Smash it Up Sunday

Today is, "National Metal Day," according to VH1 classic. This has been celebrated by a countdown list that goes on for ten hours. TEN HOURS of a show being hosted by Fozzy (they're awful. Just awful. Don't believe me? You asked for it. Go ahead and watch that video) frontman and "Professional Wrestler," Chris Jericho. Feh.

When douchebag is finally coined by Merriam-Webster, there's going to be a picture of this asshole right next to Christian Audigier (to bring you up to speed, it's the guy that "designs," Ed Hardy clothing).

Anywho, much like every other list that VH1 classic cobbles together, I can't really manage to express via the written word how disappointed I am that this is the best that fans could come up with. Clearly if the electoral college needed to be established to tell voters who they wanted to for president, then clearly there should be some gate-keeping to keep people from themselves. In fact, I haven't even looked at the entire list until now, in hopes that I can express my initial discontent for two readers that might be interested in this (my husband being one of them).

I have a hard time understand what VH1 was classifying as, "Hard Rock." Is it because a guitar is involved? Is it because there would be a slightly chance that you'd bang your head? Clearly, some criterion must've been reached, and then the voters took a dump on them. I don't think that the complete list is out yet, but I did find one from 2009 that really grinds my gears.

Aside from yelling at the television (thanks Gram, I really needed to pick up that trait from you), I've also amassing things for my smash book.

Like a lot of the pen-palling  paper-crazed crafters out there, I purchased a smash book, but unlike a lot of paper-crazed, pen-pallers out there, I seem to have no idea as to how to get started. Right now, I have a bunch of cards, postcards, letters, ticket stubs, fortunes, name cards, buttons that are sitting between the blank pages of this book, waiting to be inspiring for me, but I just can't seem to figure out how to put it all together. Being drawn in by all of the accessories and the doo-dads that go along with it is an easy slippery slope, but so far, I've just purchased the book and a few tags. There are entire sites dedicated to how to create a Smash book that emulates your personality or to show-off how amazing adorable some people are at smashing their lives into the pages of a book, but so far I suppose my smash book is a lot like my life, half-finished and bursting at the seams with all of the things that I wished I would've said and done to make everything pretty and witty and light.

My favorite line in Louisa May Alcott's, Little Women says, "I should've been a great many things, Mister Mayor."

Black Metal Christmas

It's already November 9th and I'm just putting up my Christmas decorations. My husband hates it, but in order to fully enjoy Christmas decorations, they have to be up at least two months. I didn't make the rule it just is what it is. As I say this, we are watching a documentary called, "This is Black Metal," and Celtic Frost is currently covered in blood and dirt and singing about metal-y things like flesh and guts. This marriage is about give and take. Black Metal and Christmas. Or Black Metal Christmas. If you've never heard King Diamond's, "No Presents for Christmas," you must run to the interwebs and download it this very instant.

For anyone that doesn't know me, I love to collect post-modern Christmas decorations. Basically the ugly, ugly plastic decorations that are most likely full of lead and pain that causes seizures and erectile dysfunction (although that second one hasn't really plagued me). Pairing these ugly items with the basic ugly items that litter my apartment throughout the rest of the year is probably one of my favorite activities. If you can believe it, the Infant of Prague stays and the creepy head looms all the live-long day.

Sharing my collection with six people on the internet is fun for sure, but  much like my currently watching this back metal documentary, interspersing Dustin's interests with mine makes for a fun life together. Bottle brush trees and tiny robots go together swimmingly, anyway. 

No holiday is complete with embarrassing your family whilst showcasing your super sweet plastic Christmas shovel  .My parents really enjoyed when I forced them to wear someone else's clothes and pose for a picture in Gettysburg. ESPECIALLY my father. He wouldn't even wear rental bowling shoes when we were going bowling one time for my birthday. Admittedly, this is more about my perverse pleasure it distressing my father than it is about my Christmas shovel. Moving on...

This year I bought a champagne (it's pronounced cham-pag-in) glittery tree and covered it with totally twee bows. Personally, I blame Etsy for this. If it wasn't for that site, aqua wouldn't be such a big part of my life. Neither would birds or little doodads that make me squeal.

Garett's grandma had some of the coolest Christmas loot--including these awesome Santa candlesticks.

Don't miss the creepin' Santa head in the background.

Why do so many Santas look like Rummys?

I caught this grumpy cat under my Kitchen tree, or perhaps it should be called a Kitschen tree.

I've covered it in Norman Rockwell ornaments, teapot lights and sugarcube garland with the most adorablest button and corduroy tree skirt that ever lived.

That is, until the cats destroy it.

Christmastime is here. So that means its time for me to make a concerted effort to be a little nicer and be a little bit more human. Bill Murray will tell you all about it.

Gray Skies Ahead

Mr. Obama has been re-elected as the President of the United States of America, and it's too late to talk about all of the superbly wonderful ways that Mittens would've waved a wand over this country and transformed it to the land of ever-flowing cash and rich, white people as your boss as far as the eye can see.

If social media is an indicator of the level of fucked that we are as a "United Nation," then I'd set that dial to, "totally." Concern for one has given way to lots of selfish bickering, finger-pointing,  bible-thumping and conspiracy theories (like, FEMA's putting stickers on your mailboxes and we're all getting put in work camps conspiracies. Oh the humanity!).

It reminds me of a little ditty written by David Gray:

Wishing that something would happen

A change in this place

'cos I'm tearing off the fancy wrapping

Find an empty package

Take for a while

Your trumpet from your lip

Loosen your hold loosen your grip

On your old ways

That have fallen out of step

In a changing time

Hoist a new flag

Hoist a new flag

Angry sun burn down

Judging us all

Guilty of neglect and disrespect

And thinking small

And death by boredom

And death by greed

If we can't stop taking

More than we need

But across the fractured landscape

I see the same things

Tired ideas

Birds without wings

[ Lyrics from: 

And these are just thoughts

Of lack lustre times

I've no interest

In excuses you can find

Like you've had a hard day

Now you're too tired to care

Now you're too tired to care

You've had a hard day

Well across the fractured landscape

I see the same things

Tired ideas broken values

Many with the notion

That to share is to lose

A hollow people bound by a lack

Of imagination and too much looking back

Without the courage to give a new thing a chance

Grounded by this ignorance

(and the cat comes)

We're just,

Birds without wings

We are a nation that has been transformed based upon the notion that, "to share is to lose," even though we grew strong as a nation with government programs like, "The New Deal's" three Rs (Relief, Recovery and Reform) and fiscal conservatism. Nationally, we're paying the middle class less, buy bigger things and putting up with a budget that would tank any household. We want to let the rich pay less taxes, and then we wonder why the deficit is so large.

This reminds me of another, by David Gray:

I beg to differ

To break the chain

To draw a line right through

Tomorrow

And cancel every claim

I've seen reflections

Beneath my skin

And drums beating for battle

In the eyes of children

And turning it over

Right down

Where the eye don't see no colour

Where the war don't make a sound

Ice on the shoulder

Noel

Praise the lord above

And sell sell sell

Oh violent flowers

You fill the screen

Betray your mother

And change your name

So tall and fickle

And blind as snow

Running headfirst for oblivion

Cause you've nowhere else to go

And turning it over

Right down

Where the eye don't see no colour

Where the war don't make a sound

Ice on the shoulder

Noel

Praise the lord above

And sell sell sell

In chill of winter

In dead of night

Each so familiar with the hunger

That they got no appetite

They talk of loving

I hear her say

That as fast as I can give it

He's taking it away

And turning it over

Right down

Where the eye don't see no colour

Where the war don't make a sound

Ice on the shoulder

Noel

Praise the lord above

And sell sell sell

And turning it over

Right down

Where the eye don't see no colour

Where the war don't make a sound

Ice on the shoulder

Noel

Praise the lord above

And sell sell sell

A weeping willow

The desert wind

So many learn to swallow

So few to understand

The deepest longing

This cup of faith

Where to put them in a world

Where no innocence is safe

If we don't, "beg to differ and break the chain," of hatred, greed and intolerance to usher in a new way to comprise, then we're all as doomed as the red-dotted mailbox dweller. 

   

Tomorrow: Will it Really Come, and If It Does, Will I Still be American?

This is my last political post. I mean it. This is it. I've bordered on the edge of a liberal-leaning moderate making snide jokes about how Mrs. Mitt Romney (she doesn't need a name. I mean, hell, she doesn't even need the right to decide what she wants to do with her body) hasn't worked a day in her life and Mitt Romney wouldn't know a middle-class person if they came up and smacked him in the face (which I would be willing to do, repeatedly). I've openly admitted that I’m disappointed in the President that filled the country with hyperbole about change and patriotism and fairness but really failed to incite the change in the governing body of the people that elected him. I’m tired of living in a country that can’t get over the fact that our President is black, and I’m ashamed to admit that it took a very real and very blatant act of racism for me to believe it. I’m tired of middle-class white people thinking that their only hope is the tea party, when they don’t even come close to realizing what their platform means for someone that lives exactly like they do. I’m tired of a bi-partisan system being the status-quo because everyone is too stupid, too afraid or too apathetic to really care about the people that are being paid to represent us while we slave away at meaningless jobs and pay taxes that manage their pension funds and tax breaks for the one-percent of the population that can afford it. I’m ashamed that I fall into that apathetic category.  

I’m terrified that tomorrow could be the beginning of four years of what is already an insurmountable national debt being that much harder to pay off. That forty-seven percent of the population will be treated like scum:  Granddads that need Medicare or single mothers that need daycare assistance to work and go to school to better their lives. I’m terrified that the next four years will be exactly like the last that were full of snide bickering, racism and personal attacks. I’m afraid that American Conservatives are blaming American Liberals when the real blame is on the hundreds of men and women that refuse to comprise to make this country whole. Unity has no room for partisan politics, so I’m confused as why we are all so willing to put up with it?

Personally, I’m terrified that as hard as I work now, it will never be hard enough to reach a place where I can retire and to everything that I've ever wanted to do—like visit Ireland or The Cotswolds or anywhere else that I've ever wanted to go, but couldn't afford to do it. I’m terrified that at thirty, I've invested a lifetime worth of debt into an education that’s provided a lifetime worth of hassle, because I don’t know somebody that knows somebody that has, “an in.” I’m terrified that if one more person tells me that the reason that I don’t have what I want is because I don’t work hard enough, that I will stop trying completely.

Mostly, I’m afraid of voting Americans. I’m afraid that they vote without their heads. They vote for themselves and not for America as a nation. They vote thinking that they live in the greatest country in the world (in what category, I have no idea), but they vote for people that want to cut funding for Public Broadcasting and Education.  If you lived in the one-man country of “Peter Smith,” or” John Van Dyke,” or, “ Amy Schneider,”  voting for your agenda and your religion and your pocketbook would be a worthy vote, but we don’t. We are the United States of America and with that comes the great responsibility to vote for those people that are United under one flag. People that should be allowed to love and marry who they choose, should be able to make choices about their reproductive health and should be able to reach out for help when they need it, without fear of repercussion.

When you’re voting tomorrow, you’re casting a vote for yourself, but you’re also casting a vote that affects every single person that you've ever locked eyes with on the street, every person that you've ever stood next to in an elevator, every child that will be forced to live with the choices that we have made as adults in 2012. Many people talk about how this is a right as a legal American citizen (and thusly want to remove this right from those that may not have the appropriate paperwork, but contribute to this country with the same ferocity as any other citizen). Many people talk about how it is a privilege to vote. I feel tremendous burden of this vote. The importance weighs on me greatly and pushes the apathy to the breaking-point of Patriotism, of connectedness to my fellow Americans, to pride. That is probably the most terrifying feeling of all. The transformation to someone that cares. God, I hope you can feel it, too.

My Yearly Christmas Plea

Every year, I try my hardest to get my local radio station to play Christmas songs that are somewhat off the beaten-path. I'm not asking for "Merry Muthafuckin' Christmas," by Easy-E, but damnit, if I have to hear Bono wailing about his baby not coming home for one more season, I might go postal.

So, here's my open letter to the director of programming at one of my local stations that has an all Christmas/all the time format:

Seasons Greetings to You!

 

It's almost time to begin your Christmas programming and I have to say that this is, by far, my favorite time of year to listen to your radio station. Christmas is my favorite holiday and the songs that are associated are so heartwarming and wonderful...even if the general population says that they're annoying and repetitive. Nothing could be farther from the truth, if you're willing to spice up your playlist and consider some of the many Christmas songs that never make it to the airwaves in Pittsburgh. I feel like this Christmas is a real opportunity to become the station that really serves up Christmas correctly, free from the same twenty Christmas songs that you hear on that other station (we both know what I'm talking about).

 

Please consider some of the songs I'm going to list...for a few reasons. Firstly, I know a think or two about Christmas music and I know a thing or two about being in the 25-35 white, educated, middle-class demographic. It is no coincidence that bands like Mumford and Sons are popular: people are longing for skilled and talented musicians on the radio, and that includes Christmas music. Why is it that Bing Crosby's Christmas album has sold eleventy billion copies? The dude can sing! Please consider some talented artists that aren't necessarily Bruce Springsteen wailing about Santa Claus Coming to Town or, "Another Auld Lang Syne," by Kenny Loggins. In fact, if I never heard that song again it would be too soon. That is NOT a Christmas song.

 

1. "Driving Home for Christmas," by Chris Rea

2. "The Burning Babe," by Sting

3. "Who Took the Merry Out of Christmas?" by The Staples Singers (this song's awesome quotient makes it officially "outta sight.")

4. "Christmas Song," The Raveonettes

5. "A Christmas to Remember," Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton

6. "Christmas Wrapping," by The Waitresses

7. "The Christmas Waltz," by Doris Day

8. "Late in December," by Jackie Gleason

9. "If We Make it Through December," by Merle Haggard (technically not a Christmas song, but neither is, "Another Auld Lang Syne," and well...we've already discussed that one, haven't we?)

10. "Christmas in Las Vegas," Los Straitjackets

 

 

I want to listen to your radio station, but when you play the same five Christmas songs in a loop, you leave me with no choice but to make a playlist full of She & Him, The Pogues and the amazing tunes listed above.

Give yourself the gift of my listenership.

 

If this totally narcissistic and bratty plea does not get to them, then NOTHING will.

 

Let's not take the Merry out of Christmas.

 

Waiting for the Great Leap Forward

As of late, I have been complete absorbed in XTC’s, “Making Plans for Nigel,” listening to it six or seven times a day. Dustin and I casually mentioned that if we ever decided to have a child (GASP!) and it was a boy, Nigel was a definite boy name possibility. I’m betting that our next boy cat would have a better chance of being named Nigel. Maybe a hairless cat that someone buys me for my thirtieth birthday? Just a consideration for the six people that even come close to reading this rarely-updated and poorly-attituded (that’s a word now) blog (that’s also a sentence fragment, but I like to live life on the edge. The grammatical edge).

I love this song because, much like the Brits, they say it best when they say nothing at all (Yes, I did steal that line from Keith Whitley. What’s he going to do about it? Not much, I’ll bet).

We're only making plans for Nigel 

We only want what's best for him 

We're only making plans for Nigel 

Nigel just needs this helping hand

And if young Nigel says he's happy 

He must be happy 

He must be happy in his work

We're only making plans for Nigel 

He has his future in a British steel 

We're only making plans for Nigel 

Nigel's whole future is as good as sealed

And if young Nigel says he's happy 

He must be happy 

He must be happy in his work

Nigel is not outspoken 

But he likes to speak 

And loves to be spoken to 

Nigel is happy in his work 

We're only making plans for Nigel

 So many songs have been written about working-class Brits by artists like Billy Bragg and groups like XTC, that I feel as though I have basic understanding of their desperation and apathy and how it, in turn,  mirrors my own in so many ways.  While artists like Sting (don’t get me wrong, I like him, but he’s a total twat) like to talk about how they grew up in working-class neighborhoods whilst on a Yoga retreat in sweaty, buggy Bali or from a yurt in Mongolia where they’re learning to play a yak intestine hurdy-gurdy from the local medicine man (thusly trying to gain some kind of street-cred with the middle-class and actually gaining street-cred with Bourgeois Bohemians that make two-hundred thousand dollars a year and have a Zen garden on the back patio of their brownstone because it just makes them feel more “at peace.” FEH.), there are artists that write songs that express what we’re all thinking in such amazingly witty ways that the typical idiot off the street isn’t going to get it and will just be-bop his way through life thinking that that song has a catchy tune (we already discussed this when I dissected Bruce Springsteen’s, “Born in the USA,” and wondered why anyone, anywhere would ever use that for their fourth of July celebration).

“Nigel’s whole future is as good as sealed,” is so ominous and so frightening under the guise of being upstanding and good. It’s like when you see a picture of John Wayne Gacy cheesin' it dressed like Pogo the clown when you know he’s secretly stuffing twinks in his crawl-space (are these analogies doing it for you yet?). 

I feel like I'm Nigel. I feel like my husband is Nigel. I feel like there are so many of us that are Nigel: with social deviants screaming inside of us. Aching to get out and set the nearest bank on fire and start bartering with goats and baked bread. 

My whole life seems to revolve around how I push dollars from one person to the next through spreadsheets and credits and re-bills and invoice history errors and dividends. My future was as good as sealed the day that I signed the FAFSA and said that I would spend the next four years spending forty-grand on a degree that would afford me to be so happy. I must be happy. I must be happy in this work.

We're waiting for the great leap forward.

Good Times (For a Change)

So, the grandest thing that could ever happen all year is going to happen on Tuesday, October 23:

Steven Patrick Morrissey is coming to town.

Santa Claus could travel back in time and bring me that Bigfoot Powerwheels that I wanted when I was five...he could even adorn it with seven bald kittens, and it would not equal the euphoria that I feel about seeing Morrissey in concert.

This internal hype is a recipe for disaster for several reasons.

La raison pour laquelle on: There is more than a reasonable chance that Morrissey could cancel. He's done it before because he's an Artiste. I cannot think about this reason too greatly or I will throw myself in front of a double-decker bus. They have them in Pittsburgh now to cart lazy tourists to the five things that this city has that don't totally blow (although I'm sure four of them have something to do with sports).

La deuxième raison: There's this freaking kid that I've seen at both the Voltaire and Psychedelic Furs shows that has managed to almost ruin my good time. He's smelly and has some penchant for screaming at the performers and standing so close to me that he almost touches me. The more I ignore him, the closer he gets.

La troisième raison: As with any performer, their whims guide the setlist and can spell disaster for anyone that doesn't love everything from their latest album. The good news for me: there isn't much that I don't totally dig by Moz.

Because I'm sad enough to fantasize about a concert that may or may not happen that is over a month away, I asked some fellow concert-goers about their wishlists and secretly compiled the songs that I wanted to hear whilst sobbing my eyes out in the fourth row (FOURTH ROW!).

Without further ado...well, maybe a bit more ado...

My Morrissey Setlist:

1. I Will See You in Far Off Places.

2. The World is Full of Crashing Bores

3. Tomorrow

4. Still Ill

5. Disappointed

6. Piccadilly Palare

7.Cemetary Gates

8. Sing Your Life

9. Rusholme Ruffians

10. November Spawned a Monster

11. This Night Has Opened My Eyes

12. Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want

13. I Know It's Over

Encore:

14. Everday is like Sunday.
15. One Day Goodbye will be Farewell

Is fifteen too many? I felt a little greedy, but I also thought that a nice, round twenty-five would do the trick for me. I mean, I can only cry so much before I will need to sleep.