Of Lawnmowers, Blossoms and Flip Flops? 
or the bizarre case of March of 2012

Okay, so once upon a time I actually updated this piece of narcissistic shite on a regular basis, but clearly even I got bored with the incessant whining...er, ramblings, thus leaving this virtual journal to die on the virtual vine.

In my rationalized defense, I choose to ignore my accountability (much like the current Republican party) and place the blame on the most glorious March in the history of my post-fetal life. How could I possibly sit inside chronicling the minutiae of my mundane life when it has been consistently in the upper 70s and 80s during what is traditionally a schizophrenic, hot mess of a month?

This has been the best winter EVAH!

That's my story anyway. Seriously. If this winter stood upright and had opposable thumbs, I'd marry it. That's how much I am in love with the last three months.

St. Pattrick's Day
80 degrees + rivers of green beer + three-man sling shot
= drunken merriment
and beads in the eye

Global warming or not, if our winters continue to be this pleasant, Geo and I won't have to become the stereotypical Snow Birds landing at the time share in Boca in our feeble old age, thus sparing future generations from the horrific sight of another leathery, old Northern broad's saggy knee caps, flapping triceps and unnatural flaming red hair bobbing in the pool.

warm enough to pull out the hogs...
motorcycles, you jack holes
(is it just me, or does this remind anyone else of
Pee Wee's Big Adventure and the cool-big shoes dance?)

For once all the daffodils actually burst forth in bloom on the first day of Spring. Unheard of in these northern parts. Besides the warm temps, full-on sunshine and longer days, everyone is just... so... happy. None of the usual, God-I-want-to-stab-myself-in-the-eye-if-this-GD-snow-doesn't-stop sentiment brought on by the relentless, abhorrent 31 days of January. Nosiree, Bob. It's all Cinderella-happy up in here with cartoon birds lacing up our skirts an' shit.

All week I've been wearing shorts, tees and flip flops. People are dining al fresco and busting out the grills.

people catching some rays and chewing on the
breakfast meats in Market Square
circa March 19, 2012

In March. In Pittsburgh. Ca-RAY-ZAY.

our plum trees bursting forth
and filling the air with the intoxicating, sweet scent of spring

The trees are in full bloom a full month and half ahead of schedule. For once the Magnolias didn't get burned up from a killing frost. Hell, even the crazy Carney ice cream man broke out the pedophile truck and made the rounds last weekend, blasting his insipid tunes to lure all the youngsters.

All week I've been wearing shorts, tees and flip flops. In March. In Pittsburgh.

Holla!!

And then today came the first true sound of spring... not one, not two, but three lawnmowers in cacophonic harmony making the first cuts of the season.

On March 22.

What. The. Eff?

I am NOT complaining. Not. At. All.

Okay, one complaint.
this tree smells like ASS, yo.
trust me. you don't want to scratch and sniff
this bad boy

If this year is the Mayan End-of-Days, at least we get to go out with a lovely taste in our mouths.

Kooking Around
or a little Brit Pop hits the spot

Okay, so I have been really lucky to see a ton of terrific bands perform live, but there is a short list of bands (domestic and foreign) still on my wish list: The Shins, Vampire Weekend, Phoenix, Pete Yorn and the Kooks just to name a few. Fortunately for me and my concert sidekick, Mary Ann-ski (MA), we can both scratch the last set of lads off our lists.

I've loved their particular innocuous form of Brit Pop ever since hearing the ridiculous catchy Naive play for the first time on the radio. It hearkens back to my love of all bands from British Isles like the Cure and The Smiths only more bouncy and lighthearted.

So on Tuesday, I just happened to be outside yakking to a friend of mine, when The Kooks (on tour in support of their latest effort, Junk of the Heart) rolled up to the South Side studios of WYEP in a non-descript panel van for a lunch time concert. The door slid open and four lanky English boys tumbled out, sleepily scratching their unruly mop-topped heads. Even though they were clearly travel-weary, these young men still took the time to say hello and chat briefly before heading inside.

OMG, so cute in their little hipster doofus, pegged-leg pants, mismatched shirts and English accents, especially bass thumper Pete who was the only one old enough to sprout facial hair. And a fine beard it was.

You had me at 'Allo.

Seriously, anything sounds more intelligent spoken in an English accent, a cereal box, a Black-Eyed Peas lyric, the nonsensical Republican political platform...

Okay, maybe not that last one. Nothing could make that ridiculous ideology sound remotely reasonable. But I digress...

The bleary-eyed trio sang three of their best songs including Ooh La, then a funny thing happened during their interview. The lead singer, Luke Pritchard, lost his ability to enunciate. Or perhaps he was being possessed by the not-dead-yet spirit of Bob Dylan. I could not understand a word he uttered. Seriously. Not. One. Word. He totally needed subtitles. At first I thought it was my dinosaur ears grinding to a halt, but then both MA and Geo made the same complaint.

Standing amongst the toddlers at Mr. Small's that night, MA and I did a mental high five when the surrounding diaper-clad tykes sported cartoon question marks around their heads when Luke took to the stage and spoke in mumbled tongues.

Luke: MURMERMURMERmumblemumbleharumphhmumble, PITTSBURGH! Mrmsufajfhgas!!
Crowd: Yay?

Okay, that's kind of misleading considering the cacophony of ear-piercing, girlie squeals emanating from the crowd every time Lukey boy spoke, gestured or strut across the stage. The din was reminiscent of the original mop-topped fab four's American debut.

Note: It's weird being the geriatric in the crowd. Weird and unsettling. Like being a chaperon at your imp's school crepe paper, bump-and-grind dance, only with an unlimited supply of liquor, which, when you think of it, is the only way to survive chaperoning a hideous high school gym soiree.

Arms length, Mother F**ker. *hiccup*

But I digress, yet again...

As sleepy and subdued as they were at the radio station, they were wide awake and Red-Bulled up on stage. There was a foot-high platform at the front of the stage on which the lanky lead singer would leap and strut his thin frame about like Mick Jagger, inciting raucous squeals with every chicken-arm pump.

(Clearly I am the Queen of the almighty hyphen today. What of it, beeyatch.)

Behold the chicken-arm strut:



PS: the acoustics kinda blow at Mr. Small's. FYI

PPS: what's going on in those pants, junior?

Schwing!

The investigative skills of MA uncovered the 27 year-old singer dated Mick's daughter, Georgia and lists Dylan as one of his biggest influences. And so it all makes sense now.



Anywho... The concert did not disappoint. They paraded out nearly all of the best of their catalog, Mr. Maker, Always Where I Need To Be, Love it All, Shine On, Ooh La, She Moves In Her Own Way, a lovely solo rendition of Seaside, Junk of the Heart (Happy) and ending with a rousing Naive.



Check another band off of the list. It was definitely worth the wait for this Brit Pop sensation to roll through town. Big fun had by all, even if our T-Rex dino arms were too short to sip our cocktails. That's what long straws are for, yo.

On Being a Guy's Girl 

or you can call me Elaine Benes 

Okay, so I am not your typical frou frou, fancy-schmancy, delicate flower of girl. 

Not. In. The. Least.

I know. You're surprised, right?

By now you realize I'm more of a jeans-wearing, hockey-loving, potty-mouthed, loud-talking, cocktail-swilling, non-athletic-spazzy tomboy who enjoys belching, bawdy jokes and the company of boyish men. 

You know, a guy's girl, just like Elaine Benes from Seinfeld only, unlike Elaine, I DO have girlfriends...

who like to burp and curse and make off-colored remarks.

If it wasn't for me wee boobies and va-jay you'd think I was a dude. Thank Jehovah I don't have man-hands to go with the yeti beard, because THAT would just be sick, yo. 

Case in point, when someone in the control room at the Special K utters an unintentional double entendre like "how long is Ralph's package?", "Just stick it in, Slie", or "insert Johnson",  the Technical Director screams MURRAY!! knowing full well I'll exclaim the obligatory "that's what she said" with the proper verve. Twelve-year-old boy humor abounds with prevalent banter about banana hammocks, absolute ball room and getting punched in the baby maker. 

Wow. When I write it down on virtual paper, we kinda sound like a bunch of a-holes. 

But back to me...

I get sent all manner of hysterical, questionable material from my peeps. Stuff like...

nothing says  I Love You like some free porn
and carbs

excessive liquor CAN lead to bungholes
(the more you know)

Oh Anthony. How I've missed your headlines

can you say Viagra?

how unfortunate

braggart

And perhaps my favorite:

Is it wrong I love that they think of me first when they spot gems like these?

It's my absolute favorite thing about being an anti-femme. I'm constantly getting the most HILARIOUS photos and shit from my favorite pinheads. I choose to believe my Momma, Big Mar is proud of her youngest who inspires such juvenile behavior frivolity...as she shakes her head and wonders where she went wrong.

Even Geo has picked up the gauntlet.

that's some talented taint

God, I love him. Are we meant for each other, or what? He suffers my mannishness with grace and aplomb... and Bloody Marys.

Vodka. holding marriages together for over 25 years

Yep. It's all fun and games until some

goes and sends me this...

that's gonna add a few years of therapy to the tally

the creepiest of creepy shit to scare ten years off my life, which in turn makes

And you don't want to piss off the pasta, man. Trust me. He's one baaaaaad Mutha.