A Tale of Two Concerts 

Okay, so this week I had the good fortune to attend rare back-to-back concerts on my unorthodox Speical K weekend.

The first was the ultra teeny-bopper band All American Rejects with my KD cohort, Yoko. Of course I didn't realize they were tweener idols until we got there and stood amongst the masses of idol youths. I did the math and realized I could be any one of the band member's Mom. Sadly, not their slutty teenaged Mom either.

yaaaaaaay...

We were definitely in the Mom-waiting-in-the-wings-for-her-adolescent-while-complaining-about-the-noise section. So we hiked up our Mom jeans and bellied up to the bar for some liquid strength.

And by "we" I mean me.

They're not a bad group, really, just not for me. They started with the only song I recognized, Dirty Little Secret, and continued on in high-energy fashion, thrashing about on stage, climbing atop the monitors eliciting a cacophony of squeals from the adolescent girls with every wink and point in their direction. After about three songs, it all just sounded the same to these seasoned ears. The entire concert seemed so staged, like it was the same performance of the same setlist with the same stories told each and every night. Definitely not worth the hearing loss.

I'm spoiled by the Old 97's who's extensive catalog spans numerous genres. They never play the same show twice. And they never disappoint. Not that I'm biased or anything. By comparison, I found myself looking at my watch in hopes this evening was coming to a close. Whereas I NEVER look at my watch at a 97's show. Just sayin'.
The big, pricey backdrop, the extensive stage crew, the buses... someone's paying big bucks for this feh tour. I don't get it. I don't get how they pick the Chosen Ones to throw money at hand over fist. But then again, it ain't for us fucking "Moms".

Now go eat a hoagie, you skinny bastards.

(Truth be told, the band mates were sweethearts when meeting fans after the show, but seriously, they need to bulk up.)


In deep contrast to the play date the night before, I knew from the onset the English Beat/Squeeze concert would be a toddler-free zone. As out of place as I felt Wednesday night, Thursday night's vibe was all Snuggie comfy-cozy with my middle-aged peeps.

Dave Wakeling still kicking the jams

I have to admit, I bought tickets to this gig solely because The English Beat were the openers. I liked Squeeze in the 80s, but am ambivalent about them now. They're one of those bands whose music I skip when it comes up in shuffle on my iPod. Not to be douchey, but they're a bit too far in my past. Does that make sense?

in case you didn't know who they are
big signage for failing eyesight
they know their market

The Beat, however, are way up on my favorites list. Dave Wakeling is the sole survivor of the original cast of characters, but boy he puts together a fun group. Being a seated venue filled with stilted white people, everyone sat politely for the first song. Song number two... Sheila and I along with a smattering of others, busted up the Puritanical proclivity by standing and dancing in our limited space. By song four, everyone of us uptight whities were on our feet, singing and unabashedly dancing to our own inner rhythm.

They are such a good time, I defy anyone to sit still during their Ska-talicious beat. Their shortened set included lots of hits, I Confess, Save it For Later and ending with Mirror in the Bathroom, all extended versions.



I Confess is for Geo. It's his favorite. You should hear him sing it in the car. He's great. It's cut short because I could bare to stay motionless and quiet no longer. And no one needs to hear my caterwaul preserved on tape. EVER.

So in the middle of Save it for Later, this happened...



The bass player lifted this lad from the audience on to the stage. That little kid could not have been any happier! He pogoed and bopped at full tilt for the rest of the song. He made my bladder leak just watching him.

What?!?

Too much information? Grow up, Pussies. That's for realz.

Ohmigod! Too much fun! For once, I wasn't praying for the warm-up to spontaneously combust. It was the first time I have ever seen an opening act get a whooping Standing O. An hour was definitely not enough.

As a matter of full disclosure, I had kinda planned an early escape several songs into Squeeze's show, but when Glen Tilbrook walked out he looked so much like my college crush, Hank that it was oddly familiar and comforting. (Hank at 50, not 20 y'all, because that would be all kinds of weird if I had a crush at 20 on a guy who looked like his future middle-aged self) He had the same face shape, same irresistible big blue orbs, same mannerisms. I liked him immediately.

Irrational, yes, but there you have it. Whatever. I'm a chick. Don't question.

Difford and Tilbrook

notice the fab purple satin suit
only an Brit can get away with that one
or maybe Prince

I'm so glad we stayed until the encore break. The show was way more enjoyable than expected. Tilbrook's voice is still clear and strong, hitting all the high notes without a crack. And man, can he play guitar!! I had no idea he was the shredder of the band. They played pretty much everything I could long to hear, Muscles From a Shell, Tempted, Another Nail in My Heart, Annie Get Your Gun, Cool for Cats, Up the Junction...

Behold the beauty of the purple satin suit!






Besides the animation projected on the screen behind them in the above video, there were other amusing loops like a girl dressed in a 60s micro mini dancing awkwardly and a x-rayed figure swimming, smoking, fornicating. Okay, probably not that last one.
And Holy Crap! Weirdos, you are the best thing about life, ever.

Seriously, half of the fun of this particular evening was watching the crazies in the audience. God bless your collective pointy little heads.

Between the l'il balding dude literally darting up and down the aisle to video tape songs and Narcissistic Barbie and Ken attempting their self portrait a ridiculous number of times during the show with their antiquated 90s phone equipped with a blinding light as bright as a thousand suns, we were crying. So were the couple behind them, because their retinas were singed. At first it was uber annoying, but as it went endlessly on and on and on, it became downright hysterical. Best part is, they never did get a decent photo. Ha! Tools.

So, to recap:

Night out AS the oldster sucks. Night out WITH the oldsters rules.

The Ennui Of Henri

In an attempt to assuage my own malcontent over the Penguins post-season shortcomings, I offer a taste of classic film noir featuring an indisputably French kitty, Henri.



Poor Henri. Under appreciated, toiling in tedium, surrounded by morons...

Welcome to the Special K, Pussy.

There's just so much to love about this video. The dispirited glance over the shoulder, the idle listlessness, the utter disdain. Its melancholy is so deliciously French. The only thing missing is the curl of smoke from a long, brown cigarette, strong coffee and a beret.


(special thanks to Steph for passing on this gem)

On a completely unrelated note, looking through the analytics page for this blog, one of the keyword searches that lead an unsuspecting (and no doubt highly disappointed) reader to this train wreck of a publication was "farting Cinderella photos".

Clearly, I'm reading the wrong blogs.

WHAT THE FRENCH, TOAST?!?!?!?!!!!!!
or where has our hockey team gone?

Okay, so normally when a team has home ice advantage, it's an ADVANTAGE. The home team skates to victory under a blanket of undying love and support from its boisterous fans who have effectively rattled the opponent, hence the aforementioned advantage.

Normally.

This go-round... not so much.

The Pens squandered a 3-0 lead after the first period, loosing in overtime in game one of the playoffs, and then proceeded to do the EXACT SAME THING in game two, losing by a score of 8-5.

F*^$%&$@^&$*+@#%"&#+@!!!!!

Don't let the 3 point gap fool you. Last night's game was a close, hard-fought battle. Simply put, our defense wasn't as sharp as the Flyers.

PUFFT! PUFFT!! (that's me spitting at the ground in disgust, in case you couldn't figure out my lame attempt at sound effects. pufft!)

These were two of the best matches ever contested, fast play, brilliant saves, high intensity... and the completely wrong outcome.

Oh, the pain.

Now we're down two heading to Philly. Not the position The Pens (or anyone) expected to be in. Blerg.

At least there was this all-about-awesome, board-breaking hip check heard around the arena from James Neal.



BOOM! That's some fun shit right there.

It's not impossible to come back from a 2-0 series deficit, as long as they keep their heads in the game. They have to want it more. Pure and simple.

Time to get hungry, boys.

It's The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year 
or It's Penguins' Playoff Hockey season, BABY!!

what you probably can't tell is this is the actual
signage on the actual side of Consol Energy Center
snapped from a monitor at the special k
i am too lame to walk the four blocks
don't judge 

This is the most beautiful sign in town for a hockey fan. As the chyron states... Pittsburgh has playoff fever!

Our Boys of Winter came within one point of division leader, the dreaded New York Rangers, ending with a whopping 108. Astounding for a team whose two top scorers and leading defense man were missing for a good part of the season.

Oh, and then there was all the rancor from the Flyers' coaches Laviolette and Berube the last week of regulation play, calling Pens' Coach Bylsma gutless and Sid and Geno the "two dirtiest players" on our team.

Really?

No DeeJay's ribs for you. EVER.*

Then NBC's commentator, Mike Milbury, jumped on the Haters bandwagon, calling Sid a goody-two-shoes punk and Byslma a skirt wearer.

Top that off with Ranger's Coach Tortorella declaring the Pens the "most arrogant organization in the league" and calling our top two players whiners.

Sounds like somebody feels a wee bit threatened, no? Could it be because he's back

too cute with the flowing mane

and he's finally back

le sigh

and him...he's back with a vengeance! 

proudly posing with 50 goal puck
(he's kind of an adorable neanderthal)

Scoring 50 goals and posting 109 points total, to capture his second career Art Ross scoring championship trophy, despite missing a portion of the schedule due to injury. Awwwsome!

The other teams should be scared. Finally our battered club is healthy with only two players on the DL. In Sid's long absence, the lines have gelled, proving a formidable force in his absence. Crosby's return is the extra grease in an already well-oiled machine, quietly making an impact with his every touch of the puck.

But that's all in the past now. The slate is wiped clean. It's Stanley Cup playoff season. This is an entirely different beast with an intensity unlike no other. The level of play is through the roof. Anything can happen.

It's the only sport in which I look forward to watching OTHER teams compete. It's the only sport I miss when it's all said and done. It's the only sport that incites me stand in my own living room and scream out with enough force to bruise my ovaries.

I am not even kidding about that last one.

Sweet Baby Jesus, I love this game!

The north east cover of Sports Illustrated posed the following question:

I think you know my answer.

It all starts tonight with game one at home against our cross-state rivals, the effing Flyers. Bring it on!

So what could be better than the Pens hoisting the cup once again? Sid or the Tanger taking this kind of victory lap.



A girl can dream, right?

LET'S GO PENS!!!!!



*Laviolette let slip he attributes the Flyers 5-1 winning record at Consol to a standing order of local proprietor, DeeJay's famous ribs delivered to the plane after each game.

In Which Ms. Potty Mouth Spends A Sunny Day With New German Friends

Ok, so I've turned into a trash talker, but I blame it on the fact that I've spent my youth in television.

J' accuse, Mutha Plucker.

At the tender age of 23, I walked through the doors of The Special K fresh-faced, innocent, naive, optimistic, unjaded. I wore skirts for Pete's sake! I was only 120 pounds then, had shapely gams and ginormous 80s hair. It was two years before I got married and became incredibly happy and fat in the process, but that's a different story. Dude, I was like balloon-face girl. Double chin, puffy cheeks, cheese curls attractively stuck in my toothy grin. No shit. People used to think I was preggers. Ignorant fucks.

But my point is this, I kind of tend to swear. A lot.

All. The. Fucking. Time.

It's a byproduct of working in television, much like sleeping disorders and twisted irreverence. It's a cursing disorder and it's real. Pinkie swear. Look it up on Wikipedia... as soon as I create that page, I mean.

Hello, my name is Murray and I have a Cursing Disorder.

I swear to God I was a man in a past life. Probably a dock worker. I can't help it, man. I just love to cuss. Love it. I love the way uttering vulgarities feels tripping off my tongue, especially the pressure of my teeth against my curled lower lip right before the explosion of air from deep in my diaphragm propels the f-bomb forth unto the world. Total physical and mental satisfaction wrapped up in one efficient move.

Wait. What was my point of all this lewd language love?

I don't know. Is there ever a point in these ramblings? (that's rhetorical, asshat. I'll get to the point eventually. probably. don't hold your breath.)

Anywho...

I met these two wonderful young ladies from Germany. The one, Christina, is in absolute love with all things Pittsburgh... The city, it's inhabitants and it's sports teams, especially the Penguins. We became imaginary friends via Twitter, electronic pen pals, if you will, through our mutual love of Pittsburgh Hockey.  She brought her architect friend, Gabi, a Burgher virgin.

Christina and Gabi
enjoying a not-so-rare sunny day

So my thinly veiled point is this: I realized two days after I'd met these lovely ladies, that OMG they probably think I am the biggest potty mouth in the world. Of course when you have a blog, you can say whatever you want because, you know, it's you're fucking blog, right? And this blog, well this blog allows my ID to run free. My ID's a profane, fucking asshole, yo.

Ooops. See, there I go again.

But omigosh, she's going to think I am just this crazy, cocktail-swilling, cigarette-smoking, foul-mouthed chick from the Burgh. Of course, when I met them, our conversation was so engaging and lovely, I didn't curse at all. I don't think so anyway. I don't know. I don't remember. Oh, shit, goddammit, did I? I don't remember.

Eeeeeeee.

Again, with the swearing thing. It just... happens. It's who I am. I blame the crap that goes down at the Special K. I can't help it. Anyway, job hazard. Sorry.

But enough of my rationalizing...

Gateway Center
site of my long-term indentured servitude

We met up at the Crazy Goat coffee shop so I could take them on a tour of our studios. I've been at the K for so long, I don't even see my surroundings anymore. I've lost the "wow" factor from toiling in broadcasting. It's just work to me. Seeing this all-too-familiar environment through their fresh eyes, unclouded my cynical ones.

The girls were so excited to be in the studio. They literally giggled to sit at the news desk. Christina was giddy pointing out the sets she has seen on her computer when she watches our broadcasts overseas.

the set of Pittsburgh Today Live

Their enthusiasm reminded me how lucky I am to have this cool job.

Do NOT tell my boss.

We took full advantage of the gorgeous, sunny April day by dining al fresco in Market Square. Christina, who I swear knows more about Pittsburgh hotspots living in Munich than I do living in the South Hills, picked a newer burger joint, Wingharts, for our lunchtime fare. Delicious!

two-fisted burgers

Big ass burger doesn't even begin to describe it. I made the mistake of ordering fries, too. We barely made a dent, but seriously, what mere mortal can pass up the enticing aroma of perfectly fried potatoes? Impossible.

We noshed on the half-pounders oozing brie cheese and bacon while talking non-stop for hours about everything and nothing, as if we had been friends for decades. Before we knew it, it was 3:45 and time to part company. They are so delightful, I could easily have spent two more hours getting to know them more. But, alas, they had places to be, so we said our farewells and off they went to their next adventure.

the view from the bridge
or river bank, as it were

I had such a blast with Christina and Gabi. I can't express what a pleasure it was to have met them. We're no longer imaginary, but real life friends now. I miss them. They are terrific ambassadors to our watery hamlet. Next time they visit, I'm going to drag Geo along. He'd love them, too.

The world keeps getting smaller and smaller in a marvelous way.


You can catch up with Christina and Gabi's Pittsburgh tour on Christina's blog here. I have lots of great places to explore now thanks to her.


(all but the first photo taken by Gabi Obert)

Perambulating Around Manhattan On Our Way To The Winery
or washing off Satan's stench

Okay, so what better way to stave off PTSD (Post Traumatic Shuttle Disorder) than spending a beautiful day wandering around lower Manhattan with a good friend.

This lightning fast trip to the Big Apple was bittersweet. Sweet because it's always a blast to hang out with Steph, no matter what city we end up in together. Bitter because it was the last adventure we'll have together in long time. Steph's life is about to change in a magnificent way. She's expecting her first child in September.

Between buying a new house, nesting for the new nipper and wrapping her head around this whole birthing thang, she's going to have little time to venture past her own playground. I am so excited for her!! She is going to be a great Mom. She's bright, compassionate, and grounded. (don't roll your eyes, Steph. you are.) She has an amazing wit and humor that will keep her sane. She's a modern chippie who won't let a baby stop her from living life on her terms. I envision her hooking her progeny on her hip and whisking him off for his first foray into the wonders of Manhattan in no time. And her child will be all the better for it.

Still, I'm going to miss her.

But wait, this is about the sweet part of our trip.

First things first...BREAKFAST!

We walked off the nausea (Steph had a wild ride herself) over the course of our trek to NoHo Star. This funky bistro offers vegan friendly fare including the delicious goat cheese and egg bruschetta I gleefully shoveled down my gullet.

(Insert food mantra here: Yuuummmmmmmmmmmmm...)

Anywho, we headed downtown to the 9/11 memorial in another nausea-inducing cab ride. What the hell? Clearly Satan's minions had placed a tracking device in our purses. ACK! We stumbled out of the cab... and directly into a bar.

Now before you get all nuts about pregnant girls drinking, let me explain. One of the positives about palling around with a future momma is she has a frequent need to tinkle, but you can't just waltz into an establishment to use the facilities and leave. They kinda get pissy about that. Ergo, one must purchase something at said bar. That's where I come in to order a tall, cool cocktail to preserve our place, or stall as it might be. And Dude, this joint had Tito's as their house vodka. Winning.

make mine a double
i'm drinking for two

Let it be said, I'm always willing to take one for the team.

After our short pit stop, we ventured over to the memorial. After weaving through the long line at security, we were let out on the grounds.


Okay. I know. I'm weird, but the steady snake of this line fascinated me. So sue and/or bite me.


The two foot prints of the North and South towers are filled with deep pools of rushing water, whose roar blocks out all the city noise, allowing one to get lost in one's thoughts. The monuments are well thought out, listing the names of each of the fallen by category on an easy to locate grid: firefighters, policemen, passengers and employees. They even included the names of the victims from the initial bombing in 1993.

It was incredibly moving watching family members etch the names of loved ones with pencil on paper. A sobering tribute to those innocent people caught in the cross fire of irrational hatred. And yet there were people standing in front of the pools, smiling broadly for photos.

Really? Really people?

Geo and I encountered similarly inappropriate reactions in Dallas at the "X" in the street marking the fatal gunshot of President Kennedy's assassination.

I don't get it. People are totally clueless assholes.

Meanwhile, another potty break (and cocktail) later and we motored back to SoHo in a mercifully calmer cab ride. Lucifer must have been on his smoke break. It was after 3pm when we got back to the hotel, and did something really crazy...

We both, wait for it... took a NAP.

Woo Hoo! Call the Po Po coz we outta control, yo.

I woke up in an unattractive puddle of drool, but Lord Almighty, it. was. BLISSFUL. I was ecstatic when Steph confessed she needed a time out. I had been up since 3:30am and was running on some serious fumes, but I didn't want to seem like a lame old fart.

Question: Why did I ever want to quit taking naps as a kid? Seriously. What the hell was wrong with me? These things are awesome. AWESOME, I say! Naps need to be reincorporated into the work day much like the trolley cart of liquors, two hour lunches and an afternoon dance break.

Rejuvenated, we walked a block to the reason for this trip...a Rhett Miller solo show at the City Winery. I know. It's ridiculously redundant, but what can I say? His shows are worth the 400 mile journey. Something special always happens there.

This time the cherry atop this musical sundae was the opener, fellow Texan Salim Nourallah. Salim is a first rate producer who helmed the last three Old 97's CDs as well as Rhett's last solo effort. He is perhaps the sweetest, gentlest man on Earth. Unbelievably nice and approachable. He's also a talented singer/songwriter in his own right. His newest collection of works, Hit Parade, was fan-funded through PledgeMusic and it is stellar. More and more artists like Ian McCullouch of Echo and the Bunnymen, Luscious Jackson and Juliana Hatfield are utilizing this site to maintain complete control over their music. If you're a music fan, it's worth a look. You never know who is going to show up on there asking for your support.

Anywho, unlike Mr. Miller's commanding, full-throttle delivery, Salim has a quieter stage presence. Perhaps taking a cue from Rhett's stylebook, his latest songs are substantive, darker tales set to catchy pop rhythms. A formula that is seductive and satisfying for the listener.

It's too bad the crowd was so fucking ignorant to take the time to listen to him. Jesus H. Christmas! For once there was a terrific opener, and they would not SHUT THE FUCK UP. I had to check my GPS to make sure we hadn't accidentally transported to Dallas-land of the rude Mutha EFers. Because of their trivial chatter, clever imagery like this went completely over their heads.

And then the Fall gives way to Winter
You're standing in your favorite coat
The sleeve is ripped, it doesn't fit you anymore
Another thing you love outgrown...
I'm so in love with my
Goddamn Life 



Or this teriffic tune, Unstoppable, about his spirited five year-old son, Gavin. (The recorded version has an amazing drum line by John Dufilho.)




The only time they remotely paid attention was when Rhett joined his friend on stage for 1978.




It's great fun to see these old friends enjoying each other's company on stage doing what they love.

Side Note: Salim brought his lovely wife, Jayme with him. She an accomplished children's photographer and a blogger and hilarious. This witty mother of two is irreverent, calls her kids assholes because they can be and swears... a lot. She's right up my alley. As quiet and calm as Salim is, Jayme is boisterous and outgoing. I love her. She's delightful. It was a pleasure meeting her.

Moving on...

The lovely blue-eyed one finally took the stage and plowed through a 22-song master setlist with his signature verve, working up a drenching sweat by the fourth song. The sold out crowd was treated to an eclectic sampling of old classics, rarities, a couple of covers, a handful of new soon-to-be-favorites from his upcoming release in June and one lame joke about a Cadillac and pussy precipitated by a broken string.




Oh, and then there was this.




I had heard of women in past audiences stepping up to the plate to sing the girlie part of Fireflies, but I have never witness such a thing in person. Honestly, I'm okay with never seeing it again. I prefer him being both the babe and the boy.

This girl, Misty from the table next to us leapt at the chance to take a turn at the duet in front of God and everyone. She was pretty good. She actually knew all the lyrics. I give her a lot of credit for having the stones to share a mic inches away from that trademark mole. That alone would have wiped my memory clean. Even if I could carry a tune, I'm sure I would have inadvertently concussed him with a spazzy head-butt, let fly a big-ass loogie in his now blinded blue eye or at the very least, melted his face with my demonic, roadkill-fueled breath. Ack!

Normally I record more of Mr. M's shows, especially the banter, but this night I just wanted to hang out, sing along loudly (and badly-sorry table mates) and absorb the evening. I did, however, have the foresight to capture his energetic performance of Tom Petty's Free Falling.




I know I'm biased, but he's one hell of an entertainer.

Rhett learned this song for a performance he was to do in Minneapolis for NPR called Wits at the Fitz. It's a show in which a comedian (SNL's Tim Meadows) is paired with a singer (RM) to verbally spar, field questions from the host and perform topical skits, this evening's bit being the reading of Republican candidates Twitter feeds. Hilarious.

We got to listen to half of the hysterical live stream which included a whole lot more than the final edited version found here. Upcoming shows feature Paul F. Tompkins with Amiee Mann and Amy Sedaris with They Might Be Giants.

Before I knew it, it was 5am and I was on another shuttle sent from the eleventh circle of Hell heading for home and husband with another memorable New York experience tucked under my belt.

Setlist for 3/23/12 

(for those who care about such things)

State of Texas 

My Valentine

The El

Buick City Complex

This Ain't Love (??- new song on upcoming CD)

No Baby I

Champaign, Il

You're Gonna Make Me Lonesome (Bob Dylan cover)

Marina (new song on upcoming CD)

Big Brown Eyes

Nobody Says I Love You

Melt Show

Let the Whiskey Take the Reins

Fireflies

Out of Love (new song)

Nineteen

Barrier Reef

Sleepwalking (new song)

Cryin' Drunk

No Simple Machine

Every Night Is Friday Night (without you)

Our Love

encore

Free Falling (Tom Petty cover)

Come Around 

Time Bomb     

The end  boo :( 

In Which Beelzebub Drives A Super Shuttle Van

Okay, you know the economy is in a serious down turn when the Dark Lord himself takes a part-time job driving an airport hack. And guess what...

He drives like a fucking KENNEDY!

No shit. Thank the baby Jesus we didn't go near any shallow slips of water.

No sooner had I plopped my posterior on the worn, over-occupied seat, he punched the gas and sent the Chariot of Fiery Death swerving into traffic, only to slam on the brakes 50 yards away to pick up another damned soul for transport into Manhattan. Good thing I still have cat-like reflexes because I nearly bounced off the door. I was never so glad to strap on a seat belt in all my wretched life.

I swear I saw Lucifer's eyes glow red with delight in the rearview mirror.

FYI-Satan is a demonic little shit with shaggy, dark hair and 70s porno mustache who refuses to drive in a straight line.

What should have taken one hour, became a grueling two hour journey rounding turns on two wheels, flying down narrow streets, braking at the last minute for crossing canines. (Apparently even the Prince of Darkness has a soft spot for the adorableness of dogs. Who knew.)

Blech!

Up next... MY BREAKFAST!!

As if this erratic ride couldn't get any worse, the van had a major funk all it's own. It was epic, Dude. A lethal combination of ass, crotch rot... and the irrefutable stench of lost hope.

And then he unwrapped another one of these sickeningly sweet bad boys.

yeah...that'll take care of the Zombie smell

Sorry BeBe. Taint no amount of yellow pine-shaped air freshener gonna mask the fetor of the decaying human spirit.

(I said "taint". hee hee)

By the time I fell out of the door onto the hotel foot path, I had lost my will to live. I felt both relief and guilt watching the despair in the hollow eyes of the remaining travelers trapped in Mr. Toad's Wild Ass Shuttle Ride. I swear I could hear the echo of demonic laughter as the van lurched forward, cutting off a cabbie. This is why the Pope kisses the tarmac.

There was nothing Super about that Shuttle except the stench, nausea and regret.