Some Friendships Last A Lifetime 

or happy anniversary old chum

Thirty years ago today, on a steamy July morning I stood in a long line for Freshman orientation at a small city college. I was 19, was recently fired from my job and had enrolled in this particular institute of higher learning as a last resort. I knew no one. I was chatting with the girl in front of me when a short, dark-haired, brown-eyed boy named Dennis chimed in on our conversation.

The three of us hung out together throughout the long wait, the mind-numbing orientation in the auditorium and the flavorless institution provided lunch. Honestly, I don't remember the girl, but the boy...he continually made me laugh. He was witty, wry and full of useless little factoids. I would not forget him.

He became my best friend.

At the end of the day, he drove north back to his hometown, but we wrote to each other several times a week. Actual letters. You remember them? Ink on stationery. Envelopes. Stamps. Time lag between the writing of sender and reading by recipient. The anticipation of what treasure may linger behind the rusty metal flap of the mailbox.

By the time we met up again in September, Dennis was tall enough to look me in the eye. Seriously. He grew like... six inches! His parents must have fed him Miracle Gro or some such thing.

In a matter of minutes, we were inseparable.

We've been through a lot wacky antics...student films, plays, road trips, apartment raids (our doing--not the law's), getting busted sneaking into the theater, trolling through burned out buildings, an ill-conceived vintage clothing craze (translation: old crap from the remains of a closed resale shop)...and much more I've forgotten.

My student film acting career is unmercifully preserved on 16mm & video tape. And, no you can't see it. That painful viewing is reserved for close friends only, on a dark summer eve, preferably on a bender.

My roommates and I used to torture poor Denny by turning off the lights and hiding when he went to the bathroom. We'd jump out at him, scaring the figurative crap out of him. He'd end up flailing and screeching much to our twisted, sadistic delight. Ha Ha! Time and time again, he fell for it. We're old now, so I don't think it's wise to leap out of the darkness at him. That would be an awkward 911 call.

Operator: 911. What is your emergency?
Me: Ummm...our friend is passed out.
Operator: How did this happen?
Me: Uh..yeah, funny story. When he went to the bathroom, we sort of hid from him and then jumped out of the dark, yelling tribal screams. His eyes kinda rolled back in his head and he.. crumpled to the floor. (nervous chuckle)
Operator: *silence* What the f*ck is wrong with you people?

See what I mean. Awkward.

Throughout our long history, we supported each other through several misguided relationships, including one ill-fated attempt of our own. Fortunately, we managed to remain the best of friends. No small feat there. We even survived the challenge of distance--Los Angeles and more recently New Zealand. I'm happy to report he and his lovely family are planted a mere mile away.

Through it all Dennis has remained my confidant, my sounding board, my defender, my supporter... my best friend. Always accepting. Never passing judgement. Having Dennis in my life has been a blessing. And not just because he's the only one of my buds sweet enough to come over to my apartment late at night to bake a cake for me to take to my temp job the next morning, all because I was too drunk to function.

He has filled my life with unconditional joy and elan and love and laughter.

And he does silly-ass shit like this in public. How could I not love his company?

Thirty years...

That sounds like such a looooong time. Hell, that's longer than most marriages. But with the right people in your life, years shoot by faster than a gang banger on a drive-by...only with a lot less bloodshed.

So here's to you my long-time compadre. May we be blessed to share thirty more circles around the sun.

I love you, man.

Some Things I Love About Summer

The sun stays out to play for the majority of the day

I have three weeks of vacation in which to enjoy the glorious weather whilst lounging on the deck and socializing

Cooking and eating outside

No socks!!!

Tan lines

Cruising with the top down, tunes cranked to 11, wind in my hair (now if I would only but a convertible-tee hee)

Reruns on TV = freedom to actually watch movies or better yet, hang out with friends

Free concerts (see Rhett Fest)

Summer clothes

Farmers' Market (Helloooooo King Boys! See what I mean here)

Home grown tomatoes

Gobs of backyard mint for fresh-made Mojitos

Girls' weekend at Lake Erie (what happens in Erie, stays in Erie)

Backyard Barbecues

kayaking on the river

Lighter than normal traffic

Listening to the neighbor's kids enjoying themselves playing

Crazy Carnie Ice Cream Truck Man

Using the nice weather and gardening as yet another excuse not to do housework 

Things I Don't Like About Summer...

Absolutely NOTHING 

Okay, so it's not at all funny or illuminating. I did see a great new off-color name in the credits for "Gone Baby Gone"... 

Izzy Straddlin

For real. And there was a guest on our show named Rachelle Rak. So if Rachelle Rak married Izzy Straddlin, she'd be Rachelle Rak Straddlin. 

Alright not the best effort, but worth a chuckle. You can't expect much, cause, you know...it's summer and I'm obviously out on the deck, cranking tunes, chugging home made Mojitos. 

Friday Photo #26

Another sad farewell to one of the good guys 

*Sigh*

Back in the winter when my buddy KJo (whom I still miss every day) left for warmer climates, I wrote how many people have come and gone through the station, but there have been only four whose absence I truly missed. 

Today there are five.

Sonya walked through our doors as a mere pup. She was fresh out of college. She was so young she still had baby fat for God's sake! But from the start there was something special about her. She was vibrant. She was drop-dead gorgeous. She was smart, scary SMART! She has always been a quick study, able to adapt her delivery and mannerisms to match the old pros around her while developing a style of her own. She's got it all.

I should hate her.

But that's impossible. Here's why...like my friend Beets and I, she's one of the guys. She's bawdy, belches and has a finely honed 12-year-old boy sense of humor. How could I not love her. She's one of the most down to earth people with whom I've ever had the pleasure to work. And she's just a kick to be around. Always upbeat even when situations are maddening, she can lift the mood with that big, goofy, lovable laugh of hers.

She brings a positive, youthful energy that's contagious. The newsroom is dimmer when she's on vacation. It's going to be absolutely black now that she's leaving. 

Sonya is heading South for an opportunity which should have been afforded her here...afternoon and evening anchor. I've told her before she's too good for us. Seriously. She's talented enough to be on Network. She's waaaaaay better than any of the chippies on the Early Show. It's great to see a news director finally believes she's ready to run with the big dogs. I just wish it would have been someone here at the Special K. 

Her empty cubicle, like KJo's, will be a sad, daily reminder of the two pieces of our heart lost by short-sighted thinking. But I can't help but be thrilled for her. She'll be living in a happening city, near her sister with her brand-spanking-new niece and finally in the same city as her equally drop-dead gorgeous beau. 

She has the world by the short hairs. This is her time to shine. I have no doubt she will beam brighter than the white-hot Florida summer sun. 

So here's to you, my lovely friend. It has been an absolute pleasure and privilege to work with you and watch you grow professionally as well as personally. May your new life be bursting with elan, love and all the goodness you could ever imagine. You will forever hold a special spot in my heart. 

I miss you already.

Excuses Excuses 

or reasons for my blogging lameness of late 

Okay, so you know how when you decide to start an exercise regimen and you're all gung ho at the start and you get up every morning much earlier than any human with any sense should rise and you dawn your work-out clothes and jump on the treadmill and lift weights and sweat and actually start to feel stronger as the days pass? This lasts about, oh..two to three months. 

Then you go on vacation. 

Kiss of death. And when you come back you just can't seem to get back into the swing of things because on vacation you ate what you wanted, when you wanted, slept in till whenever because you weren't about to get up early to exercise since you were up late socializing over cocktails with friends and family...

Yeah, blogging apparently is like that. For me anyway. 

When I began this ramble-fest last October, it felt like that initial rush of adrenaline you get from the start of an exercise routine, only my writing muscle was the thing being flexed and pumped full of blood. The flood gates of my imagination were flung wide open, and I literally could not sleep in for all the ideas, notions and observations gushing forth. I would wake to postings whispered in my ear from my newly rejuvenated subconscious. 

The effortlessness of the process was incredibly thrilling and satisfying not to mention intoxicating. (Seriously. You should go back to the beginning and read some of the entries. They were much better than this recent lot. Except for Rhett Fest)

Then I went on a "vacation" of sorts. Between physical therapy twice a week (I've got back/hip issues, don't ask.), literally going to the gym and Pilates classes multiple times per week, getting home later from work and making dinner (a task from which Geo reminds me I've also vacationed of late. Okay, he's right on that one, so I can't use that as an excuse..even though I will. Hey, it's my blog.) I've unintentionally taken a break from jotting entertaining tidbits and what have you.

Now my discipline has dissolved. Well is dry. Done. Finished. Finito. The flashing cursor mocks me for the wordless loser I am. Now I hunch over this keyboard, sweaty palms, blank stare, numb mind. Waiting for something ... anything to inspire.    

If only someone would invent a microchip that could be implanted in my head to record my thoughts as they scroll through the wasteland of my mind. That would be so SWEET! Seriously. I can't tell you how many brilliant blog entries have slipped through my figurative fingers while driving for lack of pen and paper... and the whole having-to-drive-with-two-hands thing. Kinda crucial for, you know, surviving travels through the high-speed, urban jungle.

Dear Science Nerds:

Please get on that microchip thingie ASAP. 

Thanks!

Now I have to leave to, you guessed it.. hit the gym yet again. The worst part is the pain hasn't subsided much, and it's not like I'm getting that much more svelte. WTF?

Enough belly-aching and lame excuses. A friend of mine recently pointed out this peculiarity from the "Warnings" posted on the back of every toothpaste tube. 

Wha...?

Okay, first of all...who ingests a bunch of toothpaste on purpose? And second...what the HELL is in this stuff that's so poisonous?!?!?!

Death By Toothpaste. 

Wouldn't that be the lamest demise EVER? 

RIP Michael Jackson 

or enough is enough already! 

Okay, so I know it's not kind to speak ill of the dead, but in my book it's equally wrong to canonize someone who clearly evolved into an unsavory character, just because he died young-ish, unexpectedly and had a bazillion dollars. 

Michael Jackson was laid to rest today in a manner befitting his circus-act of a latter life. He may have physically died last week, but the reality is he died a long time ago, somewhere around the time he decided to mutate from a young, handsome black man to a freakishly pasty-white, Diana Ross wannabe. He only spiraled downward at break-neck speed from there. 

Yes, he made an enormous impact musically... Thriller being the pinnacle of his success and influence in my humble opinion. However, as the years marched on, so did his erratic and bizarre behavior, culminating in charges of child molestation. And that is unforgivable. At the very least those charges are reason enough to eliminate sainthood from his epithet. 

There was something obviously broken about him. He naively or foolishly (call it what you will) surrounded himself with individuals who must have seen his decent and refused to help him. And that is just criminal. You can make all the excuses you want for his aberatted behavior, but the fact remains we all make our own choices in life. He did some pretty twisted shit. He chose poorly and paid the price, scarring a few young souls along the way. 

I chose not to watch his memorial service. I don't believe he deserved the dramatic pounding of chests and ocean of tears shed at his passing. He once was a Pop star of enormous influence and innovation. He had the world in the palm of his hand. That's a fact even one as jaded as I cannot deny. 

He pissed it away.

And that's all I'm going to say about that. 

Avoid This Job 

or helpful guidance from an hilarious blog 

Okay, so you know how I always say Twitter is the biggest time suck and if you aren't on it, for the love all that is Holy... DON'T START!! Well, okay so there are actually some very funny things to be found on there. 

One of them is a blog by a woman named Sarah who goes by thesaltman on Twitter. I suspect she is a writer of some sort being as she is so witty. 

Anywho, her blog is titled avoidthisjob and her mission is to sarcastically skewer Craig's List job postings for their outrageousness. For example, her June 27th job to avoid is a "Sexy Rickshaw Driver Wanted" for a bachelorette gig on July 4th. Applicant must be Sexy overall, have a handsome face, hot body, work shirtless on the holiday in the heat of the midday sun. 

She's much more funny than I can convey. Here's the link. Read her witticisms for yourself.

I may actually start surfing Craig's List want ads. Who knew they were comedy gold.

Hartwood Acres Freebie

or the end of the line for my Old 97's/Rhett Fest 09 :(

Okay, so Sunday was the last stop on my Festival Train of Obsession. The Old 97's played a freebie (gotz to love the freebies!!) at the beautiful concert site at Hartwood Acres north of Pittsburgh. 

(OMG!! Look at that face!!!! Sorry. Moving on.)

I had arranged to meet up with my steel drum buddy/Old 97's virgin Sheila and her hubby shortly before the show. I got there earlier, natch (obsessive/compulsive behavior will do that) and staked out a claim in the front. 

The chippie in charge just announced they were going to start the gig early when first came one 50-cent-piece-sized drop of rain...then another...then the sky split in two releasing the most powerful storm I have ever been caught in. Seriously. It was like the flood gates of Hell were unleashed on us unsuspecting heathens. I mean, Dude, it was of biblical proportion. No lie. The man-sized drops were pounding sideways instantly flooding the concreted dance area, not to mention my NEW SHOES!!?! 

Letter to God:

Dear Sir: 

Don't be messing with a girl's new shoes. That ain't right. Oh, and thank you for the rainbow afterwards. 

Sincerely, 

Murray

Anywho, I had my slicker on, but my blue jean capris were soaked through in minutes. I swear the weight of said rain stretched them an inch longer than when I dawned them hours earlier. This assault by nature went on for roughly 20 minutes.

During my desperate search for cover, I met a recent college grad/Olds enthusiast named Annie. She had driven for 3-1/2 hours from deep in West Virginia by herself to see the show...and apparently to get completely waterlogged. We ended up adopting her for the evening. Sheila and Tim finally made it down to the stage--dry, with some much needed wine in hand. 

It turned out to be a beautiful night.

With a packed crowd. 

The band was very impressed with our fortitude. Come on. We're Burghers. We're already out. What's a little flood waters amongst friends.

Rhett and the boys opened with the rocking "Won't Be Home" and kept the energy level at 11 for the rest of the evening. They even played "W. Texas Teardrops", a delightful little number that just makes you want to two-step around the dance floor. During the encore break, Rhett came out and played a new tune "Like Love" and perennial favorite "Come Around" before introducing the band back for the last four songs. 

He gave this young lad the thrill of his little life by personally handing him his set list in the middle of the encore set. Look at his little face. He was floating!

It was a great concert. The crowd was loud and appreciative, the wine was flowing, Annie and I were singing and dancing. And as always, it was waaaaay too short. I love "Time Bomb" because they play it with such abandon. They sink every last bit of energy left in them into that song. But I HATE hearing Ken's first chord, because it means it's the end of the evening. TB is their signature closer. 

*sigh*

This one was doubly sad for me, for it signified the end of my concert fun run. I  have nothing else lined up... I swear I'm going through withdrawal.

In honor of Billy Mays.. But wait, there's more!

Before the deluge, the lead guitarist, Ken came out to the merchandise table. He has a rep for being kind of the hard-assed, curmudgeon of the group. Geo and I spoke briefly with him at Maxwell's, but he's not always the friendliest. Whatever tension lurks within the Old 97's I'm pretty sure centers around the relationship between Ken and Rhett. I'm betting they're both rather controlling and butt heads regularly. 

This night, however, he was very chatty and approachable. He signed my CD, we gabbed, he shared his title as number one jazz patch in music. Apparently there was a listing in some magazine of the best jazz patches on musicians. Dizzy Gillespie was first, Frank Zappa second, Ken Bethea third. The first two guys are dead, so by his logic...he's number one.

That is a pretty good jazz patch.

Anywho, after the show the guys came out to meet those of us who stuck around. They're really good about taking time to greet their fans. It's one of the things that makes them special.

Finally got to meet the drummer, Philip. He's really sweet and quiet. I think he plays the part of Switzerland in the band. You know, neutral party...doesn't choose sides...just wants everyone to get along. 

Had a lengthy, animated and witty conversation with Murry, the bassist. He remembered me from the beach Thursday, which honestly took me by surprise since I hadn't spoke with him after either show. Perhaps my erratic, drunken dancing caught his eye...or the singing off-key.  We chatted about all sorts of topics; his charity (a habitat for humanity type of charity only the homes are for dirt poor people in Tijuana), the joy of aging (he gave a few pointers to Annie), how Ken, his touring roomie, doesn't flush (HA HA!) and just general crap. It's amazing how easy it is to talk with someone on whom you don't have a major crush. Unlike when I'm around Rhett and turn into brain-damaged, monosyllabic moron girl as stated in the last posting. Anyway, it was a very enjoyable conversation which ended in a hug. You know me. I'm big on hugging. I like to hug. I'm a hugger.

As you can imagine, the sweet young ladies were swarming all over Rhett, so I had to wait to talk with him. No problem. I totally get it. However, he made my little heart jump when he looked my way, smiled and said "Hi, Marie". 

*swoon*

Seriously. I know it is the silliest thing ever, but it makes my day to know he actually recognizes me and knows my name now. And I swear to God he was glancing my way when I was chatting with Murry. Okay, that's my fantasy and I'm sticking with it. 

We yakked for a bit, but by then the younger, nubile girls were circling so I snagged my hug and stepped away. (One of these days I'm going to get a kiss from the blue-eyed lovely, but then I would officially be "creepy older lady". Eeeww...so, no. I'll stick with hugging.) Anywho, he stopped mid-sentence to say goodbye to me when he saw we were leaving. 

*uber sigh* 

That's why I find him so dear. He is the sweetest rock guy on Earth. Seriously. His Momma really did teach him right. 

Okay, so get this. The next morning I open my home email before heading off to work, and there's a "message from Murry Hammond on MySpace". 

What? Really? 

He had written a little note telling me how much he enjoyed our chat, how he wished we had coffee in hand and more time to talk. Ending with "see ya down the road, hopefully sooner than later." Imagine my surprise. He tracked me down on MySpace. That's a first. Now I guess I'm a FOM..Friend of Murry's. Cool.

What a great week!! Three live shows, one in-store solo performance, beach time, multiple meet & greets, numerous hugs, FOM and I got the best live album ever, "Alive and Wired" signed by the entire band. 

Not a bad week at all. I miss them already.