Christmas t-shirts with matching cardigans. With the Christmas music blaring through the Bose that so often blares much more preferable melodies, I commenced with the decorating, the wrapping, and the general joy making. This lasted for, approximately, four hours. Now that ten days have past, the music is getting on my nerves, the decorations are cluttering up the house, and I've run out of things to wrap (it's my favorite thing about Christmas, don't look at me like that).

I was ready to give up on the whole idea of Christmas. Actually, I'm still rather fond of that idea, if I'm being honest. There is a part of me, though, that wonders if that's such a good idea. I've been wracking my brain, trying to think of Christmas memories that might put me in a festive frame of mind.

Sure, there were a few flashbacks that came to mind. There was the time that my sister and I were tricked into thinking we were going to be given matching life vests with our initials on them, but were presented with matching laptops, instead; looking at the tree, I remember the ornament that I liked to feel the smooth plastic bottom of, so all the paint is rubbed off the underside; or, heading to the way-back machine, a little group of kindergarten kids roaming the halls of a seemingly deserted high school, forced to watch their band play Christmas carols, and little old me swelling with pride because I had somehow ended up holding hands with the cutest little boy in the whole grade (that is, until he kept repeating the word "oboe", which lead to learning more valuable lessons for the future).

Even with the remembering, there was an element that I couldn't ignore: just like the rest of the year, music had intertwined its way through the memories, weaving their way into my reminiscences like ivy threaded in a trellis. Believe it or not, as a small child, the music was one of my favorite elements of the season -- yes, really. How many times did my sister tell me to "play something other than the Alvin and the Chipmunks album"? That's usually when I'd put on the Loony Tunes, or the Muppets. Cassette tapes, mind you, either in our family stereo (it was a reproduction piece, that looked like it was from the 40's), or my little blue and silver boombox.

In the spirit of the season, I have put on my Rob Gordon hat, and compiled not one, but two Top Five lists.


The first is the Top Five songs that I remember from those now-ancient tapes, but are never-ever-ever played on the radio, and receive little, if any, attention. (Side note: don't pay attention to the videos, we're focusing solely on the music, here, people.)

DISCLAIMER: You will notice a conspicuous absence of Paul McCartney, and John Lennon. That is because, when I play these kinds of games, I have to take their glorious superiority out of the equation all together; if I didn't, no one else would get to play.

From the 1965 album Holly Jolly Christmas, the fabulous Burl Ives sings "Christmas Child" (some sound effects were added by the person who uploaded the video, but I couldn't find another copy of the song, so we'll just have to live with it)...



Christmas just ain't Christmas without Elvis, and this song has been a staple in my family since before I was born. From 1970, Elvis' Christmas Album, "Mama Liked The Roses"...



The third song on the list is connected to a wonderful memory of my little family loading into the giant old van we had many moons ago, putting this album into the tape deck, and rubbernecking the fancy light displays in the high-falutin' end of town. From 1963, Alvin and the Chipmunks sing "Wonderful Day", the first track of side two of Christmas with the Chipmunks, Volume 2...



Another family favorite since ever, the fantastic Karen Carpenter (OK, and Richard, too), sings "It's Christmas Time/Sleep Well, Little Children" from the 1978 Christmas Portrait album...



We all know I am a child of the 90's. One of my earliest Christmas memories is of this song, and I still love it to this day. From the New Kids on the Block's 1989 album Merry, Merry Christmas, our first Top Five concludes with "Last Night, I Saw Santa Claus"...



How are we holding up, folks? Are we ready for the second Top Five list?



The next set are Christmas songs that I love, but don't receive any airplay. Not a lick. Sure, they can play that terrible Bruce Springsteen version of "Santa Claus is Coming to Town", or "The Little Drummer Boy" thirteen times in a day (true story), but these songs may as well not exist in the radio world.



Topping the list is the Plain White T's awesome song, "Christmas Won't Be the Same Without You". It was part of the All Wrapped Up compilation in 2009, and it is, well, awesome. (Also, pay attention to the video in this one, if you want. It's Tom Higgenson in red trousers, I'll be paying attention with or without you.)



Who doesn't love Harry Connick, Jr? If you don't, you should really get yourself checked out by a professional. From the 1993 album When My Heart Finds Christmas, the sorely underrated "What Are You Doing New Year's Eve?"...



Dean Martin's beautiful voice really shines in "I've Got My Love to Keep Me Warm", from the 1959 album Winter Romance. It seems that the radio stations are familiar with the song itself, but not this fabulous version of it...



Yes, the original version of "Last Christmas" is wonderful; however, if I get to pick what version I'm going to listen to, it will probably be The Maine's, from their 2008 EP ...And A Happy New Year. Truth be told, there probably isn't too much I wouldn't listen to if John O'Callaghan was singing, and Jared Monaco was playing guitar (even that cover of "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun" that was released last month [loved the music -- exactly the awesometasticness you might expect from their post-Pioneer material -- but something about it just didn't feel right]). And when I think how many times I've had to listen to the Glee version of this song, instead...



The sentiment of this song is the hopeful melancholy Christmas often brings. You would think that the Powers That Be in Radioland would want to play something from the Goo Goo Dolls, but this song goes practically unheard during the Christmas season. Maybe it's because some folks don't actually think of it as a Christmas song; I, however, see the value of subtle references. Just because a song doesn't explicitly talk about tree-trimming-mistletoe-hanging shenanigans, that doesn't mean it can't be a Christmas-y song in itself. Rounding out our second Top Five, from 2005, "Better Days"...



I'm chucking in two bonus songs, because I couldn't think of three others to complete another Top Five. Hey, at least I'm honest. These are Christmas songs that I love, but can never, ever be played on the radio -- or, in some cases, mixed company.

Paul Simon and Steve Martin team up for the best version of "Silver Bells" the world will probably ever see...



How can you not love this final song? Especially the 2010 single version, rather than the Dirty Work, Deluxe Edition version. Yeah, I'm picky, sue me. Hide yer mothers, it's "Merry Christmas, Kiss My Ass" (not the video, because that was just a damn disappointment, and it hasn't blown over yet)...