Marc
On Why I Thought, Upon Reading This Site Tonight, That There Were Insane Hardcore Kids Tramping Through the Cold Weather to Play An Outdoor Show On Christmas Eve: You know it's summer in Australia, don't you Marc? I mean, basic laws of the Earth apply in situations such as these, and just because it's snowing and blustery and cold outside doesn't mean that it's not nice and sunny and warm in other parts of the world, right? So, when Mish writes, "far left limit playing a show outside missing link on christmas eve rules," it doesn't mean that they were playing in the snow to a bunch of jaded Midwestern USA kids who were wearing scarfs and industrial jackets and stocking caps. They were most likely wearing shorts and t-shirts, and having a grand old time celebrating the holiday in the warmer part of the world this time of year. So, Marc, please understand this one thing -- you are not the center of the universe! Tell yourself that over and over again, and maybe it'll start to stick. Got it?
On the First of Two Holiday Traditions: Mark it -- it's 3:00am my time, and I just got home on Christmas Eve from a rousting three hour meal at Denny's, where I did nothing but catch up with my dearest and oldest friends. And, no, this isn't Ruth from the Golden Girls writing this. It's me. We ended up playing the Celebrity Name Game, where you give a celebrities names, take the first letter of the last name, and have to come up with another celebrity whose first name starts with the same letter as that first letter of the previous celebritie's name. Great fun, though we sounded like the Dork Squad to most of those around us, I'm sure. My favorite name that I used throughout the night was a tie between either Walter Mondale, who I passed along to a struggling participant, or Gary Gaetti, former Cubs third basemen, and one of my all-time favorite baseball players for no discernible reasons. Tomorrow night, tradition two, Christmas Night Bowling and Drinking. Roll up.
On Sitting Around at the Grandparents' House and Re-Hashing Stories That I've/We've Told to Each Other A Million Times: I guess it's just part of the family way, I would suppose. We sit down, start to talk, eat, open presents, and go back to the living room where we tell each other embarrassing stories about myself and my cousin, Carolyn, because we're the closest in age, and we used to hang out quite a bit as small children. There's the "Marc goes to the creek to go fishing with Papa and Carolyn, looks down into the stream and sees minnos and asks Papa, 'Papa? Are there sharks in this water?' story" followed up (always) by the, "remember, Marc, just a little while later you almost stepped on a dead raccoon and screamed, 'Papa! This place is scary!' story". That one's my personal favorite.
I was also reminded of how cowardly I was as a child. I always grew paranoid of going shopping with my parents and my three siblings as a kid because they would run off, and I would lose sight of them, and (always) my first reaction was, "They've been kidnapped, Mom/Dad! Where's (Erin, Lindsey, or Andy)? Where are they!?"
I found out that my dad made a big deal out of not wanting my grandma to buy me a Cabbage Patch Doll at some point in the early childhood stage, because of some irrational fear that it might make me kind of wimpy, yet, by the end of the playdate with cousin Carolyn, he was informed that the two of us had been fighting, literally all day long, over a shiny red purse, and my dad was forced to give in.
There's also the story about the battery powered truck that I got one Christmas that Carolyn refused to let me drive in her presence, simply because she didn't get one, too. And I would cry, but she would never get out of the back of the truck, which caused it to be too weighted down, which caused me to cry.
Or the infamous tales about my many encounters with being hit by baseballs all throughout my playing days (from the ages of roughly 4 to 12). There was the bean that I took in Little League, and the story of how my dad, from the bleachers, heckled me as I took my base. "What are you, too stupid to get out of the way?" D'oh. The story of how my next door neighbor, Kyle, hit me square in the chest in YMCA T-Ball because I was not paying attention to the game, instead I opted to watch a pretty plane fly through the pretty sky, and had the wind knocked out of me for my tomfoolery.
I used to lead patriotic parades up and down my grandparents' street(s) as a child. I'd carry the flag on a pole in the front of the parade, while I wore red cowboy boots, and was always followed by Carolyn and the rest of the siblings, who usually dragged my little brother in a wagon and played kazoos to songs like "Yankee Doodle Dandy".
And, finally, the story of how I got lost in the cornfield behind my grandparents' house, and was found crying and snivvling because I figured, quite rationally, that I would be stuck there until winter, and that I'd have to eat corn all the time, and that, somehow, the farmer would catch me, in similar situations as found in Peter Cottontail stories, and I'd be shot for stealing his corn, even though I had no choice. I can honestly say, "If it hadn't of been for that fishing pole, I would've never lived past six years old."
Happy (fill in appropriate terminology here), all.
On Why I Thought, Upon Reading This Site Tonight, That There Were Insane Hardcore Kids Tramping Through the Cold Weather to Play An Outdoor Show On Christmas Eve: You know it's summer in Australia, don't you Marc? I mean, basic laws of the Earth apply in situations such as these, and just because it's snowing and blustery and cold outside doesn't mean that it's not nice and sunny and warm in other parts of the world, right? So, when Mish writes, "far left limit playing a show outside missing link on christmas eve rules," it doesn't mean that they were playing in the snow to a bunch of jaded Midwestern USA kids who were wearing scarfs and industrial jackets and stocking caps. They were most likely wearing shorts and t-shirts, and having a grand old time celebrating the holiday in the warmer part of the world this time of year. So, Marc, please understand this one thing -- you are not the center of the universe! Tell yourself that over and over again, and maybe it'll start to stick. Got it?
On the First of Two Holiday Traditions: Mark it -- it's 3:00am my time, and I just got home on Christmas Eve from a rousting three hour meal at Denny's, where I did nothing but catch up with my dearest and oldest friends. And, no, this isn't Ruth from the Golden Girls writing this. It's me. We ended up playing the Celebrity Name Game, where you give a celebrities names, take the first letter of the last name, and have to come up with another celebrity whose first name starts with the same letter as that first letter of the previous celebritie's name. Great fun, though we sounded like the Dork Squad to most of those around us, I'm sure. My favorite name that I used throughout the night was a tie between either Walter Mondale, who I passed along to a struggling participant, or Gary Gaetti, former Cubs third basemen, and one of my all-time favorite baseball players for no discernible reasons. Tomorrow night, tradition two, Christmas Night Bowling and Drinking. Roll up.
On Sitting Around at the Grandparents' House and Re-Hashing Stories That I've/We've Told to Each Other A Million Times: I guess it's just part of the family way, I would suppose. We sit down, start to talk, eat, open presents, and go back to the living room where we tell each other embarrassing stories about myself and my cousin, Carolyn, because we're the closest in age, and we used to hang out quite a bit as small children. There's the "Marc goes to the creek to go fishing with Papa and Carolyn, looks down into the stream and sees minnos and asks Papa, 'Papa? Are there sharks in this water?' story" followed up (always) by the, "remember, Marc, just a little while later you almost stepped on a dead raccoon and screamed, 'Papa! This place is scary!' story". That one's my personal favorite.
I was also reminded of how cowardly I was as a child. I always grew paranoid of going shopping with my parents and my three siblings as a kid because they would run off, and I would lose sight of them, and (always) my first reaction was, "They've been kidnapped, Mom/Dad! Where's (Erin, Lindsey, or Andy)? Where are they!?"
I found out that my dad made a big deal out of not wanting my grandma to buy me a Cabbage Patch Doll at some point in the early childhood stage, because of some irrational fear that it might make me kind of wimpy, yet, by the end of the playdate with cousin Carolyn, he was informed that the two of us had been fighting, literally all day long, over a shiny red purse, and my dad was forced to give in.
There's also the story about the battery powered truck that I got one Christmas that Carolyn refused to let me drive in her presence, simply because she didn't get one, too. And I would cry, but she would never get out of the back of the truck, which caused it to be too weighted down, which caused me to cry.
Or the infamous tales about my many encounters with being hit by baseballs all throughout my playing days (from the ages of roughly 4 to 12). There was the bean that I took in Little League, and the story of how my dad, from the bleachers, heckled me as I took my base. "What are you, too stupid to get out of the way?" D'oh. The story of how my next door neighbor, Kyle, hit me square in the chest in YMCA T-Ball because I was not paying attention to the game, instead I opted to watch a pretty plane fly through the pretty sky, and had the wind knocked out of me for my tomfoolery.
I used to lead patriotic parades up and down my grandparents' street(s) as a child. I'd carry the flag on a pole in the front of the parade, while I wore red cowboy boots, and was always followed by Carolyn and the rest of the siblings, who usually dragged my little brother in a wagon and played kazoos to songs like "Yankee Doodle Dandy".
And, finally, the story of how I got lost in the cornfield behind my grandparents' house, and was found crying and snivvling because I figured, quite rationally, that I would be stuck there until winter, and that I'd have to eat corn all the time, and that, somehow, the farmer would catch me, in similar situations as found in Peter Cottontail stories, and I'd be shot for stealing his corn, even though I had no choice. I can honestly say, "If it hadn't of been for that fishing pole, I would've never lived past six years old."
Happy (fill in appropriate terminology here), all.
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