Following said drama, I had to dash out for Maroon 5. Fourth time I've seen them headline, and it never fails - they always have one amazing opening act (Gavin DeGraw), and one that's either lackluster (Michael Tolcher) or omgmyearsarebleeding!bad (The Thrills). This show was no exception. Absolutely adore Sara Bareilles - powerful voice, great stage presence, and while I like "Love Song", the rest of her set had none of its radio-friendly catchy-pop vibe. Lovely, lovely stuff. And then came The Hives, who were firmly entrenched in bleeding ears territory. Oh the pain. Adam and the boys made it better, but the ache lingered (in the "head" variety). Luckily we were on James' side of the stage, and his continued quest to kick ass softened the blow of the first show without Ryan. I won't delve into my irrational guilty conscience at actually liking not!Ryan Matt, who more than held his own in all that manic Maroon live show energy I love so much.
As for the newest member of the family... I have never had this much trouble naming an animal before. It's always come so easily in the past. But this little guy went through so many monikers we almost named him "Schizo" in the end. He was Domino for awhile. He was Potter for a few minutes in there. Then I realized that the blaze of white down his face wasn't so much Harry as Heroes - winding down his forehead and over his left cheek, it traces virtually the same path as the scar that turned future!Peter into sex on legs. Which is weird to consider in this particular context. Anyway, I couldn't bring myself to name him Peter (or Petey, which sounded a bit too parrot-like). So he's been deemed Sebastian (because it just clicked) Kitrelli (because I couldn't ignore the obvious). Bastian for short.
Yes, I know I'm sad.
I missed everything last night, save about two minutes of Supernatural. Not a lot to go on, but I did have an initial reaction: tract homes in Oak Park is hilarious. Oh Kripke, you amuse me so.
You know why you should never go out drinking with your parents? Sure, you end up full of good food, great wine and insanely amazing pomegranate martinis, but then you end up inviting your mother and aunt to the sex toy party you're hosting. And they end up accepting. Wholeheartedly. Ah well. My mother always taught us to take charge of our own sexuality (is that like being responsible for your own orgasm?). I guess this is just... the fruits of her labor.
I'm doing NaNoWriMo, whores. No need to stalk, badger, or beat me to death.
This weekend: unpacking, Pam's housewarming, unpacking, Monday and Thursday TV catch-up, unpacking, repeat viewing of Pushing Daisies, unpacking. And Dexter, which deserves its own bullet point. Seriously. Watch the climax of last season's finale and tell me you wouldn't have Michael C. Hall's babies. Even you there, with the penis.