In Which I Went To The Modest Mouse Concert And All I Got Was This Bewilderment... And A Contact High

Okay, so this was my weekend in a nutshell: up at 2:30am, work until 12:30pm, attend my sister's retirement party at 2pm, volunteer at the Summer Music Festival at 4pm, high-tail it to town for Modest Mouse at 8pm, home at 11:58pm, pass out at 12:10am, curse at alarm at 4am, work from 5am-1pm, stop at the grocery store, make broccoli salad for graduation party on Sunday because I have no plan-ahead sense, go to a different graduation party, collapse for one hour, go to card club at 6:30pm, pull in the driveway at 11pm, to bed at 11:30pm, set the alarm clock ablaze at 5:30am, drag my butt to work by 6:45am, go directly to ANOTHER graduation party directly after work, drink, eat, play corn hole, go to bed at 9pm to wake at 2:30am and start the entire mess all over again.

My wounds are self-inflicted.

Needless to say, I'm fried. There's a popular phrase "I'll sleep when I'm dead." At this rate, I give it about two years before I take the big dirt nap. There's also a term "PACING" with which I need to become more familiar.

But I digress from the topic at hand...

Some days there are too many terrific things to do in Pittsburgh. Saturday was a perfect example. Our kick-ass public station, WYEP held it's free annual summer music festival at Schenley Plaza featuring local favorites Donora, Great Lake Swimmers, Sharon Van Etton and Dr. Dog.

For FREE, people. I repeat... FREE!

the lone dancer kicking the jams to Donora

casey hampton of Donora
she of the very gifted vocal chords

outsiders think pittsburgh is a gloomy mess
bullshit
this sky right here, this sky has been here
nearly every day since january
suck it, haters

This event is always a blast. Last year Fitz and the Tantrums blew everyone away with their over-the-top energy. I have a soft spot for this festival. The first time I had the pleasure to stand in front of my fantasy husband and fall in love with all his/their Old 97's awesomeness was at this event. The scene of the crime, so to speak. Patient X. I owe them a debt of gratitude for sparking that particular fire in my soul.

a rare occasion where murry is sans spectacles

geo and i are in the adoring crowd
listen... you can hear the birth of my obsession

le sigh

As if this par-tay wasn't enough to get the slouches off of their couches, Modest Mouse was heating up the North Shore with a sold out show at our newest outdoor urban arena, Stage AE. My faithful concert buddy, Mary Ann came along for the ride. After sitting through hellish traffic tie-ups (there was also a sold out baseball game next door to Stage AE. the Pirates are above .500. WTH, y'all? It is end of days, fo sho.), we met up with my delightful young friend, Annie. Annie is another very happy by-product of my Old 97's obsession. We met in a raging summer storm several years ago at an Old 97's outdoor show. We shared a bottle of wine, sang ourselves hoarse, danced our butts off and have been friends ever since. She's whip-smart, funny and a pleasure to be around. She's awesome.

redheads rockin'

The patio was already packed to capacity when we squeezed our bad selves into the center of the sea of youngsters. Yeah. Mary Ann and I were definitely in the "you brought your Mom?!?" category. In fact, an exuberant toddler wearing a bright red and black checked skinny tie standing in front of us looked at me and asked incredulously, "Are you here to see Modest Mouse?" like I took a wrong turn on the way to the fucking Kenny G concert and somehow feebily wandered in. To which I said, "Pfffft. Yeaaaah, Muthafucker. Now pass me the GD weed."

Ok, that last bit was in my head. Anyway, he did give grandma here a big high-five. He did not, however,  pass me his weed. BUT, the group along side of us kindly made the offer after Mary Ann declared, "I smell weed!" Good to know not all youngins are stingy with their grasses. And, boy howdy, there was a LOT of spliff burning. A lot. Enough to inspire the waifish white boys to shake their asses with reckless abandon.



P.S.: Sometimes I really love young people.

I can't say the same for Modest Mouse's work ethic. They made the crowd wait for 45 minutes in the sticky heat before they took the stage. Thank God there was a relatively steady breeze or else it could have gotten ugly with all the overheated, overimbibed patrons passing out into their own technicolor yawns.

Yakfest averted.

When they finally did come out to play, the kids went nuts, singing back to them on nearly every song, dancing awkwardly, fist pumping in unison. That classic rock concert move made me laugh out loud remembering the following Blue Man Group bit on this very topic. (shuttle to 5:40 in for proper instruction)



It was fun standing in the middle of all that unbridled enthusiasm. There are a handful of Modest Mouse songs I like a great deal, (Dashboard, Float On, Fire It Up, Missed the Boat, Little Motel), but I never noticed how aggressive and shouty their songs are before now. It's like they're singing in ALL CAPS. STOP YELLING AT ME, DUDE. You can turn off the caps lock anytime. To be honest, I can't understand the lyrics without reading them, so the garbled cacophonous verses just sounded like noise.

Aaaaaaaand, I. Am. Old.

It's not to say I didn't enjoy Modest Mouse, I did. It was loud and lively and a ton of fun watching the kids pulsing in unison. What a kick that must be looking out from the stage. Towards the end of their 13 song, 70 minute master set, the crowd surfing started. There were so many kids skimming across the crowd, I lost count.

And then they left the stage with nary a word.

And we waited... and waited... and waited...

Fifteen fucking minutes later, they sauntered on stage. FIFTEEN MINUTES!!?! (SAID IN MY BEST MODEST MOUSE LYRICAL SHOUTING STYLE) That's a ridiculous length of time for an encore break, especially because we had to sit through some lame white noise tape of crickets and bird chirps and shit. It was confusing. Were they coming back? Is it over? Should we leave? What the ef? Are they getting hummers back there,or what? Is the bar stil open? Does this chick realize she's NOT in the bathroom?

Not on my shoes, Chippie. Not on the shoes.

Just when I was ready to chuck it, they came out for four more, including fan favorite Fire It Up. Instead of ending on a high note with another crowd pleaser, Float On, they finished with a somber Dylan cover, You Ain't Going Nowhere.

And then they were gone.

Just walked off without a word. No good night. No thank you, Pittsburgh. No so long, Suckers. Just... gone.

What the hell? Weird, right?

Annie summed it up perfectly by saying the finish left her filled with bewilderment.

In conclusion: I'm glad to have finally seen Modest Mouse. They were good, but I won't seek them out again. Been there. Done ... whatever that was.

Apparently, the band has had an odd history with its Pittsburgh dates. You can read all about that factoid in the PG's Scott Mervis' review which includes a partial set list here. See. It's not just this dinosaur talking through her butt.

I'm still scratching my head.

Automobiles...
or those aren't PILLOWS!!*

... Geo and I drove home from Philly.

The end.

Seriously. That's it. This is my "Jesus wept." shortest blog entry. *And this has nothing to do with embarrassing mistaken cushion identity.

You're welcome. On both counts.

Fun Fact: I used every form of transport in three days except water craft. Final transportation tally: planes, trains, cars, subway, taxi, bus and bicycle.

Anywho, because it clearly is impossible for me not to run at the keyboard, please enjoy this irreverent video, Kenneth vs the Weiners Circle, as a thank you for reading a quarter of the ramblings contained in the last couple of posts. Your indulgence is appreciated.

Trains...
heading to Philly for Francis

Okay, so following the Rhett-New-York-double-play "planes" portion of this concert week extraordinaire was a delightful 90 minutes on Amtrak from Penn Station to Philly's nostalgic 30th street station to see a rare public appearance by our other musical love, Francis Dunnery.

at his second home, the Tin Angel

30th Street Station is a beautiful step back in time when train travel was THE way to go. It's reminiscent of Grand Central with three-story high ceilings, vintage chandeliers and a train board whose letters still flip.

can't you just imagine this room
filled with soldiers and sailors
home from the war

Until recently Penn Station in NYC used to have a similar board. The gentle flipflipflipflip sound used to be a welcomed audible cue, alerting passengers to arrival times thus enabling one to chat, read or people watch without fear of missing their gate number. Now you actually have to pay attention to the stealthy electronic board. I miss that old relic. It added a touch of romance to an otherwise mundane commute.

all aboard!

Note: Amtrak's travel lounge is uber civilized, y'all. There's actually a waiting area exclusively for Amtrak riders with seats, televisions, and refreshments. An inner sanctum to laugh, point and look our noses down at the pathetic peasants sitting on the hard, filthy floor in the common area.

It also has pigeons.

who let this asshole in?

Awesome.

Slowly ascending the escalator to the main concourse of the 30th Street station, I was suddenly completely awash in Deja Vu. I had forgotten I'd been here before. Roughly 32 years ago, several college friends and I hopped on the train to visit our Philly friend, Hank for the weekend. At that moment, I swear I saw a flash of him casually leaning against the escalator, arms crossed, fuzzy hair illuminated from behind. My heart actually skipped a beat at the memory. It was so peculiar. The experience was so vivid, it felt tangible. Weird. And kind of wonderful at the same time. Hank lives in sunny California now. I sent him a photo immediately (thank you modern technology) and we reminisced in the cab ride down Market Street.

P.S.: I had a huge crush on him in college. He was quite the ladies' man. You know the type, super attentive, soft spoken, big, blue laser beam eyes that bore a hole right into your soul, could charm the pants right off of ya.

Yep. There they are, right on the floor. I thought I felt a draft.

But our relationship was classic J. Geils... she loves him, but he loves her, and she loves some asshat named Rick, but we won't go there. Except love doesn't stink. I found Geo, he found Cindy. Happiness fucking abounds. Hooray for love, Muthafuckers!!

Aaaaaaa....

Sorry. I had gone so long without swearing I was starting to sweat and loose consciousness a little. Actually, dropping copious amounts of f-bombs is befitting a Francis post since fuck is his utility word for every fucking part of fucking speech.

Aaaaaanywho, back at the ranch...

Geo was driving in from Pittsburgh to meet up for dinner at 5pm before the show at 7:30. As luck would have it, I barely took a sip of my freshly made Mojito before he rounded the corner to join me for a cocktail in the summer heat. It was steamy out, yo, but those icy cold concoctions took the sting away. Second Street at Market is a pleasant neighborhood. Lots of eateries, street musicians and plenty of interesting throngs of humanity to watch.

retro at it's best
the kabob spins

We met up with Francis' merch guy, Tony for a delicious dinner at Serano's below the Tin Angel to celebrate his birthday before heading upstairs for the show. We ended up seated right in front. Nothing between us and Mr. D except a monitor. The in-your-face-proximity made it impossible to be inconspicuous shooting video, but there are so few opportunities to preserve his performance on tape (he doesn't allow photography at house concerts), I just went for it and tried not to be a spectacle. I think I got some good ones.



Typically in such intimate venues, the artist ends up dropping the curtain, so to speak, and banters with the audience. There were several inebriated people who shouted out comments or requests hoping for a response, but Francis kept that fourth wall in tact until he started rifting on Tony about his birthday. It was interesting to watch him block all the ridiculousness out. He still told stories and made eye contact with us and others in the front, but he didn't cave to the drunkards clamoring for attention, including the doofus behind Geo who kept banging against the hub's chair and calling Francis Frankie.

Really? Frankie? Not in a million years, Dude.

It's no wonder why Mr. D. prefers house concerts.




The show was fantastic. He sang songs sequentially from all of his albums, performing many rare gems from his catalog. So many great songs! The crowd singing backup for most of them. Sunshine, Ava's Song (for his daughter in the audience), Heartache Reborn, American Life in the Summertime, and Geo's favorite, The Only Thing.



His latest, Made In Space, is needlessly overwrought with Auto Tune which I find distracting as all Hell, but the songs themselves are terrific. If you can get past the fucking Auto Tune, that is. I guess he's been getting a lot of grief about the album because he commented several times during the evening how fans hated each of his albums when they first launched, then ultimately loved them after time.

Um...Guilty as charged. I admit, it took me a bit of time to fully appreciate each new release because they were all different styles from the last. Now I have embraced them all mainly from hearing him perform each number live. I'm not a record purist anymore. At this point in my life, I prefer the fluidity of live performances.



The Only Thing is a classic example of the backlash factor of Francis' albums. This beauty was originally a disco arrangement, which I kinda like now after a many spins, but hearing him perform it stripped-down live sealed the deal. The quieter arrangment revealing the beautiful sentiment of the chorus, "the only thing you get to keep is what you give away." I fully expect the same will be true with his latest. He finished out the set with the title track, Made in Space, proving what we believed all along, that the songs are amazing live, without the effing auto tune.




As with Rhett's work, it's Francis' ability to explore a variety of musical genres that keeps me coming back for more. As a fan, whatever direction either genius wishes to venture into is fine by me. They're artists. They have to stretch to grow. I'm just damn ecstatic they keep churning out poignant music to touch our lives.

As always, we left The Tin Angel with lighter hearts and buoyant spirits. Francis is in a really good place in his life right now. He has a strong relationship with his daughters having reconnected with his eldest. He has a solid relationship with his better half, Erica. And he is the sole commander of his musical career. His positive energy is contagious. He's learned to roll with life and embrace it. He's even on Twitter now (@Dunnery), dispensing his wisdom and talking football. Life is very good for him now, and it shows.

It was a heck of a fun (albeit exhausting) week. This is going to sound silly, but I feel blessed these two gentlemen exist. The world is infinitely better with them in it.

May the Muses continue to drive and inspire them to share their gift forever more. Amen.

Planes, Trains and Automobiles 
or Rhett-a-paloosa/Francis Dunnery concert week

Okay, so sometimes as a music fan you get lucky. Really lucky.

My vacation week coincided with not one, not two, but a shit load of Rhett Miller East Coast concerts, topped off with a rare Francis Dunnery stop at Philly's Tin Angel.

Yeah. Really lucky.

The Rhett shows were the start of his tour in support of his fifth solo CD release, The Dreamer which dropped on Tuesday, June 5. The Dreamer was financed in part through crowd funding via PledgeMusic. The term "crowd funding" always reminds me of crowd surfing. You know, when a trusting singer takes a leap of faith into the arms of his screaming minion. With both, the artist puts his life in his fans' collective hands, literally in the latter. This disc is a more rootsy, countrified sound than his prior more pop/rock oriented albums. There's a lot of pedal steel, y'all. A lot. There are also a lot of ladies on this LP. There's also an awful lot to like.

Unlike his other efforts (which I love wholeheartedly), this one is thematic, like a carefully crafted mixtape. Forever the romantic, the first half is all about the search for idealized love, not finding it and ultimately losing the prospects at hand. The melancholy accentuated by the lonely wail of the pedal steel. It's sprinkled with lovelorn gems like, "You were not like the rest, until you left", "This ain't love, but it ain't bad. When you leave I'll be sad sad sad", and a resounding chorus two-thirds through which sums up the theme of the entire album "What do I know about love?" The latter half is lighter, more hopeful. The recognition that the love found is by no means perfect, but somehow it works and is worth the effort to keep going. It ends with an optimistic sweetness. Anyway, maybe I'll pen a proper review later. All I can say now is, being a pop girl, the country pedal threw me at first listen, but I have grown fonder and fonder of his new CD with each spin in the player. I like it's simplicity. A lot. The pedal adds a palatable longing to the sadness of his brilliant lyrics. And let's face it, this literary wordsmith is all about the stories. And man, are these new stories wonderful live.

Go buy it from the man himself! You won't be sorry.

Anywho, I could have traveled to every single stop on this tour featuring his secondary band, The Serial Lady Killers (Tommy Borscheid-guitar; Greg Beshers-bass & Angela Webster-drums), save the last in Boston, but even I felt that was over-the-top-excessive-scary-stalker-groupie territory. I suppose that proves I'm not a total loss yet, right?

RIGHT?

Had I done so, I'm certain there would have been a restraining order with a zip code-wide buffer slapped on my middle-aged ass. As it were, I settled for being a nuisance at three consecutive performances: Pittsburgh, Hoboken and New York.

finally used my new nikon
meh
it's a work in progress

I cannot tell you how excited I was Rhett was coming to my hamlet! Neither he, nor the 97's bothered to make us a tour stop in 2011, and I'm a little bitter about it. I was ECSTATIC to have the opportunity to watch him sing, half-Townsend windmill and christen the crowd with every thrash of his magnificent, sweaty mane within the borders my home town.

just two dudes having a blast

I know I say this all the frigging time, but I loveloveLOVE this man and his big, big brain. And hair. And eyes. And crooked smile. And ginormous talent. And and and... I'm always dragging new people to the cult concert. There were a dozen in our group alone that evening in the sold out club.

Usually Rhett takes great care to make sure the set list is different from show to show, which is why so many of us go to more than one stop on a tour. However, in a brief chat between acts, the lovely blue-eyed one mentioned the two-hour, 31-song set wouldn't change from night to night except for his solo acoustic break midway. Unheard of for a 97's gig, but perfectly understandable considering the SLKs couldn't possibly learn his entire 14 album catalog prior to the run.

The master list
Ray Charles was replaced by Niteclub (a request)
However, "Firday" was the bomb

He seemed downright apologetic about it. What a sweetheart. Always thinking about the fans. I mean, come on! Two hours and 31 songs?!? Every night? I think we can forgive the Groundhog Day factor. Besides, having watched them perform three nights in a row (I know. That sounds crazy even for me.), the tunes may have been the same, but the experiences were unique. Rhett's interpretations were fresh and became bolder as the week progressed, culminating with the raw, growly power befitting a bona fide Rockstar at the New York Bowery show.

have i ever told you how much i love this man?

Back to the Burgh...

Club Cafe is an intimate venue to begin with, but the remodel removed the tables so we were literally standing inches from the stage. So close to so much musical greatness.

SQUEEEEeee

The Spring Standards were the opening act on this leg. Geo and I adore Heather and the two Jameses. (read about them here) They're definitely an opener worth the effort of getting to the club on time. They have a rich sound full of beautiful harmonies, each member playing multiple instruments throughout. They are a lot of fun to watch, and are just plain, nice people. Rhett produced their first EP, No One Will Know back in 2008. On more than one night, they playfully joked about Mr. M's signature luscious locks. In Hoboken they teased about the possible healing powers of collected vials of Rhett Sweat and whether it would give one superpowers. Or maybe it's the fountain of youth Ponce De Leon was searching for, lo those many moons ago. I mean, c'mon! Look at him. He doesn't age. Not one bit.

at maxwell's
cooking up some superpowers

Anywho, when it came time for the man of the hour to take the stage, I didn't know what to expect from this incarnation. Angela may have been a bit of a task master, keeping the night rolling along, barely waiting for the final note of the last song to fade before counting the guys into the next tune, but Rhett was definitely in charge. They clearly looked to him for cues. His affable nature created an ease among the talented bandmates. A playfulness. They were having a hell of a fun time together and it showed.

rockin' tats

I have to admit it was weird hearing Old 97's favorites delivered by the hands of others. I kinda felt like I was cheating on Murry, Ken and Philip by dancing and singing to these versions, but with Rhett still at the helm it was just a slightly different kind of party. Barrier Reef took on a really cool, rapid-fire punk beat from the chorus on.

Kick. Ass.

Although I still prefer Rhett as a lone troubadour, it was way cool to finally hear his solo work (Things That Disappear, My Valentine and 4 Eyed Girl) backed by a full band. Bottom line is, whether he's playing with the 97's, the SLK or alone in a darkened theater, just him and his guitar, Rhett's performance is the same magnificent 200% sweat equity.



The final element of his acoustic set midway through each night was Time Bomb, the signature 97's closer. Given proper headroom in a venue, it starts with Rhett leaping from Philip's bass drum and ending with them all expending every last drop of energy flailing in front of a roaring crowd left wanting more. This time around his interpretations were quieter, more controlled in both Hoboken and New York. He commented halfway through how difficult it was for him not to rock out. It was evident he had to consciously curb his instincts in order to treat us all to a lovely, restrained version. In Pittsburgh, he gave up on the introspection and went balls-to-the-wall after completely flubbing the third verse.



Pretty amusing considering he has sung that particular hit at EVERY SHOW. Even he couldn't help poking fun at himself for butchering a song he can play in his sleep. Maybe it was the unnaturalness of trying to sing such a blistering tune quietly that threw him off, or perhaps he was just thinking how great he is.

Each night Heather Robb of Spring Standards (who looks almost exactly like Buffy) came out to harmonize on a couple of the songs she recorded for the Dreamer, Picture This and Long Long Long.

Seriously. Buffy, right?

In Pittsburgh, Rhett called an audible of his duet, Fireflies. They apparently had not rehearsed it, but gave it a go. You have to watch to the end.



Sweet, effervescent Heather dropped the bomb, yo! Right on, Girlfriend! In Hoboken, she claimed she lets fly with the swears when she panics. Whatev. It was pretty awesome.



As I said, each show had it's own special moment. In the dark, narrow hall of Maxwell's in Hoboken, Rhett peddled the opening chords to Question while his "crazy friend, Felix" bent to one knee (an impressive feat considering they were standing on bleachers), and proposed to his girlfriend, illuminated only by a small flashlight pointed towards them by Jason Garner, the tech. She said yes. She cried. They kissed. Everyone sang to them. It was all very sweet.

Awwwww. Baby's first show proposal.

The other special moment came at the acoustic break when Rhett pulled out the music stand, and sang the never-before-heard-live bonus song, Marcy Anne for his dear friend of the same moniker. She was FLOORED! In fact, you can hear her Wooing from the back.



It's such a fabulous bonus song that will never be played live by the 97's. As he stated before beginning, the best thing about the solo part of the show is he "can play whatever the fuck he wants." He followed it up with a song she nagged him to write, Let the Whiskey Take the Reins. A veritable Marcy Anne One-Two punch! He played Marcy Anne again the next evening at the Bowery along with a magnificent version of Wish the Worst. I'm sorry I didn't record Marcy Anne that last evening because he really had it down and killed it, big time. But, honestly, I just wanted to sing along with him (and her) this time.

There always seems to be a full day of promotional appearances involving Mr. M when he is in New York. Friday was no different. One of the bands' stops was at Rolling Stone where they recorded several songs including a cover of Manic Depression as part of a tribute to Jimi Hendrix' 70th birthday this year, explained here.



I think Mr. Hendrix would approve of the punky train engine rhythm. And check out the groovy new lighting system at the Bowery. Cool, no? They even had a mirror disco ball that filled the room with appropriate flying lights during Fireflies.

disco ball fireflies
(thanks to Joslyn Hansen)

For the Bowery show, I was fortunate enough to be invited up to the VIP balcony with Marcy and Tracey. I'm usually front and left center (mole side) for any Rhett show, but this night I was grateful for the opportunity to sit (for the opener at least). It was also wonderful not to have to crane my neck upward for the third night in a row. I'm old. And brittle. My neck could snap at any time. No shit.

It was a blast to sing (loudly) and dance (awkwardly, although not nearly as awkwardly as the woman doing the Elaine Benis across the room) with two of my favorite girlfriends while watching the packed house of fan faithful enjoy the hell out of my favorite rockstar.

It was an exhilarating three day run, but like so many good things in life, it is now a cherished memory to be played out over and over in my mind until the next time our paths cross.



Special thanks to my Sherpa, Tracey for guiding my sorry, directionally-challenged ass across the river to Hoboken, and to Marcy for the ride back.

Thanks to my friend Noreen for the use of her videos from Pittsburgh. You can watch more at her YouTube channel here.

courtesy of Noreen McBride
front and center

There are a veritable ton of videos on my channel on the YouTube here. There's some good stuff especially from the City Winery. Feel free to look around. And no, it's not ALL the blue-eyed lovely. There are videos of lots of other bands, too, wise ass.

This was the "Planes" version of vacation. Next up, the train to Philly, Francis and my ever-loving, long suffering soul mate, Geo.

When Bad Foods Happen To Good People 
or What's Wrong With Your Shitz, Yo?

warning: gross potty-talk abounds. Literally. Enter at your own risk.

Okay, so surely I'm not the only one who checks out the contents left in the bowl after doing my bathroom bidnez.

I am? No one's going to fess up? Really? I'm the only aberrant one.

You're all a bunch of fucking liars.

And don't call me Shirley. That's right. Uh-huh. I just got all 1980s Airplane on your ass.



Anywho, this morning I drained the dragon, so to speak, stood up, look down to peruse the contents therein (admit it, people! you do it too.) and was horrified. Instead of the usual varying shades of yellow, my stream was ... pink.

PINK!!?!

I shit you not.

That comes later...

Geo was standing next to me, because we have one bathroom and no children so there's never a need to A) close the door and B) have privacy when we're home together because, honestly (and I am nothing but honest on this Bloggity Blog Blah much to Geo's dismay), we've been married a looooooooooooooooong time and you just get over that privacy shit, literally and figuratively.

What? Don't be judgy. It's unattractive and gives you deep creases in your face, and then you'll have to buy face putty to look less like the Crypt Keeper and then you'll be broke and bitchy because that stuff's expensive, yo.

may I interest you in
some facial products
because, girl,
you look like death

But I digress...

So Geo's standing next to me and we're both thinking that maybe my bladder just fell out. But I don't see it swimming around.

What. The. EF?!?

And then I remembered I was starving late last night because I'm the worst caretaker of my own person when I'm on vacation and ate a pile of roasted red beats. Clearly they have magical properties to dye your insides the color of a beating heart freshly yanked from your nemesis neighbor's chest cavity by a drooling Zombie.

So, Whew! That nightmare's over, right? No extruded body parts this morning, just a little food coloring. Literally. (Three "literallys" in one post. New annoyance record. Woot!) Until I dropped a couple kids off at the lake, if you know what I mean. And I think you do.

It started with the wipe.

It was deep red.

Wha?

Now I knew I hadn't shoved anything untoward in the out door. Not that I have in the past. I would never do that, EVER. That is GROSS!!! And if you do that sort of product placement, I don't even want to know you. Seriously.

Step away.

Now.

And forever.

Aaaaaanyway, you know I was going to check out THAT deposit. And Lordy LORD! It was almost as horrific a sight as this:

AAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!?!!
Seriously, what is up with this chick?
she's probably only 30
ACK

For a second I thought my colon dropped out. Or at least my duodenum. Whatever the hell that is. (thank you spellcheck) I am not even kidding. I actually bent down to take a closer look, because ... I don't know... my brain kind of vomited.

Nope. No spontaneous colorectal release today, just beets. Bloody beets. Thank you, Baby Jesus.

I  have no clever way to end this turd of a posting. And that last line just proves it. If you must, please eat beets responsibly. Or at least don't peak afterward. The more you know.