Oh, by the way.

Currently Listening The Sunlandic Twins By Of Montreal see related

have yourself a merry little pilgrim . . .

Well, it's a New Year at the Carden house, which means it's out with the old, in with the new and all that good newish yearish stuff.

In short, it's time to put up the Thanksgiving decorations. 

You think I'm kidding, but we Cardens generally abide by a specific holiday theme circa Christmas. Last year, it was "Deck the Halls and Maybe Your Aunt," followed closely by 2nd place, "O Little Town of Extreme Dysfunction." 

This year, my brother Jason received the top honors in our traditional "Cynical and Depressing Holiday Song Rip-Off / Holiday Theme" contest with a strong entry: "Squanto Under the Mistletoe."  I submitted  "Can We Please Have Real Eggnog This Year?" but was disqualified when everyone realized that was an actual  request, not a contest entry.

Anddddd yes.  It's at this point in her reading my mother begins to panic in earnest, having experienced doubts about this entry's positive impact on my  family's reputation and future marriageability as early as the "Deck the Aunt" crack.  Just for you, Mom, I will not say "crap" in this entire post ( um, other than that time ), which means I may still secure a husband while yet unwrinkled, despite my father's wit and sailor's mouth.

Anyway, our extended family traipsed to our house for Thanksgiving this year, and while I was in Virginia learning to sleep again after midterms, my mother was slathering our house with fall leaves and gourds and pilgrims and actual remnants of the original Thanksgiving feast, which may or may not have been passed around as hors d’oeuvres.  I’m not going to say it was overboard, because it looks beautiful, but when I came home December 21^st, I found my Christmas spirit of consumerism lapsing into thanksgiving, which was just disconcerting. And I think Google had just put our house on global warming level orange.

All the Thankgiving stuff had stayed up because my mom had been working a lot and didn't have time to decorate, and she and I  left for New York from Virginia on the 17th, knowing we wouldn't return 'til right before Christmas. As I have three very heterosexual brothers who could care less about Christmas decor, the Thanksgiving glory stayed up, and the Christmas tubs stayed in the attic.

I had a few observations about the Thanksgiving glory when I got home. Looking at a few of our tables, which were duly decorated with idyllic thanksgiving tableaux, all pilgrims and Indians and plastic food and orange, I realized that scale had been entirely disregarded.  If I were Squanto, I would be very, very upset by the fact that me and my kinsmen were nestled with Our-Future-Funny-Hatted-Enemies between GIANT GOURDS and MIRACLE GROWN CORN sized to make me look less like a fearsome, yet caring savage and more like a small, fair child wearing buckskin pajamas and poorly applied eyeliner.

I mean, seriously, do they not make figurines that LOOK Indian?  Is tan paint in really short supply, 'cause of the oil shortage or something? We had a baby Jesus figurine a few years back with very Jewish blonde hair, fair skin and blue eyes. Blue eyes. My brothers and I referred to it as The Little Hitler Child, but then again, Santa was also kneeling in front of its cradle holding a bible, so historical accuracy wasn't really a major player.

I suggested that this year we COMBINE all of decorations in the Christmas spirit of togetherness. The Pilgrims, Baby Hitler, and the Wise Men. Frankincense, Easter Eggs and Indian Venison. And, of course, Squanto Under the Mistletoe.  All huddled together in a mixture of snow and Easter astroturf.

My idea was, shockingly, rejected, and so we ended up opening presents around the Thanksgiving goose on our wooden coffee table, which resembles a Christmas tree in that it's made of wood. And our couches are green. And we have red blankets, so hey, close. And, in unrelated news, our den is decorated with approximately 470 roosters, which I have come to believe are one of the most frightening animals figuring in home decor. Beak, pointy nails and that wattle / comb thing, which has obviously led to generations of pompous compensation via rage and marital infidelity... cute?

But hey, despite my love of everything bright, cheery and mistletoe-y - I am like a CHILD around Christmas; it's really quite sad - I've decided our method of avoiding that post-holiday season depression is simple, yet genius.  Instead of spending 12 hours carefully wrapping mouse figurines in 147 sheets of paper so that they, in their $2.00 glory, WILL NEVER EVER LOSE A CERAMIC WHISKER, just… don’t ever get them out.

Leave them in the attic.  Imagine what they'd look like on the table. Think of sugarplums, etc. That encourages Christmas spirit, because, I mean, you know you have them.  I am not sure why you have them, however, since small disease infested rodents don’t necessarily convey the glory of Christmas in my mind, but I get it, Christmas is that time where we accept things we don’t, normally, when families come together, and when women find mice to be adorable Christmas spirit disease infested woodland creatures.  I won’t go into my thoughts about Nutcrackers- but seriously, an actual army regulation-sized unit of Nutcrackers is frightening, not festive.

Anyway, although this year's Christmas somewhat unorthodox ( My brother Jason and I picked out each other's presents in front of each other. Which is awesome, by the way, 'cause you KNOW they like it, until the saleslady asks how long you've been married, and then it's kind of more awesome 'cause of the funny ), it was great.  I was glad Squanto and his merry band of ceramic indians were able to join us, and I'm not going to lie, he and that one Pilgrim(ess?) looked pretty cozy in the shadow of the Gourd that Ate Santa.

Currently Listening Love By The Beatles see related

Rocky 6: The Final Chapter, Unless It Does Really Well

No limits. No rules. No solids.

It's about never knowing when to quit -- even when you're ahead.

This one's for Mickey, the guy who died three movies ago.

One last shot. One last fight. One last chance for permanent brain damage.

Don't worry. This time Rocky Jr. isn't played by Stallone's son. Now it's the guy from Heroes.

Because no one ever asked Rocky to be the spokesman for a grill.

All the original fire. None of the original facial features.

It ain't over 'till the old guy boxes.

Hey, Mr. T came back too.

Don't listen to anyone who says you can't achieve your dream, especially if they're doctors.

Rocky Balboa: Because Audiences in Lucrative Overseas Markets Are Less Familiar With the Idea that a Sixty-Year-Old Man Boxing Professionally Is Ludicrous

Because Cop Land tanked.

Question: What does Rocky wear when he fights? Answer: Depends.

Rocky Balboa: If you think this looks stupid, just wait for the new Rambo

Because the one thing the plastic surgeons couldn't change was his heart.

Anything Bruce Willis can do, I can do older.

Because sometimes punch-drunk is just another way of saying "hero."

Rocky 6: Bum Fights

Currently Listening Begin to Hope By Regina Spektor see related

Anyway, I do have a general mode of activity leading up to the point where I post.  And I’m thinking that disclosing that mode will probably aid you in your attempts to understand exactly where in the shallow end of the gene pool I was born... and keep you from wondering why the heck I write about the things I do.

. . .

The following takes place the night before I have an exam scheduled or a paper due. Like, tonight.

9:00 p.m.  Pry study guide / essay outline from clawlike fingers.  Rub eyes, which are screaming, "THANK YOU FOR STARING AT A LAPTOP IN THE DARK ALL DAY."  Hope I still have 20/10 vision. Need a break. Think about writing a Xanga post.  Ponder “duty to fans.”  Wonder if that's pretentious.

9:01 p.m.  Read last few posts. Wonder how I manage to write such lengthy pieces about spam and bugs. Wonder if I used to be funny. Read archives.  Conclude that I have grown increasingly less funny with age.  Worry about future and ability to snag a husband. 

9:04 p.m.  Come to terms with the fact that humor isn’t my thing.  Tweeze eyebrows, cultivate charm, return to study guide / paper.

. . .
 

2:45 a.m.  Pry study guide / essay outline from clawlike fingers. Rub eyes, which are screaming "THANK YOU FOR STARING AT A LAPTOP IN THE DARK ALL NIGHT LONG." Cling to hopes of 20/20 vision.  Think about writing a post.  Ponder duty to fans. Come up with philosophy behind the relationship between blogger and the blog reader involving both Nietzsche and J.R Packer.  Share said phillosophy with everyone online, that they might marvel at my genius.  Consider switching to Theory.

3:20 a.m.  Read last few posts. Wonder HOW I managed to write such lengthy pieces about SPAM and BUGS?!  I am HILARIOUS!  Forget journnalism, I am going to BLOG for the REST OF MY LIFE. I WILL BE THE QUEEN OF THE BLOGGERS IN MY XXL SWEATSHIRT with CHEETO DUST COATING MY FACE AND IT WON'T MATTER! 

Come up with topic. Write, write, write, giggle, write, write.

3:35 a.m.  Proof post. Laugh hysterically. Plan to post the next day, after a good night’s 2 hours of sleep.  I am awesome.

5:45 a.m.  Wake up on couch amongst approx 47 empty cans of Dr. Pepper.  Check paper.  6 pages to go before 8 o' clock.  Screw academics, I'm going to be a blogger!

( Hi, Mom!  My education is not being wasted! Nor do I stay up late, ever.  This is all hyperbole! ).

Groggily proof post.  Realize I’ve written 2,000 incomprehensible words about my favorite pen, My Little Pony, the toaster, Frank Hardy and Styrofoam “poppie thingies.”  Vow never to write after 2:00.  Or ever again.  Feel renewed sense of duty to correctly capture the spirit of the Emergent Church in a 10 page research paper.  Go back to sleep.
 

. . .

Yeah, so basically, that’s my method.  It aint perfect, but it keeps things nice and sparse around here, except for those few posts which actually go through in that 3:00-4:00a.m. window.  For which I am truly, truly sorry.  If you had but seen the ones I didn’t post, you would appreciate the gravity of my benevolence.

Currently Listening Nice and Nicely Done By The Spinto Band see related

All things considered, I am glad you attended The Decemberists’ show Monday night.  You were there, after all.  You were not watching The Pussycat Dolls [ who I believe to be mute Victoria’s Secret mannequins outfitted with clever, clever engineering ] undulate their mechanical way into the hearts of the unsuspecting American consumer. You were not paying to see Fergie “The Man” Pea historicize her “London Bridge” in desperate entendre hack romance novel writers would reject on grounds of "complete lack of subtlety."

No, you were at the same show as I was— a darn good show in which multi-talented musicians performed well-written, original music. Stylishly.  Fully clothed.  With only a tiny bit of tasteful undulation.

Now maybe we had different reasons for attending the show, and maybe this introductory section will be the only part of this piece in which I attempt to be charitable, but hey, golf claps and faint praise all around, okay?  Bask for a moment.

Ok, on to the business at hand.  While I appreciate the fact that you, a small pack of walking prepubescent hormones, actually attended a decent show, I would have rather have remained unenlightened as to your presence in my immediate vicinity.

You see, kids, there is a sort of unwritten etiquette for concert goers… kind of a natural law apprehended by just about anyone with a modicum of self-awareness and consideration for their surroundings.  

Obviously, I'm not describing you.  Thus, I’m attempting codification:

1. Thou shalt not attempt to push past those nearest to the stage in order to acquire a better vantage point during the first few minutes of the headliners’ show.

Those situated in the immediate area around the stage have earned their place by arriving early and tolerating a marginally talented and / or wretched opening band. 

You, conversely, did not appear until after the opening band.  That you might better understand why this is important, let me tell you a little bit about Monday’s opener, Lavender Diamond. 

Picture a young, drunk Loretta Lynn on Valium,  pontificating in dulcet sing-song tones about her junior high experiences, The Cure, and her inability to smell the audience, all while wearing your grandmother’s prom dress and her great grandmother’s jewelry ... swaying and pirouetting in time to some imaginary drunken ballet directed by Elizabeth Taylor.

Yeah.  For the first five minutes, my only thoughts circled around the hope that she’d shaved her underarms.

It’s not that she didn’t have a pretty voice - she really did.  But when she sang, she contorted her face to the point where she could have passed for an extra in The Great Mouse Detective.  And when she stopped singing, it got worse.  Think desperate Garden State aficionado intent on emulating Natalie Portman’s character’s quirks with none of her charm…

Oh, and add a side of blow.  

“See how charming and unpretentious I am?” soon became “SEE HOW CHARMING AND UNPRETENTIOUS I AM?!! LA LA LA LA LUU LLAAAA! *cartwheel*”

The thing is, I stood through her act – I clapped when she finished, and I waited ( in heels ) for the Decemberists to come on. For a long time. 

You did not.

No, you showed up as The Decemberists took the stage, and then, with the innocence of youth, attempted to push past both my friends and my newfound show-friends.  We experienced a moment of group bonding, traded looks of utter disgust full of our  parents' age-old "Kids these days" sentiment and formed a wall of cynicism and distrust -- making sure Generation Why Won't You Stop Talking didn't trespass our borders. 

Because, um, our view of the rockstar would have been seriously obstructed. 

Ahem.  And, judging by the fact that I repeatedly heard the world "grillz" with an emphasis on the 'z' used unironically from the sector behind the Society of Old Angry People ( or  S.O.A.P- as in what we'd like to use to wash out your mouth ), our minds would have taken quite the hit as well. I'd rather lose brain cells in far more entertaining ways, thank you.  And don't think all that loud quoting of Pitchfork made me feel better about you, your brain and your eyeliner, because, yeah, I was actually BORN when Justin Timberlake was originally popular, and thus your dissertation on his current state of indie cred rings a tad bit empty.  But I digress.

2. Thou shalt not pretend that you are elbowing your way past me on your own, coaxing me into a false state of security and grace, then “save” a spot with your elbows, bad breath and sheer mass for your boyfriend and 14 of your annoying, unsanitary or unconscionably tall friends to join you as there is “PLENTY OF ROOM. SERIOUSLY!!!  THEY DON’T CARE.  I CANNOT MAKE OUT WITH YOU IN AN INVASIVE PUBLIC MANNER IF YOU ARE THAT FAR AWAYYYY. ”

Oh, how we do care.  And we care more when you begin to make out in an invasive public manner, ‘cause seriously, no one wants to see that. I’m glad you’re his adolescent Red Right Ankle and he’s your teenage Engine Driver, but… take it outside.   Like, to Cambodia.  If I wanted a tongue-bath, I’d have asked, and to be frank, he doesn't look like he's enjoying it either.  You're ruining both romance and a good song for me at the same time ( Much like Lavender Diamond! Connection! ), and that, well... that I can't forgive.

Also, that Cambodia outing?  Take your friends with you.  I stepped politely aside for you, not your colony, and I swear by the fact that I am 3 feet taller than you that I will, I WILL become That Person who helpfully yells out song suggestions for the band, just in case they've not managed to come up with a set list sometime in the duration of the tour, or, you know, have managed to entirely forget their repertoire.  "PLAY MARINER'S REVENGE SONG!!!!"  in your ear. All night.  Those who take advantage may often experience side effects of inner ear bleeding, intense frustration, and, eventually, despair.  Weigh the oppportunity cost very carefully.

That's it for now.