Blog Princess

       "I see on CNN all the time about these Mexicans coming across the border. And I thought, what a shame. But you know, then I thought, they're just like we were back then, you know. They've got nothing, just like we did when we came. They're just families, like us.
       "Grandpa was up for a promotion at the mill one time. It was between him and a white guy, and they didn't know Grandpa was Polish. Grandpa always wore a cap. I told him not to take his cap off when he talked to the manager, but he was so respectful, he took off his cap because it was the right thing to do, you know. And they saw his hairline, you know, and they found out he was Polish then. So the other guy got the job, even though Grandpa had worked there longer and did better too. I told Joe not to take off that cap, we needed the money.
       "When I was a girl we spoke Polish at home--almost no English--and I went to Polish school too. Then my parents sent me to regular school. I couldn't understand anything so I couldn't do anything. I had to start all over from the beginning! I was embarrassed, you know, and it was so hard. It was the same thing for Grandpa. So hard to think of now.
       "So Grandpa and I sat down and talked about it. We decided we wouldn't speak Polish at home because we didn't want what happened to us to happen to Sunny and Ray, because it was so hard for us and we didn't want it to be like that for them. So they only learned the cuss words, you know.
       "We talked about changing our name to Push, the name they gave Grandpa to play baseball, you know. A lot of us changed our names then. But it didn't have the 'ski' on the end, you know, and it was the 'ski' that always gave it away, so we thought it might be OK.
       "Things change like that, you know. They changed so much. It was so hard for us then and now nobody even knows the difference, that we're Polish. We even have a black guy for our president. We never would have thought that could happen back then. These Mexicans, they're just families like us. I know how hard it is, you can't imagine it now, you know, but we went through it all too."

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       It's interesting that she referred to the other guy who was up for the job as white. We would never think about that now. This is probably my favorite Grandma story, and I think it's the last one she told me.

number. name--band--album--play count
 1. Bludgeoned To Death--Suicide Silence--The Cleansing--49
2. Radio In A Hole--Smile Empty Soul--Smile Empty Soul--46
3. Dammit--Blink-182--[single]--43
4. Summer--Sum 41--Half Hour of Power--42
5. Fat Lip--Sum 41--All Killer No Filler--40
6. Anytime--Eve 6--39
7. My Friends Over You--New Found Glory--Sticks and Stones--36
8. Crooked Teeth--Death Cab for Cutie--[single]--33
9. Save Yourself--Stabbing Westward--Darkest Days--33
10. 21st Century (Digital Boy)--Bad Religion--Against the Grain--31
11. Infected--Bad Religion--Stranger Than Fiction--31
12. Vermilion--Slipknot--Volume 3: (The Subliminal Verses)--30
13. All Downhill From Here--New Found Glory--Catalyst--29
14. Man Overboard--Blink-182--Greatest Hits--28
15. Help Me--Alkaline Trio--Agony & Irony--27
16. Ven Aqui--Los Bunkers--[single]--27
17. Mother Mary--Foxboro Hottubs--Stop Drop and Roll!!!--26
18. Overdrive--Katy Rose--[single]--25
19. Breaking The Habit--Linkin Park--Meteora--25
20. Just so You Know--American Head Charge--The War of Art--24
21. Wild At Heart--Gloriana--[single]--24
22. Candle (Sick and Tired)--The White Tie Affair--Walk This Way--24
23. Song of the South--Alabama--The Essential Alabama--23
24. Ground--Celtic Frost--Monotheist--23
25. Bang The Doldrums--Fall Out Boy--Infinity on High--23

          My eyes... I really don't know what I would do without them. When something happened to them I was genuinely, although secretly, terrified. It's scary. My whole life is visual. Everything I do is visual. I even think in pictures, not words. My life is one giant piece of artwork in my head, colored purple and blue and much more vivid than the majority of things I have seen outside of my head. I record pictures and they appear in everything I do.
          When the MRI picked up nothing (wow, an MRI not picking up anything, the huge enormous gigantic bizarro surprise of the entire century) I was a little panicked. They told me it was probably just a migraine.
          Newsflash: 'Migraine' is what they say when they don't know what's wrong. 'Migraine' is essentially shorthand for "It's all in your head, hysterical nutcase." It is also unfair to people who really do have horrible migraines.
          "It was probably just a migraine" is not what you want to hear when your face is numb and you have a gray mist over your eyes and there's all kinds of crazy stuff, flipping like an old TV and white spots and everything, all your vision, just suddenly... turning off.
          I liked to hear that it didn't find anything, but I still can't bring myself to trust MRIs.
          The reason why it picked up nothing appears to be because they were looking at the wrong side of my head.
          My wonderful Aunt Susie told me to go to an eye doctor--not an eye doctor, but an eye specialist. I am only not saying the name because I can't spell it: opthamalogist? opthamologist? opthomalagist? opthamalajust? Ennyhoo. That was a wonderful piece of advice.
          I got my eyes quite heavily dilated and had to do various looking-up-and-to-the-left-and-down-and-to-the-right-and-over-to-the-left-again. And throughout the course of this he discovered that I had something Rare.
          Have we ever known me to have anything Common? No, I have never had anything Common.
          As near as I can figure out, what happened--humorous and yet not--was this: I got head trauma when my head hit the seatbelt thingy. However, instead of getting a bruise on the right side of my head, my brain bounced off the inside of my skull and hit my left eye. This, combined with the shockwaves from the hittage of my head, ripped a nerve and tore a muscle. That is why I can't control my eye. That is why my vision goes black like somebody turned off a light. The reason why it is worse in half-light (I don't drive at interstices) is because eyes in general have to work harder. I am actually not supposed to be staring at a computer screen, because people's eyes have to work harder for that too.

          A dislocated shoulder and a dislocated eye. God, I have often said, has a really terrible sense of humor.

          God doesn't get involved in the little stuff. (Believing that, that is the mistake that many people make.) I would have thought that saving my life counts as a 'little thing'. But in my life I have come so close to dying so many times now. One thing, one tiny thing is all that saves me. The sort of thing that makes one think that God must be involved somehow or other.
          It is a frightening thing. In the past year alone I have almost died twice. Twice. TWICE. That is kind of a lot for someone considered semi-healthy.
          The first time that I almost died that I can clearly remember was when I was eight. Two inches--two inches, for Chrissake--lower and I would have been minus a throat. And while we're at it, three inches higher and I would have been minus an eye. As it was I came miraculously close to being minus a lip, but it just got split up to my nose, leaving an irritating scar. I got my cheek split through too, but not much. It's shrunk with time, as scars will do.
          The most recent time was, of course, the car accident. If I had taken off my seatbelt for a second to reach whatever it was in the back I would have been through the windshield. I might have been crushed if the impact had been slightly different. If we had both been slightly later it would be shift change at the coal mine.

          And that's just two.

          I am presuming that God (if God is involving himself in this) is saving me for some purpose. I am, however, at a loss as to what, and why.

The Beauty and the Glory, or, I Get All Freaking Poetic Again; Another Unanticipated Aftereffect; The Concert and the Freaky Dude; A Random Note of No Consquence; The Crowd; I Ramble On In A Pointless and Boring Manner About Personal Appearance; I Actually Say Semi-Detailed and -Cohereant Stuff About the Concert, Much To Everyone's Surprise, But Get Pissed Off When I Accidentally Erase Half Of It, And It Was Really Cool Too; Irritation; Cool and Assorted Stuff, Building To A Weak Finish.
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          Concerts, I often say, are what it's really all about. I find the entire experience to be deeply meaningful. It is an outlet for the enraged, a brief equalizer for the divided, a chance to belong or not to belong as you choose. You can scream like you are having a seizure or just stand and watch, although the bands do not like the latter. You become a human speaker. The searchlights circle the pit for crowdsurfers and fourteen or fifteen thousand lighters and cameras and cell phones glow in the dark. Twenty thousand people scream in unison and sing in unison. Twenty thousand people scream that they are indestructible. Twenty thousand people pump their fists above their heads. You see that there are probably at least nineteen thousand nine hundred and ninety nine other people out there who are also angry and tired and don't like the world very much but live in it nonetheless. The anger and enthusiasm is palpable.
          You come home covered with beer and smoke and stale perfume and whatnot and collectively exuded rage and sweat from people you'll likely never see again anywhere, or if you did you wouldn't recognize them, and you realize that this is really what it's all about after all.
          The concept is, I think, a remarkably difficult thing to explain. Experiencing the beauty and the glory is really, in the end, something you have to do for yourself.
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       I have had another unanticipated aftereffect of the accident.
              I.
          Cannot.
               Make.
          Metal.
              Hand.
          Signs.

            I will now pause to let the gravity of that statement sink in.

            Sunk in yet?

            Let's give it another minute.

            There.

          You see, this never occurred to me before. I can't raise my left arm, so of course I anticipated I would probably not be able to make the metal hand sign--described variously in the vernacular as 'forks'; 'rock-on signals, signs, or symbols'; and/or 'devil horns'-- with my LEFT hand. (Or clap above my head, etc. Quite true, certainly.) I also was strongly cautioned against headbanging, jumping, bumping into things, pumping my fists to excess, standing for extended periods of time, being exposed to anything at all for any extended period of time, etc. (That is to say, there went my night.)
            So ennyhoo. I digress.
            You know how it's hard to move your ring finger independently?
            I'll let you consider that for a moment, just to build suspense for something that does not need suspense built up to it.
            Well, oddly akin to that, it is surprisingly hard to make a 'rock-on' sign above your head with your RIGHT HAND for any especially extended period of time when your LEFT ARM is occasionally non-effing-operational. I am not kidding about this. It makes no sense whatsoever.

            Plus, it may be noted that I am an idiot. This means that I did not notice that I could make a fist with my right hand (although the grip would weaken in a few minutes) and hold it above my head until about three-quarters of the way through the concert.

            This also means that when whichever band that was on the stage inquired things of us such as whether or not we were ready to fsking rage, I was forced to reply, "No, I'm afraid not, although I would love to, of course. I'm not saying that I have some kind of intrinsic objection to fsking raging. However, I am under quite strict doctor's orders not to fsking rage or participate in other similar activities that would endanger my health--or, in terms you might find easier to understand, I'm trying to avoid becoming more 'fsking fsk'd up'. My sincerest apologies. Please, do continue."
           I was also forced to explain to them that I was unable to jump, jump, jump, jump, jump, jump, jump, and that I was just fsking standing there with my arms fsking folded (despite the fact that it was a fsking metal concert, God fsking damn us--thank you for the hint, dangerously intoxicated Killswitch Engage guitarist) for a couple reasons, one of which being that my ribs still hurt. I could, however, scream my fsking lungs out if I knew the words to this next song or shout that we are D[d]isturbed one more time all together or inform everyone that most certainly music did indeed save my fsking life. That, I was permitted to do. I could also just by being here do what I can to take a stand against that pop shist, put my fist up in the air as high as I can (occasionally), or show them those lighters and cell phones and gadgets that glow.
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           So throughout the course of the concert, I got a five-dollar beer thrown on me (I and the guy and lady next to me and the guy in front of me to the left got the brunt of it, although a rather significant amount also landed on Hyde and Daddy); some guy spit on me, but it was an accident, as he got hit; I broke two nails on my right hand from accidentally jamming them into the seat in front of me, which was, of course, a total tragedy; I evidentially got checked out by the creepy dude in front of me to the right (why is it always the creepy ones?) and the exponentially less creepy guy in another row; a gentleman sat in front of me who it seems had never heard of the 'wearing a belt to hold up one's pants' concept; I forgot how evil the bathroom faucets in that stadium are and they attacked me, somewhat dampening my jeans; and I got intimidated (yes, I got intimidated) by some guy in a Slipknot T-shirt with a mohawk pulled back.
            You see, he wouldn't get out of my way and I wouldn't get out of his way. (One reason why is, where I'm from men let women pass by first.) I was not planning on stopping, and he was evidentially not planning on stopping either. I was just going to go ahead and collide with him, but I realized that even though he was about five inches shorter than me he was also extremely stocky and weighed for sure at least forty pounds more than me (especially since I lost over 50 pounds, which I am not used to) meaning that I would probably be the one who would go down; plus he would have the advantage of hitting me sideways. I also suspected he would not be sorry and would, in fact, be angry that I bumped into him. (Technically I was walking faster than him, by the way. I had the right-of-way.)
            Therefore, having considered all this, I bitterly stopped about a quarter inch away.
            He looked at me, but he never looked right at me. His eyes just slid back around in his head like a hammerhead shark, seriously. Then he gave me a creepy, vaguely triumphant smile. I imagine I glared, as I usually do. He did the headnod (where you just sort of toss your head back, you know) and I did the headnod back and then he wandered off.
            Freaky.
            Then I saw him and his friend coming down the stairs. They slowed down around our row. I had two empty seats next to me and I began to go over what I might have done to acquire this cosmic punishment. (I'll never tell if anything came to mind.) However, they continued on. The seats stayed empty the entire time--somebody must not have come.
           I have known guys of this type. They are scary and made all the scarier by the fact that they are very aware that they are scary and thrive upon this scaryness. I go on ahead and ph33r them on general principle, or a least I should.
           My grandmother said that if I had run into him he could have Got The Wrong Idea. Nobody can put as much doom into the words "Got The Wrong Idea" as my grandmother! She worries about me a lot, I think...
           Having posted this, I hope that he does not come after me. "Hey! Somebody wrote about me online!"
           Oh dear. To post or not to post? To post, no doubt.
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            I must admit I ph33rd this concert because I wondered what the crowd would be like. It is alleged that metal crowds are some of the nicer crowds for some reason yet to be determined. (As long as you stay out of the mosh pit, I do imagine. I harbor ph33r and admiration of mosh pits for the same reason I ph33r and admire motorcycles and roller coasters: While they appear fascinating, I have a vested interest in this particular body and would prefer to keep it and all its limbs and eyes and whatnot reasonably intact. My nose is NOT getting damaged again, for instance. Ouch.) However, I did not trust this 'nice' concept and I do not like the unknown. (It is, you see, unknown.)
           It turns out I actually preferred this crowd in some ways. For some reason it was much smaller--whether it was the tornadic weather or the fact that these bands were slightly less mainstream--and there was much less smoke, even for the crowd size. I rejoice, because the smoke makes me very, very nauseous. And it would have been especially bad this time--I was already sick. I've been moderately sick for about three weeks now for some reason. Sometimes I will be terribly allergic to some pollen or something and not notice it. I think it may be mold and mildew, actually.
           Ennyhoo. I digress.
           In general there was much less smoke. At the fabled Three Days Grace concert the smoke was quite disturbingly thick.
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          I am always obsessed about what I am wearing, of course. I wore a Nirvana T-shirt for the simple fact that I was wearing a Nirvana T-shirt already and somebody said "OK, let's go now. No. No, no, no, please don't go change. You don't need to change. Really, you don't. Would I lie to you? Please."
          An aside: I do the same thing at funerals ("Do you think this isn't dressy enough? I don't think it's dressy enough. But I wasn't sure if I had the necklace to match the other one."), when going shopping ("This is fairly new. What happens if I go in a store and it's still in stock? Ohhehmgee I would be so humiliated I would have to leave and not come back! Ever!"), when going to church ("I never know what to wear. I don't have anything to wear. What do you think I should have worn?"), when going to the store ("I'm wearing a shirt with a ribcage on it. Do you think people will be offended by a ribcage? I mean, I wouldn't be, but would it scare little kids? I like little kids! I don't want to scare them!"), or basically when going anywhere else in the entire world--sometimes my friends and family get to hear their favorite one, "Does this outfit match my piercings?"
           Everything matches my piercings. Other piercings match my piercings. I don't know what I am worried about.
           Ennyhoo. I digress.
           However! Fashion loves pointless rules more than your average school system. I should have been safe because in theory I followed The Golden T-shirt Rule.
           The Golden T-shirt Rule is this: If you wish to wear a music-related t-shirt to a concert, thou shalt not wear a t-shirt that has an emblem of any of the bands you will be seeing in this concert. If this is a concert tour, it is kind of acceptable to wear a t-shirt from the same concert tour, but not the one from last year. It is, in some cases, best to wear a t-shirt from an opposite genre, but do not cross pop and heavy metal in any way, for this is evil and unnatural.
           If you are confused, you have two easy outs. The first may be more difficult: Wear a vintage concert t-shirt either from a concert you have seen or that your parents have given you permission to wear. The second is easy: Get one that says 'Metallica' or 'AC/DC' and you're basically good anywhere.

          Of course, you will probably be buying a shirt at the concert and putting it on over the shirt you are already wearing, so why are we even having this conversation?

           So, TV-awards-style, I wore a Nirvana t-shirt and Paris Blues jeans and a hoodie from a totally unknown brand, as there was an occasional chill between bands. It is a Fall Out Boy hoodie. I still feel, in my obsessive estimation, that this was rather the wrong thing to wear. (I do not even like Fall Out Boy much.) But it came with me because it was Right There. That hoodie is always Right There, quite loyally. It was purchased for the express purpose of being inoffensive, should one require a definitively inoffensive black hoodie. It has been with me everywhere, been lost and found and lost and found, been run through a beat-up commercial washer ten zillion times, and has faded into a sort of very thin gunmetal grey.
           I also carried my Hello Kitty handbag (not the tote bag, mind you).
           Of course, nobody notices what I am wearing and nobody cares, but the point is that I notice, so I obsess. Onward now!
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           Dammit! I just lost this whole part! Whole Part! (In case anyone wondered what the screaming was, I am not actually dying. Physically.) Oh well. I will try to replicate. But it will never be the same. Never!
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Crooked X

          I didn't get there in time to see Crooked X, and thus I can make no remark on their general live quality.
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Suicide Silence

           I missed almost all of Suicide Silence. I heard them play part of the amazing Bludgeoned To Death from my car, but I don't remember the part of the show I actually saw. I mean, I remember mostly seeing it but I don't remember what they really played. This saddens me. (I hope I heard them play No Pity for a Coward, because I like it.) It had mainly to do with them being outside and my fear of storms and my preoccupation that such a storm would blow up at any moment. (It didn't, surprisingly enough. It may have been scared off by the presence of David the Disturbed Guy.)
          I'm sorry! I'm scared of storms, OK?! >.<
          The thing about bands like Suicide Silence is, the lyrics are almost auxiliary to everything else. I have noticed some people can't understand why one doesn't need to hear the lyrics in a particular song.
          Well, it is about aura and sound and projected emotion, not so much about lyrics. In fact, some songs with understandable lyrics are pretty bad. (Though one can actually understand some Suicide Silence lyrics, incidentally.) The band is actually quite innovative within the genre, which is one reason why I like them. (I actually pay little attention to the lyrics at all, though they are included in the little booklet and whatnot. They're just not as important to me as the overall sound.) It's not just a lot of ARKSGRACKLE LIB-BER-LOCK! ISHNOOBAH KAH-BAH-DAH! ARKSGRAKLE LIB-BER-LOCK! IBBA KAHHMAA VAAAA! YGRAAAAAHHHHGHHH! as many bands of a similar style are.
          I can argue also that much pop music and such is reduced to an inane drizzle of indistinguishable sound. "Beeehbee wehmmerwhaa muluuuumaaaa.... na na na na na oh yeah, yeeaaahhh, na na na na na oh no, no, nononoooo..."
          Suicide Silence was apparently doing autographs at their booth for a time after their performance. I, of course, went inside Where I Could Sit Down In A Damn Seat For A While Because I'll Be Standing For Like A Million Years, as I proclaimed. (Also the storm.) However, I will admit it would have been cool to get an autograph. I have never gotten a rockstar-type autograph before. (The only autographs I got have been Junko Mizuno, and Monica Rial, who is my personal hero.) But I didn't. I have been inundated with children's programming featuring a protagonist meeting a celebrity, band, author, or sports star of which he or she is a fan. He or she discovers that their idol(s) is/are actually (a) total douchebag(s) and leave depressed but probably having learned some valuable PBS-style lesson or other.
          It has scarred me.
          I am not a FAN-fan of Suicide Silence either. I have a distinct fondness for their music, but I don't know anything about them, particularly. (The only bands I can think of immediately where I really know anything about the members are Linkin Park; MCR, because of my father; Jack's Mannequin; and Good Charlotte, the latter stemming from my illustrious punk-pop fangirl/Riot Girl youth. I have the wristband, I really do. It's black and says 'Riot Girl' in pink embroidery right below a pink skull.) What do you say to such a person? "Hey, I like your CD?" Or do you stand in muttered silence? I also do not like the knowledge that I would most likely be another generic girl that nobody remembers. Such a thing bothers me with remarkable intensity. (Although I must say people do tend to remember me, just because I am totally wack, if I may ironically adopt the phrase.)
          Also, I had nothing to sign specifically (I suppose if I had a CD I could have had them sign that, but who carries a CD to a concert?) and had few other options:

1. Get a body part signed. While this is a common thing, I do not relish it. A random dude or dudes whose famous song has the most iconic line of "Pull the trigger, btihc!" (hey, it’s a good song!) placing their signature upon me? Frightening. Plus, it would just wash off totally in a couple days. (However, if somebody like Linkin Park were to sign me, I would immediately rush out and get it tattooed over. Immediately. Still, no way. Even if they actually did autographs these days, no way. Gak. I hate being touched.)
2. Get an item of clothing signed. I wear black. This would not work. Now, having one's jeans signed in fairly common, but these were Good Jeans. I only have two pairs that fit me since I lost 55 pounds to this date. (Fifty-five! Booyah! Oh dear. Did I really just say that?) And then, well, you have a pair of signed jeans. Plus, I would also count that as signing a body part.
3. Get my Hello Kitty purse signed. This is just wrong and would probably cause some sort of rift in the time-space continuum.

          As you can see, my options were semi-sort-of reviewed in the back of my mind and declined.
          I can assure you, however, that Suicide Silence was very, very good. (They did that cool thing where they swing their hair around in a circle, whatever that is. I am always amused by it.)
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          We filed into the stadium. I did not get patted down this time, although apparently my father did. (I didn't pay attention.) They just made me open my purse, but they didn't make me unzip cases and take away my camera and stuff. This is both good and bad. (I suspect it probably had something to do with swine flu.)

          Now prepare yourself, for here I relate a miracle.

          We Had Good Seats.

          Excellent seats, in fact! Not too far back, not too close up, no sunglasses-wearing idiots in front of me. (Just the guy who needed the belt, but whatever.) The sound wasn't too loud, but it wasn't muffled, either.
          How did this happen? I have no idea.
          According to my father, it was pretty close to where he and Mama sat when they saw America fifteen zillion years ago in the 70s, which was cool. (My mother was a big America fan.) It was completely across the room from where I sat at the Magical Mystical Three Days Grace Concert of Legend, Tale, and Song. (I totally lost it when they played I Hate Everything About You and Gone Forever and Wake Up and Let It Die. I recall basically crying and screaming one loud, long, probably ear-piercing note by the end. The Febreze-soaked boys in front of me didn't seem to care, so it was cool.) The sound and visuals in the Three Days Grace Concert seats were actually pretty bad and it was still a Life-Altering Event. (Not life-changing, but very life-altering.) I was so glad we had better ones for this concert.
         This takes us forward to:
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Chimaira

          The thing about Chimaira is that A. They have a randomly-spelled name and B. I had never heard of them before. I wasn't alone in this, because I noticed there weren't as many people being "pumped", as my father would say, during their set. I did see several people in Chimaira T-shirts. Chimaira put on a very good show, and I really liked their music! I want a CD now. I think I may have heard one of their songs somewhere or other before. I got a couple very good pictures out of their performance, too.
          The show began when the place went totally dark. There was a thrumming bass of the human-speaker-creating variety. (It's cool--it turns you into a part of the music. Of course, that's probably just me.) I wonder how I had managed to get through life without hearing of them, because they were quite amazing. We did get scolded for sitting down; when a lot of people don't know a band I have noticed they do not tend to stand up until ordered to do so.
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Lacuna Coil

          I was very disappointed about Lacuna Coil. This had NOTHING to do with the music or show (NOTHING at all), but with the sound system mixing. The vocals were not turned up enough, and the band is, in my opinion, largely vocally-focused. There is a male singer and a female singer, both of whom are quite excellent, especially the female singer. Their new song, Spellbound, is wonderful, but when they sang it it was somewhat muffled beneath the other music. It was still very amazing, however. They were very energetic, too. (I sound like my father. He was, by the way, Pumped.)
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Killswitch Engage

         Ah, Killswitch Engage, creators of My Curse and Holy Diver! (In case you were wondering, nobody knows what Holy Diver means. I have heard it's a cover of something by somebody I don't know. But it r0cks.)
          Now, I obviously love Holy Diver and had a great desire to hear them play it, but something I didn't understand was why a decent portion of the crowd was screaming at them to play it throughout their show. See, being as it's pretty much their most popular song, I figured that not only would they play it, but they would play it as a finale or encore. But I had this dude near me who was just about having a heart attack screaming "Play Holy Diver!" Well, crowd participation is key, I suppose.
          The problem was that the moonbooted, apparently chemically altered guitarist was doing what we in the business of talking smack about others might call "runnin' his mouth". I, of course, censor my blog. However, I am totally unable to edit him down. (Some of it was kinda hard to understand anyways.) So here goes:

          KSE Guitarist: Are you ready to (unintelligable)?!
          Crowd: Whooo!
          KSE Guitarist: Are you ready to fsking rage?!
          Crowd: Whooo!
          *crowd repeatedly informed that KSE Guitarist was not able to hear the crowd's opinion on the fsking raging issue; general agreeable whoo-ing from crowd*
          KSE Guitarist: Iwerhat?
          Crowd: *slightly hesitant* ...Whooo!
          KSE Guitarist: Kshahg ag mesgst gsht shaset sksy skdyggnb ebnehehana djwehdfglkj?!
          Half of crowd: *drunken cheering*
          Half of crowd: *unsure how to react*
          KSE Guitarist: Yakkjebwbdkl adkebw wglhoah haaaaaa!
          Quarter of crowd: *drunken cheering*
          Three-quarters of crowd: *strained laugher, slight confusion*
          *KSE Singer attempts to shut up KSE Guitarist*
          *KSE Guitarist tells off KSE Singer*
          Crowd: *mixed emotions*
          KSE Guitarist: Ikahhhhh! Tusrkslf shajdhe? THSHEKG SHETKSL?!?!
          Small part of crowd: *drunken cheering*
          Most of crowd: *uncomfortable semi-silence*
          *KSE Singer cues KSE Band, drowning out KSE Guitarist.*
          Time: *passes*
          KSE Guitarist: *entirely deleted*
          Three-quarters of crowd: A-ha. Hahaha. Ahem. *cough* Ahahaha.
          *Band abruptly begins playing*
          Time: *passes*
          KSE Guitarist: Utbahe kahekwnv! Bahdl---
          *Band preemptively begins playing.*

          I'm not saying they didn't let him talk at all. But they did apparently know when to shut him down. Turning the crowd against you is probably not the best idea...
          One of them, unclear which though possibly the KSE Guitarist in a rare moment of vocal freedom, did manage to dedicate My Curse to (a-heh-a-heh-a-heh-heh-heh-heh-heh-hem) me.
          KSE had a Cool Ginormous Computer Screen Thingy in back of them that ran graphics while they played. It also provided their super-cool opening.
          The room went pitch dark. Then suddenly, shining through the night, flashed a giant red "KSE"! ('Shining through the night?' Hmm. Well, see my deviantart site for a picture of this and other stuff: aisling-niamh.deviantart.com/)
          It flashed on and off, or off and on, depending on one's perceptions. The crowd got very pumped. Then there was some confusion with almost dropping my camera so I am not positive if they came on one by one or just appeared. My apologies.
          Either way, it was very wow. And of course, when they played My Curse and most especially Holy Diver, the crowd kinda lost it. I'm not saying I was one of them. But I'm also not not saying so. w0rd.
.................................................................................
Disturbed

          People fight about Disturbed, apparently. Are they heavy metal or hard rock or Nu Metal or what? Have they sold out or something? Was the album mediocre or great? Are they old or do they still have something to say? Have they lost their edge? Is this a repeat of their previous album? Is their sound a totally new thing or a return to the sounds of classic bands such as Judas Priest??!?
          Y'all think too much. Because:

          OMFGWTFKSDGOIEHOGH!!!!11!!!

          That is my inarticulate way of expressing the inexpressable inexpressableness that is Disturbed live.
          I will start by saying that I am glad the Disturbed Guy has chosen to use his awesome powers for good, because, man, he could probably control the world. (No one give him ideas.)
          He would make a vague gesture and the entire stadium would obey. He says "My brothers and sisters... My blood! We are all brothers and sisters--we are of the blood!" and you're like, OMG! He's right! Why did I not think of that?
          Actually, it is true in a way. For example, when he asked if music had saved our fsking lives, I noticed that a remarkably great number of people screamed. (I fully and literally credit music with my continued, if somewhat-unwilling-anger-ridden-and-unproductive-drain-of-the-world's-valuable-resources, existence. I wonder how many other people literally credit it?) If communal life-saved-by-music-ness isn't familial, I don't know what is.
          Well, maybe not. You know.

          Anyways, I am serious. He could just make a random wave and people would lose it. He could make a general "up" gesture with his arms and the crowd would practically float six feet above their seats. (Except for me, who is medically banned from floating.)
          I have never been in the presence of a Person of Charisma. It was frightening and fascinating at the same time. I have been told quite a few times that I have an Irresistable Pull, the statement often accompanied by "What is up with that?!" I operate, I presume, much like a whirlpool of water that pulls an innocent cockroach down a bathtub drain.
          However, I got NOTHIN on this dude, at least when he is onstage. (Having never met him offstage.)

          They did one of those wonderful anticipation-building things wherein they hang a curtain over the stage. (I actually photographed the curtain in the act of falling, somehow.) The band came out one-by-one, with the Disturbed Guy last. This was because he was rolled out on a buckle gurney wearing a strait jacket; the gurney-rolling guy freed him. It was remarkably fascinating.
          They played a variety of songs, including Inside The Fire (I know the lyrics! Yaaay!) and that one song that was done by those one people but is done infinitely better by Disturbed--Aha! Genesis! Land of Confusion! During Ten Thousand Fists they changed the backdrop to, well, ten thousand people (or a chunk thereof) with their fists in the air. They turned out all the lights and brought people up from the mosh pit to stand on a little... thing with a fence... what do you call it? A thing with a fence in front of the backdrop behind the band. Like... up in the air. But not, like, floating. Thing... with a fence. Somebody help me out!
          Balcony! Would it be a balcony?
          ...brought people up from the mosh pit to stand on a balcony behind the band. Which was pretty awesome.
          Once again, there was a limited amount of time in which I was able to raise my fist, but I did my best as directed by the charismatic Disturbed Guy.
          We were told that we would leave our everyday lives on the floor of the stadium and leave there feeling "INDESTRUCTABLE!!!!!" It was, of course, the intro to Indestructable, but it was also quite true. I had a dangerous tendency toward feeling indestructable for a couple days after the concert. In fact, I think I may still have an aura of indestructability about me. (I think others felt the same way, being as some dude in a truck jumped the curb and pulled out in front of us as we were all leaving.)
          An interesting thing that they did was to play some of their songs as ballads, which was really fascinating--also thus enabling me to wave my cell phone around (temporarily). I always find the lighters-and-cell-phones part to be especially poetic--looking across a cavernously dark room and seeing thousands of tiny lights, each like the glowy lure on those ugly fish that are blind and trap things in murky water.
          Well, perhaps that is not the best metaphor to explain it. But I hope you understand.
          One of the dudes in front of me was having issues with his lighter, which kept going out. I was amused.

          Finally, in an act of supreme awesomeness, the concert was seemingly finished. But they didn't turn the lights on, so therefore I realized they were going to come back. Everyone had the usual major fit, screaming for an encore. (This is actual one of the funner--or more fun, rather--parts of a concert, for some reason.)
          The drummer came back first. He played a very cool drum solo for quite a few minutes. Numerous large security guards inexplicably rushed down the stairs, leading to slight alarm. Then suddenly the drummer stopped and pointed his sticks at the other end of the stadium.
          I, of course, am easily confused. Apparently so is half the audience. However, even we had to notice (after a few minutes of course) that we were in the prescence of an act of Awesomely Awesome Awesomeness.

          The Disturbed Guy Was Rising Out Of The Ground.

          Yes, he was rising out of the ground on a pillar. (Did I not say it was awesomely awesome?)
          Meanwhile the band came back onstage and began to play the opener for the cool and extremely famous but slightly disturbing (as is only appropriate) Down With The Sickness. [Corrected. Please see addendum at bottom of entry.] He, several jillion stories high (or so it seemed--he is made taller by the charisma aspect) upon the pillar, appeared as though he was about to begin to sing. The song, of course, begins with "Whukwhukwhuk!" (It is a sound particular to the Disturbed Guy--I cannot imitate it, even in writing. It could also be 'hwahwahwahwa', 'whakwhakwhakwhak', 'whuwhuwhuwhu' or a number of other phonetically-written sounds, as you choose.)
          However, the lights went out just before he began. It went something like this:

          Lights: *go out*
          Half of audience: *in anticipation* Whukwhukwhu... huh?
          Other half of audience: *incoherant cheering*
          *very brief pause in total darkness*
          Audience: *yelling, cheering, anticipatory 'whoo!'-ing*
          Lights: *go on*
          Disturbed Guy: WHUKWHUKWHUKWHUKWHUK!
          Audience, Sadly Including Treena: *totally loses it*

          I got some really cool pictures of this scene too.

          The presence of the Big Security Guards was soon explained by the exodus of the Disturbed Guy during the vocal bridge of the song, as he was lowered back down on the pillar and walked through the crowd to the stage for the end of the song and show.

          The concert ended with the Disturbed Guy having the entire audience repeat:

          Disturbed Guy: We are...
          Audience: Disturbed!
          Disturbed Guy: We are...
          Audience: Disturbed!
          Disturbed Guy: We are...

          (You get the idea, as you have excellent pattern recognition.)

          He declared the concert at an end by going down on one knee and stabbing the floor, sword-style, with the microphone.

          Interestingly, the Disturbed Guy has a genuinely good voice--speaking, singing (for there is genuine singing in Disturbed songs, all you nonbelievers), screaming, 'whukwhukwhuk'-ing, and doing a frighteningly good Evil Laugh. A genuine Evil Laugh. Not a BWAhahahahahahaaaa!, but a rolling, creepy, evil, indescribable, un-imitateable mwuhuhuhuhuh. No, not even that. I said it's indescribable. And I can't imitate it. Neither can Hyde. We sat around for possibly close to an hour going "Whukwhukwhuk!" and "mwuhuhuhuhuh" and never got them right. (My father tried too.)

          By the way, after everyone had cleared out I saw two guys helping some poor injured girl or other out of the general direction of the mosh pit. She looked quite in pain and the leg of her jeans was split up like they had been seeing if her leg was broken. Her actual leg was quite swollen.
          That is why I fear mosh pits. Protect my nose!
.......................................................
A Couple Things That Irritate Me

          I am mildly irritated by people who pay $40 and go to a concert and just sit down and purposely make out the entire time. Perhaps I should be patient with them because I am sure they believe they are in love, but not only did they basically pay $40 to do something they could do at home for free, but... Disturbed Is Right In Front Of You! Oh dear. How could you ignore Disturbed?
          I am also mildly irritated that somebody always tells me to 'pack it up' about five seconds before I get up to leave. Every time! I do not wish to go with the great exodus of people and get trampled, especially because I am afraid of stairs and approach them like I am carrying a twelve-pack of Mountain Dew under each arm while walking a tightrope. People behind me do not like this. I do wonder why it is that they want everybody cleared totally out in five minutes when I feel ten minutes would be more prudent. After all, the world should be run solely for my benefit, you know.
          Another mild irritation is people who are Older (forgive me) and go to a concert and feel they have to act a certain way--i.e., immature--just because they aren't sixteen. They are very overtly self-concious. I say just go to a concert and have fun--who cares what age you are. Fun is fun.
          I mention this occasionally, no doubt. People who purposely dress up super-nice for concerts confuse me more than irritate me. I wear clothes that are Durable and Serviceable, not clothes that look as though they Might Fall Off At Any Moment. (Concerts aren't super-ideal places to meet members of the opposite sex in my opinion anyways, should that be their goal.) Also, wearing open-toed shoes or sandals or worse, flip-flops, isn't the greatest idea. Wearing heels, meanwhile, is contrary to logic.
          In the same vein, why do girls wear skinny madras poplin capri pants? Or better yet, why do they wear one-and-a-half-inch inseam madras poplin short-shorts? Poplin pants--or any thin-fabric pants--look horrible on anybody. Madras anything looks horrible on anybody. So... why not combine the two? That's a great idea! As soon as the weather gets even a little warm they show up. Not only that but... they are usually worn by girls of a... a doughier and paler sort of nature. Sorry.
          This is random and unrelated, but I am also irritated by platform foam flip-flops, what they refer to as 'creepers', Uggs, and running shoes. (We have not even gotten into *shudder* Crocs. In fact, we haven't even scratched the surface of my shoe-related irritation.)
          ...........................
Cool Parts of the Concert and Other Assorted Stuff.

          I really like getting to shout such things as "I... Hate... Everyone!" (Or in the case of Linkin Park, such things as "Shut up when I'm talking to you!") That seriously helps me with my anger issues. You can't just go around screaming stuff like that at random. It does what is generally known as Make You Sound All Emo, for one thing. Another thing is, it strongly implies angst. I may be angsty, but I don't like to appear angsty. So cliche.
          Plus, I guess it might frighten small children and the elderly.

          I enjoy watching the crowdsurfers. I find crowdsurfing a poetic metaphor for human existence. (Then again, I find many things to be poetic metaphors for human existence.) Also, I have a much lower reason for liking it: It is amusing. The guys who catch the crowdsurfers look like they would like to be Anywhere But Here. Of course people get dropped sometimes, which I should not say is funny. But one guy got partially dropped and a bunch of people, in a moment of human kindness, tried to save him, ending with him being passed along upside-down with his feet flailing around in the air. Now tell me that's not funny--bless his heart. (Why is it that saying 'bless someone's heart' reverses anything you said without reversing it?)

         My father (who is, incidentally, quite the Disturbed fan) always has a great deal of fun at concerts. He was quite worried about what he was going to wear, and finally ended up looking very retro-concert-veteren-y. (This was mostly my handiwork.) He wore his "radical" black-wash jeans (how they are "radical" is beyond me), his Fender Guitar t-shirt (which I bought him a couple years ago), his skater shoes (which he bought), and a totally random unbuttoned denim shirt. I would never have thought of that. It somehow worked--"Dylanesque", sayeth the Underground Fashionista. Although, he did wear his Beige Librarian Bifocals.
          The next day he said he was "worn out from all that standing".
          He is also OFFICIALLY BANNED from EVER shouting "Woohoo!" or loudly calling a band or band member a "pottymouth". Oh my.

          I am remarkably determined to go see another concert as soon as possible. However, it seems that everyone is I might want to see is coming with Saving Abel. I do not like Saving Abel. I Take Issue With Them. They are On Par With Buckcherry, in my opinion, and we all know my loudly-voiced opinion on Buckcherry: Frat Rock. I have also heard from reliable sources (namely, Phil) that Saving Abel sucks live.
          I think I might be too elderly for the Warped Tour these days. What would I be getting myself into? Would I pass out in the first 40 minutes? I shall consider... probably consider and not go. That is usually what happens when I consider. (I really like to stay home with my cats and take naps--I am apparently already an old maid.)

          No matter what, my poor left arm (still numb and stiff) is being worked on (it's so stiff that my hand flexes like the Wolfman--graaarrr!--when it gets worked on) and, God willing, I hope to be able to make a metal hand sign by the next concert. Because that is the most important thing about it , you know.
          Other than what I will wear.
...............................................................................
[Addendum: I confused Stricken and Down With The Sickness again. By way of explanation, the words 'stricken' and 'sickness' and the letters 's' and 'd' appear visually the same to me. Not only that, but if a sentence or title has a bunch of pointless particles and articles in between key words I will read everything as one word. Eventually I cannot even distinguish between the two without thinking about them for, like, a couple days--well, whatever it may be, it's a rather considerable amount of time. The word probably comes out something like 'sdtrickwts' and I skip right over it, basically saying or writing the first thing that came to mind, especially something that sounds vaguely similar in some universe but not really. This can be interesting, as I sometimes specifically confuse the words 'lightbulb' and 'spoon'. It can also be why I will be singing words that make no sense, perhaps because it adds distraction to words or something. I once recall somehow working the phrase 'Persian kitchen sink' into the Slipknot song Duality. This sort of thing makes you feel really, really, really stupid when you are singing along to a song at a concert, or actually, anywhere at all.
An interesting insight into the inner workings of my poor incredibly pathetic brain.]

          I have general angst throughout most of my life; this is well-known to the community at large. ("You have issues," they used to tell me. "No, no, that's why we love you!" I am not sure if that makes sense or not.) However, I always get Especial Angst this time of year. (Also wanderlust. But that is not related to this monologue.) For one thing, I have never quite gotten used to the fact that people just disappear into thin air. Now, I am a townie, as they say, in a college town; most of my time has been spent in one college town or another. Therefore, you think I would be used to the fact that people one either knows, or whom one has just got used to seeing here and there, suddenly make a great egress, returning to the various parts of the globe from which they originated. And yet it always comes as a surprise for some reason. I'll go somewhere and be like, Oh hey! Where's Mary? (or Biff, or Mary Jane, or Joshua, or whatever) And they'll say, well, they went home, right? Me, I'm leaving next week. And I'll say ohhhhhh! I forgot! Well, I live here. (The last said with the sort of apologetic dejectedness that people who live here often use for saying they live here.)
          It occurs to me that I should probably say, "Oh my GOD! He said he LOVED me!" or "Dammit! She owes me money!" or simply and succinctly, "The bastard!" It would certainly liven things up.
................................................
          I have a depressing ailment. After being in the car crash, my left arm became quite difficult to use. I was unable to lift it and it was constantly numb, or tingling like when one's foot falls asleep. Occasionally it would go totally out of use. After having a very great deal of extremely--and I mean EXTREMELY extremely, I actually cried at one point--painful work done on it, I can use it decently. However, it is still very clumsy. I have trouble typing with it because I don't have full range of motion, and occasionally it simply flops. I am SO lucky I am not left-handed.
         This is very bothersome to me, because I am used to being incredibly strong. I really am. I was actually not aware of it for some time, but I really do have to be careful. Sometimes I will think that I am nudging someone out of the way and practically knock them over, or will accidentally break something. Over time I just got used to, you know, being able to open jars nobody else could open or bending spoons and stuff. Doing things without thinking about it, other than occasionally thinking about not hurting anybody. I could beat a lot of the boys in arm wrestling up until middle school, and in elementary school I was the female back-wrestling champion in PE. (Do you know what back wrestling is? You sit back to back in the middle of a great big square and try to push the other person out of the square. It's kind of stupid, but it was fun. Also, the only person out of all the people in my grade who could beat me was a boy who later became a sports star in high school.) Having a lame arm is kind of a blow to me.
          I may have said this before, but I always thought my God-ordained calling must be to be a barmaid, of the variety that hoists tankards of German ale on a tray over her head to forge her way through a packed room without spilling anything, bellowing "Coming through! Move or it's on your head!". That would explain everything.
..............................................................................................

          Another slightly depressing, although occasionally amusing, ailment is dyslexia. It makes it very difficult to watch the Kentucky Derby. It went something like this:

          "Go 16!"
          "Yours was 19."
          "Oh, right. Go 91!"
          "There's no 91."
          "Hey! You're right! Go 27! No wait, what was mine again?"
          "19!"
          "No, mine didn't look anything like number 19."
          "That's because you're looking at 16 again."
          "Oh! Go 18!"
          "...Sigh."

          And yes, that does mean that I picked the semi-longish-shot Desert Party. Luckily I didn't bet. Normally my picks come in between 5th and 10th and I didn't even get that this time. I have notoriously bad luck. I lose every single bet that comes my way! I won $3 off of $20 worth of lottery tickets. Wow.
          This means I probably shouldn't go to Vegas.
          Incidentally, my grandmother picks the horses by name and she usually picks the winner or the second, amazingly. She picked Pioneer of the Nile this year, who turned out to be the favored after I Want Revenge got scratched, and who of course came in second to Mine That Bird. Good job Grandma!
.................................................................................................
          A random note: MechaZombies are not really worth fighting. They have only 800 XP and 400 Gold. They have over 1000 HP and a great deal of endurance, which is kind of a lot for a Level 68 and also very tedious. And he didn't even have an Z-Tokens I could pick up.
..................................................................................................
          The accident has had some non-physical aftereffects that I would not have anticipated. I am actually scared to ride shotgun in a car.
          If, say, my mother is driving and another car is pulling to a stop sign on my side, I panic and make squeaking noises and jump away, because I can't bring myself to believe that they really will stop. I keep checking my seat belt to make sure it's connected, even though I know it is.
          I do better when I drive, because I have control over the car, a better vantage point for seeing cars coming at me (i.e., they aren't coming DIRECTLY at me) and something to think about besides "Is that car going to run into me?"
          I still remain alarmed that this has bothered me as much as it has. I would have never anticipated I would behave this way.

 I have an introduction to make to everyone. We have a new member of the family.

His name is Trevor, and he is a 2008 Chevrolet Malibu V6. He is semi-loaded, pewter grey, and 32,000 mostly highway miles old.

He basically rocks.

Trevor has excellent handling and a great stereo system. In addition, he a remarkable amount of storage space and a cruise control system that allows one to take one's speed up or down one mile at a time, which is very handy for long road trips--one can speed up two or three miles and hour to effectively pass another car, and then return back to one's original speed with ease. Just about everything glows when one turns on the headlights. Really--the window up-down buttons glow, the locks glow, the cruise control glows, the dashboard glows... Not only that, but the headlights provide an excellent field of vision. Quite fun for night driving.

And of course he has a V6 engine. That in itself!

Trevor has been on his first major road trip since joining the family. He drove to Bloomington last Saturday.

On the way home he received his first threat from the Deer Mafia, who notoriously have it in for our family. He was not daunted and stopped excellently, frightening the deer into submission and causing it to run for shelter. The deer don was probably not pleased.

 I have a very sad announcement to make.

Cossette, my 2002 Chevrolet Cavalier, is dead.

She died on Good Friday, April 10th, 2009, a little before 5:00 PM, while bravely defending her owner in a car accident. A young woman who was not paying attention bashed into her passenger side door (where her owner, who was not driving, was sitting) after running a stop sign on Lemons and Hart. Cossette spun around about two and a half times before coming to rest on the opposite side of the road, having rear-ended a fence, which kept her from flipping over. Her entire right side was smashed, and her right doors both jammed shut. In addition, her frame was bent, her back bumper torn up, her right front hubcap nearly gone, a square hole ripped in her right front tire, and part of the hood was very dented. A piece of the offending car was found stuck in her door, pieces of fence were scattered for many yards, and a fence post had ripped her bumper in half.

She was declared totaled at the scene, which was confirmed by insurance adjusters three days later.

Cossette was the constant traveling companion of her owner. She had been to the 10th anniversary of Anime Central, five rock concerts, a strange deserted park, several funerals, the Indiana Dunes, and many shopping trips. She was filled with sand, shoes, Starbucks straw wrappers, cigarette ashes, Burger King receipts, mix CDs, a random guitar pick, Vitamin Water, a good-luck bunch of fake flowers, hand-drawn maps, phone chargers, old Tri-X film canisters, and other relics of a long and fruitful life. Cossette braved floods, ice storms, blizzards, knee-deep snow, being lost in a field after a rock concert, remarkably heavy fog, heavy pickups traveling at high speeds, deep mud, some dude who flipped her off, her emotionally unbalanced owner making her curve like she was a Camero when she got upset over a guy, excessively high gas prices, and tailgaters, taking them all in stride. 

Cossette was only 66,639 miles old. She will be sorely missed by all who knew her. Her owner thanks her for putting up with her, and for all her years of loyal, devoted service.

She will now be an organ donor for cars in need.

The other vehicle, a blue 1979 Trans Am, was moderately injured and was not declared totaled.

Cossette asks that her friends and family please listen to Bon Jovi's song "Lost Highway" in memory of her.
...............................................................................................................

"Lost Highway"

In my rearview mirror,
My life is getting clearer.
The sunset sighs and slowly disappears.
Trinkets once were treasure.
Life changes like the weather--
You grow up, grow old or hit the road 'round here.
So I drive, watching white lines passing by,
With my plastic dashboard Jesus,
Waiting there to greet us.

Hey, hey! I finally found my way!
Say goodbye to yesterday.
Hit the gas, there ain't no brakes on this lost highway.
Yeah, I'm busting loose, I'm letting go,
Out on this open road.
It's Independence Day on this lost highway.

I don't know where I'm going,
But I know where I've been.
Now I'm afraid of going back again,
So I drive,
Years and miles are flying by,
And waiting there to great us,
Is my plastic dashboard Jesus.

Oh patron saint of lonely souls
Please tell this boy which way to go.
Guide the car, you got the keys,
Farewell to mediocrity.
Kicking off the cruise-control,
And turning up the radio,
Got just enough religion,
And a half tank of gas!
Come on!

Let's go!

I finally found my way.
Say goodbye to yesterday.
Hit the gas, there ain't no brakes on this lost highway.
Yeah, I'm busting loose, I'm letting go,
Out on this open road.
It's Independence Day on this lost highway!
......................................................................

Thank you, everyone, for helping us remember Cossette.

          Hello. This is, as pointed out above, a post about potentially posting a post. This potential post will no doubt explain why I haven't posted, times when I planned to post but didn't post, and why these posting plans fell through. Then I will post about posting the post that explains why I have posted a post about potentially posting a post, as well as why I posted the post that explains why I didn't post. I will also doubtless post a needless apology for not posting the post about potentially posting a post or posting the post that explains why I didn't post.

          It may explain the various reasons why I haven't posted: There are a lot, including I Didn't Want To Seem Emo But Everything Lately Has Been Majorly Emo.
          It may discuss why my avatar is solid black: It's not some accident. Nothing is wrong with the link or your computer.
          It may explain Christmas: Christmas inevitably sucks, if I may be so crude.
          It may explain why I seem to have become the proverbial "peaceful person filled with violent rage," as they say.
          It may explain exactly why everything lately has been Majorly Emo.
          It may explain something about nightmares: This includes the nightmares I have while actually awake.
          It may or may not contain something about music in order to inject an element of levity into everything.
          It may contain a rant about Coldplay.
          It may also contain something about why Coldplay deserves to be ranted against.
          It may be posted later today, tomorrow, this week, next week, or next month.
          It will depend entirely on my mood at any given moment, and the fact that it will have to be very, very, very long.
          It will indeed have to be very, very, very, very, very long. Very. Very very.
          It is, in fact, long enough that I am writing it in Microsoft Word.

          Everyone may have to be patient, something which many people seem to be lacking these days. It may not even be worth waiting for. Or it may be. You never know. I suppose you will have to be patient to discover this. Also, please turn off and put away in a handy drawer your damn cell phones and mobile devices while you read my blog.
          I have been having a major desire to break everyone's phones. And someday I will snap and I probably will. Then I will either scrap them for parts, bury them in a makeshift graveyard, or use their broken corpses for .22 target practice. Or I will leave their mangled bodies at your front door as a warning. Or cut off the screen and leave it in your bed. Or I will secretly remove the antenna so you will obsess about why nobody has texted you in the past five seconds and think all your friends have abandoned you. (Believe me, I've been seriously obsessing over this.) Then I will somehow figure out how to delete the entire Facebook server. Perhaps you will remember what "friend" actually means.
          Maybe you would have to email, or write a letter, or call somebody on the telephone. Maybe you would be forced to speak to someone. Maybe you would be forced to have a conversation. Maybe you would finally be able to concentrate. Maybe you would find that your mind is clearer. Maybe you would discover that you don't have a panic attack without radiation and entertainment and heavy metals and overstimulation being funneled into your body at a constant level. Maybe you would have to actually really think and create and see, until, of course, you replace your phone on warranty and resume being controlled by a tiny box of plastic and wire. Jeez.
          I wonder why people can't realize this.

 I'm doing my first real Christmas shopping today. (Mostly on-line. I did find a cute lit-up tree at Lowe's, but I didn't buy it. I am trying to save money.) I always found Christmas shopping really fun--sadly, some of the fun has been knocked out by what is apparently a newfound cynicism more severe than every before, but I fully admit that I absolutely adore giving presents. ADORE. Any time of year. I am told that I am good at picking out things for people. This is a very, very high compliment. I look so forward to going shopping for presents at the mall this year I could burst. However, my expectations are surprisingly low.

My next posted lyrics are to "The Lights and Buzz" by Jack's Mannequin.
...........................................
The Lights and Buzz

I'm coming home from my hardest year.
I'm making plans not to make plans while I'm here.
And this life has been no holiday--
A complicated situation.
I'm fine with all my memories--
Still I could use vacation 

It's Christmas in California,
And it's hard to ignore that it feels like summer all the time,
But I'll take a west coast winter to remove my splinters.

It's good to be alive--
It's good to be alive.

I'm coming home to the lights and buzz;
Streets look the same, still nothing's as it was. 
This place is paradise I'm sure, here's my reservation.
I've gotten lost here once before,
Inside a good vibration.

It's Christmas in California,
And it's hard to ignore that it feels like summer all the time,
But I'll take a west coast winter to remove my splinters.

It's good to be alive...
It's good to be alive...
It's good to be alive...

And time, time it stops for no one;
The seasons come and go and that's just time.
Yeah time it stops for no one;
The seasons keep on going,
Whether or not we're blind.

Christmas in California,
And it's hard to ignore that it feels like summer all the time,
But I'll take a west coast winter to remove my splinters 

It's good to be alive...
It's good to be alive...
It's good to be alive...
.....................................................

This perfume I have been wearing seems very meaningful to me and makes me very nostalgic. It's strange; my perception of the scent seems to change as my life changes. I first thought it smelled like lime, and then almost powdery, and then sort of like holy basil. During the worst parts of my life I could not stand the scent; it made me feel strangled. Now I think it smells like sandalwood. I wonder what my perceiving the scent as sandalwood means? Some people have a stronger 'scent memory' than others, but does anyone have a 'scent changes-with-one's-life'? I have heard it described as 'sweet' but I have never thought of it that way at all. I wonder when I would?
The scent itself is Guerlain's Shalimar Light Fragrance; they simply changed some of the notes in their enduring Shalimar fragrance to update it for modern women. I wonder if you can even get it anymore? I didn't see it on Sephora.

 Christmas List 2008

…………………………………

Last Christmas was an event that I cannot even possibly begin to describe any other way than the highly indelicate and rather masculine “totally fsking fsked up”, in which I recall swearing I was going to lock myself in my room and never have anything to do with another “hellish Christmas” and never see a single member of my family again because I hated “every single atom of their being and their shallow, twisted, barely existent souls”, and also made vague threats of physical violence. Also one of my grandmothers told me not to get her any more presents because she didn’t like me spending money on stuff she didn’t want, and repeatedly interrupted me, as well as refused to look at me except to order me to do something or to make statements about her disapproval of my manner of dress, makeup, and hairstyle. (I was not and am not exaggerating. It was BAD. The only people who thought it was even remotely good are those I am well aware are in deep, deep denial.) So I plan to judge last Christmas against just a very few of the other Christmases that I at the time swore were the worst Christmases ever.

The one where I was looking so forward for three weeks to all the big and small brightly colored fun looking presents glistening in the lights under my grandmother’s tree and every. single. one. of. them. turned out to be for two certain persons, and I got a gift card? Pretty bad. Or the one where my parents and I got into a big fight and I threatened to run away, now conveniently forgotten? Also pretty bad. Or the one where I didn’t want a single thing I received from one of my grandmothers and felt horribly guilty and ungrateful and ended up giving a bunch of it to my best friend’s little sister? Also bad. The one where none of my cousins would eat the cookies my mom and I made because they said “they’ll be gross and dirty because you made them”? Ditto. The one where I was told by an unnamed person, “I can’t talk to you anymore because I can’t deal with your bitching so shut up because I don’t want to hear it”? Yatta!

And thus follows a gorgeous, impractical work-in-progress list of my Christmas wishes, filled with a startling lack of residual childlike wonderment, lots of materialistic desires for possessions I can’t take with me that totally ignore the recession, the general jaded attitude of the Echo Boom or Gen Y or the Millennial Generation or whatever I am, anger at the world, lack of damn-giving, and bitter cynicism.

…………………………………

1. A paint job for Cossette (purple.)
2. The new Guitar Hero.
3. The book “The Fortunes of Indigo Skye”. Also other books.
4. New seat covers for Cossette.
5. A Walther P99. I have asked for this every year for five or six years and for some reason have never acquired one. I wonder why?
6. The ability to spell “acquired” without a spell checker.
7. You may observe my wish lists on www.sephora.com (look for gift sets. Sometimes you can get an entire set for the same price as one of the items in the set bought singly), vaguely at www.amazon.com (because Amazon has so much stuff that it’s nearly impossible to make a wish list), and, just for the sake of argument, as emailed from www.tiffany.com.
8. Perfume, also see #7. But I continue to ask, as every year, for Tiffany by Tiffany EDP.
9. A new desktop computer—the cool super-expensive HP one. But only if it doesn’t have Vista. Which it does. So I am out of luck, I guess.
10. High heels. There have got to be high heels somewhere out there that actually fit me.
11. Jewelry.
12. New mirrored motorcycle-esque sunglasses of the variety I can’t find anymore, like my CVS-originated old ones that are pretty much dead.
13. A new coat rather like my old one.
14. A Mazarati, simply because the name is cool.
15. Not to have to dye my hair anymore. A team of elves to dye it for me would be nice.
16. Not to have to listen to such songs as shall be described below.
17. A PS3
18. While I'm at it, a Wii (sort of.)…
19. …Xbox 360…
20. …and a PSP.
21. An iPod.
22. CDs named in alphabetical order: Alice Cooper, All-American Rejects, Ayumi HAMASAKI, Bad Religion, Big&Rich, Blink-182, Boys Like Girls, Brooks & Dunn, Busta Rhymes, Celtic Frost, Chetes, Coolio, Crematory, Ill Nino, Jack’s Mannequin, Lance Miller, Linkin Park, Lit, Los Super Elegantes, Ludo, Metro Station, Miranda Lambert, Montgomery Gentry, Mxpx, My Chemical Romance, New Found Glory, Slipknot, Stabbing Westward, Static-x, Suicide Silence, Sum 41, UTADA Hikaru. Wow, I appear to have diverse music tastes.
23. Mostly for the sake of argument, but also with perpetual hope, bags from Dooney & Burke, such as the Anniversary Collection and Signature Collection in such things as Charcoal and Black, so as not to show the dirt I inevitably accumulate by using the bag constantly. I like the Medium Logo Lock Satchel, Hobo, and Lucy bags. Check out the Specials.
24. A bigger hard drive for Odette.
25. Cool stuff.
26. Digital SLR camera.
27. Picture frames from Exposures, or at least frames to fit the picture mats that I have.
28. Speakers
29. Wireless keyboard, mouse, etc., because of the enormous tangle of wires surrounding my computer.
30. Something Hello Kitty.
31. One of those ultraviolet things you put your glasses in and it cleans them.
32. A 3-D lamb cake pan.
33. A spinny CD tower in a color to match my room.
34. The Place Promised in Our Early Days DVD.

………………………………..
Christmas Songs
...

What is my greatest Christmas wish? (Well, it is one of many. Still, that is not important to the current dialogue.)

This greatest wish of which I speak is: Not to have to listen to cutesy versions of such songs as “I'm Gettin’ Nuttin for Christmas” (the Reliant k version is acceptable); that “The Christmas Shoes” should never be played again; that I should never hear another whining chick (especially such persons as are or resemble Amy Grant, Mariah Carey, and Celine Dion) singing a horrifically bad rendition of such songs as “Silent Night” and “It Came Upon a Midnight Clear”.

Other unacceptable songs are all or almost all versions of:

“I’ll Be Home for Christmas”;

 “Blue Christmas”;

“I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus”;

“I Saw Daddy Kissing Santa Claus”;

“What a Wonderful World” (oh God, save me from “What A Wonderful World”);

“You Are My Greatest Christmas Gift”;

“A Wonderful Christmas Time” (on par with or worse than “What A Wonderful World”);

“All I Want For Christmas Is You”;

“The Chanukah Song”;

“Pitter Patter on the Rooftops”;

“Winter Wonderland”;

…Or anything that has to do with sappy Christmas love songs, childlike wonderment, or modern whinings about Baby Jesus.

The originals of “I’ll Be Home for Christmas”; “Blue Christmas”; and “Winter Wonderland” are fine. What is bad (BAD!) is when they change the lines of “Winter Wonderland” from:

“In the meadow we can build a snowman/and pretend that he is Parson Brown/He’ll say are you married/We’ll say no, man/But you can do the job when you’re in town”

To the evil:

“In the meadow we can build a snowman/and pretend that he’s a circus clown/We’ll have lots of fun with Mr. Snowman/Until the other kiddies knock him down.”

When I hear that I want to rip out my eyeballs—not in the least because I hate the word ‘kiddies’ as much as the words ‘tykes’ and ‘tots’. Also, clowns are scary. What kid would build a clown snowman?

I will tell you what helps, though: I listen to certain Christmas songs. (I have posted lyrics to some of them starting last year.) My new one this year is “The Lights and Buzz” by Jack’s Mannequin. Because, as much as I hate to start Christmas this early, it is still A. Advent and B. Unavoidable; therefore I am opening the season on December 1^st instead of the traditional December 15^th.

I am opening the season with “A Long December” by Counting Crows (which is not precisely a Christmas song, see.)

…………………………….

“A Long December” by Counting Crows.

….

A long December and there's reason to believe

Maybe this year will be better than the last

I can't remember the last thing that you said as you were leaving.

Oh the days go by so fast.

 

And it's one more day up in the canyons,

And it's one more night in Hollywood.

If you think that I could be forgiven,

I wish you would…

 

The smell of hospitals in winter,

And the feeling that it's all a lot of oysters, but no pearls.

All at once you look across a crowded room,

To see the way that light attaches to a girl.

 

And it's one more day up in the canyons,

And it's one more night in Hollywood.

If you think you might come to California,

I think you should.

 

Drove up to Hillside Manor sometime after 2 a.m.

And talked a little while about the year.

I guess the winter makes you laugh a little slower,

Makes you talk a little lower about the things you could not show her…

 

…And it's been a long December and there's reason to believe

Maybe this year will be better than the last.

I can't remember all the times I tried to tell myself

To hold on to these moments as they pass.

 

And it's one more day up in the canyon,

And it's one more night in Hollywood.

It's been so long since I've seen the ocean.

I guess I should.

……………………………………
        This Year
...

This year has been something that was so hard I cannot even express it. (And it’s not even over yet, for God’s sake.) As soon as I thought I was going to catch my breath something would knock me in the back. (Quite hard.) I feel… splintered, I think. Very splintered. A sort of dramatic feeling that can only be described in dramatic terms—perhaps, every time I look up something ends.

There have been few moments that could be described as truly good. Voting/standing in line to vote, good. Halloween, highly unenjoyable. Birthday, enjoyable. New Year’s, enjoyable. Vacation, enjoyable despite brief terrifying moment and infected piercings. Acquisition of GED, enjoyable. GED party, very enjoyable. Danny and Jamie’s party, rather enjoyable. Three Days Grace concert, totally amazing. Summer, alternating horrific/enjoyable. Projekt Revolution, great. Late Winter and Spring, hideous. Completely hideous.

One thing is, there have been so many changes—more this year, I think, than I have experienced in my entire life. Some were good, none were great, and many were like being hung but not dying right away.

Oh well. Out of time again.