Oh, Mr. Patel...

You may have noticed (or you may not, since the rest of you have lives) that this piece of the World Wide Timesuck has been conspicuously silent over the last month or so. See, that's because my life has been an absolute nightmare, mainly consisting of trying to prepare for a week-long vacation; contrary to popular belief, I don't just browse Tumblr all day -- I had actual work to do.

Yes, work. That's it. Work.

Even though it was a truckload and a half to get ready for, and the location wasn't ideal, our little trip went rather well. Would you like to hear about the latest adventure from South Padre Island (I know, islands make me crazy, like you haven't read that before)?
There are pretty pictures at the end! Hang in there!


*The first few days of the trip were spent on the island, doing islandy things: staying in the air conditioning; wearing regular jeans, socks, closed-toed shoes, and outrageously large hats; readjusting a shade umbrella; still sweating profusely, despite these precautionary measures; and not stepping foot in the water. I was created to be a snow bunny, not a beach bum. This fact was further proven when, despite how I pleaded that my mother wear shoes in the water, she refused until I pointed out a syringe with the needle still attached that had just washed ashore. She decided it was a good idea to wear her beach shoes after that.


*On our first night, we found that some cruel human being had taken a little crab from his oceanfront property, and left him for dead. We immediately turned into the Crab Special Rescue Unit, transporting him from a picnic table in Port Isabel...


...to a safe place back on the island...


We hoped the little fella would crawl out, and go about his merry way; when we checked his release spot the next day, we saw that his shell was there, but he was gone! Hooray! Now he can go live his little crabby life in peace.


*Remember when we went to Galveston, and there was a random guy standing in the back of a cheap trailer while the towing vehicle was in full motion? That happened again. What the hell is it with guys in trailers on dinky little islands?


*We visited the sea turtle rescue, and got acquainted with some lovely rescued turtles (obviously). They have a webcam, if you would like to take a peek.

While we were at Sea Turtle Inc., I took notice of this sign on one of the tanks...


I chuckled in amusement, and vowed to look it up when I got home.
This is what I have discovered:

The I.I.C. was founded on July 8, 2004 at Boomerang Billys on South Padre Island, Texas by 5 drunken idiots. We are dedicated to furthering the pursuit of silliness, hedonistic pleasures and just plain fun.

Um, what? Are you telling me that I was right, and there's nothing more to do on that stupid island than drink and slowly loose grip with reality? Two for two in my column on this post. This is better than when we found out what HEB stands for.
I mean, hell, where else can you find Jabba the Hutt dressed up like Elvis?

This actually happened.


*When we did visit the beach, there was one particular sea gull that just creepily stared at me for about twenty minutes.

I figured it was because he'd never seen a dumber looking human in his little birdy life before; then, of course, I realized that Nigel does the same thing -- maybe Nigel's never seen a dumber looking human before, either!


*And now, for the part I had been waiting all week for: we spent most of the final day of the trip in San Antonio! Of all the traveling I've been fortunate to partake in, downtown San Antonio is still one of my favorite places to go, regardless of how many times we make the pilgrimage. While taking in the sights, we ran across some interesting folks.

The day happened to be International Peace Day, and there was a group of Hare Krishnas roaming the area, chanting the mantra. If my dad hadn't strictly forbidden me to join them in their endeavour, I think he knew I would have. As it was, I had to be content just to flash them a peace sign and a thumbs-up. They had a lovely energy about them, though, and it was lovely to see.

The Krishnas weren't the only people we encountered that night, though: for example, we were accosted in a shop by a man that had a quarter in his ear.
Yes. A real quarter was stuck in the man's ear. No one believed me, because they thought it was a hearing aid. I can assure them, though, there are no hearing aids that look like the back of a quarter.


Then, there were the people in band shirts. Regardless that I don't listen to the bands depicted on their choice of attire, I know about them. With the Internet, so many interests intertwine and you gain knowledge of things you don't actually have an interest, or any involvement in.
For example, there was a gentleman wearing an "Of Mice and Men" t-shirt.
Do I listen to them?
No.
Do I know that Austin Carlisle is a giant teddy bear of a guy?
Of course I do! I read tour stories!
My ornery streak wanted to go up to the man and say the quote from the end of this video, just to see what reaction I would have gotten. Boy, did I have to fight that urge.


Then, of course, there was the girl wearing a "Pierce the Veil" shirt. I don't listen to them, either, but I wanted to go up to her and say "I've seen your tumblr", just to see if a look of terror spread across her face. I was feeling quite devilish that day, indeed.



*As we were traipsing through the downtown area, we stumbled upon a strange little vestibule. It looked like someone was preparing for a Victorian wake, but no one was in the vestibule to guard it. Since nobody told me no, I got one of my favorite pictures I think I've ever taken.

Bask in the awesomeness that is this photograph. This was a real place, set up for an actual purpose.


*I had heard about the "Call Me Maybe" pandemic from my sister earlier in the summer. The last time she was at Fusspot Farm, she said she had been spinning the song, along with that "Somebody That I Used To Know" thing that we all took the mickey out of on the Internet (sister contrast: I was still high on Mayday Parade's "Stay" music video at the time). I did not realize how much people must like "Call Me Maybe", because it was playing in every ruddy place we went into that had a radio.
Every. One.
I even saw people dancing to it.
Really? I mean, really? The Internet has been taking the mick out of that one, too. Speaking of which, we all love a good parody, right? This was the one I kept thinking of while wondering how so many people could go nutty for that particular song...


Also, in a sick twisting of fate, Mayday Parade has done a cover of "Somebody That I Used To Know".

AND The Maine? I'll be busy YouTube-ing on November 6. You know, between election coverage. Unless it leaks before then, that is.


So, dear reader, that's why I've not been around. That, and I prefer to take a quality over quantity approach to writing. Can you imagine what I might say if I had nothing to say at all?


Now, who wants to see holiday slides?
You do?
I knew it was too much to ask that you might actually be excited.

Mr. Tastee's Awesometastic Ice Cream Club

Imagine, if you will, the following scenario: it's the middle of July, and the temperatures have been over one hundred degrees for the last week or so. You have spent every afternoon out in this heat, with little relief from the elements. Within your neighborhood, you hear a rumor that the ice cream man will come down your street next week. After so long in the heat, ice cream is the very thing you need. The buzz grows and grows, and talk spreads like wildfire.
"But he never comes 'round here. Are you sure?"
"Positive. I'd bet good money on it."
"Save that money for the best ice cream you can get! With as infrequently as he's in these here parts, that treat will have to last you a while."
The gossip flies all through the weekend that he'll be here next Friday. Anticipation grows as you and your neighbors talk about strategies for hailing the truck, what to order, how to order, back-up orders, and the possibility that Mr. Tastee will run out of ice cream before you get to the head of the line. As chatter continues to float in the air, your neighbors talk about how fortunate they are to be members of Mr. Tastee's Awesometastic Ice Cream Club; as a member of this elite institution, you are entitled to ice cream from the Sub-Zero Super-Dee-Duper Freezer at the back of the truck. These treats are made from the finest ingredients Mr. Tastee can offer, using the best recipes Mr. Tastee can create. Since you are also a member, you look forward to your Friday treat with relish, trudging through Monday and Tuesday, feeling like Friday might never come. And then, as Wednesday morning dawns hot and sticky, you hear the ice cream truck nearby. You rush to your front door, look out, and see the truck drive right past your house as he heads toward the far end of the street. As fast as your legs can carry you, you're running behind the truck, waving your membership card in the air, shouting bloody murder in the hopes that Mr. Tastee will notice one of his loyal followers. Just when you think all hope is lost, Mr. Tastee stops the truck, comes over to the order window, and asks you what flavor you want from the special freezer.
"You mean, I can choose what flavor I get?"
"Why, of course you do, Loyal Follower," Mr. Tastee tells you, gently.
"Wow! I've never been able to do that before!"
He laughs kindly as he tells you what delectable goodies are left in his special freezer, and you pick the absolute tastiest of them all. You feel like you could just wrap your arms around the sweet little bugger as you thank him for his wonderfulness. And, as Mr. Tastee pulls away from your street, you stand in the middle of the road in utter disbelief, unwrapping the rare delicacy. When the reality of the situation settles in, since everything had happened so suddenly, you begin the ritual of Mr. Tastee Ice Cream excitement, breaking down right there in the middle of the road. After a few minutes of uncontrollable emotion, you gather yourself up just long enough to carry yourself back to your house, collapse on the sofa, and enjoy your treasure.
End scene.

So, you have this picture in your mind, right?
Now, let me tweak the scenario into something a little more believable:


We're goin' to Houston, baby!


The reason I wrote out the Mr. Tastee story is because that's exactly what happened, except with tickets instead of ice cream. It's been two weeks since we bought the tickets, and I still can't believe it. Oh, my precious Paulie-pants, if only you knew the lengths to which we extend ourselves just to spend three hours in your presence. I'm sure he has no idea what strings have to be pulled in order to show up in the same place he's at. It really doesn't matter, because it's always ten thousand percent worth it. I mean, just look at that face. How can you not want to see this?


Also, I'm hoping we get to see the Olympic bass.


And, if any of you are wondering, I got the Mr. Tastee name from a character on The Adventures of Pete and Pete...

Joe Trohman And The Smoking Microwave

Life is in busy autumn mode at Fusspot Farm; the trees have just started turning, the weather is finally cooling off to a bearable temperature, and I only just glanced at the calendar long enough to realize it's almost October. That, and I looked out my window today and saw this...


When did this happen? What was I so busy doing that September just flew past me like my sister at a shoe sale? We'll get to that later. For now, let's talk about slivers.
Slivers?
Yes, slivers.
I know with my favorite bloggers and vloggers, I try to remember that whatever appears on their page is only a sliver of their everyday life; mind you, some slivers are bigger and more detailed than others, but the fact remains that there's an entire world behind the posts or the videos that viewers and readers never see.
Welcome to a behind the scenes sliver, staring yours truly! No, I'm not taking you through my daily drudgery, or showing you my vacation slides (that will come in due course, on another sliver); I'm talking about guilt, people. Guilt. I know about guilt, I was raised Catholic.


Being that I am one of Earth's more awkward creatures, I tend to feel guilty about a lot of things: "was I nice enough?"; "was the bitchy comment just a little too bitchy?"; or, "did I pay enough attention to this/that/him/her/it/them/whatever?". Most of the time, these mini guilt trips pass within a few minutes, and I'm back to making the bitchy comment.


There are times, though, when the guilt just keeps on comin'. Take, for example, last Tuesday. My in-person class is Tuesday and Thursday nights; the general routine is that my mother will drop me off, spend some time tending to her dad/errands, and pick me up. As such, we have an elaborate system of calls set up, since we're too bloody cheap to add texting to our phone plan.
Imagine the scene: I'm sitting on a bench underneath a tree, enjoying the cool breezes. No one is there, but the elaborate call system is 2/3 complete, and I've still got my cell in my lap. I'm just minding my own business, reading a pamphlet I picked up from the English department; there were poems and short stories in it, and I had forgotten my favorite poetry anthology at home, so I was strapped for interesting reading material. As I'm trying to figure out a particular poetaster's style and methods, I hear loud singing and the shuff-scuffing of dancing feet on the pathway in front of me. I didn't pay much attention to it, because I figured the singer assumed he was alone -- and, let's be honest, don't we all sing when we're alone (I can't mention dancing, because I do that in front of people)? Especially if there is a space where echo-y acoustics pick up your voice? It wasn't until he snapped his fingers, ending in a clap, and said "that just happened" that I realized things had escalated to awkward in 0.29 seconds. This awkwardness was driven home by the pure coincidence that he looked exactly like Joe Trohman, tattoos and all.

"Yes, it did," I replied.
"Write it down, get it out, share it with the world," he said, his hands fidgeting and wringing, and trepidation showing through the heaps of hair.
"Put it on the Internet, it's good publicity," I told him, erring on the side of making the snarky comment (odds are always about 80% that I'll make the snarky comment).
"Yeah, that's true," he said, adding, "what'cha readin'?"
And -- as the story of my life has always gone -- just as I was about to speak...

...which is odd, because my phone still shows that it's set to silent mode. Regardless, phase three of three was in effect.
And this is what happens when two awkward people try to interact.


Fast forward two hours.
I am one of those people that has to be reminded to partake in regular meals. "You need to eat, dear" has been the anthem of my life. I'm fortunate that I don't have any body issues, and that it's simple forgetfulness. At any rate, it was nearing ten o'clock, and the familiar battle cry was sounding from every angle.
"I'll just have a doughnut. I loves me some doughnuts. Them there doughnuts need eatin', and I'm just the girl for the job."
"You need more than just a doughnut."
To appease my keepers, I stuck a sandwich in the microwave, and patiently waited. That is, until I saw thick clouds of clay colored smoke billowing out of the edges of the microwave.
In reality, it was probably like this...

...but in the moment I ran to stop the machine, it looked like this to me...

Long story short, I blew up the bloody microwave. What didn't fry left a permanent smell of burnt pretzel bread in the microwave, the cubby it used to sit in, the cabinet behind it, and the majority of our house. I'm just glad the smoke didn't kill Nigel, because it was so thick that the three of us, said canary, and our girls were standing near the open back door just to get a breath of fresh air.
So, for the last two days, our microwave has lived in the back garden...

...and this wax burner thing stays at the scene of the incident...


We bought a new microwave today, but there's been a touch of trouble, and we need to return it for a different one.


Now, I can hear you asking yourselves "what the hell did I just read all of that piffle for?"
And I can tell you that I really don't know. On one count, they were both fun stories for me to tell with a common theme -- and we all know I like a good theme. On the other, it's a public atonement to settle my mind. For example, I've been apologizing about the microwave about three times an hour since the blowing up occurred. In that vein, I have come to realize that I have no technology etiquette, and I feel just horrible about the Joe Trohman-alike incident; I should very much have enjoyed where that crazy train was headed -- particularly since the last time I was chatted up can be measured in years (I would say how long, but that makes it look like I've been counting) -- but modern technology provides us with improper timing, and several unexplained glitches.
So, Trohman-alike, I am sorry I lack tech couth. And, to my family, I'm sorry everything smells like charred pretzel and swiss cheese.
I can say I learned something from these guilt trips, though. For starters, if you know a microwave is on its last leg, keep a close eye on it when it's working.


For another, if Tuesday's outfit is any indication, I really need to rethink what I'm wearing to All Time Low in November.

Blog Casserole: This Skinny Girl's Got A Great Ass, But It's Covered By Her Dressing Gown! (What? It's A Blue Moon!)

Before we get very far, can I be a bit of a sap for just a second?
Well, it's my blog, and I'm doing it regardless.
Nine years ago today, one of the biggest blessings in my life violently scratched and clawed her way up my arm, and into my jaded little heart. About the size of a hotdog, and weighing a little over four pounds, her already broad stubborn will and mine immediately blended perfectly; we are still symbiotic as all sixteen pounds of her snores in my lap right now. My Lilly and I have been practically inseparable these nine years. It has been one of the greatest privileges in my young life to share our lives together; now, some folks might say "dude, it's just a dog", but those people probably don't know Lilly. She may not be a special needs baby, but she's my baby (though she also answers to Smush-Smush/Smushie/Smushie-Face/Smushie-Bear, Baby, Baboo, and You Little Munchkie) . When I say I have three best friends, she is counted. The apple of my eye, and one of the greatest joys of my first twenty years, my little girl -- the wild heathen she was when I first saw her -- has been more than I bargained for back in 2003, but in the best possible way.
And, yesterday, it was twelve years since another of my greatest joys, Lavern, magically appeared in our lives. Virnie may have already crossed the Rainbow Bridge, but I always specifically think of my babies on these final two days of August.

My beautiful girls.

We now bring you back to regularly scheduled programming.

*I love to keep track of how folks find my blog. I can't help it; if people stop searching for awesome things, then maybe I'll stop checking my statistics quite so often. I always screencap my favorites, but for the sake of saving space, here is a condensed list of my recent favorites, coupled with where I think they were directed:
punks holding koalas
images of cantankerous people
skinny girl great ass
the nutter in the dressing gown

The last entry was quite puzzling to me; so much so, I Googled it. All that came up was a blog -- all four posts of it -- called Dressing Gown Diaries. Considering it hasn't been updated since December 2008, I don't suppose that person was searching for it; I would, however, love to know what they were looking for.
Either way, I'm still wearing my dressing gown -- right now, as a matter of fact.
Speaking of blogs and things, I'm guessing that you have seen the changes I made to the page a while ago. Hopefully, it's easier to read than before, and fills your screen a little better. Also, for those of you who would like to sign up for an email alert every time I publish new material, scroll down the page to my subscription box (cleverly titled "Is It A Subscription Box, Or Something More Sinister? (It's A Subscription Box. Maybe.)"), put in your email, and my posts can start harassing your inbox. At least, that's what Blogger said it would do, but maybe they've read my blog and simply view it's entire existence as Internet harassment.


*I'm assuming this was the first week of college/whatever classes for most people, right? How was it? Mine was hilarious.
Would you like to hear about it?
Too bad.

Reginald Kitty is not amused.

My major is somewhat specific, especially at this upper stage, so most of the people have been around since I started, with very minor additions. Now, picture, if you will, that I am sitting in a totally deserted classroom for so long, that I've had time to get up, double check that I was in the right room, and read the entire first chapter of the textbook. I'm already on edge about whether I'm even in the right place, when hoards of people suddenly pour into the tiny room. Since they were familiar faces, I knew I was just several decades earlier than the rest of them. So, there I am, continuing my business, when someone calls me by name. My internal groan machine pegged on "MAXIMUM CAPACITY, JUST SHOOT ME", I turn around to see a face I knew was there last semester, but who's name I neither knew, or had probably even heard before. I hadn't even given her an internal monicker, as I had for "The Talker", "Left-Lady" (who, ironically, chose to sit in the exact same place as she had last semester; I guess I didn't scare her nearly as much as I thought I did), "Frank", "Alfred", "The Goof-Ass" and "The Married People", just to name a few. I suppose she's a nice enough girl, I just don't know her name. Whoever she is, she knows my name, and I think it's a little creepy. Does this mean she needs a monicker? I actually don't know at this point.

Of the new folk I saw this week, there is a little clique -- yes, a good ol' fashioned clique -- of freshly graduated high schoolers who, lyke-zoh-emm-gee-all-graduated-lyke-tahgether. For now, their collective monicker is "The Highschoolers", just because I'm that original. I had to give them a monicker the first night just because of their obnoxious behavior. I mean, I know that not everyone will sit quietly to themselves with their bottlecap glasses slipping down their nose as they review material until the class actually begins -- I know, 'cause I get weird looks for doing it (I have excellent peripheral vision, you in-class losers!) -- but there is no need to come in and give us your damn biography in an abomination of American English Slang. Yes, even their slang was an abomination, purely because I had no idea what they were talking about. I felt like I was back on the monorail at Disneyland (our carriage was filled with stereotypical high schoolers out for a good time). They seem nice enough, I suppose; they offered me gum, but it was very awkward...


...but without me thinking of this the whole time, like I did with the previous clip...


This is all well and good, but I've already got an anecdote about them. Two classes, and they've already made my brain work out something they probably haven't even thought twice about. Yesterday, in they waltz, talking about radio stations.
Yes, radio stations.
Before I even start on this train wreck, let me just say that I'm neutral on Top 40 radio -- we must never forget that The Beatles dominated Top 40 throughout their career, plus -- but for it to be someone's favorite radio station? Firstly, why? Secondly, who the hell listens to actual radio anymore? I haven't in years.
The following is a dramatization of the tail end of their conversation:

A: My favorite radio station is MIX 94.1!
B: Zohmygawd, we're gonna get along so good, lyke, that's my favorite station, too.
A: I know, it's so old school! They were playing [singsong] "I don't wanna clooOooooooOse my eyes" --
B: I know! I didn't wanna get outta my car! They were playing The Backstreet Boys earlier. Zohmagawd, I, lyke, love it.

Sure, I can excuse Aerosmith (even if that song was released in the 90's; I know, because my sister just had to have the single [yes, a physical CD, children, with just a few songs on it] when it came out with the film "Armageddon" [when she was on her Bruce Willis kick]), but to call The Backstreet Boys "old school" goes against the definition of the phrase (I just looked it up on Urban Dictionary, so I think I'm using this correctly). The Backstreet Boys are neither from a different generation than these girls are, nor were they groundbreaking/trendsetting. If anything, they were part of the post-New Kids On The Block boy band formula revival, rivaling NSYNC, or 98 Degrees in Top 40 radio. Now, I know many people don't have a memory quite as refined as mine (I have a theory that people's memories don't gear up until about age ten because they were unintentionally taught to shut their minds off when in school; since I didn't go to public school, I can remember bits and pieces of things up to age five [starting as early as about eight months old], and have an increasingly photographic mind from six and up), but, by my calculations, they were born in 1994; assuming their memories rev into gear at at age four, that would be around 1998. The same year this song was on the radio...

Now, it's not at all impossible that they remember that song on radio. I know, because I remember things on radio I probably shouldn't. However, I got to really thinking about this situation last night. To put this into context, I'm going to use myself as an example. Using the same parameters, I'm going to place myself at ages four and five, because I'm an October baby, and that cusp always throws stuff off. So, Top 40 radio in 1995 and 1996.
There was this...


...and this (it gets really loud at the end, so adjust volume accordingly)...


Now, looking again at the definition of "old school", The Highschoolers' bastardization just doesn't make sense. Maybe they could get away with it if they were talking about something from before they were born; if they had said MIX played something like "All Apologies", I'd probably allow that (insider family question: I don't remember if my sister had any Nirvana in her collection; she was more singer-songwriter than grunge, but she was in high school at the time, so I can't be too sure), but The Backstreet Boys?
No.
Just. No.
Besides, I was an NSYNC kind of kid, and it was like a Beatles and Stones-esque I-won't-listen-to-the-other-band opposites. It split friendships on the playground, especially when I told my little friends that I was going to see them live; they tried to rip the seating chart out of my hands -- even though it clearly stated it wasn't a ticket, and I had only printed it to show them where we were going to sit -- and run away screaming "I STOLE YOUR TICKETS! JUSTIN'S MINE!" at the tops of their little girly voices. My mother, always the trooper, said she didn't mind taking me to the show because, unlike "those other boys", they didn't have tattoos. Which is a nice segue for...

*Have y'all seen the Don't Panic album trailer? (Oh, come on now, surely you knew I would fangirl this a little more publicly since I get to see them tour on the album drop cycle.)

Are we going to bet on how many times "I'll be your Wendy" will be reblogged on tumblr? Guesses? Also, dear-God-I'm-taking-my-mother-to-this-what-was-I-thinking?

BUT THAT'S NOT ALL!
Also released October 9 is the Magical Mystery Tour film! It's just so pretty!

Director's commentary, you say? Mmmmm.

This brings up Fangirl Problems. I, of course, want the super-dee-duper-delux edition, with the book and extra stuff; however, when I went to preorder it, it was about sixty-some dollars more expensive than the DVD alone. Knowing me, this isn't really a problem, more like feeling guilty for the splurge. What? Did you even question if I was going to get the biggest package available?

I am in the process of debating another preorder purchase, too. See, I would prefer to have a physical copy of The Maine's upcoming EP, but if you preorder their live DVD, the EP comes as a free download. Oh, silly Fangirl Problems.
But the EP sounds pretty interesting...


BUT WAIT, THERE'S MORE TO BE EXCITED ABOUT.
In October, Andy Burrows is releasing his first solo album; now, I've been waiting for him to do this for ages, but he's finally going for it. If we can judge anything from the song he's giving out on his website, or the single he released a few months ago, it should be a real treat.


As an aside, has anyone noticed that Andy Burrows...

...looks an awful lot like Graham Nash?

You be the judge.

BUT WAIT! THERE'S STILL MORE STUFF TO BE EXCITED ABOUT!
If you keep up with Beatles news, you'll have heard of the BBC documentary "Produced by George Martin", which aired last year in the UK. Wait for it... it's coming out on DVD!

WANT. IT.

And, in the meantime, this chorus has been stuck in my head for about a week...




So, what have we learned from this edition of Blog Casserole?

*I'm a crazy dog lady.



*Y'all search some weird stuff. I don't know which is more worrying: that you guys search for this stuff, or that you arrive here when you do.



*I am anticipating some exciting packages in the near future...



*I should probably learn people's names...


...and I've turned into Miriam Margolyes...

Yours, Mine, And Kevin's Christmas Story

I think it's pretty safe to say that, if you have explored this blog long enough, you will have noticed two very important things about its author: an intense, life-long love of period pieces; and that I subconsciously live my entire life as if I were in a warped period piece (the Hipster Versus Anachronism post, and the Titanic post are probably good places to look if you didn't grasp this information).
That being said, we're talking about one of my favorite films in the History of Ever, "A Christmas Story".

When I say the History of Ever, I really mean it; one of my earliest memories is looking through our VHS collection, picking out this movie, and asking my mother to set up the television so I could watch it. The more I think about it, though, the more I realize just how engrained in my life this film truly is.
Every Christmas, we put it on while we're trying our damnedest to be festive...


And, occasionally, we give each other themed presents...

See that circled package? It's an official Red Ryder BB gun. I kidded my mother for weeks that the package was just the right shape for it; oh, how we laughed when that was what it turned out to be!


This was last year. All twenty year olds need bunny suits, right?

There was even a Christmas that I gave my sister a leg lamp. Way back in the mists of time, we agreed that, should we ever find leg lamps on sale, we would get one for each sister. By that time, of course, my sister had gone off and gotten married, so, naturally, I never saw the lamp as a soft furnishing in her home (I sometimes wonder if she tried to return it, only to find that I got it half-price).

The icing on the cake, though, was during our marvelous trip to Canada (we don't talk about it). While we were passing through Cleveland, we had to stop at the Parker's house.

I bought a decoder pin there, which I display, and keep constantly set to B-22.


Fast forward to about an hour ago.
Here we sit, happily sipping our tea in the office. All is quiet, but for the annoying hum of the air conditioner, and an occasional chuckle as we each look (otherwise) silently at our respective screens. Suddenly, the silence is broken: "oh, by the way, I read that they were making 'A Christmas Story 2'", my mother said, innocently.


I put my supersleuthing skill to work, only to find the my mother -- as usual -- is right.


In case you don't want to read the article, let me just summarize the main point: instead of a Red Ryder, sixteen year old Ralphie wants a car. Specifically, this car.


Why did this have to be done under the guise of 'A Christmas Story'? Does anyone remember 'My Summer Story'? It was a travesty...


It's a similar situation to the remake of 'Yours, Mine, and Ours' that came out back in '05: I didn't see that remake, either.

Of course, I have an even longer history of a love affair with this movie. For example, the reason I chose a picture from the wedding scene is that, as a smaller child, I got to see the very dress Lucy is wearing in an exhibit at Disney World (this was in October 2002), and I spent a good hour just looking at it from every possible angle. I love that dress so much that, when I saw one practically identical to it in an antique shop a year or so ago, I bought it; as an aside, I'm still looking for a killer pair of blue shoes for it (tried green velvet, it didn't work).

Couldn't the film makers have just used the idea, rather than trying to cash in on the unreasonably popular sequel theory? Instead of Ralphie, call him... I don't know, call him Kevin. That's it, Kevin. Sixteen year old Kevin wants a killer car; Kevin wants a '61 Plymouth Valiant...

...and oh, how he wants that car! Stuff happens, and at the end of the film, Kevin ends up with a '67 Nova (since everyone knows that Novas have been kid cars since the dawn of time)...

Kevin is happy, the audience is happy, every-frickin'-body is happy. All's well that ends well. Bam. Have a movie idea on me, Hollywood, but don't ruin an American tradition. The only way this new installment could ever be part of the American tradition is in some sort of alternate universe.


Maybe we should just stay clear of Hollywood as a whole, and leave film ideas to musicians. They do other awesome stuff, let's just add to their workload.

Blog Casserole: Wayne Bought Some Noodles For The Raccoons In The Sink

Maybe you've noticed (or not, since the rest of you have lives) that this slice of the Webbynet has been conspicuously silent over the last five weeks.
That's because I have been dealing with some very unreasonable people in a pleasantly brief summer class. With my final assignment submitted, I am back to my crazy little self, and my crazy little blog.
With that said, let's talk about some things that have happened in the last month.

*So, this Olympics thing is going on, apparently. I really wouldn't know, as I lost all interest in the affair after Paul closed the Opening Ceremony.

THAT BASS WILL BE THE DEATH OF ME.

Have you seen the footage of Liverpool Street Station from that night? It's pretty awesome...


So is this video from earlier this week...


Speaking of the Opening Ceremony, can I say publicly that NBC's coverage really sucked? 'Cause it did. Not only did they cut half of the Arctic Monkeys set, they also completely removed Frank Turner's appearance. Way to go, NBC; you effectively took out the best non-Paul parts of the entire ceremony.
While we're on this subject, you would be surprised how many variations on the Band Olympics I've seen in the last couple of weeks. Thanks for stealing my blog post, people.


*I had a major Anachronism Moment last week. My mother was on indefinite hold with someone or other, and the wait music was Lady Gaga -- not corny elevator music, but Lady Gaga. I tried not to let it bother me, but it kinda sorta did, just a little, maybe. It caused me to do some digging for one of my favorite things from my not-so-distant childhood. I eventually found it; a music box that you would put a telephone receiver on to trigger the spinny wheely thingy, and it would play for about a minute before you had to wind it up again. Mine still works; it plays "Love Story"...


It raises an irritating question: why on earth would you make Lady Gaga your hold music? I mean, I know not everyone is going to make the "Love Story" music box their standard, but if I wanted to be reminded that "Bad Romance" was a mega-hit, I would have looked elsewhere; specifically, the 3:05 timestamp ...

(Rumor has it their new album already has a name, Don't Panic, and will be released October 9th; I've already preordered two copies, you should, too!)


*Surely I'm not the only person on the planet that hates the YouTube ads, right? You're just trying to load a stupid video, why would you want to listen to some moron talk about Internet Explorer, chewing gum, Visa Cards, or whatever they're peddling these days. Since our internet is so obnoxiously slow in Hickville, the little "Skip Ad" banner button loads before the ad itself; when I know an ad is coming, I go to another tab until my five seconds are up and I can skip that bitch.
I was minding my own business one night, propped up in bed, three o'clock in the morning, no lights on, trying to load something (bets on whether it was for the blog? No?). I see that an ad is about to start, so I go to a different tab to occupy my brain until it's over. As I'm looking at this new tab, I hear something familiar coming through the headphones, and I immediately begin looking for it. It's not until the ad is half over that I realize it's my YouTube tab, and that... well, look for yourself...

So, apparently, these speakers are so awesome, you'll turn into chocolate when you plug in your genericly-termed-so-they-don't-get-sued-MP3-player. At least, that's what I got out of it. That, and there's finally some kind of international publicity for One Night Only. Who wants to start the slow clap?


One thing is certain: this ad is a helluva lot funnier...


And this one just feels like it needs to be here, because I love it...

OK, I'm good now, let's move on.


*Fall TV is going to start soon! There are some things I'll be keeping a keen eye on in the next couple of months, especially my returning stories.
Community starts October 19th...


Downton Abbey airs in September...

Justice for Mr. Bates!

Parade's End looks like it'll be pretty gear...


And we all know I watch Fresh Meat for Jack Whitehall's character...

JP and Howard were the only two characters that showed any growth in the first season, so I want to see what direction they've taken with them.


*More exciting than Fall television are Fall/Winter tour dates.

Yes, they did.

I have terrible anxiety issues regarding general ticket sales. Public sales are actually ten times more scary to me than presales. So, I did the only natural thing left: I supersleuthed presale codes. We've all been on the wrong end of a presale (Paul opening The Joint in Vegas immediately comes to mind), yet it was imperative to my survival to get presale. I may have had to buy a fanclub membership for a code, but it was worth the few extra bucks to not have to wait three days.

Except I'm not gunna sell my dog; not like anybody else would put up with her quirks, since she's been with me for nine years, and has taken on all of my terrible personality traits.

So, I, uh, may have gotten presale for this...

At BOK Center in Tulsa, where we saw Paul!

...and this...

Which is also my album preorder, entry to an album signing, and the possibility of meet and greet.

...and got these on sale...

I'm usually weeping uncontrollably at this point of the production.

I'm buyin' tickets like my sister used to buy shoes! It's bloody awesome!

The only thing I'm not sure about is taking my mother to the All Time Low show. You may remember that I used their live show as an example of what not to take your mother to when I was rationalizing taking her to see The Plain White T's (these references were made on not one, but two occasions). Since presale dates were announced, I've been sitting here thinking "my God, I'm taking my mother to this", with videos not dissimilar to this one flashing in my mind...

I'll say it again: oh my God, I'm taking my mother to this. Have I finally lost my mind?


So, what have we learned from this edition of Blog Casserole?

*The Olympics are ridiculously boring.


*Either you will laugh heartily at a Lady Gaga parody, or the image will scar you for life.


*Advertising can be effective, or it can just confuse the hell out of you.


*Though the odds aren't that great, we can still hold out hope that Community will be extended to a full season.

You're damn right that's Richard Ayoade.

*We get to see LOVE! Since, you know, last time we didn't actually see LOVE, as we were too busy watching other awesome things (and I hear they changed some stuff in the show, so that will be interesting).


*And The Who!


*And All Time Low!


*And I have to be careful not to do this at either concert...