Blog Casserole: Nobody Likes Stinky Ham

Opening a post with Binky The Clown can only mean one thing: it's Blog Casserole time! That's right, folks; anything that doesn't match up with something else just gets thrown into a slum-gull'yun of randomness -- rather like a casserole (hence the term Blog Casserole). A recent Google search for the term "blog casserole" mentioned the fact that readers don't actually like to read random jibberish, but that's the only mention of "blog casserole" I could find. Either that blogger ran across this here little blog (hiya, folks!), or someone else thinks it's a better idea to call it blog casserole than, say, blog cottage pie.
Besides, y'all like blog casserole, right?

Reginald Kitty is not amused.

So, how are we all liking Paul's new album?
Oh, come on; a standards compilation from the greatest living songwriter on this entire planet doesn't excite you? You aren't ready to see a musical genius give us a cover of Paper Moon before he releases another all-original studio album (which, by the way, he has not done in five years)? Will a full preview of my favorite song from the album change your mind?

Only Paul could get away with saying that The Beatles should have done an album like this, but were too busy writing Sgt. Pepper, or The White Album to do so. I laughed.

Ringo didn't laugh 'cause his new album is getting lousy reviews.

Yes, yes, it sounds lovely, very well done, all that and a bag of chips; but surely he could have put this material into the McCartney Vault for a much later release (don't look at me that way, deary, we all know he's got enough material socked away for Beatrice to release well into her twilight years). Or, more to the point, why on earth does it sound so ruddy serious? When Paul has attempted to do this sort of thing in the past, it still has that signature Paul stamp on it. For example, the fabulous "Did We Meet Somewhere Before?" bootleg...

Why is this copy better than mine?

...or with the fuller version of "Suicide" (not the outtake from the McCartney remaster, even though that one is hilarious)...

They both have those standards-type elements, but with that signature McCartney flare. Another good example is "Baby's Request" from Back to the Egg...

That version was wonderful! It had Linda and Denny in it. It screams "PAUL!" It's just damn cute. Why did he cover it? Why? Was he suddenly transported back to the 80's and decided covering himself was a good idea (again)?

Paul, my darling, my sweet little Paulie-pants: why?

Personally, I still think there should have been an official version of "Baby Face", but I guess we'll just take what we can get.

A more adorable human you will never find.

And now, it's time for "Hey! He looks just like!..."
Have I ever mentioned that I loved "Upstairs, Downstairs"? The original, not the new version. Yes, alright, I watched the entire first season of the new version, and keep looking for a ruddy air date for the second season (as in, it's-been-over-a-year-why-are-you-making-us-wait-this-long-we've-already-had-eight-episodes-of-Downton-Abbey-since-we-last-saw-Upstairs-Downstairs), but that isn't the point. I'm talking about the original series, with the Bellamy family upstairs, and Mr. Hudson running everything downstairs. Sure, the series had its weird moments (like that whole Mrs. Bridges stealing a baby thing, which I never quite understood), but was so full of opportunities to create a spin off, I'm surprised it took them four years to do it after Up-Down went off the air. We've finally gotten round to watching Thomas and Sarah, though, and let me tell you, it's been a real treat. Not because the story is as intriguing as Up-Down, but because John Alderton's Thomas character looks remarkably like Paul, circa the Strawberry Fields Forever video shoot.
Believe it.

Paul...


John Alderton as Thomas Watkins...


Is this as entertaining as the point in the day where Miles Kane...


...also looks like a young Paul?

Yes.
Alas, there is only one Paul.



Who wants to hear a real life anecdote?
Come on now, show of hands.
I don't generally make a habit of talking about college, or my major; the minute people find out I'm training to be an American Sign Language interpreter, they ask me to demonstrate; if pushed into this dreadful situation, I generally sign something rudely inappropriate that I think they should do, then translate it to something innocent in spoken English. Unfortunately for me, all of my ASL classes are traditional ones. I haven't been in a traditional class since the Clinton administration, so I don't especially like it; I work best alone, thank you. That being said, with the 74% of my degree I have earned at a distance, plus my homeschooling past, I obviously developed interests other people of my generation may not have. The best example I can think of is my fascination with the British Isles; well, Tuesday night, that quirk of my personality shone like the crown jewels (see what I did there?).
It all started when a discussion of the differences in ASL and British Sign Language turned into a YouTube excursion, in which this video was shown.


The teacher proceeds to tell the class that the British have a "weird" sense of humor, "like that one show", as she obviously tried to grasp the name of a Britcom she knows. A voice in the back of the room said "the one where they work in a shop, and they're all old people?"
My eyes may have rolled, simply because I know the pattern. Generally speaking, there is only one British show Americans are somewhat familiar with.
"Not 'Are You Being Served?'," I thought to myself...

"...she's looking for 'Monty Python'"...

Because the two shows are so easily confused, right?

With the appropriate answer coming from elsewhere in the room, the discussion continued. My internal monologue was just one giant laugh, really; a show where they work in a shop, and they're all old? I would have loved to have told that person that a good portion of the cast were in their twenties when the show started in 1972.
"What do they know of it?" I thought to myself, "They just see the British as strange people with bad teeth." For a moment, I sat and reveled in the secret of knowing what Britain truly has to offer, and I probably outwardly grinned a little bit. After all, "weird" though their sense of humor may be, I simply cannot understand American humor (I watched Saturday Night Live when Dan Radcliffe hosted, and I didn't laugh once. Americans just aren't funny to me [I've also gotten to the point where I have trouble understanding American accents; I refer to my mother on several occasions. I can translate Scouse for her, but she translates certain American accents for me now. Make of that what you will]).
As I sat there, thrilled with having a grasp on a concept those narrow minded classmates that surrounded me will probably never understand, I heard the teacher say the words that just sent my internal giggle scale over the edge: "There are a lot of differences between American English, and British English, too. Like... I can't remember what they call sweaters..." The pauses while I waited for someone -- anyone -- to answer her were long, and difficult. I finally couldn't take any more, and told her they were jumpers. I felt like going over a brief introduction to British slang, right there from the front row. Or talking about how The Mighty Boosh is far better than Monty Python ever could have been (there, I said it)...

...or that Rowan Atkinson has done more than Mr. Bean...

I actually expected people to start saying "they talk funny" as the discussion progressed; if that had been the case, I would probably have felt the need to establish myself as the resident Anglophile, and tell them where they are so very wrong.

This scene from High Fidelity (another British creation, from the brilliant mind of Nick Hornby) kept flashing through my head; how many different ways could I tell these folks they had wandered right into an area I could really tell them about?

The moral of the story is that, if you are talking about Britain, I will want to bombard you with facts; also, don't ask me to sign for you.

And I really don't, either.


I trust that everyone has been watching The Bachelor this season, yes?
If not, this is what you've missed.


And, if I may channel my inner Frank Luntz, how many of you have been watching The Bachelor with Chris Harrison?

And to think that ten years ago, he was just "that guy on Designer's Challenge" (this biography from HGTV probably hasn't been updated in ten years, either).
Speaking of folks in the not-so-distant past, and the fact that I have brought up some of my favorite films in this post, let's talk about "The Sixth Sense" for a minute.
When I first saw this film (I believe it was in 2000, since my family has never been big on actually going out to the pictures), I just loved Cole, played by Haley Joel Osment. (Yes, I was eight, but you have to work with me, here.) He was such a fantastic character (and, for me, one I related easily to [I was the weird kid then, too, remember?]), and the film itself was simply genius. The birthday party scene has stuck with me from the very first time I saw it, if that tells you the impression this film had on little me. Incidentally, I was also locked in a closet against my will at a birthday party once, but that's a story for another time. Several viewings helped to solidify this film as a major influence in my "growing up years" (here's one for the kids: it was a special VHS with twenty minutes of "bonus footage", because we didn't have DVDs back then). Here we are, thirteen years later, and it occurred to me that I never wondered what became of the actor that portrayed one of my favorite film characters. Actually, it never dawned on me to even consider the notion, until my mother said to me last Friday night "that kid from The Sixth Sense sure has changed".
With my curiosity piqued, she showed me this photograph.

I don't care if it's for a role (by the way, who knew he was still acting?), I was shocked.
Let's just say, it was almost as bad as the time she showed me a recent picture of Danny Tamberelli. I'm told the look on my face suggested I could have been knocked over with a feather, or some such affair. One good thing has come of this experience: I realized that it's been a while since I've seen The Sixth Sense.

Now, where's my VHS?

With that, I leave you with a song that remains unreleased. I don't know why, it just is.

My copy is better than this. YAY!

Mitt Romney: A Rant

I contemplated not writing this, because I was afraid it would fall under the "political" mental tag. I know I don't particularly like to read other people's views on politics (unless they're pollsters, 'cause they're great fun), and I also don't fancy shoving my ideology down anybody's throat; it has just occurred to me that, in fact, what follows has nothing to do with politics, so this is somewhat neutral ground.


Just a few minutes ago, Mitt Romney gave a speech in Denver; in it, he spewed his repetitive one-line soundbites, set the groundwork to start pummeling Rick Santorum in the same fashion as he slaughtered Newt Gingrich, and kept giving that stupid "they really like me" look to the cameras between glancing at his teleprompters.
Something he said in that speech sent me on at least a two minute rant involving some spilt tea, and figurative boiling blood. I can't quote him verbatim, but it was something along the lines of "the soul of America can be corrupted", in reference to the current state of our government.

Well, I have news for Romney: the soul of the United States is not corrupt, because the government has nothing to do with America's soul. The government is America's heart; when everything functions, America ticks along contentedly. America's soul is something entirely different, and only sounds proper flowing from the pens of poets, and the acts of true patriots.
America's soul, Governor Romney, is the tenacity of the American spirit. Our forefathers who fought an oppressive government for their God given rights; the ideas immortalized by those thirty-nine men who placed their signatures on our Constitution; the citizens who gave their lives in the hopes of preserving liberty, and opportunity -- from the Revolution, all the way up to those brave folks in our military today. That feeling that some of us get when we think about our flag flying over Fort McHenry in the dawn's early light, and knowing that those same stars and stripes still symbolize independence the whole globe over. That we, as a society, cannot be tied down because someone else says so; and, perhaps the most important, that we have hope for our futures, and those of our children -- and I'm not talking about election propaganda, I mean real hope.
That, Governor Romney, is the American soul.
What we have to remember is that we are the keepers of this legacy. The moment we forget, we're back at square one. If we're back at square one, we've lost everything we've ever fought for, and the government is back in control. We must keep in mind that Americans -- not the American government -- are the soul of America. And, by the grace of God, government will never, ever corrupt that soul.

This Isn't Even My Local Library Rant

I try not to talk about the area I come from when I blog. After all, I am a firm believer in my friend Dicky Nixon's theory that you aren't being paranoid if people really are out to get you.

Maybe it's the creative internal atmosphere, the itch to run my fingers along the keyboard, the fact that I can't tell my carpal tunnel is acting up if I keep my hands busy, or that I mentally flossed with a good Nick Hornby marathon, but these things just needed to be said, by jove.
Tonight, I was overcome with a sense of current events boredom. I have been obsessively following the election news, and figured that there were other things going on that I should know about. I headed to MSNBC to check what the Dow closed at, and if there was anything of interest in the Tech section. Underwhelmed that the selection had not been updated much since midday, I scrolled past the Lifestyle section, where I have placed local news (it's at the bottom of the page, since I could really give two hoots what's going on in this Pit Of Despair portion of the country). Of the five headlines I was given, one actually looked interesting: 'Amarillo in perfect spot to host bigger entertainers'.
"Fat chance," I said as I clicked the link.
The article, for those who wish to skip the hyperlink, laments the fact that the whole of the Texas Panhandle cannot draw big names anywhere near the main city. Now, there are occasional acts worth driving down to Lubbock (yes, home of my first musical love, the immortal Buddy Holly) to see. The first concert I ever went to was in Lubbock, actually; I played hooky in second grade to see Elton John do a "piano only" show (I caught the concert bug early, I'm afraid -- I believe I was eight years old). Have I gone to Lubbock since then for an event? Only if funerals count. Remember how we talked about the Magical Texas Circle of Dallas (367 miles from Amarillo)/Houston (600 miles)/Austin (495 miles)/San Antonio (511 miles), and how artists visit those four cities, secure in the fact that they've drawn the biggest Texas crowd they're gonna get?
Let me clue ya, it's because that's the biggest Texas crowd they're gonna get.
This quote in the article stood out to me: "where’s the promoter who’s going to start taking a chance on Amarillo again? The Civic Center facilities and the Globe-News Center for the Performing Arts are waiting for the call, and given we’re smack dab on Interstate 40, we should be an easy draw for acts who are traveling between, say, Albuquerque, N.M., and Oklahoma City."
Apparently, our friendly local newsy-man has no idea how the entertainment industry works. I am by no means an authority, but I've read enough accounts of un/successful bands, and their eventual dissolution, to glean a tiny bit of a guess about the ins and outs.
Take a look at any successful band (let's say, a pop or rock band, for lack of a better example). Start at the beginning of their career, and what were they doing? Generally, they're driving themselves around in a rented van, going from dive gig to dive gig, lugging their own equipment, flogging records to their Faithful Few, and hoping to catch somebody's eye. The truly talented (or truly lucky, depending on who you're talking about) eventually tag along with a bigger act as a minimal supporting group (or one of many groups), who continue the above pattern. If they're lucky, they can get on a national tour (in this day and age, the fairytale "first major gig" might be Warped Tour, though that's probably reserved for Fantasy Career Hour, and depends on the type of material you play [see how many factors go into this?]), where they would generally end up on the smallest stages at undesirable times of the day and evening. It's a break, regardless, and they're all damn happy to have it. On such national affairs, you can draw bigger crowds, perhaps gain some press attention, and, if you've hit the jackpot, maybe even a record deal with an obscure label still willing to stick their necks out and do what record labels were intended to do in the first place. After a while, with more press, more fans, and more records to flog, you get to headline, and, in some cases, finally achieve contender status. Think of the major bands you know, and see if their career fits that description. One of the most successful bands to have ever existed, my fabulous Beatles, follow a similar pattern (with the help of the Mighty Brian Epstein). Speaking in general terms, since there is only one Paul McCartney, when you hit the point of headliner status, it is not in your best interest to go back to playing smaller venues, a category into which the Globe-News, and Civic Centers fall. Why would you work from the ground up to play to a more limited audience, especially if you are proven to sell more tickets? Where is the revenue in that? Not only is there less revenue for the band, but less for the roadies (hey, they're nice folks, but they need a paycheck), the promoters, and the label (and we talked about how labels are suffering many moons ago).
Why can't our tiny little town in the middle of Cow Country draw big names? Simple; the big names cannot draw big crowds.
Sure, in the 70's, big names visited these here parts. My mother saw Elvis Presley in that very Civic Center (perhaps another deterrent?) long before his career plateaued. She saw Barry Manillow at the height of his "Mandy" days, Sonny and Cher, and The Carpenters (twice), not to mention Brenda Lee, Glen Campbell, and a few other familiar faces. Let's face it, though, this area is not what it was in the 70's, either. Back then, the population was active, not apathetic. If something or someone does decide to come here, they get little to no support, no matter how fantastic the prospect of the shiny new toy is. The culture has simultaneously remained stagnant, and drastically changed in that time. The stagnant portion doesn't actually count, since I doubt that dime store cowboys, or their genuine counterparts, would care if Tom Petty was in town. The drastically changed portion, however, have become lethally boring (for extreme lack of a proper adjective), and, having abandoned the worth of performance art, the youth who have a sincere interest in it cannot let it flourish without odd looks, or that "who're you taw'kin' a-bowt?" question in our hideously hicky accent (the one I had tried so hard to stamp out of my speech patterns, yet didn't realize until I was fifteen and in a different country that I had not reached that particular goal). For heaven's sake, look at the faces of our prematurely haggard youth around here. There is no mental chewing gum; just a giant hole that hard work and bitterness cannot fill -- that isn't even enough for a mental Jell-O shot. Odds are great that they'll live out their lives in this area, and come to regret it just as much as their grandparents did at the end of their lives. That's enough to suck the youth right out of us, or to make us run for the hills.

In short, this area is not big enough -- either in population, support from the limited population (and lack of enthusiasm from the few that do turn out; and, yes, crowds do determine the entire performance -- audience is vital for most performers), or in venue space -- to support the kind of acts described in this article.
Those of us who still have a shred of common sense left in us that neither the sweltering sun, nor the crust of loose dirt has yet worn away, are OK with having to travel to acquire our brand of culture. Why have we been to Las Vegas so many times? Canada? The Magical Texas Circle? Denver? Phoenix? Oklahoma City? Not always in the pursuit of local scenery, I can tell you that much. And, more to the point, why are we so willing to do so? Continually, at that. That's another simple one; unless you're into country music around here, you have nothing else, especially in regard to local talent (even our symphony is lackluster, small town, and, quite honestly, dorky [does this revelation shock you?]). Even our longest running classic rock station went under a few years ago; and that, my friends, was just sad. I fell in love with 50's, 60's, and 70's pop by spending an entire childhood listening to KPUR FM 107.1. Even my grandmother listened to that station before she died in the mid-60's ('cause she was cool, man).
What happened to KPUR?
They made it a country station.


This area can't even keep the "who-are-you-again?" acts on the radar.
Wanna hear an example from the "What Did I Do Before I Started Blogging?" archive?
Well, pretend.

Reginald Kitty is not amused.

By the way, I have not ever retold this story, as I have spent every moment since then pretending that this portion of my life never existed. You have been warned.
I had an acquaintance a few years ago who happened to be a musician. He was a very nice young man, and we openly discussed The Beatles at length once or twice. As a matter of fact, when he wrote a line about Lennon/McCartney into one of his songs, he said he wrote it with me in mind. When I saw that he was going on a Spring tour, and heading right through the city in question, I knew I had to come out to support him (as I had done on a few occasions before [in different cities, of course]). I didn't know how the culturally intolerant residents might handle his brand of creativity, or his friends'. I also seem to remember I had "that feeling" that I wouldn't see him again after that night. As I greeted him, and received one of his famous hugs, I shook the feeling off. We had a nice discussion in which we talked about meeting up on a trip the family would soon be making to "his neck of the woods". To paraphrase, he asked me to write to him when dates were finalized, and we'd see what we could do. How silly I was to have thought that our own neck of the woods would be off-putting; he'd just offered an unprompted social invitation, for heaven's sake. "People are individuals, and shouldn't be lumped into a certain group", I said to myself, secure that everything was fine; at least, that's how it should work, anyway. Though, as showtime drew closer, and I saw that there were very few people there, I hoped egos wouldn't be damaged (you know, knowing the tiniest bit about performer's egos). Then, of course, the following incident occurred (0:50-2:45 timestamps).

They don't tell you that they asked the man to reenact the scene before they took his money.

I felt terrible about what happened, so I did what seemed logical: I decided to buy him a present. Bookstores are the best places to buy presents, in my opinion; though unsure of what kinds of books he might enjoy, I decided on one of my favorite Beatles volumes, "The Beatles: A Diary", by Barry Miles. I went out to the parking lot to check on everyone, hoping they weren't too offended by their experience. Though I could tell my acquaintance was confused and slightly injured, we chatted for a while.

By the way, I was the one who told him that Texas is a concealed weapon state, and offered to stay behind for a while just in case some rednecks were mad about being swindled out of forty bucks by a fast talking boy from SoCal. He politely declined, probably thinking that nothing a sixteen year old girl could do would make any difference. To a certain extent, he was right; what he probably doesn't know, though, was that I had my dad stick around until their rented van left the venue, because my dad happened to be carrying that night (yeah, I'm kinda a good friend that way).
To end the story, I can confirm that I did write to him to say when we would be going to California; in fact, I wrote three times. I never heard from, or saw him after that night.
The point of the story isn't to guilt people into false "awww's" of sympathy, but to say that even a rag-tag bunch of unknown lads playing songs about nerdy books wasn't welcome in this artless society.

As far as I'm concerned, there are two things to say: thank God for the Internet; and, I'm bailing ship as soon as possible. I like Texas, but I've had enough of being so incredibly small town that you have to drive to other states or countries to pursue your interests. Checking tour schedules shouldn't have to be part of your travel itinerary. I've already picked a place where the weather suits my clothes, green scenery exists, and, by gosh, they have an art district; I'll bet they don't even mind if you're vegetarian. Five hours from Seattle, six hours from Portland, and one hundred miles from the British Columbia province, it's Idaho or bust, so far as I'm concerned.

Of course, when I leave Texas, I won't have any friends to say goodbye to, since I met every one of my friends while I was on the road to somewhere else. Everything I do is long distance, 'cause nobody around here is my brand of crazy.

"C'mon, C'mon, C'mon!" Or, 78

Life does not slow down around here. Ever. This time of year, I always hope I'll be able to curl up with one of the many, many books I want to read, and let the days slip by. Just read, and drink tea, and forget that there are things to be done, deadlines to meet, and people to find absolutely annoying.

This photograph is saved to my computer as "MeInSixtyYears". When I hit eighty, I guarantee I will be cantankerous.

Perhaps my fellow self-proclaimed logophiles will understand this need to spend days upon days in silent reflection with a fabulous author, or an incredible story -- one you simply couldn't stand to put down for stupid things like eating, or being social. Everything is secondary to the weight in your hand, the feel of the edges of the pages on the portion of the book you've read (or not), the smell of the pages, the binding (and trying not to break it), or the sound of individual pages turning -- old paper, new paper, it doesn't matter.
That glorious luxury has not been dealt to me in ample doses since I started college; I steal moments between semesters -- a week, sometimes two -- sequestering myself into quiet recesses of the house (or, on occasion, the garage) to find solitude in one of the only reliable, stable rituals I have ever clung to in my short life.
However, life has not given me the opportunity to immerse myself in the written word of late. After all, we just heralded in a new year...


...started a new season of The Bachelor...

This has nothing to do with the current season of The Bachelor. Sue me.

..watched Campaign Carl Cameron cover the Iowa Caucus...

Or should that be Campaign Carl Astaire?

...and got back from watching Yoko Ono and the Plastic Ono Band.

Yeah, remember how I told you I got concert tickets for Christmas? This was it!

Some thoughts on the evening, you say?
You want to hear about the awesometastic time we had?
Well, pretend.

Reginald Kitty is not amused.

*Imagine, if you will, the following scenario. You spend your entire life being "the weird one" in any group. Pick out some random people, put yourself in the mix, and you're guaranteed to be the weird one; you are Cousin Marilyn.

That fact becomes comfortable, and you revel in this weirdness. This weirdness is so much a part of you, you take for granted that you will always be the weird one.
That scenario is me -- that's right, I am the 1%.
Waiting in line at the door for the show, I was also the 1% -- just in the opposite direction. I (and the handful of nans who were there for the same reasons I was) was normal. It didn't matter that I was wearing my black drainpipes and my pixie boots; such attire would have been appropriate on the trading floor of the New York Stock Exchange in comparison to the other folks milling around the front of the venue. A few standouts included: a guy dressed like Jesus; a guy I dubbed "Y-Front Lion Man", simply because he wore a lion mask, a loin cloth with three googly eyes glued on the side, and his underwear on the outside; a girl dressed as a sprouting seed; Scepter Girl; and, my personal favorite, the girl in the blue Hefty bag, with knee-high, light up boots, and a multi-color sign asking "Where's Zachary?". If I had any remaining doubts as to the definition of hipster, I no longer question the meaning. As they sat, discussing circular riffs, or growing human population, I was secure in the fact that I am a healthy kind of weird. Even if this song kept playing in my inner monologue, I clung to my brand of crazy with pride.

The fact that I never fit in was summed up best by my own mother: "you don't even fit in with these people". Thanks, Ma. I'll remember that when I visit you at Shady Pines.

*One of the unwashed masses instructed us to "get a number" when we first arrived; about thirty minutes after we were branded -- I was number 78 -- it occurred to us that we had no idea what these numbers were for. Long story short, we never found out, and that half-wit wrote 78 on my right hand in permanent marker, so it ruddy won't come off.

*I have learned a lot by going to concerts. The main tip of Concert Going is to leave your camera at home, 'cause the Camera Nazis are just going to take it away from you, anyway.

Cameras in that bin, please. No photography of any kind.

So, when the inevitable question "do you wanna take the camera?" was posed to me as we left the hotel, I decided against taking it. If I wanted any pictures, I had a cell phone I could whip out when security wasn't looking. As we pulled onto the highway, I began to regret this decision. "These people are all artists. Weird artists, too. They live for art. They probably wouldn't mind if you took the camera, took some shots. You should have brought the camera."
Right after we were numbered, I heard security say those dreaded words: "no photography".

Seriously? So much for the arts.


*The price of admission went solely to confetti. I mean, sure, there was a giant mirrored ball in the middle of the room (honestly, the thing covered about four hundred square feet of ceiling space), enormous laser hands, an elaborate lighting display, several hundred balloons, and a guy in an inflatable bubble running around like a hamster on the hands and heads of the 1500-strong audience. All of that would have been enough. Not for this show, though; there was, quite honestly, a ton of confetti dispersed throughout the entire six hour set (yes, there were other bands, but we're not going to talk about them). The best way I can possibly explain the scene is to imagine that you are the first little colored puff of rice out of the Fruity Pebble box, and you watch as all the other Fruity Pebbles fall into the bowl on top of you. There was so much confetti on our persons, we drug it into the car, in the suitcase, and on the floor of the hotel. We were like Pig-Pen of the Peanuts Gang, but with confetti.


*Watching Sean Lennon play guitar has to be a highlight of my life. He was absolutely brilliant, and -- to me, anyway -- that was the art piece of the night. To watch him communicate with the rest of the band (particularly the drummer) was amazing. He had his finger in every pie, and he ran the show flawlessly.

*Yoko is absolutely adorable. Is it weird to say that? I'm going to say it, anyway. The lady is just precious. Sure, you take her and her art seriously because she takes her art seriously; but to hear her speak to the crowd, and watch her get so into her performance was simply darling. Something about the Europeans immigrating to Oklahoma instead of New York because OKC is becoming the "new center"; what a doll. I just love her, OK?

So, there we have it. A bizarre account of a bizarre evening. I stood an hour in line, and six hours against a barricade just to be there; I wouldn't trade it for anything, even if I'm still sore. (Last time we saw Yoko and Sean, we stood for eight hours. In those shoes? That's dedication.)
Now, if you'll pardon me, I'm going to try to recover by burrowing myself into a little hole under a blanket somewhere and finishing some books on my "Immediate Reading" list.

Please, tell me I'm not the only one to notice that the creator of this LOL-Cat (or whatever they're called these days) forgot to add the silent 'e' to Shakespeare. I know part of the humor comes from misspellings and improper sentence structure, but they got everything else right (except for the capitol 'd' in the middle of a sentence, regardless that it's a quote -- it's a common mistake)!

Celebratin' New Year Like It's 1997

Have I ever mentioned that I'm a sentimental sap? I keep the dumbest things: brochures we picked up from places we've visited, those impossible-to-take-off wrist bands from whatever events we went to, or the star of the Infamous Water Bottle Story from our trip to Canada (we don't talk about it). That sappy sentimentality makes every December 31st (OK, the last two weeks of the year) even sappier than the previous three hundred sixty-four days. Of course, I keep the sappy to myself, 'cause that just gets ruddy old after a while; but on New Year's Eve, sappy is so acceptable that you appear to be cold and heartless if you don't show some kind of sappiness.
If you haven't already guessed, this post is going to get rather sappy.

Reginald Kitty is not amused.

Reflecting on the past year is an oft practiced New Year tradition, though is generally just a passing fancy in anticipation for the unknown, shiny wonders of the next year.
To that, I call bollocks, sir.
Is it just me, or does this annual anamnesis not get nearly enough credit? With as quickly as our lives are flashing before us, does it not seem prudent to do more than pause in its honor? It feels like just a couple of weeks ago that I wrote out last year's post on this subject (the website I found the photograph of the skeleton on gave my old computer a nasty virus, and I was terribly afraid I wouldn't get the post up on time [you know, 'cause the writing process for each of these posts also has a story]). Was it a year ago that we were discussing what had been such fun about 2010? When we discussed the quirks that make another passing year so memorable in that ten percent of our brains? And, more to the point, why the hell have I been calling this year 2010, and will I be able to remember that we are now treading into the questionable territory of 2012 (come on, ten percent, work for me, here)?
What about the quirks of this year? Before we head off into the hell storm that will be 2012 (and not because of the whole end of the world bollocks), let's bask in the glow of awesome that 2011 has been. Sure, it's had its fair share of bad times, but the ruddy awesome times far surpass those depressing bastards.
I feel I should warn you that we did some things I didn't blog about. And, since we're being honest, I think I kept the most interesting story of the entire year a total secret. I debated whether or not to mention this at all, but my mood over the last few days has been somewhat bizarre, so I figured I'd go ahead and tell the tale; honestly, it tickles me.
This may or may not have happened.

And I may or may not have been at it.
Like, the whole thing.

And I may or may not have wept like a little baby.

See, I was there. It's just that the only person that wanted my photograph was my mother.

And, um, a couple days later, when we saw Paul, this may or may not have also happened.

And I may or may not have wept again, 'cause I know that nothing I ever do in my life will ever be that cool again, and I know that is not an exaggeration.

Well, now that the story is out in the open, let's look at some other highlights of the year.

February - San Antonio
March - Wichita
May - Colorado
June - I think I just told those stories.
August - Mount Rushmore
September - Colorado; Corpus Christi
October - The McCartney Wedding; Red River; Plain White T's/Austin; London Bridge (um, yeah, that's another one we didn't talk about)
December - Vegas!

But, you know, it's not just about the vacations. It's the little things that happen, or that you do; they make up the delicate tapestry of life references, making it so that no one understands your references, and just looks at you like you're some kind of ape-like creature that may spontaneously implode if it continues to speak.


The things you choose to watch...

If you think I was going to wait until stupid American PBS got series two of Downton Abbey, you thought wrongly, sir.


Yes, The Bachelorette is a bigger deal at our house than The Bachelor. There, I said it. Whichever it is, we always scream "HI, CHRIS HARRISON!" at the beginning of every episode. It's tradition.


If you've never seen Jack Whitehall, go to YouTube. Really, right now, I'll wait. I had forgotten about him completely until we watched Big Fat Quiz of the Year ('cause there was no chance of America ever getting that one) and they used a clip from Fresh Meat in the television montage. I may or may not have watched the entire series in two nights (and I'm still on the fence about it, quite honestly; though it has its good points, and that's what pulled me through), and gone bonkers with clips from Mock The Week.


I love this film, OK? It's an historical drama about Lincoln, staring James McAvoy; what's not to love? Am I alone in this?

And we have silently lamented the loss of one of the greatest television shows of the last decade.


We've also been spinning quite a lot of ear candy this year.

Mentioned on this blog -- by name -- five times in the last year, yet no one in my family knows who the hell Jon Walker is. Educate yourselves, you filthy heathens.


These first two examples are proof that the Chicago area has consistently given us good music in the last decade (approximately). Also, my Nigel loves this song.


Yeah, Chicago's pretty great, but Britannia rules the airwaves.


I can't believe they put this on a Christmas album. It's beautiful, and relevant at any time of year.


I've seen this video several times, and I've yet to tire of watching Mr. Kane work the guitar pedals. Make of that what you will.


Can someone please remind me why people didn't like Dirty Work? Maybe it's the Fourteen Year Old Fangirl Syndrome, and they don't understand that the early twenty-somethings (such as these blokes) grew up with this kind of sound on the radio (or from older siblings), and think it's perfectly fine to put their own spin on it. Thanks, fangirls, for making me feel ridiculously old. I'll just go put on some Harvey Danger, and count my POGS. (Now that I'm older, I understand why my mother disliked it when her children -- aged eighteen, and six -- would sing this song. Sorry, Ma.) By the way, any fangirls that just so happen to be fourteen; that Harvey Danger song was released in 1997, also known as the year you were born. Is this the beginning of the generation gap, or has someone run off with my Zimmer frame?

So, I guess it's another year down. Sure, I skipped a lot of highlights: The Lamb Story, watching Geraldo Rivera accurately guess Bin Laden's death, John Stossel selling lemonade, or the Charles Xavier dream.

So what, I brought it back to James McAvoy; it's my blog, and I can.

There's so very much to continue to look forward to. You'll be reading about some of it in the near future, rest assured. Things that will undoubtedly creep into the blog are the newest season of The Bachelor...

Now accepting roses from the gentleman on the far left.

Paul's upcoming album (possibly albums? Come on, darling, we know you're working on one, just release it, already)...


Whatever other little bits and bobs I may find...

I don't care that this was just released. If this is the direction they're moving (you know, that would-fit-in-perfectly-with-All-That-We-Needed [please, tell me you know the album I'm talking about, folks] direction), things are going to get interesting.

And -- though I shall try to shut up, I know I shall fail -- the biggest thing in my entire universe, bigger than any album launch, or Bachelor Monday combined in all of history: election year.

Come on, Sarah. I know you filed all of the appropriate paperwork to run way back in May. Change your mind, save us from this stupidity. Please?

Until then, have yet another 90s kids blast from the past; I watched this as it aired, New Years Eve 1997. I remember being quite bored by the cartoons, so I went back and forth between Nickelodeon and TV Land. I was always boring, I know.


In all seriousness, happy new year, everybody!


Now we'll celebrate the mysterious cloud that is 2012!

Doin' The Reindeer Dance With Pirate Bob

Another Christmas is finally upon us; well, the Bufords, at least, since most of you folks celebrate on Christmas Day instead of Christmas Eve.


I hope everyone has written their letters to Santa; I know I have.

Actually, I'm getting concert tickets for Christmas. More on this in the new year.

So much work for one day, isn't it? Just think about it, as it's a good excuse for being on the Internet instead of with your family.
All of the shopping...


...and the wrapping...


...and the caroling...


All that for one day? For one-twelfth of the year, we throw ourselves into an alternate reality of activity, and do stupid things we wouldn't ordinarily be caught dead doing.


The question I always end up asking myself is, "is all of this really worth it?". The buying, the cooking, the stressing over gifts. To which I generally answer, "yes, because we'll all be dead one day".
So, now that we have contemplated one of the most fundamental meanings of this holiday, get on back to your family and celebrate, before they all wonder where the hell you went.
Before you leave, though, have a song or two to take with you.

Poor Miles (Fi'e-Dolla-Now)

Have I ever mentioned how much I love the auto-post function here on Blogger? Well, I ruddy well do. Here you thought I was making posts regularly, when I was actually off on holiday! Ain't that a scream? All of last week, we were out in that desert oasis we so love; no, not a sandy island in some salty water - Vegas!


Would you like to hear some trip highlights?
Really?
Well, pretend, anyway. It's almost Christmas, and Santa can still change his mind.

Reginald Kitty is not amused.

* We got free tickets to a second-rate magic show. Now, this may sound like a waste of time, and you would be right; that is, until little seven year old Miles took the stage. The performer asked if there were any children in the audience who wanted to learn some magic. From my balcony seat, I saw little Miles being coaxed by his mother to raise his hand. Like an obedient lad, up shot his hand, without any care for the consequences of this action. Like a moth to flame, the performer snatched the boy up, and led the child up the stairs to the proscenium arch. Only, little Miles wasn't having any of it. He stood in front of us, his entire body stiff as a board, eyes wide with a mixture of embarrassment and fear. When asked simple questions, the poor boy just buried his face in his hands, and obviously wanted to fall right through the stage floor. By the end, he refused to speak. Have you ever seen a child's entire self-worth dissipate? It's simultaneously hilarious and heartbreaking. Poor Miles. I hope he's recovered from his trip to Vegas, 'cause he may never want to go back.

* Brookstone is a hilarious place to go, especially in Vegas. The store in the Venetian is a great place to watch foreigners explore the wonders of America. Now, I have no guarantee that the man I saw was foreign, but the odds are with me. He spoke not a word, and was dressed like this.

He observed all sorts of odd things, like massaging pillows and remote controlled hovercrafts with keen interest. His little shopping trip was going splendidly until he saw the noise machines. He picked up one of the more complicated models, and began pushing the numerous buttons. As the product delivered the sound it has promised on the box, he clicked the "off" button; at least, he thought he did. Thus, the frantic button-push-jitterbug began. Eventually, he sat the product back on the shelf, and shuffled away, hoping no one saw him break the machine. I saw him repeatedly look over his shoulder, until a saleslady silenced the broken model.
The lesson, children, is that some culture notes are practically identical. You break it, you pretend you didn't, and leave quickly.

* Only in Vegas can you look out the window as you have a leisurely croissant at 8:30 in the morning, and watch Spiderman walk though a parking lot, get in a car, and drive away. I think Spidy was a little drunk from the night before, though, because he had some serious trouble unlocking that car.

Where does Spidy take over for Peter? It should have happened before this point.

* I have discovered a new talent: guessing weights of M&Ms. I guessed 1.75 pounds, and it ended up being 1.76 pounds. That, my friends, is pretty damn good for delicious chocolaty candies.
Speaking of chocolaty goodness...

If ever I were to dream of food, it would be the chocolate praline (the first time I had one, it was called the Symphony) from Cafe Belle Madeleine.

* Since the first time we went to Vegas way back in the mists of time -- OK, 2006 -- The Strip has been deluged with street performers. Most of the time, they just annoy me, and add to my headaches. This time, however, there was actually a fun one: a bagpiper, playing the Star Wars theme. Unfortunately, the number was cut short when someone requested "Amazing Grace". Just as disappointment started to sink in, a girl screamed out, "awww, it's the theme to Titanic!". Laughter ensued.

* There we were, at the Coke store, slurping our Cherry Coke floats and minding our own business. Through the din of shopping tourists and the giant televisions playing music videos, I heard a familiar chord over the speakers. I looked back at the flat screens to see this.

I know it's blurry, but I was excited. Does it look familiar?

What about now?
I was thrilled to hear The Young Veins (or, as my dad calls them, The Blood Veins) in a public place; it was just a bit more special that it was in the hometown of Mr. Ross, I think. This song is also kinda special to me in that it was the very first song I heard from the Ross/Walker team (yes, I'm weird and remember that kind of thing; it's like a mental scrapbook [take 'mental' however you wish]). After I got over the shock of the situation, I started telling the general space how the video was initially shot, then filmed through a vintage television. I only started getting weird looks when I said "rock that solo, Mr. Walker". OK, so I fangirled, sue me.

* The Venetian has transformed itself into a Winter Wonderland.

The best part is the recycled plastic skating rink. The first forty-five minutes alone, I counted fifty people who fell over before I was told to shut up. It's like I told my mother, "I'm watching America's Funniest Home Videos live right now, don't bug me". We went back several times during the week, but that first group of suckers were still the best biffers of the lot.

* My camera was hit on more than I was. Note to self: next time, ditch the Wrinklies.

Aren't they cute? Now, buzz off.

* There was a film being shot all over The Strip while we were there. The best part of this was the Bellagio Incident. A boat full of crew workers was sent to unload giant sheets of wood onto an island in the middle of the Bellagio lake. They hitched their boat to the island, and began unloading. When about half of the load was on each vessel, disaster struck: both the island, and the boat started sinking from the weight of the wood. After much fuss, a corner of the island was sinking under the weight of the entire load, while the boat putted back to dock. The next day, the island had sunk -- wood and all -- in a tucked away spot under a bridge to the parking garage. What morons.


* The Arc de Triomphe at Paris. Check the slideshow.

Speaking of slideshow, would you like to see some photographs from the trip?
Remember, Santa's checking that list twice.

I Saw Murray Kissing Santa Claus

Have we talked about Christmas music this season? 'Cause I've bitten my tongue so long it's starting to bleed.

You wear those headphones, Santa, 'cause I don't wanna hear that bollocks.

Don't psychiatrists advise against bottling up such emotion? Well, pull out the corkscrew, kiddies, 'cause this bottle is about to blow.


Just for kicks and giggles, I have been paying attention to Christmas music this year -- I know, I know, don't pull out the holy water yet -- in an attempt to analyze just how terrible it is. It all started with one of my stupid, dry jokes about "The Little Drummer Boy", and grew into other stupid, dry jokes from there.


* The Little Drummer Boy
Banging a drum for a newborn baby; yeah, that's a good idea. In one version, the lyric is sung 'then he nodded', instead of 'Mary nodded'. To whomever changed the lyric: you do realize that babies' heads just lollop about, right? They have no neck muscles; he probably just had a little slip or something. (You laughed, see ya in hell.)

* I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus
'What a laugh it would have been if Daddy had only seen...'? Yeah, 'cause Daddy ought to know about that one.


* It's Beginning To Look A Lot Like Christmas
'A pair of hop-a-long boots, and a pistol that shoots is the wish of Bonnie and Ben'.
Bonnie? That's not a traditional male name; are you telling me that girls want hop-a-long boots, and pistols that shoot? All the little girls I ever knew wanted Barbies. I, on the other hand, had more sophisticated taste in gifts.

What do I mean had?


* Celebrate Me Home
I can't understand a bloody word; but what does 'celebrate me home' mean?

* Do You Hear What I Hear?
'Said the shepherd boy to the mighty king, "do you know what I know?"'. Yeah, a little shepherd boy is going to visit a "mighty king", taunting I-know-something-you-don't-know. That's how you get beheaded, kids.

* The First Noel
'They look-ed up...'. Look-ed? Really? Maybe it's my inner writer, but syllable counts MATTER. They exist for a reason. They are important. Think about it.


* The Christmas Shoes
What is the purpose of this song? I don't know, and I don't understand; like, at all. Did somebody sit down and say "let's write the dumbest, most miserable Christmas song we can devise"? And, more to the point, if 'Daddy says there's not much time', shouldn't little Johnny be at home with his Mama instead of in line to buy shoes? Does Jesus care if you're wearing a brand spanky new pair of shoes when you die? I hope not, 'cause I don't plan on wearing pants.


* Up On The Housetop
'Up on the housetop, reindeer paws...'? Hang on there just a second, reindeer have hooves, not paws. When I pointed that out to my mother, she, of course, took the I-LOVE-Christmas-music attitude of "maybe they meant reindeer pause; you know, like, they stopped". No, Mama. They did not mean stop; if they did, then the writing is weak, and deserves to be made fun of.

THIS reindeer has paws, but that falls under the heading of 'technicality'.

* Walking In A Winter Wonderland
'In the meadow we can build a snowman, and pretend that he is Parson Brown...'; later in the song, '...we'll have lots of fun with Mr. Snowman until the other kiddies knock him down'. So, the other kids must really be little sons of bitches to knock over a fake preacher, AND run other people out of a meadow. Public school really does encourage children to be terrible little creatures, doesn't it?

* No Place Like Home For The Holidays
'Gee, the traffic is terrific'? Look, folks, I've been stuck in traffic many times in my life: SoCal, Dallas, and downtown Chicago, just to name a few. Traffic is far from terrific. When we were little (and even now, come to think it), our mother would sing 'gee the traffic is horrific'. I'm inclined to agree.

* Santa Claus Is Coming To Town
'Elephants, boats, and kiddie cars, too'. Elephants? Who asks for an elephant for Christmas? They're endangered, people! My dad's friend, Ben, had something to do with this, didn't he? (Story time: when I was about five years old, I asked Santa for a pony. Three days before Christmas, Ben leaves a message on our answering machine asking when Daddy wanted him to deliver our new pony. I've been waiting for a pony from Ben ever since; fifteen years later, that joke has not lost any of its potency, and I mention the fact that Ben owes me a pony every time I speak to him. If you're reading, Ben, PAY UP.)
Let's hope that the elephant in the song is metaphorical; if so, I want an elephant next year (whoops, I'm having a Conservative moment, again).
Here's another thought to ponder: what the hell are 'rooty-toot-toots and rummy-tum-tums'? They sound like something you order at IHOP.

* Baby, It's Cold Outside
'Mother will be there at the door... Father will be pacing the floor...'. Um, it's called a telephone, honey. They had them in the dark ages before Internet and cell phones. They had this little wheelie thing that you stuck your finger in, and it clicked and spun. Sometimes, you could talk to a real live person, and they would connect you! Sweet Belinda of all that's good and cheezy! CALL HOME. Problem solved.

* Silent Night
It was before you started singing, Asshat. (I don't know why this was in my notes, but I nearly spit tea all over my screen when I read it; it had to be included in the list.)

* Little St. Nick
'Christmas comes this time each year'. Thanks, Brian, we didn't know that. I thought Christmas was bi-annual, and my life was just really flying by.

So, there we have it; just a few observations about some of your favorite carols. I say 'your' because we all know they aren't mine. Sure, there are some Christmas songs I like, but they don't get a lot of airplay.

Why do the videos with the best audio quality always have the dumbest video content?

Happy listening, folks. Only a few more days to go.

Santa, you are not Sir George Martin. Step away from the sound board.

Toffee, Cookies, And Puppies In The Snow

Is there anything more fabulously wintry than snow? Snow is magical in a way that words simply cannot describe; no matter how hard I try, I can never seem to spit out enough adjectives to do justice to snow. That's where my handy dandy Cannon camera comes into play; after all, isn't a picture worth a thousand words? So, take a look at the slideshow to look at those thousand words I am absolutely unable to articulate.

To warm up, I decided to make snowball cookies...


...and some pecan toffee.

These, I can describe: thems is good.

We're Celebrating Our Leather Year!

Three years ago today, the Turret Full Of Ravens was officially started! Can you believe it's been three years? I can't.
Something you may find interesting, dear reader, is that this blog was not my first introduction to blogging. Believe it. A few months before my sister pestered me into starting the very blog you're reading today, she pestered me to blog on MySpace (back when MySpace was still somewhat cool). I went back and read the two posts I made there, and laughed heartily. The first blog I ever wrote was to publicize Banned Books Week; yes, I'm big on Banned Books Week, sue me. The second talked about keeping "your fingers, toes, arms, legs, and eyeballs crossed for a US Boosh tour, not only because it should happen, but because it's fun to see what people say about your unusual position... you'd be amazed how many strange faces people can make". Later in the post -- as a post script, actually -- I said "You may also want to keep your fingers, toes, arms, legs, and eyeballs crossed for a Paul McCartney tour sometime soon... because we need one of those even MORE than the Boosh. YAY, PAUL!"
In the words of Frank Turner: "time may change a lot, but some things, they stay the same".

Reginald Kitty is not amused.

Now that we've gotten past those very awkward stages of blogging, and forged into whole new worlds of awkward blogging, let's break down some numbers about the 2011 blogging year.
Out of the fifty posts made during this year, there have been a total of 178 videos.
They break down as follows:

Songs - 65
Beatles - 21
Beatles Without Songs - 8

"Other" - 59

Britcoms - 17

Bachelor/ette - 8


Total posts dedicated solely to music - 13


And, let's not forget about good ol' Reginald Kitty; he appeared 40 times in 30 individual posts this year.

Another interesting statistic you may not be aware of is that the "Hipster Versus Anachronism" post is the most viewed in the entire blog's history. Believe it. That post is generally what brings folks to the blog in the first place. So, if you found us via that post, and decided to hang around, we're glad you've stuck it out.
Something I always like to make sure I do in the anniversary post is thank you, dear reader, for spending some time on this peculiar little slice of the Interwebby. That anyone on the other end of that lighted box decides to read what I'm typing on my end of the magical keyboard makes my jaded little heart all warm and fuzzy. Since I've taken notice of my blog stats (and I don't know how accurate those are), I've seen readers from Latvia, Qatar, Finland, Bulgaria, and a host of other countries crossing the threshold that this blog is. What started out as a project that would keep my sister happy has turned into something much bigger -- and more fun -- than I expected back in 2008.
So, before we embark on our fourth year, let's keep with our Mr. Gee-esque tradition of bringing together some of the more notable posts in some kind of rhyming pattern.

As another blogging year ends,
And before the next one begins,
Let's look back on these days,
And see what stupid things I had to say.
There were funnies in color, if they weren't blacking out.
And Paul gave us reasons to scream and shout.
There was talk of the 90's, and my Zimmer frame,
YouTube, green shorts, and mentions of Dames.
We talked about music -- acoustic or not --
Of choppers, Chris Harrison, and how fangirls shop.
We met Katie, Mr. Do-Its, and Bonzo,
Had snow days, and Anthology's no-go.
I'm socially awkward, but it doesn't hurt,
That's only 'cause Tom Higgenson likes my shirt.
We cannot forget the wordplaying hipsters,
That our kitchen caught fire, and the tropics make me bitter.
We won't go to Nebraska, Shep looks like a dog,
There was a very special wedding, and confessions on the blog.
So, now we begin year number four --
Strap your self in, 'cause there'll certainly be more!

So, as I like to say...