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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
I'm not quite sure why, but Gina and I had made this promise (I'm using this word loosely, because it's not like I'm going to be too disappointed with myself when it doesn't happen) to ourselves about getting around Pittsburgh and seeing things: cultural events, festivals, and live music. When the opportunity arose to see Neko Case (for free, let's not go crazy), I was happy to be invited and happy to see a woman I had only heard briefly. My favorite song that I'd heard (of the two that I'd heard), was a duet with Nick Cave...a cover of The Zombies' song, "She's Not There." A rad song that, admittedly, is really made by Nick Cave. I'll give you a few minutes to listen...
Ready? (In other news, everyone needs to hear Nick Cave's version of. "Stagger Lee," it's totally filthy and awesome)
Anyone in Pittsburgh can tell you that the temperature can currently be described as "swamp-ass hot." Whilst waiting to go in, Gina and I toured the vast cultural offerings of Millvale, PA, including a Family Dollar, a closed cafe and diner (I mean my god, it's 7:00pm, why would you be open? This is another one of my favorite things about Pittsburgh), and an exotic bird supply store (also closed). Yeah, Your guess is as good as mine about that last one. We finally go in and find that the air-conditioner is practically non-existent and what cool air is available is not-so-subtly mixed with the acrid smell of cooked meats. This seems to be TOTALLY the kind of thing that Gina and I were referencing when we said, "cultural events."
Anyway, we're sweaty and sitting through a very sub-par opening woman that seemed nice and probably tore-up some karaoke in her hometown. Throughout these festivities, a couple named Mike and Tina/Tiffany(names have NOT been changed to protect the innocent), repeatedly accosted Gina and I (well, mostly Gina. I was trying really hard to be unfriendly) chatting about their celebrity lookalikes (Tina/Tiffany said that people likened her to Sarah Jessica Parker. This made me think of the line in Family Guy when Peter said that SJP's face looks like a foot), if they should try to go upstairs to sit in the VIP section, etc....all the while getting drunker and invading everyone's personal space. Finally Mike compliments Gina on her ability to pull off a short haircut and I look at Tina/Tiffany, who seems more lucid at this moment, like, "get your frat-boy boyfriend away from me." She storms off and is mad because Mike was putting the moves on Gina and (apparently) I was giving her a signal about it. Wow. Finally, a lovelorn Mike returns, sans Tina/Tiffany, and starts chatting with Gina about how he's not ready for a serious relationship. Ummmm...I'm just trying to watch some Neko Case. Finally, Gina and I say that he should probably GO and try to apologize to Tina/Tiffany, to which he says, "What, are you lesbians or what?!" Is this supposed to be a derogatory remark in response to suggesting that you make amends with your girlfriend...that you brought here....on a date?
I pull a wonderful employee of the venue aside and he whisks us through a forbidden door to the very back of the venue and away from the psychological drama of Mike and Tina/Tiffany. Relief! Ah, not so fast...
At this point, this adventure has already gotten a little heavy. I start fantasizing about Nick Cave suddenly bursting out onto stage and flipping a switch that would dump ice water on everyone in the crowd while he rips the microphone away and does a total unexpected version of, "Stagger Lee." Gina and I chat and laugh about a possible sighting of an ex, when this dude turns around and snaps, "We came here to hear her sing, not you talk." ADMITTEDLY, we were chatting. Admittedly, she was singing. Here's where I'm a little confused. If you're the biggest Neko Case fan that ever lived, you'd think that you'd find a different place to stand then the very back of the venue by the employee coats. That's why I wanted to stand there...as not to ruin anyone's experience with my general chatting and half-listening. Not only that, but you'd probably be more interested in her than your phone, which you were repeatedly checking because by the look of your totally hip white tennis shoes, white socks and weekender plaid shirt, I can venture that you're probably not a Doctor dashing off to deliver a baby. You would probably be so avid that you would be standing in the front, instead of wrapped around a beer bottle by the, "employees only sign." I mean, my gawd your love for Neko Case must only be surpassed by your love for french-kissing a Yuengling. I get that you're probably emasculated in every aspect of your life, but maybe save your repressed masculinity for chopping firewood, arm-wrestling or manicuring your middle-aged man beard.
With all this being said (and believe me, I love saying it), I'm totally okay with you asking us not to talk, but you could probably be nicer about it: a thought that Gina mentioned to him. In fact, I would also venture to bet that if Gina and I were outfitted with penii you wouldn't have said anything...at all. What's weird about this whole experience is while Neko Case goes on and on about her boyfriends or the sunsets or whatever the fuck she's talking about and these people are wearing wheat-coloured clothes and looking generally like granola yuppies, I have this revelation that maybe they're not really there to relax and listen to this woman at all. They're hear to find a partner, to be "aht on the tahn," to demean and verbally abuse women...whatever. I've had more respectful experiences at metal clubs with men outfitted in combat boots and devil spikes. Maybe everyone should have a health dose of Ministry in their lives, work some shit out in their minds, and then they wouldn't be so apt to be total yuppie fucks. Mostly, I blame this on the heat...as if I needed more ammunition for why summer totally blows goats.
When I ask Dustin if he wants to go somewhere. Really, anywhere...he always says, "Why would I want to do that?" I always used to think that he was just being socially awkward introverted, but fuck...maybe he's onto something.
If you need me, I'll be in front of the air-conditioner with a book.
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.
