My Brush With Greatness? 

or like Kate Nash would sing... why you being a dickhead for?  

Okay, so today we had a Super Bowl Playa on our little dog and pony show. He was scheduled to be interviewed in the first segment, then participate in the next three segments which were as follows--a display of a buttload of Steelers merchandise, a weather segment and a cooking segment. It's local TV, Dude... it's all drivel.

Let me say up front... I was never fond of this creep. I honestly think he's a criminal, but he was going to be our guest, so I had to play along. 

So Beets and I go into the green room beforehand to chat and ask for a photo op. This cat is all hunched down in the chair wearing his brash, big-ass bro hooded coat giving off his best ghetto tude. You know the one, the "I'm too cool for this joint and if you don't stop buggin' me I'll pop a cap in yo ass" vibe. We say hello and politely ask if we could take a photo. Get this... he says NO! and gives us the big brush off, look-away. 

Excuse me? WTF? What. A. DICK! (and I ain't talking about what's parked in his over sized pantaloons)

I go marching into the newsroom where I'm greeted by the director who proclaims "I think we might have problems with our 'guest'." Uh..Yeah. No shit Sherlock. Turns out he did the major stick-up-his-butt to our producer AND started to weasel out of his on-screen commitment. You're not making friends here, Bubba.

Did I mention he was a DICK? I think I did. 

Now granted Mr. Fame-and-Notoriety-Has-Made-Me-Think-I'm-All-That is only in his early 20s and he's been on the go for over three weeks and he hasn't been home or seen his multitudes of illegit progeny and he's tired and.. and.. and.. Waa Waa Waa   

MAN UP! 

This is what fame costs, Cleatus. You wanted this. And none of those excuses gives you the right to be a ... well, Dickhead. It's "losers" like us common folk who put you on the map, Junior. A lesson you would be wise to learn. But I'm not bitter or anything.

Anywho, so we all brace ourselves for the on-air gangsta tude and the inevitable brush off when, lo and behold, he becomes marginally more engaging as soon as the camera light goes on. Oh, NOW we're Mr. Approachable. Is this how we play? 

When the segment ends, I go into my little trained monkey act (that's part of the gig when you're a floor manager--always having to entertain and make nice-nice) and as pleasantly as possible ask if he'd like to join us for the next segment. 

Him: I'm here now. I might as well stick around.

Me: Don't do us any favors, Ass Face.  :0   Did I say that out loud?! 

That segment goes okay--surprise! Jethro's warming up and on board for the weather bit including adopt a pet. And by "pet" I mean a ginormous pit bull with interlocking jaws of death which tugs at his inner Michael Vick. Now he's all kissing on the pooch, being warm and fuzzy. Go figure. A killer dog brings out the soft underbelly of Mr. Jerk Wad.

Next stop, the kitchen and some crappy, tasteless, low-fat gruel prepared by one of our nicer guests. Along the way from Studio A to Studio B, Gomer starts acting like a human. Too late, Butt Munch. I dump his sorry ass on the other floor manager--he's her problem now. So long, sucker. Don't darken my door again.

This is why I'm hesitant to meet famous people I really admire and enjoy. None of us really liked this goober to begin with, but just imagine how disappointed we'd all have been if we HAD admired him. I tell ya, some people's kids... 

It makes me really appreciate people like "The Ghost Whisperer's" David Conrad who stops by often, is completely down to earth and even takes jump pictures with us. Now HE'S cool!

Friday Photo #15 

or viva la bar crawl!  

Two years ago we had a four-stop, farewell bar crawl for our weather chanteuse, Becca, who decided to chuck the whole television biz to be a stay-at-home Mom. This shot was taken at our last stop, Bar 11. It's a great, totally dive bar where they throw handfuls of plastic toy tchotchkes in your drink, including candy necklaces. It's loud, it's brash and it absolutely has to be THE last stop of the night. You just can't appreciate this place unless you are well lubed. It's where everyone cuts loose before staggering to the diner for huevos and java. 

I love this photo. It's one of my absolute favorites because it successfully captures a moment--you know what I mean? It's completely spontaneous and unguarded and sums up the blast we all had that night. (and yes, I realize there are too many "ands" in that sentence)

With all the crap happening at work these days, good thing it's almost time for the Third Annual Becca Farewell Bar Crawl. We need it. 

In Which I "Borrow" a Topic  From Isabel 

hey, don't judge me. I'm giving her credit so get off my ass already... 

Okay, so last night I read one of my favorite bloggers, HolaIsabel. She's pregnant and went on about how "they"- the mysterious experts- tell you pregnant women have better sex lives (which she denies) and are prone to more (as in number) sexually charged dreams (which she confirms). Having never been preggers meself, I cannot speak to the truth of either of these two claims. 

But what is apparently universally true, whether one is with child or not, is how these vivid sex dreams never seem to get to the "Happy Ending" (if you know what I mean. yeah. you do. I can tell by the way you're chewing that ice cube...) before waking. 

What's up with that?

I've had some pretty fabuloso, semi-carnal unconscious trysts with mystery, somewhat faceless guys and one truly spectacular make-out session with TV's Kyle Chandler from his Early Edition days. It was on a couch, and he was all soft and manly, shirtless and a GREAT kisser!! Oh la la. But again...I woke up right when the BVDs were coming off. So. Not. Fair!

Why is it you always seem to stir when the gutchies start to come off. And no matter how hard you try, you can never, EVER go back to sleep to pick up where you left off in your subconscious booty call. Never happens. NEVER. Double Not Fair. Isabel attributes it to being loyal to her husband even in slumber. I think it's just the cosmos dicking with us... figuratively, and kinda literally, too... you know, because the cosmos is a mean drunk and sort of pricky.

In all the 26 years I've known Geo, I think I dreamt of him maybe... three times. And even WE didn't do the nasty in dreamland. I don't get it? (that's what she said--okay that was a freebie) You'd think since it's your hubby your subconscious would do you that solid and let it all play out, but nooooo. 

However, if I ever had a sex dream about the King-of-all-my-things Rhett Miller, I think my ovaries would spontaneously kick out three eggs and I'd wake up pregnant in dire need of a cigarette. Yowza! THAT would be seriously hawt!!   Look at him... he's thinking how hot that would be, too. Yeah... He wants me.  :D

Who's Naming This Stuff? 

seriously... what the?!? 

Okay, so I love signage. Especially unintentionally inappropriate signage. I was in the Giant Eagle (an uber food mart prevalent here in town) waiting in the pharmacy line refilling my Valtrex (KIDDING!!) when I saw this...

I have no idea what this is even for, but who names a product...any product Sac Magique? How great would it have been to be in THAT brainstorming session, huh? And does the French make it more legit somehow?

Shelf placement is very important in retail. I think ye olde Sac Magique would go nicely next to this...

Ha Ha Ha... Sorry. This brings the 12-year-old boy in me great joy. I think le Sac Magique cast a spell on my defenseless phone photo's coloring. tsk tsk... Le Naughty, Naughty.  

In Which I Yield The Floor To Share A Friend's Tale 

Okay, so my friend and coworker, Kahones wrote a note on his Facebook page last week that had me absolutely crying from laughter. So naturally I asked him if I could bogart it for this here blog thingie, because really it is just too funny not to share. Seriously. Thankfully, he agreed. Enjoy!

Just Desserts... You Make The Call

Let me preface this little ditty with... I love kids. Love them. There's nothing as sweet and pure. Let me also say, there's no ONE way to parent. Everyone does it differently, but when personal spaces are invaded, either physically, by deafening screams or unidentified flying, slimy objects, something's just not working. 

 I finish my morning broadcast and pop into my favorite coffee shop for a piping hot java and crisp breakfast sandwich. It's 8:30 so it's busy. I pull open the door and hold it for a Mom, hand-in-hand with her little man (4-years-old I'm guessing). He's not really walking. He's kind of beebopping. You know that bounce, bounce, over striding, ants-in-his-pants walk. Of course, because we are an immediate and connected society, she's on her cell phone. As she passes my smiling face, I hear her in a snide and snotty tone: "oh I CAN'T STAND to do anything with that family. That child is an absolute monster. A total brat!" 

Remember these words folks.

Somehow I end up in front of Mom and Cameron (I'm guessing. She called him: Cammy). I'm digesting the comment I heard as she passed through the door. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Cammy still hand-in-hand, standing quietly, patiently. I think to myself: "Self, isn't that a picture. What a well-behaved boy". That thought was quickly erased... no, BEATEN out of my brain.

Cammy starts complaining. Mom tells him to be patient. Everyone else has to wait. Cammy starts doing the dead-weight-nearly-pulling-Mom-over-starting-to-scream lean. Heads are starting to turn. Mom relents and releases Cammy's hand. 

Mistake. 

Then the kid lets one rip. I mean, not a cute, little tot toot... I mean a 70-year-old Grandpa, asleep on the couch, clear a room boom. I bit my lip, cuz it was ffuuuunnnnyyy. Mom says "what do you say?" I was thinking... "uh, want to check my pants?"

Cammy's a wanderer. He marched over to the taster bagel stand, reaches up, grabs a bagel bit, smells it, then does his best center-field-to-home throw. he launches it over the people waiting in line, over the counter and into the food prep area. "Cammy! Stop that. Get over here", Mom snarls. 

Yeah, right. 

Cammy starts darting--I'm talking a dead sprint--from the front of the store to the back. It's reckless abandonment. He farts. Not so cute Cammy doesn't care who he runs into. Mom's barking at him to slow down. To stop. Too late. Cammy's at the age where his big melon is at the height of an average man's crotch. On a dead sprint, Cammy slams into some poor chap. Yep, Cammy's head hits him right in the ... well, "creamer". Guy spills his coffee. Mom let's out a big sigh, goes over, apologizes and scoops up a coffee soaked kid. The screaming begins. The entire shop is staring. Mom's jaw is clearly tight with tension. I'm starting to chuckle. The kid farts. 

By this point I've paid for my coffee and sandwich. Sipping my rich, black cup of joe, I wait for my sandwich order to come up. I know I'm in store for something good again, cuz Cammy is screaming--shrilling at the top of his lungs all the while doing the dead man lean. Mom again, let's go. 

Did I mention this is a mistake? 

The terror takes off again. Farts. Mom's trying to pay for her freu-freu-candy-coffee-in-a-cup. All is quiet. Not good, because Mom has NO IDEA where Cammy is. He's not in sight. He's in the back of the store. Suddenly out of nowhere... Suuuuper Caaaammmmyyyyy!!!!

I'm not sure what Mom is doing, but I assumed she would have cashed out and bailed out. Not before this. What is it about kids and spinning in circles at warp speed, I'll never know. Cammy is whipping around in circles faster than the Tea Cups at some crappy County Fair. He comes out of his spin--not on purpose--but that "Whoa, Whoa, Whoa" arms flailing kind of way. He darts forward headed for the counter. He slams, forehead first, into the side of the counter and drops like a stone. As Cammy slams on his back, he simultaneously farts AND burps. Suddenly I feel this really warm feeling in my sinuses. No, it's not a sneeze. Coffee damned near sailed out of my nose. I look around and everyone, EVERYONE, has that suppress-a-laugh smirk on their faces.

Mom runs over to Cammy. Not a scream... Not a cry... Not a whimper... Mom picks him up and that's when I notice a 2 1/2 inch, well defined, red indentation on Cammy's forehead. No blood. He'll feel that in the morning. Mom implores, "Are you ok?" FAAAARRRTTTTTTT.

Hey, great my order is ready!! I grab my sandwich and turn to see Cammy and Mom walking 

out, hand-in-hand. Cammy's now pulling on the seat of his pants. Wonder why? I guarantee it's going to be a smelly ride home. An employee picks up Cammy's tossle cap and hands it to Mom. Now we all understand why it wouldn't stay on his head... the horns kept pushing it off.

Thinking back to the phone call I overheard at the beginning of this story, I laugh to myself. As parents... our kid is  never the brat. It's always the other kid. 

tee hee

Thanks for the huge laugh, Kahones. My only question is...what the HELL is that woman feeding that kid?!? 

It Happened One Score and Four Years Ago... 

(okay...this is the last icky, mushy post for awhile, promise) 

On a sunny winter day in February, Geo and I tied the knot in a very traditional Ukranian Orthodox ceremony. We wore gold crowns, took three laps around the altar while our hands were tied together with colorfully embroidered cloth... and lost one or two guests to fainting. 

(In their defense, it was very hot in the church and people stood for nearly an hour. I know. It sounds lame, but that's what happened. *thud* "There goes Kenny".)

The reception was far less traditional and tons of fun. I can't believe 24 years has flown by so quickly. I mean, look at us. We were just kids then. I was a mere 120 pounds with baby fat and big, 80s hair and Geo had a full head of dark brown hair and a thick, yummy beard with not a grey hair in sight. 

When I look at this picture (which I do often since it's prominently placed on our mantle) I think to myself "who the HELL let these kids get married?" Seriously. We had absolutely no idea what we were doing. None. 

But we were in love and just wanted to be together. We never thought about the pitfalls and hardships ahead. We didn't give a shit. As long as we faced life's surprises together, we'd figure it out somehow, right? We did and we have. 

All these years later, I'm happy to say I dig Geo infinitely more now than that happiest of days. He rights my ship when I go astray. His love allows me the security to be who I am. He is my touchstone and true North. He is my best friend. He is my heart. 

Happy Valentine's Day To Me!

or where's my cocktail? I'm freaking dehydrated here...

Dear Penthouse Forum-

Last night I spent 120 gloriously sweaty minutes with five strapping black men, one Asian and three white guys, two of whom were my hubby, Geo and my go-to-date, Howard. This morning I woke up with burning thighs, a sore neck and my back crying out for the sweet release of a chiropractic crack.

I believe I also caught a fever... a fever from an infectious ska-beat of British origin. It was the English Beat!!

That's right. We spent two non-stop, high-energy, dance-a-thon, rhythmic hours in a grungy theater packed with a sea of fellow middle-aged English Beat followers having a ball grooving to one of the few 80s bands whose return is most welcomed. I haven't danced that much for probably a decade... hence the bad case of "dance neck" and burning quads this morning.

The evening started with a local ska band No Pressure comprised of five guys and a gal who kept chewing her gum while alternately singing on-key then off-key. I kept expecting the offending wad of chicle to spew forth into the crowd as she blurted one sour note after another. Apparently she had it tucked deep in her cheek like a squirrel on an eating binge... so crisis averted there.

But by far the most entertaining part of this band was the bass player. His fingers sailed up and down the neck of his bass, keeping a perfect ska beat with the rest of the band, but his body movements were distorted, twisted and completely out of step.

How is that even possible?

How can you keep one rhythm with your fingers and a totally unrelated I-think-I'm-having-a-seizure-ala-Elaine-Benis beat with your body?!? While everyone else was bopping and jumping in time, he was moving in some other time zone to a crazy-assed, awkward, atonal beat like the poster child for the whitest of white guy dancing.

Seriously!

It was hilarious to watch. Then to top it off, at the end of their set, Fred Astaire raised his bass guitar to reveal to the crowd he had split the front of his pants. I kid you not. Thank God he was wearing Underoos because nobody needed to see his Wee Willie winking out from his crotch. Endless entertainment, this lot. In spite of all that, the music was actually pretty good.

Then the English Beat took the stage and the energy level went into orbit--not to return to Earth until the End of the Party! Pounding bass lines, commanding drum beats, screaming sax solos and Dave Wakeling sounding like he did 30 years ago. At the stroke of the first note, all of us old farts were up and dancing for the rest of the evening. (here's Geo's favorite)

It was fucking brilliant!!

Apparently the promoters were less than hospitable to Dave and the gang, because he was relentlessly slamming them throughout the evening. Calling them out for not providing water, Gatorade, sandwiches or a nice cup a tea. Come on, people! They're English! You could have at least given them a pot of tea beforehand. Then to add insult to injury, the brain trust in charge insisted they only play 90 minutes.

They obviously had no idea who they were dealing with. Ole Dave flipped them ye olde "up yours" two-finger salute and proceeded to spend the next two hours electrifying the crowd with all the old favs and a couple new bits. Aaaaah... Good times. Good times.

(By the way, turns out all the chiding during the night worked... The management did a Mea Culpa and ponied up for Subway subs for the band. It was all love and kisses during the encore.)

I crawled into bed at 12:35am with the sound of a thousand cicadas ringing in my ear, more exhausted than I'd been in recent memory and the glow of a night well spent.

It was a Happy Valentine's Day, indeed.

Nobody Knows Me Like My Baby

or an evening with Lyle Lovett and John Hiatt

Okay, so Geo, Mary Ann, Howard and I went to see Lyle Lovett and John Hiatt perform at the music hall last Thursday night.

We ate dinner beforehand at a not-so-little place called LuLu's Noodles whose cuisine was a combo Vietnamese/Japanese/Chinese. Good thing the food was spicy hot, because the restaurant was freaking iceberg cold. Seriously. I felt like I was sitting in an igloo. I almost put my coat back on. Pay the gas bill already!

It's always a good time hanging with MA and Howard, and this evening was no exception. The three of us are planning to attend SXSW (the four day Austin music festival with a zillion musical acts) next year--not Geo's cup 'o java, but thankfully he's cool with me dragging my friends along for the ride. (Just one of the many reasons I'm lucky to be hitched to his wagon) Anywho, we started discussing other festivals we three might want to attend... Austin City Limits Festival, Bonarroo... when I mentioned Burning Man, MA let out this incredible, somewhat loud, excited yelp--which of course made me mirror her yelp--which made the man behind her levitate off his chair, forcing his LuLu noodle to slither from his gaping jaw--which made me laugh and point. Okay I didn't point, but I did laugh out loud.

So we file into the theater, settle into our seats and who should be sitting across from us? Why the levitating, noodle-dropping, "Burning Man" dude from the restaurant. And just because we're so mature, we kept calling out "Burning Man" and laughing... Okay, you probably had to be there.

Anyhoo...

The concert was a lovely, low-keyed affair. Each singer took his turn performing one of his hits for the audience, taking time in between to tell stories, converse with each other or in some instances interview the other.

At one point John Hiatt acknowledged his daughter's presence in the audience. Turns out she and her gaggle of college friends were sitting right in front of us. You know, for young girls they sure do have small bladders. They must have climbed in and out of their seats at least six times during the show. Either they were drinking a LOT beforehand, or they collectively have the laziest sphincters of their age group. 

But I digress...

So at one point Lyle started singing "Nobody Knows Me" which is a beautiful song that happens to be about cheating, but also speaks to one's deep connection to another.

That got me thinking about intimacy and what exactly that term means.

Sure most people equate the ultimate act of intimacy with swapping fluids during the heat of passion. And yeah, sex is an activity where the partners should have a strong bond of trust and love towards one another, but I'm not sure it qualifies as the definition of intimacy. Don't get me wrong...fewer sites are as sexy as clothing scattered hastily on a staircase, but who hasn't been caught up in the pure lust of an undeniable attraction only to discover the complete void of a connection afterwards. Left only with the uncomfortable awkwardness that comes from satisfying a physical urge, but not the emotional need.

No, I think true intimacy lives in the little acts... knowing he likes the sweetener in his coffee cup before pouring, leaving a Reese's peanut butter egg by her keys in the morning, buying him his favorite bagels, calling her to let her know her favorite singer is on World Cafe, needing to utter only the punch line of a joke to make each other laugh, finishing his thought, rubbing her feet without being asked, purposely saving part of her meal to share with him, the gentle pressing of his hand against the small of her back while waiting in line, the soft rubbing of her thumb atop his while holding hands, running his fingers through her hair while listening to a band play in a darkened night club, casting a look across a crowded room conveying a thought whose meaning only the two of them understand...

Monday Geo and I will be marking our 24th year of marriage. At times it hasn't been a cake walk--just ask him. (Oh, he's got stories... and maybe a few scars. I kid... or do I?) Still I can't remember the time he wasn't part of my life. And I can't imagine life without him. It has been a wonderful journey. I'm blessed that way.

I tease him there's no way I'd leave him for someone else. Truth is it'd be way too much work catching a new dude up on my life, likes, friends, inside jokes, idiosincrasies, phobias... This level of intimacy takes a long time to grow. So I guess he's just stuck with me.

Like Lyle says... nobody knows me like my baby.  

Friday Photo #14 

in which this should be blank 

Okay, so I intended to post the following statement today:

"Friday Photo #14: in which I ignore the whole Friday the 13th thing" 

That's it. Nothing more. 

I'd like to say it was because I didn't want to acknowledge the day or some other such piece of bull, but the sad, honest truth is I really didn't have any decent photo in mind to show and I meant to scan some pix I had stashed here and there but didn't get around to and I was just too lazy today to complete anything.

You: But... there's a photo at the top of this post.

Me: Very observant, grasshopper.

You: What gives?

Me: Serendipity.

You: ...Why do you have to be such a pompous asshat?

Me: Hey, hey... there's no need for name calling.

You: Just finish the story... and make it quick. I've got dinner on the stove.

Me: Alright! Jeez.. Don't get your knickers in a twist, Chippie. Have another cocktail, why don't ya. 

So I was driving back from another highly entertaining lunch with my gal pals from the Special K, when I got stopped in traffic on this bridge and saw this through my windshield. I thought it was really cool. And that is why there's a photo today. 

(P.S.: I think there really is something to this whole, scary Friday the 13th thing... First a pipe burst at the doctor's office, I couldn't get an online registration to go through and now Mr. Blogger.com is unable to save my crap. What up, Universe?)

Auntie Em! Auntie Em! 

or where the f*ck are we, anyway? 

Holy CRAP!!?!

For the last 14 hours we've been having ginormous winds gusting up to ... 92 mph!?! 

92 freaking miles per hour, people. That is like Wizard of flippin' Oz winds! It's so wicked outside today, our county even got a shout out on the NPR top of the hour news report. And there is no sign of any of it letting up any time soon. 

What the eff?!? Did we astrally project to flatter-than-W's-brain-wave Kansas while we slept peacefully unaware. 

The winds were so powerful, I think my Peter Pan hair stretched at least a half inch. No shit. Okay...maybe not, but you get the idea. There was actually a point today in my travels when I could barely open my car door to move rogue trash cans from the middle of the road. Oh and that's another thing... why are people so afraid to pull over and move a big, effin trash can from their lane? It takes like, two minutes. No, they'd rather speed and swerve around it. People kill me. Whatever. Sometimes I feel like the Cosmos' Mom.

On a different note... my missing shoe was delivered TODAY. Wow! Girlfriends, you need to patronize Clarks. Those people are on the ball. 

Well, here's hoping we're all still on the ground tonight. I mean, come on. It's Thursday night. I gotta watch 30 Rock. 

All Hail The Thaw Gods!!  

or what a difference a week makes 

Okay, so today is a banner day, Man! The wonderful winter Thaw Gods have smiled upon us to change the scenery from this

to this. 

Thanks, Dudes! You really did my attitude a solid. Not only are the nasty piles of dirt-encrusted, ice pyramids a distant memory, the temperature is a beautifully, balmy 67 degrees... with sunshine!!

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahh!! 

God bless February. There always seem to be a few days in this littlest of months which are warm, breezy reminders of what is waiting around the corner. A little rejuvenator of the spirit. And as those of you who have read my postings from December and January are painstakingly aware (thanks for your patience by the way)... I really, really needed this attitude adjuster. I mean, seriously. I couldn't even stand myself. All the bitching and grousing... Oy! 

And just when I thought the day couldn't get any better... a box was waiting on my doorstep when I arrived home. Not just any box. A Clarks shoe box!!!! 

Are you kidding me!!??!! Sunshine AND new kick-ass, incredibly comfortable, on sale Clarks shoes!! The day could not possibly get any better. They are a thing of beauty. Can I get an Amen from my fellow shoe-lovin' sisters.

But wait... what the? One... Two... Three... Hey! Where the eff is my other shoe? 

If it was any other shoe company I'd be pissed, but it's Clarks. Their service is great. One quick call and the entire matter is sorted out. The rogue shoe has been rounded up and is on its way. 

What a great day!

Friday Photo #13 

this is going to sound weird, but ...

I like cemeteries. They're really quiet and contemplative. Plus they're full of history... personal history. There's this great old cemetery two blocks away from us which contains some wonderfully weathered tombstones dating as far back as the early 1800s. 

The historical significance is worth the trip alone, but what fascinates me most are the tokens loved ones leave behind in a desperate attempt to cling to the memory of those lost.

Many are adorned with traditional statuary of saints, Jesus or Mary, but there are a lot of unorthodox, more personal items lovingly placed on these grave sites. Things like gnomes riding frogs, pinwheels, bunnies and squirrels, sea shells, baseball caps, even a small concrete ducks dressed in season-appropriate attire. At a relatively new grave there was a sad, picnic tableau complete with Weber grill, empty beer cans and burned out bottle rocket remains. 

But by far the most crushing scene in the entire cemetery was a large, brightly painted Tonka Truck atop an enormous headstone lined with a child's trinkets, lovingly left by his parents whose shattered hearts will never be whole again...even if they live to be one hundred years old. 

You know one of these days I'm going to get my act together and make a photo book out of these shots titled "Tokens". It seems somehow disrespectful to just leave these photos lingering on my desktop. 

More Bits And Pieces  

or cleaning out my mind's attic...

As  noted in the prior posting, my muse hit the highway some time last week and all I got was this lousy t-shirt. (www.nataliedee.com)

So I figured I'd just toss a bunch of random mental trash on the junk heap. 

1. As if you didn't know, the Steelers won the Super Bowl lasts Sunday. Pittsburgh celebrated with a "Salute to the Champions" parade on Tuesday. 350,000+ Steelers Nation faithful lined the Boulevard to cheer and revel in the glory of our unprecedented sixth title. Some of the players stepped off their cars and walked the parade route. One went one step further...

Yes, Troy Polamalu treated his rabid fans with a repeat of his crowd dive from 2005. You can see a much cleaner, professional video from a rival TV station here. Can you say "crowd pleaser"?

2. So apparently an Arizona newspaper reporter has been bad mouthing Steelers fans. He was saying crap like we're just a bunch of rude, ignorant rubes who are loud and ill-mannered. WaWaWa...sore loser. Does this cat not know there is an entire NATION of Steelers fans around the country and the world...even in Phoenix?!? What a douche. Perhaps he and the other Cardinals fans should remove the stick from their collective butts and learn how to have some good, old-fashioned, blue collar fun. Bottom line is they can say anything they want. The fact remains we have six Lombardi trophies AND Troy Polamalu stage diving. In the words of Tina Fey... he can just suck it.

3. Okay, so remember my "wiener of the week" posting from January 28th wherein I spoke of a co-worker's anxiety over what was prowling around in her new beau's pantaloons? No? Well you can read it here, then come back.... I'll wait.....

(whistling Jeopardy theme....) 

Done, okay. So last night we were at a wine tasting with one of our favorite couples. Afterwards we were at a bar when I told my girlfriend Kels about my wiener posting. Well... she has her own horrendous hambone horror story. 

Get this!! She once dated a guy who had one ball ... and two holes.

I repeat... Two. Holes.

The one ball thing is no big deal, but he had TWO HOLES. 

I mean, come on. That just brings up all kinds of questions.... what happened to his other nard... what's with the two holes... seriously, does like .. pee come flying out in two different directions?  How the hell does one end up with two holes in his schlong? A Prince Albert piercing gone horribly wrong? A shaky Mohel at a Bris? A bizarre bicycle accident? (seriously...who's bright idea was it to make boys bikes with that scrotum crushing bar, anyway?)  What could possibly have happened to this dude to turn his tube steak into a meat whistle.

Of course, she was so stunned (and much more of a lady than I) she never talked to him about it, thereby denying we twisted and curious from obtaining the (w)hole story. Sorry. had to do it. Oh well. Maybe it's more fun to ponder anyway. 

4. I haven't obsessed about the king of all my things lately, so here's a video just for me... because it's MY blog, dammit!! 

One of the best parts of Rhett's solo shows is his storytelling and banter with the audience. This is classic. And, no... they won't play at your wedding... unless you have lots and lots of money to throw their way. 

Hmmmmm... note to self... if we ever win the lottery... restring all your guitars and pack up all your stuff, boys. You're playing at my house!

In Which I Admit I Suck At This Blogging Thang Lately  

Mea Culpa

I don't know what's up, but lately I've been really scattered. I can't seem to focus on something...anything entertaining to write about. My muse has apparently motored south for the winter, to bask in the glory of the warm sun and sip Mojitos poolside in that skimpy little leopard bikini that used to look so hot on me until, you know, excess stuff started settling in around my mid-section, but of course it still looks fantastic on her because she's a freaking "muse" and therefore immune to getting fat or cottage cheesey in all the wrong places (not that there are any places on one's body in which being cottage cheesey is acceptable). But is she happy with merely mocking me by looking uber sexy in my own bathing suit... No!! She has to rub it in by sending postcards of her antics with young, muscular pool boys named Sven and Gunther. AND if that's not bad enough, she stabs my very heart by getting my one, true, fantasy love, Rhett Miller to kiss her!?

Stupid little skank. Do you see how she taunts me? I miss you, Muse. Please come back.

Playing the MeMe Google Game 

or like you need more help wasting time on the internet   

Okay, so you probably know about this game already. The idea is you Google your name followed by a verb, hit enter and hilarity ensues. 

Of course I stole .. er.. borrowed this idea from John and Hank Green... who probably stumbled on it from someone else... who heard someone mention it at a soiree... who saw it on one of those hip 'n happenin' trendy websites... who ran into Kyra Sedgewick at a Hollywood shindig... who is married to, none other than, Kevin Bacon. Thus completing the mystical circle of six degrees of Kevin Bacon. 

Okay, not really. John really stole it from Facebook... who probably stumbled on it from someone else... who heard someone mention it at a blah blah blah... who yadda yadda yadda... Jane!! Stop this crazy thing!?!  

You have to try this. Here's mine:

Murray likes...to socialize and will use any excuse to celebrate with friends. (very true)

Apparently Murray also like apples, Iggy Pop and to flirt obviously. Or is it flirt, obviously? (Well... obviously. Duh.)

Murray wants... a Zombie picture!!! (sure, why not) Also Murray wants you to hang up your coat on Phil Cuttance's trophy hangers (not the wire hangers, you neanderthal), AND Murray wants to get married in the nude. (little chilly in February)

Murray loves... to deck out the place with streamers (because it's FAB-U-Lous!!!)

Murray hates... Bruce, and Bruce barely notices!  (*sob* selfish bastard!)

Murray lives... with her three children and sings with a swing band for fun! (scattin' her kids to sleep)

Murray says... I could lose myself in his eyes and his smile. (Aaaah)

Murray asks... to show her drawing, but there is no time left. Then out of nowhere, Murray asks for Kate's badge then pulls a gun!?! (she's quite mad, you know)

Murray wears... a vampire-chic waistcoat and climbs around on a jungle gym to the Eurythmics' "Would I Lie to You". (now that sounds about right)

You can go on and on and on, typing verb after verb, providing hours of entertainment. But trust me. Do NOT type "Eats". Lots of nasty, nasty stuff appears. Or maybe that's just with my name. 

Wait a minute... when I use Geo's name, the foulest things to appear is he eats babies, Twinkies from the garbage and old grey rats while painting houses yellow. 

What the?!? 

Damn! There's some uber slutty chick with my humble moniker. Eeeewwwwwww! That ain't right. Get your own name, Hootch.