Thirty-One Years

This is such a busy time of year. As a college student, I've just wrapped up finals week; society at large is preparing for whatever holiday they celebrate around now. Maybe you're making plans to travel, or getting ready to have people over to your place for some kind of get together.
Whatever you're doing today, make sure to think about John Lennon; remember his values, and the kind of man he is. Think of his legacy, and the beautiful impression he has on the world.
Yes, this is the thirty-first anniversary of a terrible day, and is always marked in my mind; but instead of marking a premature event, I think of that legacy, that impression, those values, and John, himself. Generally, I also like to think of him smiling.


To me, he is as alive as ever, just in a different way; and, perhaps, that's something else to reflect upon today.

THINK PEACE, ACT PEACE, IMAGINE PEACE.

Shopping With A Fangirl

If you have never been shopping with a fangirl, you are missing out on quite the experience.
If the fangirl isn't talking about her chosen subject, she's looking for merchandise about her chosen subject; if she falls silent too long, she's stuck in her own little world -- which revolves around her chosen subject -- while simultaneously still searching for merchandise. Then, of course, if she finds something that remotely reminds her of her chosen subject, she emits a squeal that only certain animals can hear, while rushing toward the object; whether she purchases it, or simply cuddles it for a second before putting it back on the shelf, odds are likely she'll eye-ball it as long as possible. Yes, fangirls are a crazy bunch. I can say these things matter-of-factly simply because I have spent years fangirling something or other; one learns to control it, but it's always somewhere in the back of your mind, ready to pop up when you're in the middle of real-life things, like timed exams, or when you're sitting in the warm glow of the computer screen at four o'clock in the morning.
Since I rarely go shopping, I rarely see fangirls; but, the other day, I came across one in its retail habitat. My mother and I were browsing the Christmas section of our local Target, mindlessly jabbering about who knows what pointlessness. As we made our way from the holiday stuff to the back isles, I saw this...

...and made a rather inappropriate joke along these lines...


About two seconds later, a little girl -- about eight years old -- came around the corner screaming "JUSTIN BIEBER!" over and over again. Her mother eventually got her to settle down, but she kept whispering his name in that creepy way.
"Aw, how cute," I thought to myself, "but, oh, what she's in for." Hey, no one said the fangirl road was easy, OK?
I thought nothing more of what I had just seen, and we went on our merry way.
We made a detour through the DVD section, looking for a Christmas present for my sister; it was while my mother was on the telephone, sorting out what seasons of which television show she wanted, that I saw it. I raised my arms, let off that high-pitch squeal, and shouted "RONNIE!"

Yes, I just fangirled Ronald Reagan. And I am unashamed.

The moral of the story: once a fangirl, always a fangirl.
Of course, I'm perfectly fine with that.

No Gingerbread Man Is Safe

I rarely venture out of my little universe. I rather like it in my bubble -- mostly due to the central air conditioning, but that's neither here nor there. In The Bubble, we have good radio; Beatles (and all that comes with them), Donovan, Peter and Gordon, Plain White T's -- you get the idea. Yet there is that time every year, from the third Thursday in November, through December 25th, that I must relinquish Roger the Bose to my mother. That time of year when I start to slightly lose my mind, and cling to my noise-cancelling headphones. That's right, folks, Christmas music season.
There are a few outlets my mother likes to use for Christmas music, one being a local radio station; every year, they ask listeners to vote whether they do or don't want the holiday music on the station 24/7. Earlier this week, we participated in the vote; the results were pretty one-sided at 98% for the holiday music, so I left it at that. My musical world gets put on personal-mode from Thanksgiving, so I actually didn't give it a second thought -- that is, until this afternoon, when I was told "they've started playing the Christmas music on the radio!"
Um, what?

I tuned in to hear the little Charlie Brown children singing 'Christmastime Is Here', and as the sounds processed, I shut them off with haste.
This cannot be happening.
Today is only the tenth day of November. I should have another two weeks before I have to hear 'The Little Drummer Boy' thirteen times in a day (true story). As I was dwelling on what I just heard, I noticed that the city's Christmas lights -- which they put up about a week ago -- were turned on. Yes, in the afternoon. Some of them were still on after the sun had gone down (they must be testing them before the big unveiling later in the month). Then, of course, I noticed that the college had put out a giant 'Peace On Earth' lighted display right at the door I go in and out of.
This is absolute lunacy. Let's get over Thanksgiving before we work ourselves up for the festive season, m'kay, everybody? I mean, I can't be the only person to recognize that starting Christmas ten days after Halloween is a little nuts; our dad wouldn't even have let us eat our Halloween candy by now...

...so why, in the name of all that's good and cheezy, should we be breaking into Christmas?
Society will make us switch into holiday mode after Thanksgiving, but until then, I shall fight this kicking and screaming. Let's start here.


Hang on, where have I seen this idea on a bigger scale?

Oh, that's where.

Reginald Kitty is not amused.

I don't care that I've used that video on the blog already, the line of similarity had to be drawn.

Basking In The Glory Of My Social Awkwardness

I don't know if anyone has ever noticed this or not, but I'm one of those fabulously awkward people.

Outsiders (and maybe even some insiders) observing my life would probably blame the fact that I was homeschooled from second grade through 74% of my college career. I, however, know that I was just destined to be "that weird girl" from the off. Looking back on my brief public school career, that was certainly true (they used to laugh at my saddle oxfords, and tell me that the songs I knew weren't "real" [probably because their parents didn't listen to the same things mine did]). By the end of those wretched years, I had become the leader of all of the other weird kids, who seemed to genuinely believe they would miss me during the next school year.
Fast forward a few Presidential administrations, and I am now a "college girl". Does it matter that I seem to know the schedule better than the teacher? That I know the material better than the others in the class? Personally, I would say yes; but then, there's that beautiful awkwardness, glimmering like sunset on the ocean.
I have no idea why, but that awkwardness seems to be about 50% bigger in that class than in any other social situation in my entire life, ever; in particular, with one of my classmates.
Would you like to hear about it? 'Cause it's really hilarious.

Reginald Kitty is not amused.

Earlier this semester, I had to make up an exam (you know, 'cause we've been gone quite a lot in the last couple of months). The Classmate also had to make it up, so we took the exam together. As he professed his nervousness, I tried to tell him to have confidence in himself. Unfortunately, I've been dealing with some vocal issues lately; what should have turned out as a normal phrase -- "you have to have confidence in yourself" -- turned into "you have to have con--"

That got some weird looks.

The next day, Classmate walked by my desk. After a brief conversation, he placed his hand palm up in front of me. What did I end up doing? Turning his hand over, and shaking it.
I still don't know whether he wanted a "low-five", or some other salutation I don't understand. His response to this? "OK, see ya."

I was fine with all of these exchanges. I knew my strangeness was very evident to everybody (considering I sit at the very front, in the middle, and have massive amounts of frizzy hair; really, my hair rivals Yoko's on the Grapefruit cover). It probably doesn't help that I don't own a solid-colored shirt, and wear vintage rhinestone cat glasses (generally two pair, sometimes at the same time), and I am more than fine with that. I sincerely do not care what they think of me, so I don't fret about stupid little things like my socially backward anachronism mind.
Until the social niceties today.
A group of students were gathered at the front of the room, sorting out some graded papers. Classmate continued to call my name, handing me each paper as he found it.
"Thank you, Alfred (names changed to protect the poor guy)."
This happened three times, and I thought nothing of it. Until he said "my name is Frank, not Alfred".
And that's when I felt my eyes grow to saucer-like proportions, my pulse quickened, and I just kind of froze on the spot.

I made my apologies, and admitted how terrible I am with names and faces. He smiled and said he understood.
But that wasn't enough for my little "Social Emergency Button". Oh no. It wasn't.

Standing right next to me was the real Alfred. Before I could stop myself, I heard my tiny little voice squeaking out "wait, you're Alfred, aren't you?"
"Yeah," he said, apparently enjoying my mix-up.
Well, he must have done, because he moved from his usual seat in the very back of the room to the empty desk behind me, and proceeded to converse with me at opportune times.
Because that didn't add to the awkwardness. Not at all.

I now have two wishes: that neither of these people ever, ever find this blog; and that the real Alfred could see past my hair.

My Zimmer Frame Is Double Parked

It's official: I am starting to feel old.
Don't get me wrong, I know I'm not old.
That doesn't mean I don't feel old, though.
For example, today, while watching a television show, a young girl -- aged about sixteen, judging by the fact that she was driving -- admitted that she didn't know what a Walkman was.
A Walkman.
Walkman.

No, Roy. She is NOT from the past.

How can I be four years older than her, and have worn out three of those in my lifetime? How is that possible? What is this madness? Does she know what a portable CD player is? A boombox? Why am I using so damn many questions?
Perhaps on any other day, this wouldn't have bothered me in quite the same way.
Not today.
Today is my twentieth birthday.

I swear, it never occurred to me that people would be younger than I am. In that same way that, until I was fourteen, I didn't quite understand that you actually had to do something with your life before you were married, I never thought active people could be younger than I am/was.
This is a flaw on my part.
Now, how do I handle this?
My first inclination was to put on my Writing Playlist (supplemented with late-90's, early-00's drivel, just to add fuel to the fire). With my beloved Mr. Higgenson in my ears, though, things seem a tad bit better.
This does not fix the problem.
What fixes the problem?
More Tom Higgenson.
But what after that?
And then, the lightbulb went off.
This is not your problem. It's their's.
All this means is that those "youngsters" still have all of that bollocks to sort through. "Remember YOU at sixteen?" I said to myself. Not to bring down the mood or anything, but I was a mental mess, in my own Sliding Scale of Suck way. Everything I had built my world on, and everything I believed simply crumbled like a crushed cookie beneath me. (Yes, my teenaged battle wasn't the journey to find myself, but to discover who others were. Sue me, I've never been conventional.) But isn't that the point? That you've got that finite set of years to finish being a total twit, so that you can start sorting out the important stuff? You know, like, the real-life, boring stuff?
Yes.
That's exactly what it is.
Sort all of that out then, kids. Go out there and be stupid, 'cause one of these days, it'll hit you that somewhere, your future is wandering around on this planet -- chances are, just as clumsily as you (for me, this was at sixteen, after a visit to Camp Pendleton). It'll occur to you that the odds of mortgage/car payment/parenthood/pension plans/white picket fence-dom within the next ten years are so high that you'll wonder why in hell you worried about that stupid two page essay you slapped together on global warming, or how driving scares the holy living hell out of you. 'Cause when that realization hits you, you WILL want to buckle yourself in, identify the emergency exits, and keep all limbs inside the vehicle. Whatever you are doing, you feel like it's contributing to your future.
So go ahead, kids. Figure that out.
I'll be here, trying to sort out which buckles click together, where the emergency exits are, and how to keep my limbs from getting whacked off (I feel I will need them in the future).
In the meantime, my zimmer frame is double parked... right next to my Walkman.
I'll be that girl also doesn't realize that this sound used to mean THE INTERNET.



Reginald Kitty is not amused.

Here, have a song. It seems appropriate.


By the way, go get this. It's free!

You're welcome.

Tom Higgenson Likes My Shirt

OK, so this just happened.

"That's a nice shirt you've got there," said one of my favorite songwriters of all time.
"Well, thank you very much," I replied, my fangirl senses praying that I didn't make a total fool of myself. "Y'all put on a great show tonight, thanks for coming out."
My mother asked me to turn around for a picture, I thanked Mr. Higgenson, and was shuffled down the line.

I don't know how I lucked out and got three autographs, two from the entire band. Photographs will follow when I've gotten everything framed.

In the meantime, here's the rest of the story.

At first, I thought the entire evening was going to be ruined. I have discovered another thing I do not like to share (in addition to my computer, and my chair): my camera. Though it isn't a professional camera, it was still confiscated. I'm still not sure why. This situation took thirty minutes to deal with, which nearly made us late for the opening acts (and is why the above photograph is so fuzzy: cell phones!).
Of course, the first opening act was one I could have lived without (I think I've mentioned that girl singers give me the creeps). I don't even remember her name, so we'll just skip that bit.
It was only when The Downtown Fiction (yes, I familiarized myself before the show) came on did I notice that the sound system wasn't working. Without being able to hear the lead singer, I just enjoyed the fact that musicians are the only people who can get away with wearing skin-tight, bright red trousers. I was also very impressed when their lead used his mic stand to play slide guitar (on an acrylic body, no less).
Afterward, I enjoyed watching John Gomez (from The Summer Set) try to fix the sound issues.
It wasn't until the Plain White T's took the stage that I heard just how very far off the sound was; Tom Higgenson does not sound like a chipmunk. They fought hard against the problem throughout the show, with vocals fading in and out. The issue came to a head during "Hey There, Delilah", when the acoustic guitar simply faded out; Mr. Higgenson handled it like a pro, improvising while he waited for a roadie to get him another instrument.
Just before the final number, he mentioned that anyone who bought Wonders Of The Younger at the merch table in the lobby would get a wristband for a fan signing. I didn't care that I'd already bought the album, I headed (back) to the merch table, mowing down all who stood in my way.

And, of course, trying to come up with something to say with the ten seconds I was guaranteed. Again, fangirl prayers. I had to make sure I didn't do this...

Overall, though, it was a great night. I don't often get to go to a good concert, and this one qualifies as just that. It certainly contributes to the concert bug; anybody still Christmas shopping for me can buy tickets for All Time Low's Dallas show via their website.

The Two Weeks Nightmare has finally been broken!
Hooray!

Leaf Peeping With Bonzo And The Antelope

We went for a little Sunday drive yesterday. Of course, if you've read some of my other posts about Sunday drives, you'll notice we have a tendency to go a little far from home.
Yesterday, we packed up and headed to Red River, New Mexico; our mission was to look at the fall color, and maybe see the remnants of a snowstorm they had a couple of days ago.
Imagine our surprise when we got there, and the ground was still covered in the white stuff!

Highlights included:

* When the miners blew a very loud horn. It was, indeed, very loud. Some naughty words were said, which made it all the more fun, if you ask me.

* Oktoberfest! We had funnel cake.

* Snow! We also got snowed on, which you may or may not be able to see in the photographs (see the slideshow).

* Getting stuck in a traffic jam with an antelope. He was running right down the middle of the lane, for no apparent reason. He took a left near Albuquerque.

It was a lovely day out!

And now, for another episode of "My Mother Is Adorable".
Have I ever mentioned I like Andy Burrows? Have I ever mentioned that I like free music downloads? Did you know you can get quite the bundle of free stuff from Andy Burrows? (If you like free downloads, too, you can get an I Am Arrows Demo EP, and his newest single.)
Being as I get the Andy Burrows/I Am Arrows Facebook updates (yes, I only use Facebook to keep up with bands, not family members. If you think that's odd, you ought to see how I use Twitter), I was excited to see that the announcement we were teased about on Friday was another new project, aptly titled Smith & Burrows; but the best part was the FREE DOWNLOAD! All you have to do is "like" their page, and boom, free stuff! So, that's exactly what I did. With little more than the intention of listening to this newest morsel later on, I went about my day as normal.
A little while later, my mother asked if I could look and see if Facebook showed that she liked Beatles Radio 1.
This is kind of how the conversation went:

Mother: See if it's there.

Me: I just hate that they show what you've liked.

Mother: I know. This morning, I saw that you liked Bonzo and Whatever. Some dudes were wearing angel wings. I just shook my head. It's kind of weird.

This is what she was talking about.

All I did was get something free, man! (That reminds me, I should listen to that tonight. I don't know if it's any good yet!)
And now I know why Moss was right.

Hooray For Paul And Nancy!

Yesterday, October 9th, two of the loveliest people on God's green earth were married.


If you have ever seen the two of them interact in person (I have, but I'm kind of creepy that way), you know that this one is the real deal.

As one blogger put it, "I approve of their happiness".

And I've already saved more pictures from this wedding to my computer than will probably ever be taken at my own (but I'm kind of creepy that way).


Big congratulations to Paul and Nancy! We love you both!

Birthday Boys!

October 9th is a holiday in our house. No, not because of Leif Erikson Day.
It's Johnny's birthday!




Let's also remember that it's Sean's birthday, too; that fact so often goes unmentioned.


Read the article, it's fascinating.

Over the last couple of years, we've celebrated different aspects of John's life and career -- and I'm particularly proud of last year's post -- to the point where I'm not sure what to say. There's only so much the Internet can do when trying to honor someone like John. If you're looking for something to do today, have a look at some of the happenings.

* Yoko will be lighting the Imagine Peace Tower in Iceland at three o'clock Central Time. She is encouraging that wishes be sent through the appropriate social networking channels, et al, if anyone cares to participate. Be sure to check out the live feed, too; purty colors in the sky, and the Tower lit up makes for a pretty sight.

* Yoko has also arranged for a special art exhibition in New York City this weekend. I've been to a couple of exhibitions of the lithograph collection, and it was a glorious experience each time. Even if you can't go to a showing in person, check out some of John's work. My favorite is "Jock and Yono".


* Breakfast With The Beatles will be in front of Capitol Records, where John's star on the Walk of Fame is located, for a cake cutting and fan pot-luck. Not sure how that's gunna work out, but be sure to tune in for that. In general, it'll just be a big ol' party out on Hollywood and Vine.

So what if this party was forty years ago, it's still a party!

* Remember those awesometastic-magic-gear-cool-awesomesome remasters that came out last year? Remember the Box of Vision? If you, like me, decided that it was too expensive then, it's currently on Birthday Sale. If you've ever looked at a Box of Vision, you'll want one; not only does it have every album's original artwork/booklets/what-have-you, but they've included some new liner notes and essays in a fab LP sized book. I'm getting one as a birthday present to myself (October babies!). Opinion within the Beatle community seems to be that such a sale shouldn't take place ("imagine no possessions!" has been ringing on every forum), but I think it's great. Though commercial in its purpose, the end product results in you getting hold of more information about someone you admire. Nothing's wrong with that, folks.

* If you'd like, you can celebrate along with me: I'm planning to kick off the day with "It's Johnny's Birthday" from All Things Must Pass, then spend the afternoon enjoying John's beautiful musical legacy, and, before the day is over, raise a teacup to him.

Whatever you decide to do, THINK PEACE, ACT PEACE, SPREAD PEACE, IMAGINE PEACE.

To my boy, my fella, my guy: happy birthday, love. You're just seventy-one years into forever, darlin'. Thank you for everything; global, personal, now and always, even if I don't always listen (I'm only a stupid human, you know).
Big love to you and little Sean (I know he's thirty-six years old today, but he'll always be little Sean as far as I'm concerned)!

It's Time To Play "Who's That Band"!

My Mama is a funny lady. Have I ever mentioned that before? Maybe it's because we share the same sick sense of humor, but we do have a way of making each other laugh heartily at the dumbest of things. Funny faces, looks, or even just pointing at objects will get us giggling, not to mention the stupid things we say (whether meaning to or not).
With that being said, here is a paraphrased telephone conversation I had with my mother this afternoon.

Mother: What's that Plain White T's song about Baltimore?

Me: I don't know what you're talking about. (Internal monologue: is she confusing them with All Time Low again?)

Mother: Or maybe it was New York?

Me: Still don't have a clue. (Internal monologue: she doesn't mean "Delilah", 'cause she knows that one. What is she on about?)

Mother: You know, the one where the lady's husband is in prison.

Me: Do you mean "Cape Town"?

Mother: Yeah! That's the one!

Me: That's not the Plain White T's.

Mother: Which ones are they, then?

Me: That's The Young Veins. Not the same guys.

Mother: Oh, well, I'll have to get them from you, then. I was gunna play that for your dad.

Me: You should have that album on your iPod.

Mother: Do I?

We'll skip past the bit where I had to explain how to find the album on her iPod.

Mother: I didn't know I had that. I like them, though.

Me: Yeah, I like them, too, but they aren't a band anymore.

Mother: Oh, that's too bad. Anyway, their lead singer isn't as cute as the Plain White T's. Well, I've gotta go, I'll talk to you later!

End Scene.

Anyone who remembers Russell Brand's show on BBC Radio 2 (before Sachsgate!) may be reminded of his "Nanecdotes" feature.

I played this for my mother. She didn't get it.

Regardless, her little comment just made my day.

I think I had a dream like this once; Jimmy Fallon was my fairy godmother, but in that Tony Harrison kind of way.

Looking at this scenario in a lucid mental state, I'd love to remember more about this dream.

Over the last couple of months, she's been asking if anybody on the radio that isn't a Beatle is the Plain White T's. My question is, why does she keep thinking that everyone that isn't the Plain White T's is the Plain White T's? This is becoming a common occurrence at our house. The answer to my question hit me like a bolt of lightning after I recovered from the telephone conversation.
Something I hadn't actually talked about on here is that, after nearly four years, the Two Weeks Nightmare has finally been broken (remember, huh? We talked about that). That being said, she now asks if that's them because she's been underexposed (I have done her wrong!), and she's going to have to sit through an hour and a half set from 'em.
I wasn't too worried about it, really; that is, at first. I figured we would go, have a couple of chuckles, and a fun evening out (while I secretly fangirled, naturally).
Then, the other night, I showed her one of the opening acts.

And she asked the damning question: "Are you sure you wouldn't rather go by yourself, rather than with an old lady?"
Oh, bollocks.
"Well," I said, "I kinda-sorta told you that you wouldn't like it. You know, before you went off and did that crazy buying-tickets-thing."
"Oh, I like it," she corrected too quickly to sound entirely sincere, "it's just..."
I'm not sure whether I mentally finished the sentence for her or not, but I remember it ending with "awfully young".
I'm starting to feel that generation gap.
So, I've been worrying about this for three days. She's going to go, and not understand the words. Maybe the crowd will be too rowdy; after all, we're used to going to concerts like Paul, or Elton John -- quite a difference in genres. What will she think when she hears some of the things that are bound to be heard?
My worry, naturally, isn't about her going (she's the best to go to shows with, and we always have a good time); I worry that she won't enjoy herself. In short, I'm taking her out of a comfort zone. And I'm feeling terribly guilty about it. Guilt is something new for me, since I'm one of those "no regrets, screw 'em all" folks.
Well, it's not like I didn't warn her before she even stepped foot in the door.
I just keep thanking my lucky stars she isn't going to an All Time Low concert.

If I ever get the chance to see 'em, I'd better go it alone.

Here, have a song about Baltimore... or New York... or something. How did she not remember the name of this song? It's got a 40 second refrain at the end that continually repeats "Cape Town", not to mention the chorus.

And this was the moment I fell in musical love with Ryan Ross and Jon Walker.

Post Script -

I thought I'd stick this at the end of the post as a public service announcement.
What I thought was pop-culture common knowledge, apparently, is not (I've just spent too many hours/years of my life on YouTube watching interviews, I guess).
For those few of you on the face of this planet who do not know the story of "Hey There Delilah", please fast forward this interview to the 2:29 timestamp.

Ten Months Later, We're Talking Acoustic

There are times when I would love to be able to just sit down and talk to some people. Today, I would want to sit down and talk to the lads of One Night Only; let me tell you, I've got a couple of things to give them a talkin'-to about. I was thinking about this and it immediately registered as blog material. So, here we are.
At first, my annoyance was at the fact that their latest EP is only available on iTunes UK -- and that this EP included the video for Chemistry, which has been buried in the sands of music video time since last year.

We've waited a year to see this, and NOW you tell me there's a guitar swing (2:40 timestamp)? Somehow, that erases those 365 days. By the way, when are the fabulous variations on the French comb-forward coming back? Can they? Please?

The video aside, I finally got a minute to go on YouTube and listen to the acoustic versions of some of the songs on the EP itself. Just as predicted in a post on this very blog (dated November 16, 2010) Chemistry was re-recorded.
If I may quote myself for reference:

There is also an acoustic EP of some of this newer material in the pipeline, and that will certainly help boost sales. Folks do love their acoustic (and, let's be honest, I'm one of them... it isn't my fault, my sister played a lot of Simon and Garfunkel when I was small). I know I love to see the difference in the bare, stripped down versions (since, in essence, it's how most songs start out), compared to the electrified finished products. Sometimes, the acoustic is just incredible, and you wonder why it was pumped up at all (George Harrison, I'm lookin' at you), but most of the time, you'll go back to the final product.
Would you like an illustrated example?
Well, pretend.

We're going to skip past the discussion of the album version, simply because I can't find a video on YouTube. If you want to read it, click that link up thar!

...in comparison with this stripped down, bare bones, acoustic guitar and vocals only version...


Try not to fall in love with it too much, though; I have a feeling that, if this were to appear on their EP (and, let's be honest, it probably will), it would end up more like this...

Really, can't the French comb-forwards come back? Surely I'm not the only one that misses them. I blame my anachronism mind.

Well, of course, Chemistry was on the record, along with a few other songs from the eponymous album released last year. My previous prediction, however, was way, way off.

Buh-wutza? Are you sure this is the same band?
Did I not prove in a post from ten months ago that these lads can do acoustic? Not only can they carry it off, but they do it bloody well; furthermore, they've always had the potential to do it splendidly...

This was the B-side to their very first single, "You And Me", back in 2007.

I listened to every track on the EP, and let me tell you, some of them sounded remarkably like elevator music.


Don't get me wrong, I have a tendency to dislike a "new sound" from a band I like: Wonders of the Younger (I'm sorry, my dearest Mr. Higgenson), Dirty Work (oh, for shame, Mr. Gaskarth!), but there is a difference in these examples compared with One Night Only's EP: after getting over the initial shock of "EVERYTHING-IS-DIFFERENT-WHY-DON'T-THEY-LIKE-ME-ANYMORE-WHAT-WILL-I-DO-NOW?!" the sound is basically the same, and you end up assaulting the replay button. Sure, there are differences due to growth as an artist, but the material is pretty much what you should expect from that band/songwriter. This EP? I'm not so sure. There are two lovely versions of the same song -- acoustic, yet different -- prior to this release. Was there some kind of agreement with Burberry that they wouldn't infringe on an "exclusive"? (Would that even be possible, since publishing rights trump recordings themselves?) What was so difficult about not over-embellishing? Have these guys never listened to ANY George Harrison demo? The alternate version of "Isn't It A Pity"?
My first inclination is to not blame my ears, but ask a couple of questions: 1) who in hell produced this? 2) who mixed this? 3) what were they thinking? 4) as we talked about in that post I've referenced, is this just another case of influence, rather than natural progression as artists?
Let's face it, we already know that there is some poor management going on. With little activity from the social networking resources (not to mention that their YouTube channel is now one of those weird "by request" things now, which eliminates LOADS of potential fans, not to mention cutting off access for several folks in an already existent fanbase), minimal information on touring, lack of updates about the "breaking of America", and the fact that two of their three releases (not including singles) are not available in the US, I get the feeling that something is off kilter. Earlier this year, there was supposed to be an exclusive US release -- they re-recorded "Just For Tonight" especially for it. Sure, there was the Coke ad, which is a major plus, and some promotion/touring for that, but what else are we privy to? Whatever we can make sense of from George Craig's Twitter? Good luck with that.
With all of this being said, what would I actually say if I had these guys in front of me for a chat?
Why did you ditch the French comb-forwards?

It's Official: I Hate Tropical Places, Or, Fisher Man Caret

It's about that time of year when this little slice of webbynet becomes a really busy travel blog. It's not like there's nothing else going on this time every year, travel just takes up the biggest chunk of time. Besides, who doesn't like to get out every now and again, right? (I don't really do it often, so humor me, OK?)
This week, it was off to the brown shores of Corpus Christi. Yippie-skip; or, as I like to say, my-whole-life (I don't know what it means, but it just feels right).
Maybe you remember, maybe you don't, but I truly dislike tropical places. Call it a flaw in my DNA if you wish, but I'm just too pale and easily bothered by heat and sand to enjoy going to a sunny, hot/humid, and, yes, sandy place. Regardless of the guaranteed unpleasantness, we packed up and shipped out anyway.
Some highlights and memorable snippets from the trip, I hear you asking for?
Really?
Well, that's how I imagine this scenario theoretically playing out, at any rate.
Just nod and smile.

Reginald Kitty is not amused.

Highlights first? I thought you'd never ask.

* Two beautiful early morning walks on the Riverwalk in San Antonio. Everything was practically deserted, and serenely quiet for a big city. You'll see a lot of those pictures in the slideshow later. Yes, there's a slideshow.

* We made it down to Rockport to see the Fulton Mansion, which was an interesting experience (again, wait 'til you hit the slideshow). We were on the tour with a bunch of morons who couldn't get the grasp of "the only original furniture in the home are these two mirrors, and a desk", and, therefore, kept asking if every-little-thing was original. Um, no. Read the brochure, please and thank you.

* Also in Rockport (or thereabouts, I guess), we made a stop by one of the oldest trees in the nation, aptly called "The Big Tree" (I think it's the briny air). It was so far out of the way, you almost expected the banjos to start playing.

We were afraid we'd never been seen again; of course, that fear was probably greatly exaggerated by the fact that I was whistling this the entire time.
While there, I solidified the fact that I am the Squirrel Whisperer. Don't worry, you'll see pictures.

* Half-Price Books. How do they always manage to get my money? How? I don't understand it. They didn't even have the books I'm looking for, yet I spent money. It's some kind of law that if I spot cheap books, I will bring them home.

If my house doesn't end up looking like that of C.S. Lewis, I'll be incredibly surprised.

* This was hanging up in our hotel room. Can anybody tell me what a Fisher Man Caret is?

Fisher man? OK. Caret? Yeah-huh. But why?

* The biggest story of the entire trip! I saved it until the end!
The first full day into our tropical adventure, I noticed a tiny-widdle ant crawl out of our air conditioner vent. I thought nothing of it, gave into my pathetic bleeding heart, and ignored it. The next day, I saw a few ants crawl out of the vents, and move along the dashboard. Speaking up, we folk from the high and dry Panhandle thought nothing of a few little ants. When we got in the car the day after, around half-way to Rockport, it was teeming with those damn tiny-widdle ants, mixed with a combination of whispy, willowy spiders. We had to pull of in the small town of Portland (oh, why couldn't it have been Oregon?) to fumigate our vehicle. True story. We were fighting those ants all the way home. Fortunately, they are no longer living, but we keep getting plastered with carcasses when we turn on our air conditioner. And that's why I officially hate tropical places.

All in all, this trip was pretty fun -- even in spite of those little ants.

Those bitches will DOMINATE you.
Was it more fun than the jury duty I had to miss to go on it? I'm still not sure about that (jury duty, yes; tropical places, no).

Picture time?
OH BOY!

Oh, by the way, I've got a question for you, dear reader.
You see, I -- being so brilliant -- just discovered the "Stats" tab on Blogger. I decided to give mine a look, since I love to do that kind of thing (hate math, love statistics; something just isn't right about that). Imagine my surprise when I saw this amazing little graph.

The question, dear reader, is why in hell did my views go up exponentially during the quietest month this URL has experienced in its history? Is this just irony, or are you folks trying to tell me something?
Also, this is the moment I just realized that all of this twaddle I rattle off truly does get read somewhere, by someone. Just like me, you're sitting there with the blaring artificial light of a fancy plasma screen smacking you in the face. Maybe you're scrolling with interest, or even doing some kind of blog research of your own. I'll be buggered if I know. I always just figured that a blog like mine would get lost in the shuffle, which afforded me some slight bit of comfort in the false security that strange eyes would not peruse these pages.

Yes, Simon. I was wrong.

Any road, to try and make a long point short, if you're reading this right now (which, obviously, you are), big thanks for popping in!
Have a Paul to welcome you.

Shep And Victor Victoria Are Making Hen Sweaters

So, I've been having a brilliant month.
I wrote this post out on September 15th, and, apparently, forgot to post it. If I hadn't been so busy getting ready to head out of town for a week (more on this later), clicking that bright orange "PUBLISH POST" button wouldn't have slipped my mind.
That being said, enjoy a late post on the house (TINSTAAFL, and all those good things).


My life has decided to blow up in my face the past two weeks. There is simply no other way to put into words what idiocy I have dealt with. Really. I wish I was kidding.

But it's quite difficult to linger on what the morons of the world are doing; the weather has been cold and wet (my favorite!), there are patches of yellow in some of the trees, I'm nursing a delicious cup of decaf tea, and I've got the Ross/Walker team on the radio. With these things filling my senses, we're putting all of the week's stupidity aside for another edition of Blog Casserole! That's right, folks, just when you think you're in the clear, it's back for another go around.
Are you ready?

Reginald Kitty is not amused.

We went on a little day trip during the weekend. Nowhere special, really.

Of course, when we got to Colorado, we had to make the final pilgrimage to Borders. Really, we're done now; this isn't like the last time
I thought we'd never go to Borders again.
Personally, this trip to Borders was much more disheartening than the previous one. I've got some lovely memories associated with Borders
(you know, back when I had a life), and I couldn't help but get a little nostalgic as we walked out with our purchases (of course I bought stuff!).
What was once a two-story bookshop was now just an area about the size of the old coffee shop, and a few tables stacked with the mismatched
leftovers of a brighter yesterday.
Sad, indeed. The next day, I saw this picture on the Interwebs, and knew the feeling.

This depresses me.

On the way, I got a chance to listen to some of the Paul remasters (yeah, we haven't really talked about that, have we?).
Honestly, it's like taking Krispy Kreme doughnuts, rain, and tea on a vacation to the Island of Awesome, and deciding you should all live there
forever and ever.
Of course, comparing these remasters to the mono and stereo versions of the Beatles remasters is an entirely different ballpark; there actually is no
comparison as to which is better with the McCartney releases.
On an unrelated note, the same goes for John's solo remasters, but this is a different topic for a different day.
These remasters are fabulous.
And, of course, I LOVE the bonus tracks. So far, my favorite has to be the One Hand Clapping version of Maybe I'm Amazed; it's more like what
you hear when he plays it live, so maybe I'm just a tad bit biased.

Pull out the boarding passes, we're headed to the Island of Awesome!

And while we're on the music subject, I've been turning this thought around in my head over the past few days.
I heard this song about a week ago (mind your own business why)...

OK, I can dig it. I get the premise, the lyrics are clear -- I'm with ya.
Then, of course, I got to thinking. You know, as you do when you can't sleep at four o'clock in the morning (doesn't everybody do this?).
There was just something in the song that didn't make a lot of sense to me: I like you best in my cheap suits.
I turned the phrase over in my head until I realized what was wrong with it.
Girls generally do not fit in men's suits; it would just sort of... hang there, looking like a living clothes hanger. Or like kids playing dress up.

Maybe I'm missing something, but I just can't get past the fact that he's dating Victor Victoria.



There is something about my family that wants to find look-alikes; "this looks like that one guy...", "that guy looks like...", or
"you know who he reminds me of?!" are all familiar phrases in our house. I really don't know why, but it's just that way.
Remember who Reginald Kitty was supposed to look like? And then, I ended up using him again?
The David Cassidy Cat? The Tragic Royalty/Niles the Butler playing cards?
Yeah, that's just a taste of what it's like here at Fusspot Farm.
The other day, my mother comes up to me, giggling and grinning widely.
I asked her what was so funny, so she handed me this little dog figurine...

and asked me who it looked like.
I looked it over for a second, and replied, "Sheperd Smith?"


Somewhere, Carl Cameron is laughing.

And that's why he spent eight years in Crawford.

We'll just add Little Shep to the "File of Weirdness", right next to the guy that thanked me in French the other day, and the fact that people will
talk to you if you dress like a beatnik.

That's right, kids! Dress like an early 60's art student, and you suddenly become popular. It's some kind of law I don't understand.

Well, I don't know about you, dear reader, but this has just been as fun as a hen in a sweater.
No, really.