Thirty-Two Years

Of the several posts I write each year -- birthdays, holidays, anniversaries, general shenanigans -- the one I write for December 8th is always the hardest. I usually bounce ideas around in mid-October before my mind gets lost in the shuffle, and December 1st then rudely smacks me in the face; at that point, I usually sit in front of an empty composition page, watching the little character indicator bar flash mechanically at me, daring me to say something that sounds neither corny, nor trite. Each year, I try just that little bit harder, attempting to make something better, and miserably failing; this year, I'm approaching the subject differently.

Tonight, the Imagine Peace Tower will be shut off. The giant pillar of white light will not grace the skies as it has for the last two months, and won't again for a little while. Somewhere in that message is a sad symbolism: the light that is turned on to commemorate a birth shines only for the shortest time before it is dimmed. While the act is poignant, and accurate in many ways, it is not indicative of my point of view. To me, the man that light was designed for has never had his metaphorical light turned off. Thirty-two years later, the ideals he believed so strongly in are still being sought by masses of like-minded people whose cause has adopted a more than worthy poster boy. While there are many facets to John Lennon, the most publicized one must surely be his and Yoko's crusade for peace. Here's one way to look at it: how many artists can record an anti-war Christmas song that receives radio play over forty years after original release? What other artist could create an anthem as iconic and widely embraced for their cause as "Imagine"? It's all just as relevant now as it was then. Looking from my view, the light is bright, without any sign of fading. As long as those like-minded people keep that core value safe, the light should never go out. It is important, then, to take a minute out of your day to think peace, act peace, and imagine peace. Maybe, while you're at it, think of John.

Big Gulp, Fidget Pete, And Me

Warning: the story you are about to read is entirely true. The events described were actually a whole lot funnier than I am able to convey in text alone; because of this, you may possibly lose faith in humanity.

My life in the Outernet (get it, life outside of Internet is the Outernet?) has been brutal the last few months.
Y'all don't mind if my stories are a bit aged, do you?
Well, lie, then.

Reginald Kitty is not amused.

The day before my twenty-first birthday, I decided it would be a good idea to get the ball rolling on my "over twenty-one" papers, etc. The DMV in our ridiculously hicky town just so happened to be closed on that day, and I kinda needed my temporary papers before we headed out to Las Vegas, which was two days after said date of birth. With no other alternatives, I hopped in my little Beetle (could you seriously see me driving any other car? OK, maybe a '61 Plymouth Valiant), and headed forty miles north to an even smaller, hicky-er town. Apparently, the staff from our DMV go to the smaller town one day a week, and set up shop in a makeshift office. Since there is no actual DMV office in that itty bitty town, I pulled into a parking spot in front of a conspicuously vacant-looking building bearing the address I was given over the telephone. The windows were boarded up with flaking pieces of MDF board, wires were strewn across the facade, and the roof seemed to be fluttering about the place like tiny tar snowflakes. On the door, there were peeling letters revealing the building's former life as some kind of shop that had long been out of business, and a newer, handmade sign taped above them simply stating, "OPEN". Walking through the door, there was a vestibule piled high with office furniture from the 80s, leaving only a small pathway to a larger room. The larger room looked like an unfinished, gritty warehouse, and was empty but for four ancient voting booths; their yellowing red, white, and blue curtains, coupled with the fact that the building didn't seem to have any heating on that seasonably cool autumn morning, gave me an eery feeling. This certainly did not look like a place I would want to be caught dead in, but it was looking like that could be an option.

If it hadn't been for the flickering of an almost-burnt-out florescent tube light, I would never have noticed the unusually thin doorway that lead down a long, sterile hallway. At the end of the hall, there was a door displaying another handmade sign: "9-3:30". I guessed that meant we were where we were supposed to be, so I opened the door to find several high schoolers, their parents, and a few elderly folks lining the walls in metal fold-able chairs.

I walked up to the line that had formed in front of a clunky wooden desk that was cluttered with paperwork and semi-functioning pens with other business' advertisements on them. Next to the desk was a tall filing cabinet with a printer perched precariously on top of it, and a box on the floor beside it, which was covered in shoe prints. Wires stuck out of the wall in a disordered jumble, connected to a giant wall-mounted box with violently flashing lights, and heaven knows what else. It was at this point that the man in front of me started to get slightly irate.
"He's taken this test twice already!" he shouted, gesturing at a teenager that looked more like a thirty-something -- shaggy mustache and all -- excepting his Justin Bieber haircut. "And now," he started up again, "I've got to go legally change my address at the courthouse so he can do it again?"
"Yes," the lady behind the desk said, curtly, "but you can leave him here to take the test while you're gone."
And so, he did, leaving Bieber-boy to wait for his turn on the only public computer in the entire building upon which he could take the written portion of his driving exam.
I got my paperwork to fill out, handed it in, and there I sat with the rest of the schmucks. Bieber-boy talked with a girl he knew who was also waiting, while I tried not to get accosted by the nans in applique'd sweaters.

Perhaps twenty minutes passed before Bieber's dad came back with the proof of address, and the lady behind the desk could take his photo for his temporary license.
"Can you move your hair out of your face?" she said to him.
There was an awkward laugh as he tried to move his fringe.
"No," she said, "I need to see your brow line."
This continued for a few minutes until the girl he knew decided to try and help; she offered to pin his hair back with her spare bobby pin. There was a slight kerfuffle while awkward laughter filled the small room, and every one in it watched as the boy questioned all of the decisions in his life that had led him to that moment.
"I think that's as good as it's going to get," the lady said, motioning for him to sit down. The photo was taken with a prudent flash-and-click, and I was given more paperwork to fill out. As I handed it in, I heard the lady behind the desk tell Bieber's friend that she needed her guardian with her to take her exam; desk-lady had to explain that an auntie wasn't a legal guardian, and that she'd have to come back later. As one of the nans had her eyesight tested, I was given more paperwork, and Bieber was allowed to start his exam. The waiting room cleared, and I sensed that the experience might not get much more painful.

Oh, how wrong I was.

In came hoards of people, most of whom were eventually turned away for having the wrong bloody paperwork. When no more folding chairs were left, the crowd spilled into the hallway. By this time, Bieber's mother was growing impatient; she pulled her cellphone charger out of her Mary Poppins-sized bag, plugged it into the wall socket, and proceeded to play Angry Birds. A burly lady with several tattoos sipped loudly on a Big Gulp, and a fidgetty good-ol'-boy bounced his foot up and down nervously.
I was given more paperwork.

The white noise of a DMV was interrupted by the lady behind the counter. Pointing at Bieber, she loudly announced to the room as a whole, "he failed the test". His mother unplugged her phone, grabbed the kid by the arm, and lead him out of the room briskly. More people were turned away from the questionable operation, quickly leaving an abundance of chairs. Now, there was only Big Gulp, Fidget Pete, and me. The two strangers had struck up a conversation about having to prove their citizenship on a previous visit to the same office.
"Yeah," said Big Gulp, "I had to do that, too. I told 'em that I've been in state prison for fifteen years, so I had to be a citizen of some kind." Nervous laughter came from the people left in the room, including the lady behind the desk. Much to his pleasure, Fidget Pete was still emitting false giggles when he was called up to the desk. He explained that he had just moved to the state from Louisiana, and needed a new driver's license; unfortunately for him, because he was over a certain age, he had to either prove state driver's education, or take it all over again, plus the written and performance tests. His poor foot stopped bouncing as he weighed his options and made frantic phone calls. Desk-lady suggested he could cheat the system by getting his girlfriend to do the online portion of the driver's ed requirement for him. By this time, Big Gulp was, thankfully, occupied by a newcomer, to whom she complained about a local policeman who "follows the letter of the law", and how he had pulled her over numerous times. Just as she was coming to the point in her story where her ex-husband had "gotten her in trouble in this god-awful town before", and as Fidget Pete gladly proclaimed his proof of state approved education, the desk lady stepped on the box beside the filing cabinet to retrieve my papers; she told me to "have fun and party for me" on our trip.

With my papers in hand, I was free to go. I took one last look at the sign over the door that said "No Cellphones. No Outside Food Or Drink." Shaking my head, I walked back through the frigid hallway, the warehouse storeroom, and the misused foyer; as I crossed the threshold and entered the glow of the glittering afternoon sun, enjoying the warmth after three hours in a windowless room full of convicts, transplants, and morons, I knew it could have been much worse. I mean, at least the zombie apocalypse didn't break out while I was there; since I was the only one in the room with a brain, I'd have definitely been the first to go.

Justin, Justin, Reginald, And Frosty

It is one month to Christmas, folks. Let that sink in.

Sunk in? Good.

No doubt the pleasant aromas of your Thanksgiving leftovers still linger in the air with Auntie Sally's perfume, and, perhaps, Auntie Sally herself (don't we all have "those" relatives that never bloody leave?). Is there any rest for the wicked? Apparently not, because the Christmas rush has already begun without me. I mean, I've had my shopping done for ages now, but it's time for the Christmas tree fluffing, the gift wrapping, the holiday television specials, and, of course, the music. I'm listening to a duet by two people I've never heard of, all because they're singing "Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas".


Before we get too far into the Christmas Grinch-ery, let's talk about Thanksgiving.
Every year, my family has two Thanksgivings: one for my mother's family; one for my dad's family. Traditionally, Bufords (mother's) are on Wednesday, Vogels (dad's) are on Thursday. Wednesday is a pleasant day, filled with absurd company (I can say this because I love them), and fabulous food (because my mum and I cook it); Thursday is filled with tension as the introverts and extraverts mingle clumsily with each other in an attempt at forced merriment. This year was no different.
Would you like to see the extreme opposites that make up my family?
Well, pretend; it'll get you away from Auntie Sally.

Reginald Kitty is not amused.


Wednesday marked our very first all-vegetarian Thanksgiving, and it went down a treat!

Mashed potato; crock-pot tofurky and cranberry sauce; roasted tofurky; cashew bake; and sweet potato dumplings.

And, Buford Thanksgiving staple, Rum Pecan Pie.

See that pretty crust? I made it from scratch. Praise my baking prowess.

After the feast was devoured, my Grandy and I played Buford Gin (so called because it isn't traditional gin, and nobody but the Bufords know how to play it [apparently, it's harder than actual gin]), my mother cut his hair, and -- like the introvert he is -- he went home. It was a pleasant day, and he was thoroughly impressed with the vegetarian edibles.

And then, Thursday happens.
I made my deviled eggs, and my now-famous Spiced Eggnog Rum Cake with Eggnog Icing...

This cake is awesome. And, yes, I love to cook with rum.

...we packed up the car with tofurky leftovers (since I'm the only strict vegetarian in my family), and headed for certain doom.
There was an awkward buffet full of carnivorous treats, making me thankful for my ingenuity in bringing veggie-friendly goodies -- particularly after a tasteless story about slipping pork to kosher friends. Afterward, I was forced to play Hearts, which I don't actually know how to play, yet still ended up winning. Near the end of the game, I somehow resorted to drawing aliens, and my gruesome Stick Man character (he takes meaningless or overly-dramatic scenarios, and manages to either mutilate himself -- including several deaths -- or his property) on the score pad before looking through old recipes. Of all of these, um, events, the one thing that was unanimously voted as the evening's smash? My cake. Go me.

It was probably the only edible thing the carnivores ate all day.

As I enjoyed my latest sweet experiment, I saw Entertainment Tonight playing on the television; I watched with mild interest as they played an interview with Hugh Jackman (I somehow didn't care that there was no volume), and switched to the host, who was introducing something with the banner "Mariah and Justin!"
I expected this...

...and was greeted with this...


I had a 90's kid moment, and silently felt very old.

Maybe I should have put this on my cake.

That night, as we drove home, we officially began the Christmas Music Season with a rousing rendition of "Frosty the Snowman". Here's something I had never thought of until then: there is a great deal of evidence to suggest that, though Frosty is a magical snowman, his two little coal eyes still make him blind. Firstly, all that "thumpaty-thump-thump-thump" business up and down hills? Self-explanatory. "Down to the village with a broomstick in his hand, running here and there, all around the square, singing "catch me if you can": he must be using the broom as an improvised walking stick, and is clearly asking the children for assistance. The children then chase Frosty through town until he "paused a moment when he heard [the traffic cop] holler 'stop'". You notice he never saw the traffic cop? Coal eyes, folks.

It's all clear now, isn't it?


So, as I sit here, happily digging into my perfectly flaky pie crust (seriously, this pie crust is awesome), I contemplate what Thanksgiving 2012 has taught me.


*When introverts get together, it's short and sweet. When introverts and extraverts get together, it's like trying to wallpaper a mole's house with double-sided tape and paper towels.



*I should probably stop analyzing Christmas music. We all know from past experience I'll go slightly nuts about it, anyway.



*I am too young to feel this old. I mean, really. All thanks to an overly-popular name.

Fun fact: I was at this concert. Take that, Bieber! In my ancient files and documents, I found our ticket stubs from the show; we paid about $49 a head, which is more expensive than either All Time Low or Plain White T's tickets were over a decade later (not to mention that I met Plain White T's and All Time Low, and talked to them while they signed their respective albums for me). They really know how to hit teeny boppers hard, don't they? (Or, more accurately, their parents.)


*Contrary to my numerous fears, Operation Veggie Thanksgiving went splendidly!

This is what happens when I'm left with pen and paper.


*This Thanksgiving, I was thankful for this photograph.

PAUL.


*And I really don't like that Photobucket now makes your most recent upload your welcome screen.

Dr. Child Of The Corn

Warning! The story you are about to read is entirely true, and was not exaggerated. If anything, I made it a touch lighter than it was as the events unfolded.

My niece's third birthday party was on Saturday. Since it is generally my job to put up streamers and balloons (I say this because it has been proven true for three out of three birthday parties), we arrived early to help out. Just as I was finishing up, and before some of the guests had arrived, my niece asked me to play with her. I told her, after much bartering, we needed to play with something we could put away quickly, because people would be coming over soon. She settled on "Doctor" -- and, by settle, I mean that she told me to lie down on the floor while she pulled out her doctor kit. Her kit is quite sophisticated, with little pliers, tweezers, a scalpel, scissors, and the little light thingy they shove in your ear.

All mine had was a box to store your plastic bandages in.

It always annoyed me that the cast didn't fit in the bandage box; not that it mattered, because I used the bandage box as storage for my Polly Pockets. I also used the pill bottle to keep a stash of M&Ms, and the bag when I pretended to play Titanic.

So, at this point, I've been forced by a small child to lie in the middle of my sister's living room floor between a shelf full of puzzles and a pretty-pony-clippity-clop-clippity-clop rocking horse, she's got folks coming over who could arrive at any moment, my niece has pulled out a seven thousand piece medical kit, and I'm thinking that this game needs to end abruptly.
I peeked over my knees to see her personalized hair bow bobbing up and down as she decided how best to start our game. I twiddled my fingers, which were laced over my chest, and waited for her to do something. She turned back to me with a deceitfully innocent grin on her little face, holding a blue and red plastic scalpel in much the same way as a character from "Tales From the Crypt" might.

Yeah, actually, no, Aunt B does not want to play "Doctor" anymore.

That's when I started to fear for my person.
As I was wondering how I'd gotten myself into this, she gingerly tip-toed -- yes, tip-toed -- wee-tiny-baby-steps up to me before hesitating slightly, lifting the scalpel over her head, and actually cackling.


She gleefully uncrossed my hands, and proceeded to make a long "incision" down my front. Then another. And one more, just for good measure.

She skipped back to her other supplies with joy, and I was eerily reminded of a game her mother and I used to play (in the same way I was roped into playing "Doctor") where she would have me stand in front of the kitchen window when we were unloading the dishwasher; she would take a knife out of the silverware caddy, and "stab" me until I withered, making a ghastly silhouette play as I put away our cutlery. This kind of crazy simply has to be inherited.
Before I could get to thinking of other peculiar entertainments we sisters used to get up to, the child comes back with a blue pair of pliers, and tells me to open my mouth.
"What exactly are those for?" I asked her.
"To pull out your teeth," she said, too excitedly to make me comfortable.
"What else is in your bag?"
My answer, apparently, was not enough for her, because she settled on a suitable place on my arm to pinch. When she was satisfied, she gamboled back to the pile of instruments. I took my opportunity to appeal to her practical side.
"People are gunna be here in a minute for your party!"
She was having none of it.
Instead, she grinned widely as she dramatically opened and closed a pair of red scissors, aiming for the same place on my arm as before. She traded tools in a flash, pinching my arm hair with a pair of red tweezers.
"Your party is gunna start soon, we should put our toys away," I said, making another appeal to her sensibilities. I sat up, and offered to help her put her kit back together; she, of course, was having too much fun for her own good, and pushed me back on the floor with a "no, you stay there".
"But --" In one ear and out the other as she brought out a thermometer, and we had a prolonged fight about why it wouldn't go in my mouth, either. Speaking of ears, the special light was unceremoniously stuffed into one of mine as I was offered party punch to sample. Just as I was being assaulted with a stethoscope, her mother found us, and forced the toys back into their box on the shelf of puzzles. Disheveled, I picked myself up off the floor, and was glad to have made it out with nothing more than a busted lip, and a few scratches. I probably looked like I was beaten up by a cat. Or, more accurately, I felt like I was beaten up by a cat.

Guess which of us is which.

I learned several things from this experience.

*Regardless that I love my niece, and she is generally an exception to my shenanigans, children continue to freak me the hell out.

All children are Children of the Corn, so far as I'm concerned.

*Some things are inherited. Creepy factor is one of those things, and she and her mother will have oodles of fun with this in the future. I sense several dramatic reenactments of the shower scene in "Psycho".

Fun fact: I bought my sister a "Psycho" shower curtain for Christmas one year, and she used it until it fell apart. It matched the "Bates Motel" door sign I got her at Universal Studios.

*Even though I hold "Awesomest Auntie" status, Aunt B is never playing "Doctor" again. Ever.

Yeah, no. Ever.

International "John Lennon Is Awesome" Day

Every October 9th since this blog's creation, we have taken time out of whatever schedules we're juggling to pay tribute to the one and only John Ono Lennon on his date of birth. The last couple of years, this has proven somewhat difficult: in 2009, there was a short but sweet gloss over some creative points; 2010 was a huge Lennon milestone, and gave everyone a better chance to celebrate John's many facets; 2011 talked about how this day has spawned numerous events worldwide. The question now stands at what can be said for 2012? Everything has been rehashed so many times that fact and fiction blur into an urban legend of mythic proportion.
To that end, as with everything I do surrounding John, I say we keep it simple.
Have some beautiful clips of a beautiful person.












Also keep in mind that Yoko will light the Imagine Peace Tower at three o'clock Central Time today.

My guy is seventy-two! I can't believe how quickly these years have gone; I hope there will be so many more that we can hardly stand it. My dear, thank you for everything then, now, always, no matter what; quite simply, you're the best, and we all know it. You know that every year I say it, and every year I do it: raise your teacups to toast the birthday boy!

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.