A Drunk Bird In A Pocket, Or, The Story Of Mr. Do-Its

As I sit in my office, happily snacking on my home-made banana nut bread, sipping my decaf tea, with my Lilly Girl in my lap (I think this is the point where my sister would tell me to go do some yoga; little does she know...), I am both humbled and gobsmacked.
You may have noticed that this portion of the Webbyverse has been relatively quiet of late.
That's 'cause I've been busy.
See, a seven week composition class is mostly to blame. An essay that was only supposed to be 1000 or more words ended up being 3370 words (I always say that, once you get me talking, I don't shut up), not to mention something called Peer Review. Being homeschooled from second grade through high school, I'm more comfortable working alone -- and I really, really like it that way -- but you don't get a choice about that kind of thing. Never one to just get my feet wet, I took a flying leap off the ruddy high dive in this class.
I guess that attitude paid off.
"BUT HOW?" I hear the faceless "Dear Reader" in my head scream with enthusiasm rivaled only by the original Match Game studio audience.

Well, you see, I had a very troublesome Peer Reviewee; so troublesome, in fact, that I was given both his first and second draft to review. Of the seven different essays I saw, this man needed the most help (though they were all, quite tragically, in need of some TLC). With his entire essay based on the unfairness of child support, the overall tone of the essay (not just the subject itself) sounded like an episode of Divorce Court...

I'm not kidding, I referred to the essay as "Mr. Do-Its" work during the entire semester.

I helped the guy out as best I could; by the second go around, I was resolving myself to some of the harsher realities of what I had to tell him (names have been changed to protect the ignorant, or something):

7. Does this paper ever use language that is too colloquial or too informal? (For instance, does it use slang? Does it "sound" conversational? Does it use first and second person?) Give examples. Conversely, give examples of strong writing that enhances the academic register of the essay. And when I say examples, I actually want you to provide examples from the paper itself to illustrate your points.

I am going to be absolutely frank with you, Mr. Do-Its. I reviewed your draft during the first Peer Review, and I gave you a lot of tips and instructions to work with. After reading the second draft, I can see that you took my advice to heart, and tried to put the suggestions I gave you to work. There are more statistics, a Works Cited page, and parenthetical citation, which is a marked improvement. Unfortunately, it still is not enough. This essay will make up the majority of your grade in this class; this paper, exactly as it is presented to me, will most likely not get you a very good grade. The grammar is questionable, the problem and solution sections are weak, and the tone is not acceptable for an academic essay. Please, understand that I am not being harsh, but I am instead trying to help you by being straightforward. The topic you have chosen presents many opportunities to prove your point, but this draft does not showcase that fact. You have until Friday, July 22 to make this draft work; it can be done, but will take every bit of time you have. Since some of the pieces of advice I gave you on the last Peer Review are still relevant to the second draft, I shall restate them. Please, use them as a reference to guide you to the final draft. I truly hope you will succeed, and that this review does not discourage you in any way. If anything, my most sincere hope is that it will encourage you to do the best you possibly can. I wish you the best of luck.

This quote from the essay, "Then the courts can still hit the fathers where it hurts by putting them in jail for contempt of court," then going on to say, "That is violating civil rights," is misrepresenting information.
If a citizen is disobeying a court ruling, it is not a violation of civil rights for the courts to take away privileges such as driving, or to imprison the citizen. That citizen, to put it simply, is breaking the law by disregarding a court ruling. When a citizen breaks the law, they are punished. Were our parents violating our civil rights by punishing us as children? The same logic applies to upholding court orders.

There are a lot of grammatical problems stemming from the casual manner this draft is written in. Before the final draft is submitted, I urge you to go back to the Wadsworth handbook, and review Part 4, "Understanding Grammar," and Part 5, "Understanding Punctuation" (this was an assigned reading earlier in the course). If need be, also reference Part 8; though you may not be an ESL student, you will benefit from that section of the handbook. Some things to make special note of for your second draft are: plurals; possessives; all meanings of each variation of their/they're/there, is/are, and do/does (consult a dictionary if necessary; if you do not own a dictionary, I would suggest dictionary.com); proper placement of commas and question marks.
Also, be sure to go back over your draft and look for missing words, such as "an", "the", etc.
Again, keep the Wadsworth handbook, a dictionary, and a thesaurus within reach during the writing process. Perhaps imagine you are writing an article for a newspaper, not an essay; you can refine the draft to fit an essay later.

Considering the conversational tone of this draft, I am unable to identify any examples that enhance academic register of the subject matter.

I was unsure how this might go over, as I had said pretty much the same things with a sugar coating regarding his first draft. That, and I had tried just as hard with the other six reviews (even going so far as to use my infamous authors-and-icebergs analogy on some poor girl). I submitted the review just as you read it and thought nothing more of it, except for the fact that my Peer Reviews, after grading, had an additional twenty points added to them for no reason (my Mama always told me not to look a gift horse in the mouth, or some bollocks like that).
Fast forward to this morning.
I already knew that my essay received a 99.5% grade (which is a really good thing, since my grade kind of hinged on that essay), but the letter I received from my professor truly caught me by surprise (names have been changed, and all that rubbish):

Subject: Thanks

I read your reviews again for Mr. Do-Its, and I must say they are perhaps the best reviews that any student in one of my classes has ever provided for another student. Quite frankly, your reviews surpass what most composition instructors would provide. Both are impressive.
So thank you for your commitment to the peer review process.
P.S. By the way, may I use your proposal paper in future classes?

Well, this explains the twenty extra points on my Peer Reviews.
Oh, yeah, and there's that whole "may I use your proposal paper in future classes?" question.
As a hobby-writer that never shares her work (and obsesses over simple things like blogs), I was both floored and flattered that someone would ever want to use my words to help teach others. My words!
As soon as I had the chance, I sent this reply to the professor's request:

I would consider it a great privilege to have my essay incorporated into your curriculum, and hope that my work will be of help to your future students.
I am also pleased to receive such positive feedback regarding the Peer Review process, as I had never participated in one before. My sincere hope is that Mr. Do-Its took my advice to heart, and that he made a decent grade for his assignment.
I look forward to taking your Freshman Composition II class next summer, and wish you luck for the upcoming semester.
Regards,
Archibald Heatherington Nastyface

I have to admit, I'd love to know how he plans on using my material; I also feel sorry for the future students that might have to read twelve pages on animal smuggling.

Reginald Kitty is not amused.

You would think that writing the essay was the hard part, but it really was the Peer Review. I'm kind of like the Grammar Gestapo, and make pointing out such errors in everyday situations a game (you would be surprised how many you spot, if you're looking hard enough).

If there are too many issues, though, I kind of go a bit mental.

That being said, I devised something I called the Sanity Break. When I just couldn't stand to be surrounded by so many inaccuracies, I would unwrap a mini Hershey bar, and head to YouTube until the chocolate was gone.
My Sanity Breaks looked a lot like this (feel free to unwrap some chocolate and enjoy)...




Now, if you will excuse me, I'm going to take an extended Sanity Break; I'll need more banana nut bread!

Yes, this is my home-made banana nut bread.
No, you may not have some.

Blog Casserole: The Hilarious, The Weird, And The Tiny

It's time for another Blog Casserole, folks!

I've done Blog Casserole a couple of times in the past; it's really just random things that are going around in my brainbox, yet aren't connected in any way.
It's like a good shepherd's pie: made up of the left-overs, and never the same twice (except the mashed potatoes. I am extremely picky about mashed potatoes, stemming from an incident involving tonsil removal and antibiotics. That, and I just really love mashed potatoes)!
Before we really go anywhere with this, I need to point out a really music nerdy date.
Today, July 6th, marks the fifty-fourth anniversary of the Woolton Garden Fete where The Quarrymen played.
Does this mean nothing to you?
Then you don't know the story!
Little Johnny Lennon and his skiffle group banged about on an outdoor stage...

...where a chubbly little lad called Paul was just so happened to be.
It also happens that the little Paul lad played a killer rendition of Twenty Flight Rock, and the basis for The Beatles was born.
My favorite part of the story has always been the actual Quarrymen performance. John, in his fashion, didn't have any idea of what words to sing; he could play it, but didn't know the words (why do you think Yoko was usually on stage with him after they were married? She had the lyrics!). So, he would just make words up. According to Paul, the Lennon impromptu version of the Del-Vikings hit Come Go With Me was "come go with me to the penitentiary". I always think of that when I hear the song.

WHAT HAS BEEN HEARD CANNOT BE UNHEARD!

We now take you back to your regularly scheduled blog post.

The Hilarious
I have to admit, I kind of like that advertisements key into what you look for. It's a pretty genius idea, and, if you're like me, you get really neat stuff. I'm always getting ads for Las Vegas, ModCloth, Beatles related stuff, even the SarahPAC (they call it the TEA Party, I call it New Federalism. Whatever).
That's why this one was really weird.
There I was, just minding my own business, when an advertisement similar to this one appeared on my screen...

I laughed then, and I'm laughin' now. I'm not sure if it's the fact that the lass in the photo (you know, the one on the right) is cougerin' it up, or that this is probably taped on some teeny bopper's wall.

Naturally, I went to investigate, and was met with an entire website full of the metaphorical stench of Kidz Bop and grape jelly (hey, don't knock grape jelly, I had some for lunch today; technically they were grape preserves, but whatever).
I giggled at the Fan Exclusive, which... well, here's what it has to say:

Are you Justin's number one fan? Take the SOMEDAY experience one step further with the Fan Exclusive Eau de Parfum. The iconic bottle comes with a limited-edition, removable, jeweled charm from Justin–so you can bring the experience with you wherever you go.

Before we go any further, don't you think it's a bit odd to think that a bottle full of Justin Bieber perfume could be classified as "iconic"?
You want iconic?
I'll give you iconic, asshat.

At our house, we call it The Hoff. In person, it's just a lot of screaming. Really, I've seen this bass get bigger applause than the song it just played. And yes, I realize that the bass pictured isn't actually THE Hofner (if you didn't see it, this one is a righty, and Paulie is a lefty), it got my point across.

The charm says "I Love You", supposedly in Bieber's own script. Oh, how I laughed!
Come to find out that the proceeds go to charity.
Does that mean I'm not still going to laugh about it?
Hell no!

What surprised me most, though, was how ruddy much the stuff costs! Thirty-five bucks for the cheapest bottle of perfume? For a nine year old?
"Hang on a minute, you hypocritical looser," I thought to myself, "you were wearing perfume to kindergarten!"
Oh, yeah, there was that.

I am feeling unnecessarily old; I couldn't find the bottle I remembered on Google Images, so I had to dig through my old stuff to find it for the photograph. Then, I couldn't get the focus right, so I had to put my glasses on. It's official, I'm a proverbial senior citizen.

"That was different!" I answered myself, "You were trying to garner attention from *insert male name here, which has been excluded for anonymity purposes*."
"Well, why wouldn't it work for some other little girls, then?"
"Mums don't like to spend thirty-five bucks during a recession. Besides, that perfume did get you attention, just from the wrong little boy. How easily we forget!"

I guess the moral of the story is to be careful about your perfume choices. And that I'm ancient, don't forget that one!
I kid you not, I started looking up information for this portion of the post, and my computer isn't working properly now. I. Kid. You. Not.


The Weird
We can't be the only household to get the Collections Etc. catalog. Obviously not. I mean, I don't know what their average buyer is looking for, but I would bet it isn't either of these two strange offerings.

They call this gem the "Bound Gnome Lawn Sculpture Carried By Squirrels". How original.

Um, can I ask the really obvious question?
What the hell would squirrels want with a garden gnome?
Are they going to carry him off to be their personal slave? "Hey, Mr. Gnome-Guy, do the ironing!" "Hey, Gnome-Man-Man, isn't it about time you cleaned the windows?"
Perhaps it's something more sinister. It sounds like Over The Hedge meets the Saw films. Seriously. What is this?

Here's another for ya ('cause really, none of us has anything better to do that this), the aptly titled "Set of 3 Duck Family". These people come up with the best names.

Is it just me, or are these just rocks with twisted metal inserted in the right places? I mean, I'm all for art and everything (and, let's be honest, I don't understand a lot of art), but this is surely considered extremely abstract. Extremely.
Hell, the longer you look, the more these start to resemble potatoes.

Am I alone on this one?

Reginald Kitty is not amused.


The Tiny
I have a bone to pick with Bettie Page Clothes.
I know, I know. We've been good friends in the past. I've bought a few frocks from them, and love each of them. Hell, if I could find some of their older designs, I'd get them. They give you every benefit of real vintage, without worrying about a sixty year old dress coming undone as you wear it (when I wear real vintage, that is always a concern. That, or that I'll spill something on it, but my clumsiness is neither here nor there). Knowing we'd be going to Vegas for Paulie, I went online and did some preliminary research. I mean, if I'm going to Vegas, I'm going to Bettie Page; if I'm going to Bettie Page, odds are really high that I'm coming back with a dress.
Well, that used to be the case, anyway.
Picture the scene: we're walking around in the Planet Hollywood, in the area where it still looks like the old Aladdin. In the distance, the familiar logo draws me in to see what little gems I can find. I had my eye on something in particular, but you never know what's going to be on a sale rack. After perusing, I find what I'm looking for; a replica of an actual Elvgren pin-up dress. Not only was it my beloved circle cut, but with it's red and white candy stripe, buttons down the front, and wide collar, I was sold before I had seen it in person. I was already looking for shoes for this dress (Ballet flats? Mary Jane heels? Special vintage look? So many decisions).
I picked out an extra small, and meandered back to the fitting rooms.
Imagine my surprise when I'd gotten into the damn thing, and it fit me like a feed sack. I mean, we all have about a five pound range to play around with, but I am by no means at the low end of mine.
Filled with confusion, I double checked to make sure I got the right size. I even tried on another one, just to make sure it wasn't that particular dress. I even went to a different Bettie Page, for heaven's sake. It was at the second one that they told me they had changed their sizing.
Here's the thing.
In case you never knew, I'm an incredibly tiny individual. Like, I stopped growing at about age fourteen (and I was a tiny fourteen year old to boot). If you look at photographs of our first trip to Vegas in 2006, and compared them to the ones taken just two weeks ago, the only difference you would see is the length of my hair. Really.
Well, all 5' 2", 100 pounds of me was swallowed up by each dress I tried on.
Isn't it bad enough that I have to shop in the kid sections? Or that I have to have everything tailored? Bettie Page was the one place I could actually get things to fit me. And I can't be the only one, 'cause the old extra smalls used to sell like hotcakes. I often couldn't get a dress I wanted because they simply didn't have the size. Where are the other small, vintage-loving weirdos going to go?
The way I see it, if I have to get Bettie Page dresses hemmed up, I would rather broaden my selection by getting real vintage; any size, color, make, or model.
For example, I'd take any of these...

I'm a vintage size eight, but if we're going to be altering anyway...

I tried to think of a song that incorporated each element of the post, but "tiny" kept throwing me off. Take "hilarious" and "weird", though.

I'm not kidding, my computer still isn't working.

America, You Don't Look A Day Over 223 ('Cause You Technically Aren't)

So, yesterday was the 4th of July. Here in the good ol' USA, we were celebrating our independence. May I just say, the way we celebrate our detachment from the mother country has always confused me. The Constitutional Convention wasn't until 1787, and the Constitution itself wasn't ratified (therefore, legal) until June 21, 1788.
Why do we make a big deal about the day the Declaration was signed? There was so much more that had to happen between 1776 and 1787 -- you know, like the Revolutionary War -- so that we could have an extra day off every year to grill animal flesh and set our backyards on fire (have I ever told you about the time we set our backyard on fire with a sparkler? Well, another time, perhaps).
Couldn't we just move the damn date up? Big friggin' whoopdy-do, two weeks to get the dates right. THAT'S America, kids.
I can't say that we don't all buy into the nostalgia factor of July 4th, though. We can't help it, we're sappy Americans.
Even at our house, we did the whole bar-be-que thing.


I opted for the kill-free substitute...

Remember, grilling without meat is fun for you and the cows!

And I'm sure that, if there wasn't a massive burn ban in effect in our neck of the woods, we would have watched some fireworks. As it was, there was a television special live from New York City that we watched (God, that sounded pathetic).
Naturally, I was more interested in how the NYPD disposed of 5000 pounds of confiscated fireworks.


So what if we didn't get fireworks yesterday? We had things much prettier than fireworks, like a beautiful golden sunset...




and the smallest wildflowers...


So, whereas yesterday was touted as America's 235th birthday, it was really just an ordinary Monday; that is, except that there was no Bachelorette!
Why do you do this to us, Chris Harrison?
WHY?

Look at you, with your Baskin Robins ice cream. No consideration for those of us that wait for Monday like Christmas.

Lather, Rinse, Maim

We've talked about being a 90's child before. Hell, while I was looking for evidence on this very blog, I saw several instances where I just couldn't shut up about the ruddy 90's (what does it all mean?). With the kids of the 90's hitting the age where we all start getting nostalgic about the rubbish... I mean, pop culture that we remember, it's no wonder this awesome thing has happened.
Someone finally heard the cries of 90's children across the nation!

Before we go any further... um, did they just call us "grown ups"? Unless the secret of being one of these so-called "grown ups" is that you're bumbling about like a blind kitten, then don't inflate our egos.

How did this wonderfulness happen?
According to Entertainment Weekly (AKA, the place where Chris Harrison blogs Bachelor!), TeenNick (when did this happen?) is going to run 90's shows in the wee small hours of the morning.
Personally, I'm really curious to see what they play. Sure, we know about the staples, like Clarissa Explains It All...

Didn't everyone want a friend like Sam? I did. Of course, I would have also taken a friend like Tucker from Flash Forward, but that was a Disney show, and not relevant to this discussion. Now that I'm older, and have a bit of perspective, I realize I just wanted somebody to be nice to me instead of make fun of me (I was not what one might call "popular". Go figure, right?).

All That...

It's no wonder this generation has turned out weird. I watched this and laughed all the way through it. Then, I watched it again.

and The Amanda Show...

...but surely that's not all they're going to give us!

If we're being totally honest, though, I'm most excited for The Adventures of Pete and Pete. That show was a huge part of my childhood, and, in a weird way, telling of the person I was to become. Just in case you don't know the story, I was so in love with the opening song, I decided I would learn to play guitar just like the guys in the opening credits.

Also, I had this little-girl-cute-thing for Danny Tamberelli. To which I say to myself "look at your life. Look at your choices".
Someone should have warned my five year old self that she would be doomed to a life of "I-don't-know-who-they-are" bands, and red haired funnymen. It was all laid out for me, but I was just too young to see it.

BE WARNED, WEE NAIF! AN ENTIRE LIFE OF WEIRDNESS AWAITS YE!
Also, this is proof that I was cool once.

My question now is are they going to get into the cartoons, too? 'Cause that could be made of awesome; they could play Rocko's Modern Life, Beetlejuice...


Animaniacs...


Tiny Toons...


I mean, how far are they going to take this? Take "100 Good Deeds For Eddie McDowd"...

It started in '99, and ran through '02. Are they going to play it? (Personally, I loved this show. I mean, I would lock myself in my room and watch the new episodes every week. Hey, Danny Tamberelli was in it. The mind boggles.)
I mean, I'll tune in to this "The 90's Are All That" block just 'cause I'm a sentimental sap, but it'll be really disappointing if they only play All That reruns (not that it wasn't a great show when it started... hey, Danny Tamberelli was in it [I'm noticing a theme. I was a pathetic child]).
Also, are we gunna get cool bumpers and stuff, like Stick Stickly? 'Cause that would just be the whipped cream on this hot fudge sundae.


I wanted to put a nice, nostalgic 90's Nickelodeon video here, but I found this instead.

Put this guy on a can of stew!
Oh, and just in case you didn't notice, Danny Tamberelli was in this video. When can we start building that time machine for five year old me?

Section-18-Oh-My-God, Or, The Paul-grimage, Or, Carry A Pizza Box, Girl!

If no one has noticed, this little portion of the Globally Expansive Trap (doesn't have the same ring as World Wide Web, does it?) has been conspicuously silent.
That's because I have been in a perpetual state of "what the hell day is this?" since June 5th.
You see, at midnight, the very moment we switched to June 6th, I started my seven week summer course (hence the tardiness of this post). I'm not particularly a fan of these summer sessions, but the benefit is that I can take a class that would ordinarily be very easy for me (OK, so there was the one time I took Algebra in seven weeks, and still ended up passing with an A), and cram it into half the time of a normal semester. Let's face it, the quicker I can get a class done, the further away from this sick little game I can get (and it ain't fast enough, folks!).
I had this little predicament, though; well, it was actually quite a big predicament.
We had to leave to go see this guy - oh, what's his name, Paul Mc-something - at about six o'clock in the morning on June 6th! See my problem? So, I worked until four o'clock in the morning, and hoped that would be enough (I did meet every deadline I could, so I'm sure it was just fine). The best part of the whole thing is that I just didn't give a shiny baboon's arse that I was missing the first week of seven.

My sister and I used to sing the I Am Weasel theme song in the back seat of our car all the time. Now she doesn't sing in front of people (whereas I scared the hell out of a UPS delivery guy only this afternoon).

Vegas has that effect on me, I guess, 'cause I only checked in once the entire time I was gone, and it happened to be on June 7th, the day before we got to Vegas.
Before we delve into the awesomeness that was Vegas, though, let's start at the beginning of the story. You know, like you're supposed to. (Imagine that!)
After the college debacle, we left for Gallup, NM (we know, we know) at around 2:30 in the afternoon.
"How nice", we thought to ourselves, "a leisurely drive to New Mexico, and we can finish off the rest of the trip in time for a late lunch in Vegas tomorrow! Oh, happy day!"
We hadn't even left town before some kind of belt thingy on our car squeaked and squealed as we began our journey. With stops every twenty or so minutes (or maybe it just felt that way), we decided to get it checked out in Albuquerque. Five hours later, we were on our way, but not before we had some great adventures.
The ash cloud from some fire in Arizona engulfed the entire town during our five hour lay-over; the sunlight filtering through the debris was absolutely golden as embers flitted about like snow in the air. I imagine it was what Pompeii looked like right before it was smothered. If I ever see anything like that in my life again, I will know to run the other way; just as a bystander, though, it was amazing to see.

Our view from the auto repair shop. The time was 7:22, if that gives you an indication of how mucky it was out there.

If you really want to know how bad the ash was, just ask this guy. We figured he was asthmatic.

I swear to God, this guy was at the Whataburger across the street from the auto shop. I took the shot from the back seat of our car, so I had to crop the photo down a bit so you could see him clearly.

Highlights from the trip? I thought you'd never ask!

Reginald Kitty is not amused.

*What is it with random people walking along the highway in the Middle-Of-Nowhere-Arizona? Thirty miles from the nearest town, and random people were just along the highway, no car in sight. One guy was wearing a very heavy down coat, and, a while later, a kid on a bike. No car, too young to drive, but a kid just riding a bike. I. Kid. You. Not.

*A direct quote from my vacation notebook (yeah, sue me): Leaving LOVE shop: "I lost the hundred dollars I came with". Heard Panic At The Disco in the car park. Both pleased me.
The best part about the gambling man was that he was chasing after his friends; I like to imagine they were holding his wallet.

*For once, the music in the casinos was good. I know, I was shocked, too. The first day alone, I heard Plain White T's, Panic At The Disco, Sugar Ray, Smashmouth, and lots of classic rock (Elton, Billy, Beatles, you know the drill). It has only just dawned on me as I typed that sentence that they're trying to reach my age range, though. Oh God.

*There was a guy dressed up like Chewbacca walking around on the Strip. I couldn't find him for a photograph, though, so here's a substitute.


*This.

At Paris. After I took this picture, the girl behind me pulled out her phone while screaming "OH MA GAWD". I told her to put it on Twitter.

*The Triangle Of Awesome. For those of you who may not know what the Triangle Of Awesome is, take note of the circled items.

At top, The Beatles Revolution Lounge (and, naturally, the LOVE shop); lower left, husband... um, I mean, iPad shopping at the Apple Store in Caesar's Palace; at right, after a long day of browsing (and buying, in some cases), Chipotle for a spot of lunch. Does life get better than that, I ask you? Oh, wait, I forgot about the guys on the Lennon Bus in tight trousers. (I can't help it if the thing was parked outside The Mirage the whole time we were there.) I withdraw the statement.

*I was actually called a southern belle by a Long Island Yankee. Believe it. All I did was say "are you positive?", which caused laughs from their group as they tried (and failed) to repeat the words with my accent. I think I may have laughed with them. What? It's funny.
Related thought: I, apparently, do not mind being shoved into folks if they randomly start singing Beatles songs (though, with as long as we were bumped up against each other, at least he could have bought me dinner before he made fun of my accent).

*Oh, and we saw this guy, Paul McCartney. I can't explain what our Paul experience was this time. The only word I can say is surreal. We walked into the arena, and the reaction was something like this (not just from us, but from everybody in our section)...

My mother saw this and said "I love gimp cats!" Only in our house...
Followed closely by this...

Once the show started, I turned into a little puddle of weak-kneed mush as my eyes beheld the wonders before them. We sang, we danced, we blew kisses and got some in return, we screamed so hard we coughed up blood, and we wept like schoolgirls. There simply are no words. None. Empty. But, that's the magic of Vegas. Anything is possible there, let me tell you. I have been to Vegas on pilgrimage before (please, dear God, don't ask), but there's something about the place that just leaves me with a mystical glow of pure joy.


All in all, the trip flew by too quickly, but what a trip it was!
And Paul, love, we'll see you next time!

Somebody's Got A Birthday Today...

June 18th.
The eighteenth day of the sixth month.
6-18.
So what?
It's International Sushi Day!
No, that doesn't seem right. What about birthdays? I mean, a lot of people were born on June 18th: Roger Ebert, Isabella Rossellini, Jack Barakat. Wait, I think I'm missing somebody. Like, an IMPORTANT somebody.

It's only our favorite guy in the whole wide world!
On behalf of the entire planet: biggest, warmest, hugs-and-squeezles, oodles and globs of sappy birthday wishes go out to the one and only Paul McCartney on this, his sixty-ninth birthday!

From Beatle Paul...


To Wingin' it with Linda and the guys...

(I swear, this is what heaven will be. Except with puppies, and Krispy Kreme doughnuts.)

Givin' his regards to Broadstreet...


Tripping The Live Fantastic...


To where he's at today...


How often can we honor such an incredible human being?
Not often enough, say I!
Do you think we'd all do the crazy, insane, totally psychotic things we do if we didn't love this man? Not just me, but the Fans On The Run, the multi-generational Apple Scruffs, and, as we saw recently, fresh-from-the-oven fans practically wetting themselves with excitement at his mere presence.
We do it 'cause we love our Paulie!


Who cares if the video is old? The sentiment is the same! Thirty-five more at the very least, or you'll have all of us to answer to, OK, love?

Allen Klein Must Have Been Involved...

Hey, Apple, can we talk? Yes, you, Apple. Yes, The-Beatles-Apple. I'd like to talk candidly to you. You've gotten enough of my money over the last ten years, the least you can do is sit down and shut up, right?
I have taken notice of the latest Facebook updates to the official Beatles fan page, and I must say, what the holy loving hell is going on?
The first of two updates says that the Anthology series is going to be reissued.
"Great!" said I, "That's fab, man. Even the Anthology will be on iTunes now! Gear, it'll get out to a whole new generation of sods that are about to have their little brainboxes blown by the awesomeness that is John, Paul, and George."
Not long after, the second update posted this great little video to promote it.
Intrigued, I watched this awesome video. I was really into it, Apple, I've got to tell you; George Martin, Paul, George, and especially when they talked about the "Free As A Bird" and "Real Love" tracks - goosebumps all over! Way to go, you've got me sold, and I've already got the entire package (the three volumes, plus the astounding accompanying documentary and coffee table book).
I was reveling in the music nerd moment, Apple, until I saw this message flash across the screen before your groovy little green apple logo.

Wait, in the update, you didn't say anything about it being remastered, for the love of all that's good and cheezy. Did you really digitally remaster the ancient lo-fi demos? And it is going to be released on June 14th? As in, like, the same June 14th as the remastered McCartney and McCartney II issues (side note: Paul, you lovely cheeky monkey, you. This was all planned! How do you manage to take all my money, you adorable scouser, you?)?
Admirable effort to be hip, dearest Apple (even more dear than Macintosh, you slags), but I have a bone to pick with you.
It is obvious that, since the company's inception, all was doomed (two words: Allen Klein. I don't care that it was all those years ago, we're all still trying to live through the mistake that was Allen Klein): poor management, and concepts that are either out-of-date or bordering on ridiculous all add up to illogical business sense (read, the opposite of MPL... you know, the McCartney/Eastman company of awesome? We'll not get into that now, though).
Let me tell you what the record buying public want; I should know, I'm the record buying public. Don't get me wrong, I love the Anthology series with a purple passion - the George Harrison takes in particular tickle my fancy, and, of course, that "And Your Bird Can Sing" giggle-take is the best thing since Hershey Kisses.
Here's the thing: we've already got access to these things. We have them in our grubby, greedy little hands. We have read the booklets that came with the CDs. We have drooled over the studio chatter. We have marveled at the stripped down awesome of the infamous three part harmonies (like golden angels, for God's sake, and I am convinced it's what Heaven sounds like).
Not that we aren't excited for this new release, but, as a member of this record buying public, let me tell you what you should have done: give us access to something new.
"What kind of new?" I can hear your big-wigs nervously ask.
Sour Milk Sea, Bad To Me, Goodbye, One And One Is Two, Suicide, The Donovan Session from 1968, extended takes of It's All Too Much (and NOT just the version from the Yellow Submarine film, either... don't be stingy), Can You Take Me Back, and Her Majesty, and, sweet lizard with an afro, the list could flow from the top of the Empire State Building to unsuspecting tourists on Fifth Avenue below; and that's not even to mention the stuff we don't even know exists. The long and short of it? Anthology, v.2.0, remastered, if you please.
And you absolutely cannot use the "well, now that George has passed" excuse. If you can do it with the Threetles, by God, you can do it with Paul and Ringo. I know Ringo is pretty useless, but he was a Beatle nonetheless. So what if you can't use the same shtick of "new Beatles material after twenty-some years"? If you give us takes like the ones I mentioned, it'll ALL be new. We know you have the ability (does anybody remember "Let It Be... Naked"? A twenty-two minute track entitled "Fly On The Wall" rings a bell).
Hell, it doesn't even have to be fancy. I'm sure that the Anthology series was incredibly difficult to cull together, what with the special liner notes, the book, the documentary; the best part of an Anthology 2.0 is that no one expects, or is even asking for such a fuss.
Liner notes? Big bold print along the following line: "Thank you for buying this thing what we done longtimes ago. Love, Paul". Oh, and that Peace and Love thing Ringo does. Slap that on there, too; you know, in smaller print.

We don't need a book, we don't need a documentary, either; everything that's going to be said has pretty much been said (unless Paul can think of anything else awesome. Which he can) as far as the whole "this-is-the-story-of-The-Beatles" business goes.
Oh, and one more thing: I suggest you do it pretty damn quick, kids. Use the resource of Sir George Martin while we still have him to turn to. The dude's eighty-five years old, so time is of the essence. Bring Giles into it, too, for kicks and giggles. The more, the merrier! As far as I'm concerned, make everybody a part of this celebration. Yoko? Come on in, darlin'! Olivia? Sure, bring Dhani, too! Sean, you say you might want to chip in? Great, join the party, bring your lovely brother along, if you can catch him!
The point is to do this while you can. Record sales are in the tank, so it may be a good business idea; you know, if you can be bothered to come up with one (you know, unlike that "Best Of Apple" compilation that came out last year; seriously, you'll release Jackie Lomax's version of Sour Milk Sea, and the Mary Hopkins version of Goodbye before you'll let the original demos out of your death grip? I know they exist, too, so don't say you haven't got them).

Oh, and, by the way, put the Anthology 2.0 on CD; you know, unlike this remastered Anthology (seriously, Apple?). Believe it or not, the die-hards you're trying to target LOVE physical copies - since I first read the news, I've seen nothing but complaints that this is a purely digital release.
Once again, Apple's respective head is deep in the metaphorical sand.

Did Katie Survive The Rapture?

Tonight was a typical one at Fusspot Farm.
2:30 AM, and the house was still bustling: Daddy was in his bedroom, while Mother and I were out in the office. I love our office space. What was once used as the dining area, the office was transformed by replacing the dining table with a partners desk, and making the cabinets into bookshelves; it's a better use of space for our lifestyle (and, I'm proud to say, an idea I personally initiated). The windows in the space are phenomenal, spanning floor to ceiling, and overlooking a spacious courtyard (where I grow my geraniums), which opens onto our wooded back yard. I had just finished helping Mother locate an article about an upcoming Michael Vick appearance some of the animal rights activists she follows on Facebook plan to protest at, and decided now was a good time to look up proper care for my new bleeding heart plant (I finally found an established one! The only other time I had seen one, we were at Monticello, and couldn't bring it home with us; I snatched one up in Colorado as soon as I saw it!). Just as I arrived at the "can I plant my bleeding heart in a pot?" question, I saw movement out of our floor-to-ceiling windows. To see movement out of the corner of my eye is nothing new for me, so it took my fuzzy brain what felt like five minutes (when, I suppose, it was probably less than a second) to process that there was, indeed, something there.
I focused as well as I could without my glasses, particularly after spending an entire afternoon reading, to find a man standing at our back door.
Though I don't remember this, my mother tells me that, cool as a cucumber, I said to her "there's a man at our door". It felt like it took her ages to look at the giant black windows behind her, and that, apparently, the only thing that alerted her to the severity of this situation was that my eyes were "huge".
Screams of "THERE'S A MAN AT OUR DOOR" rang throughout the house as my mother scrambled to wake my father, who had fallen asleep in front of the television.
Apparently, when my mother asked the stranger what he wanted, he asked for someone by the name of Katie. Well, he certainly isn't going to find a Katie here. Perhaps she fell victim to the Rapture?

As the stranger ambled out of our courtyard, we dialed 911. The police came and went, and so did the stranger.
Everything is just fine now, except there are three people in this house that are incredibly paranoid. Even more so than before.

Cut us some slack, this happened an hour ago.

Hipster Versus Anachronism, Wordplay, And How They Apply To My Life

This post is going to sound absolutely psychotic; but one of my best features is not being afraid to make a total ass of myself. That, and I've got pretty decent legs for a skinny girl, but that's neither here nor there.

I have been toying with this idea since March, yet have kept finding subtle ways of putting off clicking that pretty orange "Publish Post" button. Let me tell you, this post barely resembles what it did at the start. This particular entry has been through a few stages of transition, but we've finally hit it with this one, I think.
I don't have any idea why I haven't wanted to let this post go yet, and I'll probably think of something I should have changed by the time your little peepers read these words. I can't help it. That's my style.
So, with the radio on, and hot tea at my side, we're going to proceed to further publicly prove my insanity.


I'm not going to lie to you, dear reader, this topic was triggered by music.
Again.
Don't look so surprised.

Reginald Kitty is not surprised.

I have been awaiting the release of the new Panic(!... do we add this now? I don't have any idea) At The Disco album. After the longer-than-anticipated post in which we talked about their first single, I didn't feel like it would be a good idea to talk about them again; but, as I always say, this is my blog, and I can.


With my own opinion of the album on the back burner for the moment (oh, don't worry, we'll get there), I'd like to talk about a term I was recently introduced to.
While sifting through fan reactions to this latest release, spanning from "ZAPPFTLKSTIWNFD I luv dis CD liek moar than lyfe itself lolololol i'd liek to by a punctooation markkkk" to "Hmmmmmm...", I noticed a word cropping up quite often: hipster.
Now, call me sheltered, but I had no idea what the hell that meant. All I knew was that they were using it in the context of the band's split, usually next to "Ryan Ross is such a...".
Now, from what little I know, I would have used anachronism (after replacing "a" with "an", naturally; vowels, people!) to finish that little phrase, but that's just me. After all, I know the word "hipster" to define someone who is "hip". You know, the hip cats, the swingin', fab gear (yes, I'm mixing decades, sue me) in that Warhol "fringes of cool" kind of way. If I'm being totally honest, the word "hipster" conjures up images of beatniks and hip chicks dressed completely in black (with an occasional beret perched atop sleek haired individuals), stuck in a smokey coffee house in the more run down part of town, while a bearded man in thick black sunshades reads macabre beat poetry to the sporadic rhythm of an old bongo, played by a man calling himself Orbitus.

I loved this episode as a kid. Did I just inadvertently further the point that I'm a bit weird?

And, no offense to Mr. Ross, but I would not classify him as hip in a traditional sense. Of course, in my book, that's probably one of the best compliments you could be handed; though, in the wrong hands, is just a nice way of saying "you're a personable freak" (and we all know that just leads to trouble). It's also worth pointing out that, even on this very blog, I have hypothesized that people such as he are "just the same brand of crazy I am".
Photographic evidence?

Well, doesn't this look like oodles of fun? Beatles Monopoly, popcorn, Apple products, turntable; who's up for comparing a 70's pressing of McCartney to the remastered on vinyl? I'll supply the former!

Being the logophile (NOTE: Google does not recognize "logophile" as a word. Tisk tisk, Google.) I am, I went to the Urban Dictionary to help me out.
Let me tell you, dear reader, I was surprised by what I read there. The definitions turned out to be more like descriptive articles (and there were a few of varying helpfulness); this particular one - the whole of which can be read here - was what stuck in my mind, festering away, nagging and nitpicking the back of my brain:

Hipsters are a subculture of men and women typically in their 20's and 30's that value independent thinking, counter-culture, progressive politics, an appreciation of art and indie-rock, creativity, intelligence, and witty banter. The greatest concentrations of hipsters can be found living in the Williamsburg, Wicker Park, and Mission District neighborhoods of major cosmopolitan centers such as New York, Chicago, and San Francisco respectively. Although "hipsterism" is really a state of mind,it is also often intertwined with distinct fashion sensibilities. Hipsters reject the culturally-ignorant attitudes of mainstream consumers, and are often be seen wearing vintage and thrift store inspired fashions, tight-fitting jeans, old-school sneakers, and sometimes thick rimmed glasses.

It was at the end of this paragraph that I sat back and thought to myself, "dear God, some of this sounds incredibly familiar".
In all truthfulness, much of what was described made a lot of sense.
And it got me to thinking, and reassessing my life (as you do when you're awake at four o'clock in the ruddy morning).
How special can the term hipster be? If, with any culture/counterculture, there is the niche for subcultures, aren't they just mocking themselves? (Answer: Yes.)
If, as was described in some of the articles I have read, hipsters try so ruddy hard to not give a skippity damn, is the entire purpose for their counter culture undermined, thereby making itself counter productive? (Answer: Yeah-huh.) And, how "cool" can they be if they don't stick with any one thing long enough to figure out their arse from their elbow?
Don't get me wrong, I'm big on that whole independent thinking/progressive (though, technically, the word is subjective, depending on where you stand on an issue) politics/creativity/intelligence/witty banter (oh, wordplay, you elusive little bastard), and, let's admit, the vintage styles of dress. I mean, I'm not complaining or anything, but I'm constantly berated with ModCloth advertisements (hey, don't knock it... I recently acquired a gear little Bernie Dexter number in their 70% off sale).

This was saved on my computer as "NothingModAboutACosbySweater".

Hell, I'm even studying for a ruddy liberal arts degree, for the love of all that's good and cheezy (bet ya didn't know that).
I have, however, noticed certain differences in the hipster label in comparison to my personal favorite, anachronism (which, to my knowledge, is not associated with any slang term; when I looked it up in the Urban Dictionary, the definition mirrored that of the actual dictionary definition. Yeah, I check that kind of stuff, sue me).
I decided to stretch my Google muscle and found some interesting things.
Would you like to see a very small, slightly relevant (OH MY GOD) slice of what I saw?

Pete is intrigued.

Perhaps the most helpful site was this odd little blog-type-thingy.
Descriptions are one thing, but photographs are another.
VISUAL AID!
I encourage you to take a look, 'cause we'll be using some similar images in our own comparisons.
When I Google Image'd (as we call it at Fusspot Farm) "hipster", I was met with this...


I wondered what Italian immigrants had to do with hipsters...


I came to find out that hoodies are a "thing" for such folk.

Well, that's me for ya.

Hmmmm. Still slightly intrigued, I further perused the LATFH blog, where I stumbled upon this photograph.


What I thought: IT'S A PENNY FARTHING!
What the caption said: “Check out my old school fixie!”
What I thought next: TO THE URBAN DICTIONARY! (Remember, sheltered life.)

fixie. a hipsters best friend, probably the only thing he loves. usually a bright yellow mid 70's peougeot with the rear cog locked. also known as a fix-gear. there are two types of fixie, 700c and 27". according to hipsters, 27" bikes are not true fixies. a fixie is usualy comprised of said peougeot frame and extremely rare/hard to find OEM parts (campy stem, maxy crank, etc). usualy the fixie riding hipster tries to play it off like he just "found" the parts/frame at a goodwill. when in fact he searched for quite some time and spent a good sum of his parents money on them. the life span of a fixie is quite short, hipsters dont beleive in a chain, or any kind of locking mechanism, so they frequently get stolen by bums/hobos.
hipster: nice fixie... oh, 27"?
non hipster: yeah.
hipster: i got the hookup on some nice 700's if youre interested.
non hipster: fuck off.

With the subject weighing heavily on my mind, I decided to Google Image penny farthings.



I cannot lie, I laugh heartily when I see this photo.

And, because YouTube is my generation's biggest Black Hole Of Time (true story)...

Why do I do these things?


With such examples before me (and not just of penny farthings!), I see one blatant, glaring difference. After careful analysis, I took the long way about finding a very obvious conclusion.
Hipsters will like something just to be different; as soon as something new comes along, they move on. Anachronisms, on the other hand, simply ARE different. We can't help it, our personalities just don't match up with our time. Instead of the latest and greatest in underground so loved by the hipster, the anachronism is out for the resurrection of the oldest and most gear (if it's slang to begin with, would "gearest" be proper?) in whatever the ruddy hell they like. (Please note that "anachronism", by definition, can also be used to describe objects. We're talking in the people sense. You know, in case you've been asleep this whole post and didn't quite notice what we were talking about.)
Example? I thought you'd never ask.

Reginald Kitty is not amused.

Just this afternoon, my mother was washing an apple for my dad when she turned to me and said "the skin is very rough on this apple. If I were going to eat it, I would take that part off".
Rather harmless statement, isn't it?
My first thought was "it must have been rubbing up against the crate in transit".
My second thought was "the crate? As in, like, a wooden crate?"

They haven't used wooden crates to ship apples in my lifetime.
It was then that I started to remember a slew of things that have just always made me weird. Like the time I told my mother I should have been born with the Baby Boomers, or that period of time when I refused to wear no other shoe but saddle oxfords; the list really could go on.
I think the biggest (or, at least, the funniest) is that, before I started kindergarten (the beginning of my incredibly short public school career), I thought The Wonder Years was set in modern times.
Hey, I never claimed to be a brilliant kid.

In our family, we dressed like the Arnolds, our family roles were similar, our house was decorated like theirs, we listened to that music (and still do!), and - my best indicator - everybody in my world hated the President.
Yep, sounds like the early 90's as I remember them.

And that is the difference. Right there. Displacement, not replacement.


While I'm at it, here's one final attempt to prove my point.
Which one is Ray Davies, and which one is Ryan Ross?



I think I just added a point to my column.


Secure in the knowledge of my individuality - or, I suppose, lack thereof - I thought of one more way that hipsters and anachronisms differ: rather than put up the facade of "I don't really care", we anachronisms really DON'T care. In the words of the immortal Cass Elliot, "different is heartache, different is pain, but I'd rather be different than be the same".
Now, let's all just hold hands, and go watch Pirate Radio.

One of the greatest films ever made. Ever. When I say ever, I mean EVER. I love this movie with a purple passion.

Oh, and with regard to the album that sparked this psychotic little trainwreck of thought (there's the wordplay!), I didn't realize I had so very much to say about it. So - and get ready for this, 'cause you're just going to LOVE it - I have decided to split that into a separate post.
YAY!

Reginald Kitty is not amused.

In the meantime, have this, and don't say I never gave you anything.

I'm not going to lie to you, dear reader, I picked this video for the Beatle wordplay.

That, and the Pete Townshend reference.

By the way, happy sixty-sixth birthday, Pete!