Musikalischer Mittwoch: K-Pop Confessions

Among the other things that have happened in the time I’ve been avoiding my blogging duties has been my inadvertent  plunge into Korean soaps (which are really more like  telenovelas in that they have a defined arc–but they are shorter than a Latin American TN) and through this, into….<shamefaced expression> K-Pop.

Now, I was already a fan of My Korean Husband (which has been in the queue for a Time Vampire for a while…since before I went radio silent around here–it’s fabulous and I’ve spent way more time reading cartoons there than I ought), so I’d heard about K-Pop (and Korean Soaps) before, but it’s really all Amazon’s fault I actually started exploring.  They put a bunch of Korean shows up on Prime, and I’m a sucker for subtitles (“Oh, hey, look!  I’ve never watched anything from Korea before…except those random parts of Lost….”) .  Really, you can only dangle foreign media before me for so long and I just have to give in.  It’s a problem I have.  But I digress.

I got sucked into the soap Protect the Boss .  I thought that would be it.  I’d watch the show, become a little more aware of the rest of the world.  Done and done.

Then I wound up with the theme song stuck in my head.

A theme song by a K-Pop girl band called A-Pink.

What results is both my earworm for this week and a combination Musikalischer Mittwoch/Secret Heresy.

The immediate ear worm problem is called “Please Allow Us to Love*.”  But in procuring a copy of this from iTunes to put on an embarrassingly high playlist rotation, I thought I might as well get the whole show soundtrack, right?  Of course right.  And, oh, hey, maybe I’ll just look into other albums from some of these artists….

I’m more ashamed of admitting how much I’m enjoying this whole K-Pop thing than I am of knowing the words to “There’s a Tear in My Beer” (that may be a bad baseline, because as Kristy can attest, I’m not ashamed at all of knowing the words to that one….I should be, though).  I’m at least as ashamed as I am of some of the German Schlager stars I listen to**, or of the Celine Dion albums on my shelf (Shut up.).

K-Pop is, well, cheesy.  It’s all the bizarre cuteness you find in East Asia (that I don’t get….seriously, outside of the Idea Channel analysis of Hello Kitty as Minimalism, I don’t get Hello Kitty.  Or Pokemon.  Or any of the other crazy animated-stuff-with-big-eyes.  I get it’s a thing, but I don’t get why it’s a thing), plus bubble-gum-pop, maybe a touch of electronica, heavy doses of saccharine and inevitably performed by energetic and highly attractive people.  “Please Allow Us to Love” is a girl band, but there’s also an inordinately high volume of boy bands.  And when it’s not the peppy dance beat sucking you in, it’s the whole melodramatic ballad thing  (“Protect You” by Kim Jae Joong, I’m looking at you).  I kind of feel like I should be a 14 year old for my listeing to this to be truly acceptable.

It’s also–naturally–in Korean.  And I speak zero Korean.  I might actually speak less than zero Korean.  Even after a full TV series, I understand more Swabisch than I do Korean.  Hell, I know more Hindi than Korean.  It’s the first time I’ve watched that much of a show in a foreign language and learned so little.    So, clearly, I’m getting zilch out of the lyrics.  Which may be to my advantage because with a sound that bubble-gum, I doubt the lyrics are really deep enough to justify commentary.

So, nothing for me in the lyrics, and since we’ve already established that the sound itself is pop-cheese, I  have no respectable way to defend my obsession.  But, even without a way to explain it to myself and others,  “Please Allow Us to Love” has been on repeat in my queue for almost as long as the theme for “Por Ella…Soy Eva” (which, at least there I understood my obsession–I mean, Jaime Camil?  I know, right?).  And I’m not going to say I was dancing around the kitchen to this song, but there may have been some flailing in something vaguely approaching the same rhythm as the song.

I suppose it boils down to the fact that it’s fun.  It’s upbeat (in contrast to my mood of late).  Sure, it’s completely junior-high, but it’s irresistibly peppy.

All that is rational and logical says that I should stop now.  I shouldn’t embarrass myself any further.  I should limit this K-Pop exploration to the handful of songs from Protect the Boss and the few others I’ve found from artists on that album.  I certainly shouldn’t actually follow up on the My Korean Husband videos on K-Pop that I haven’t had time to watch yet.  I’m already harboring a playlist in my car that sports a lot of German Schlager musik, Bollywood songs, 80s country and Mexican Ranchera & Tejano.  It’s already like a really uncool musical United Nations.  Do I really want to include K-Pop?  Shouldn’t I be worried about cultural appropriation issues or something?

Or should I give in and just embrace the cheese?

*Probably on YouTube, but I didn’t check.
**Not Claudia Jung.  She’s awesome and I have no shame over listening to her stuff….but some of the others.  Let’s just say that unless I’m a 50-something German Hausfrau in Karlsruhe or something, there’s really no excuse here…





Island Obsession

This might actually qualify as a secret heresy, though I’m not sure the adequate amount of shame is attached to it.  It’s an obsession I noted in myself years ago, and while I don’t bring it up, I’m not really hiding it.  It just, well, it doesn’t come up in conversation, really.

I have a bizarre fixation with islands.  Not the usual tropical-type islands, full of sandy beaches, drinks with umbrellas, tourists and cabana boys.  No, I’m thinking more along the lines of sparsely-to-un-populated locations.  Generally cold.  And generally so far off any normal human’s list of places to visit that the names don’t even ring a bell.

Some of the destinations on my island-hopping bucket list do boast people–even serious civilization and decent populations:  The Outer Hebrides, the Faroe  Islands, Svalbard, the Falklands (or Malvinas, depending on whose side you’re pullin’ for there…), Baffin Island, Tristan de  Cunha….But this devolves into less and less hospitable listings as I ponder how I’m also going to finagle setting foot on places like Auckland Island, South Georgia, and, the mack-daddy of all frozen remoteness:  Bouvet Island (the most remote island in the world, allegedly…and hella hard to get to.  A chopper is pretty much required).

I’m strangely drawn to any island, really, even the touristy ones, and the silly little rocks in the middle of lakes.  It’s my fixation on those frozen, wind-swept, out-of-the-way places that turn a garden variety interest shared by many into something bizarre.  After all, many of the places I listed basically qualify for the category of “frozen hell hole” to a lot of folks.

But, apparently, this strange subset of Islomania has other members beyond me.  After all, there was the guy who built the whole Subantarctic Islands website where I’ve spent way more time than I should have….and thank goodness for the nerds on Wikipedia, otherwise how would I know that not only do I want to visit Baffin, I want to see Mt. Thor?

At the heart of this fascination is probably something that psychologists would have a field day with.  I mean, it’s clear I’m not looking for places to get a tan or take a dip.  Maybe it’s the idea of going where few or no people have gone before.  Maybe I have a deep desire to visit places that involve me wearing a lot of layers.  It might just be the introvert longing for a place where I can be left the hell alone.  Some place hard to get to, so the only folks you see are the ones who definitely want to take the time to see you.

Or, possibly, this is just the closest terrestrial substitute I can ponder for living on Mars since, y’know, clearly we dropped the baton in that particular race.

My Name is Cammy, And I Have a Notebook Problem

I don’t know when it happened.  I’m fairly certain it’s been coming on for at least 10 years, but when the actual breakdown happened is anyone’s guess.

I used to be content to write in a spiral notebook of the 50 cent variety.  Or on plain notebook paper, lugged around in a red binder left over from someplace my Dad used to work.  People had given me a journal or two, but I was intimidated by the permanency of sewn binding.

But somewhere along the way, I lost the intimidation.  I filled up the two bound journals I had.  I picked up another.  Filled it as well.  Then came the first pocket Moleskine with graph paper and it’s perfect size for the purse.

Then came another pocket Moleskine.  And a larger one received as a gift…..

And I think that’s when the wheels came off.

It makes absolutely no good sense.  I have Field Notes notebooks (awesome, simple and Made in the USA), Picadilly notebooks (Moleskine imitations at a fraction of the price), no name black cover books, a brand-less fat cream colored book, more Moleskines, hand-made books found in Harry-Potter-esque shops in Budapest….

And the vast majority of these?  Aren’t full.  In fact, most of them I’ve not even begun.  It’s embarrassing.  Even more so since I haven’t stopped looking for new ones to add.  I try to refrain, but when you see that mark-down on a Moleskine that you know you’ll fill eventually.  And what am I to do when a family member who’s actually paid attention to the fact that I don’t stir out of the house without a pen and notebook presents me with a new one as a gift?

I honestly wish I could fill ’em up as fast as I seem to acquire them.  I refuse to use them at work (cold day in hell before the job intrudes upon the notebooks!), but work eats up time I might spend filling that obscenely large stack of notebooks.  Damn real life.


Secret Heresies of Oz

So, Kristy’s the soap fan.  I’ve just never been bitten by the bug.  It’s always been a relief not to have to feel the shame associated with being secretly addicted to this much-maligned TV genre.

Then came my trip to Australia.  With only 5 or so channels to choose from, and 4 of them generally playing nothing but sports (and 3 of those being cricket), reruns of their soapy drama McLeod’s Daughters were a totally viable option for viewing.

Or so I tell myself in those moments when I feel that overwhelming shame as I’m eagerly streaming every episode on Netflix.

The series focuses two half-sisters running a ranch after their father’s death.  With all female hands.  And of course the neighboring ranch involves a family with only boys.  It’s kinda like watching a slightly more grown up version of those camp movies where the girls camp has to kick the boys’ camp at color wars or something.  Only with grown ups.  And more cows.  And sheep.  And Utes.  And hot Australian men in jeans.

I’m pretty sure it’s that last point that results in my overlooking any hokey-ness to snuggle up in the recliner and drool at the TV.

It’s also got fairly-amusing characters (Claire is my homegirl–jeans are always appropriate attire).  The South Australia setting is gorgeous.  And the occasional scenes in the small towns are a nice reminder of my trip down under.

And did I mention the the hot Australian guys in jeans?

Driving Into My Secret Heresy

I have a recently developed secret heresy.  The relatively new onset of this heresy does not diminish the overall problem: I have found myself suddenly, and inexplicably, a  major Top Gear Addict (the good, British version, not the crappy American version).

Now, for some of you, Top Gear may not seem even remotely heretical.  Definitely not something to be ashamed of.  The difference is, you probably haven’t spent large amounts of time scoffing at and dismissing cars valued for their speed.  I have.

My entire judgement of  cars up until now has been based on the following points:

-4 wheels

-good gase mileage (too cheap to pay for gas)

-ability to go well over 100K miles without major repair (cheap again)

-A/C operates (hot climate background necessitates this)

-Radio operates (tornado alley requires the ability to tune into local radio while driving across Kansas)

I am all but turned on by excellent gas mileage and high reliability.  I don’t mind driving, but I don’t enjoy it so much that I can ignore the costs of car ownership (my enjoyment of frugality is greater than my enjoyment of driving).  I am small Japanese car material, and I’ve always been okay with this.  I am interested in alternative fuel vehicles and don’t mind if they will be less peppy and have top speeds of 60mph.  I don’t even mind if they are tiny (as long as I can get in my own suitcases, hell, I drive alone 99% of the time anyhow, so small is fine).

And then came Top Gear.


For those of you not familiar with Top Gear, it’s a British programme (note the -e there;  it’s been ported to America, Australia and other places, but the original is the best) about speed and cars out of any reasonable person’s pay grade.  Three guys test drive these over-priced speed machines, and comment in a very British-humor way.  But this is no episode of Motor Week on PBS.  In between reviewing stylish new rides, these three not-ugly-but-not-overly-attractive British men perform meaningless and insane challenges in various and sundry types of cars (turning regular cars into amphibious vehicles, staging races across parts of the world between fast cars and public transport, etc.).

It’s humorous, meant to be funny.  But at the heart of the show, there’s car talk.  What’s cool and fast and awesome.  Oh, and there’s also stars who drive reasonably price cars around a race track (imagine Cameron Diaz driving the British equivalent of a Chevy Cobalt hell-for-leather around a formula 1-esque track).

Um, yeah.  Evaluations of Prius gas mileage this ain’t.

How is it that I find myself glued to watching a show about speed and luxury cars?  A show that mocks the little Hondas I find appealing?  That dismisses gas mileage with derisive snorts?  This is not right.  This is not me.  And yet, this show runs a back-to-back marathon set on a Saturday and I’m glued to the boob tube like it’s a loop of gratuitous rewind moments interspersed with footage of Colin Firth, Zachary Levi and Matthew McConaughey.

I repeat:  WTF?

Sure, Jeremy, Hammond and Captain Slow are all hilariously funny with their banter, insults and commentary.  And yes, I do find it side-splitting to watch a VW beetle dropped from 1 mile up.  But it doesn’t make up for the fact that I’m not a car person.  I should NOT be this sucked in.  It’s embarrassing.  I actually found myself wanting a Mercedes McLaren SLR the other day.

Shame?  Right here.

A Saturday Evening Confession

Okay, we’re going to file this one under “secret heresy.”  I was torn about whether it qualified as heretical or not—I mean, I certainly don’t consider it heretical.  But it occurs to me that most heretics probably thought their beliefs were perfectly reasonable.  The “secret” part is a little trickier, because I wouldn’t consider this an active secret.  But to be honest, it’s not something I advertise either.  Not because I’m ashamed, but because I’m tired of having that argument.

So what is this thing I’m not properly ashamed of?

I don’t like The Beatles.

Pick up your jaw.  I know, I know.  They’re the greatest musical group of all time.  They revolutionized rock music.  Blah, blah, blah.  I’m not disputing that.  Music is the one artistic medium I have never studied formally (okay, I had five years of piano lessons, but they were from my mother and they were a long time ago).  So I’m willing to take all the expert opinions at face value and believe that The Beatles are fabulous and wonderful and all that.  I just don’t like them.  I don’t actively hate them.  There’s a song or two here or there that I kind of enjoy.  But over all… I just don’t get the appeal.

And in my view, that should be the end of it.  I don’t dispute their merit; they’re just not my cup of tea.  But as previously mentioned, a lot of people treat my lack of love for them as heresy.  Not so long ago I was at a party where someone asked the question, “What’s your favorite Beatles song?”  I didn’t answer, but we went around the room and everyone else named a song while the others gushed with delight at each title that was thrown out.  When they were done the guy who had asked the question made a dreamy smile and said, “Isn’t it amazing how all these years later we all still know all those songs?  We all still love them.”  I mumbled something about how I hadn’t even known all the songs and wasn’t really that into the group.  Everyone looked at me in shocked disgust and got another drink.

That’s what drives me nuts.  Sometimes I think that I hate The Beatles, but what I really hate is being told that I have to love them.  There are other great composers I don’t care for—Bach, for example.  And when I say that people shrug and either murmur their agreement or dissent.  But people attribute a sort of messianic power to The Beatles and somehow not liking them means there’s something wrong with you.  And this is from people in my generation, who weren’t around when The Beatles were bigger than Jesus.

Ah well.  I figure throughout history, heretics were probably the ones who had the most fun.  But if they ever start some sort of musical inquisition I will totally deny writing this blog.

Swift Heresy

Everyone’s favorite sleeze bag Barney Stinson once said, “In my body, where the shame gland should be, there’s a second awesome gland.”

I am not Barney Stinson.

I do have a shame gland, it’s just smaller than the average and doesn’t function quite like it’s supposed to (which is normal for my body, oddly enough).  The result of this is that, as Cammy has pointed out, I don’t always embarrass as easily as the average lady.  I have no qualms about making a fool out of myself in public.  I readily admit to an unhealthy addiction to daytime drama.  I still have, and listen to, Debbie Gibson albums.  Not even ironically.  When my bra and vest simultaneously broke onstage, I found it hysterical rather than mortifying (there was a chemise between my “girl” and the audience).

But there are things I find horribly embarrassing.  Like stepping out of the front door without foundation on (this has happened three times in my adult life, two were to go to the emergency room).  Things that tend to embarrass me the most are the things that go against the things I stand for in life.  Or like to think I stand for.

This brings us to Taylor Swift.

Now don’t get me wrong, I don’t really hold any animosity towards Taylor.  She seems like a sweet kid.  It’s not her fault that she’s cute and blond.  And it’s not her fault that she’s severely lacking in talent.

Because really, her inability to hit two notes in a row, makes me uncomfortable.  I’m not really one to talk, since I guarantee you I sound worse, but the difference is, of course, I know I can’t sing.  I’m fairly certain she doesn’t know how she sounds.  It’s like that moment when the adorable six year old gets up to sing at church and it’s appalling bad, but you clap anyway because she tried.  Except this adorable six year old is making a crap load of money and winning awards.  So it’s not as cute anymore.

I used to think I should at least respect her because she’s a song writer, but then friend pointed out that writing your songs yourself doesn’t win you points if they’re bad.  (Also, having one of her first big hits being about Tim McGraw, who I also can’t stand, was not a good start)

So what’s my big dark, dirty confession?

Her song “White Horse”?  I *cringe* kind of like it.  And by “kind of like it” I mean that I think I probably know all the words and I sing along when I hear it on the radio.

There.  I said it.

Clearly this goes right past guilty pleasure and on to secret heresy.  Because it’s really hard for me to own up to this.

Understand that I don’t want to like a Taylor Swift song.  But I can’t help it.  It’s the unexpected cynicism that does it for me, I think.  The acknowledgment that fairy tales don’t come true and love generally sucks.  I am, after all, that girl who will totally call the cops on your ass if she catches you throwing stones at her window late at night.  And I’m kind of scared of horses, so I’m definitely not getting on anyone’s white horse with him.

I realize that’s no excuse, and believe me, I’m properly ashamed.  But I figured since Cammy’s been so open with her shame of late, I ought to get in on the confession action.

Secret Heresies:

I debated on whether or not I should categorize this as a Time Vampire instead of a Secret Heresy.  At the end of the day, I really probably lose more of my time to the swirling vortex of than any other time wasting mechanism in virtual or physical space.  But, I realized, the fact that it really is my number one, and yet I cringe at the thought of putting it out as a valid time waster probably means my shame is great enough to make this a heresy.

Kristy would disagree, I’m sure.  Kristy’s self confident enough that there’s not much on her list of interests and habits that she’s embarrassed about.  Also, she’s in folklore, where even the most bizarre pop-culture niches are legitimate fields of study–not exactly an environment that fosters shame.  But in my shady real-world job, and with my painfully practical family, just explaining what fanfiction is would be enough to take my black-sheep status to unknown heights.  And even here on the web, many an elitist has disparaged those who spend time creating worlds around someone else’s fiction.  But I’m ready to come clean.  Completely clean.  Because when it comes to consumption of fanfiction, hitting up is a whole new subset of bad within bad.  This is the Wal-Mart of fanfiction.  Everything under one roof, and disproportionately little of it being of any quality.  And yet, I not only clock hours there, I have strong opinions about my experiences.  Criteria for my activities and recommendations for those few souls I share my secret with so that they can avoid the mire of crap and find the decent stuff.

Because yes, there’s quality in fanfiction.  Not a lot, but it’s there.  And sometimes the quality you find might not have been the quality the author intended.  For example, there was a rather lengthy Battlestar Galactica AU fic that Kristy and I both read.  As far as plot was concerned, it was okay, but not that stellar.  But the dialog.  Oh, sweet mercy, it was FABULOUS.  In fact, Kristy and I can’t even remember the title of the piece, but we can quote whole chunks of the dialog verbatim and we refer to it as “The Toaster Baby Fanfic.”  When I can find it again, I’ll be referring Kristy to a Bones fic that has a similar quality to it.

And you also can’t underestimate the pure entertainment in reading some of the hideous things people post.  The schadenfreude of watching someone beg for feedback on a misspelled Mary Sue fic that makes your eyeballs bleed is remarkable.  There’s just FUN to be had in mocking the bad stuff.  Even the painful MarySue long-lost-sisters-of-characters have the potential for a little bit of “awe, look at the cute little high school student wishing she was on Castle!”  When it gets to be too much, I just think of what Kevin J. Anderson has been paid to write in some fandoms, and, honestly, with that as a baseline, even some of the high-schooler Mary Sues are pretty damned good.

But there are limits.  Levels of suckitude that even I will not endure.  I have a list of unforgivable sins which will render a story “dead to me”:

-posting an author’s note in lieu of a chapter.  If you get me all excited about a new chapter and all I get is your excuse about how you have finals, you and your story are dead to me.  Explain it when you post something real.  Don’t lead me on.

-any summary that says “I suck at summaries” or “Story better than it sounds.” Nothing will make me scroll past faster.

-bitchy demands for readers to R&R (Read and Respond), particularly when coupled a threat not to post any more.  Yeah, because there’s nothing else on the whole site for me to read, sweetie.

-when a fanfic writer for an American TV show keeps using “Mum.”  It’s one of those things that’s enough to jar me out of my tenuously suspended disbelief.  Actually, I forgive that one once or twice, but–and this has happened multiple times, so it bears comment–when the the author posts a bitchy little note stating something to the effect of “I KNOW it’s American, but I’m British and WE say Mum and I am the author so I’m going to have them say Mum!!”  Dead.  To.  Me.  If I were writing a fic based on a Brit material, I’d be making every attempt to put the useless ‘u’s into words, call people “Mum” and finally figure out when to use while vs. whilst.

-(added by Kristy) putting a note somewhere at the top that says, “I suck at spelling” and then using said disclaimer as an excuse to use the grammar and spelling of a five-year-old for the rest of the fic.  I have no problem excusing a typo or error here or there.  But you know what?  I’m lousy at spelling in English too (yes, English is my first language, but its spelling rules make no sense).  This is why BabyJesus gave us spell checkers.  Or get a beta reader.  And don’t get pissy with me over your lack of literacy.  Dead to me!

But, regardless of quality, the availability keeps me coming back.  At 4am when I can’t sleep, the library isn’t open.  But is there, waiting to bathe me in the glow of my laptop screen and offer me new and craptastic adventures of characters from shows canceled 10 years ago that I just can’t stop thinking about.

So my secret is out.  And it feels rather good to admit it.  Yes, my name is Cammy, and I spend hours on

Secret Heresies: Teen Mom

The problem with a blog post category called “Secret Heresies” is that, well, it’s a blog post: it hardly qualifies as “secret.” That aside, every now and then it’s good to come clean about those things you normally wouldn’t admit. To own up to the little sins and vices you keep tucked away from others, and admit to only with the greatest reluctance. Or that’s what I’m trying to tell myself. Personally, I’d have been just as happy not to admit to a damn thing, but Kristy insisted. Not only did she insist, she informed me that “admitting” to watching Degrassi The Next Generation was not shameful enough. But what follows apparently shocked even Kristy:

I watched MTV’s Teen Mom.

All of it.

Yes, my name is Cammy and I made it a point to watch a reality show about teenagers who got knocked up and were dealing with kids.

My secret heresy is now revealed.

I don’t even know how it happened. As a general rule, I loathe and despise the reality TV genre entirely. All I know is that one evening I was surfing channels, it was there and I found myself being sucked into the vortex of Mama Drama.

Apparently the series is a follow-on to another MTV reality series, 16 And Pregnant (which, I would like to note, I did NOT see) which apparently followed these teen-aged Mommies through the wonders of morning sickness, swollen ankles and childbirth. I picked up with the post-delivery parade of problems. And drama there was. In copious quantities.

You have 4 girls. One of them had placed her baby up for adoption, one had a boyfriend who had all the empathy of a lump of granite, one with boyfriend drama of a flavor I can’t even begin to describe, and one with a family who was way more tolerant of her juvenile bullshit than I would have been. So why did I keep watching? I have no idea. More than once I was left shaking my head at the fact that teenagers who didn’t know what the hell they were doing were having kids when I know so many older people who would make excellent parents who can’t or don’t spawn.

A few times I was heartened. The girl (and her boyfriend) who really seemed the youngest and most recently out of childhood also seemed to be the most mature in their choice to give their daughter up. The volatile couple seemed to finally calm the hell down enough that I no longer think their child is guaranteed to be a delinquent. The girl with the emotionally vacant boyfriend finally left the bastard (though, at the end she was still spending too much time being bitter about him–honey, he ain’t worth the time). The only sad part was the little socialite who still doesn’t seem to grasp that she gave up her teen-party years when she got knocked up, and that her alleged lack of a social life and fun-time is so far from pity worthy when she has so many family members there to help care for her baby so she can continue school (something two of the other girls had to sacrifice). Most of it plays out exactly the way you would expect it to play out given the statistics out there: those romantic relationships bust up quickly under the stress of diaper changes and puke, schoolwork is put on hold for childcare, money is tight….

One of the bad things is that I wonder if my watching is somehow contributing to any form of glorification of the teen-mom state. While MTV may have tried to show the “ugly” side as a scare tactic, teenagers seem to be inherently stupid creatures and I know there will be a non-negligible percentage of them who will somehow manage not to see the downside of being a mom while in high school OR have the teenage arrogance to think that they wouldn’t handle it that badly, because ultimately I’m not sure the darkest of the dark really came out here. The long-term impact of missing out on education wasn’t there, for one thing.

The most shameful thing, however is this single fact: I’d totally watch it all again.

Thus concludes my confession. May the gods of good taste have mercy on my soul.