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.

Every Fucking Day I Fucking Pick Up The Fucking Plums
or the devil is in the discards

Okay, so years ago we transformed the crap-heap that was our backyard into a much more palatable sanctuary, complete with retaining wall, lush vegetation and amazing deck. We replaced the downed trees with two exquisite red-hued flowering plums guaranteed not to bear fruit.

Neutered nature.

Works for us. A few years passed, they filled out nicely, blooming pink in the spring and casting a lovely shade in the summer. When it came time to stem the blistering heat in the front of the house, we jumped at the chance to replicate the beauty of the back in the front yard. It worked out so well in the back, why not, right? Only these specimens didn't get the no-fruit memo. These fuckers had their own agenda.

Oh, the first two years were perfect. Standing tall, being all pretty in pink and shit. Rich red leaves glistening attractively in the sunshine, casting a long, cooling shadow over our sweaty brow...

Beauty before the Beast

Then in the third year I noticed a small round orb dangling from a lower branch that look suspiciously like ... a plum!

WTF?!?! That's not supposed to happen. This has to be an anomaly. A one-time event. These trees are fixed, for Hell's sake. The next year there were a few more, and then a few more the following year. At this point the fruits weren't the fullest, but large enough to use in tarts, so, okay, kind of a win there.

Angry driveway face spewing plums

 But this year, Holy CRAP! Maybe it was the unusually long spring or the non-existent winter or the political attacks on women's vaginas, whatever, these mother fuckers are filled top to bottom with thousands of purple bullets to unload on the walkway, the driveway, the lawn, the car, the mailman. The worst part is the trees are such overachievers, there are far too many of the fruits, making them too small to use. They're basically a seed covered in skin whose sole reason to exist is to be a fucking nuisance. A task at which they excel greatly. They are EVERYFUCKINGWHERE!!

Good God! Make it stop!

They are my nemesis.

I can't walk across the lawn without feeling the sickening splat under my feet, staining my Clarks. And Dude, you never EVER mess with a girl's shoes.

the jagoffs, lurking

Of course I can't let them lay because their smooshed hulls will A) attract bees and B) the freed seeds will strike, fulfilling it's insatiable need to propagate all over the goddamn yard. So I spent most of the morning hunched over with my derriere in the air like one of those hideous wooden garden cut-outs of a flowery fat ass bent over.

seriously.
Not. Charming. At. All.

Note to the freaks who put this shit in their lawns under the false impression they're being whimsical... you're not. It's stupid and it makes me want to cover your "whimsy" in dog poop and set it ablaze on your front porch. Just a little FYI.

As I was cursing my aching hamstrings, I realized these trees are like gorgeous women. You swear you're not going to take anymore of their high-maintenance bullshit, but then Spring rolls around and they're all flirty and breathtakingly beautiful, washing away the memory of all the annoying crap they put you through last year, that is until the next time they piss you off by dropping copious amounts of shitz on your head.

Anywho, I no sooner finish filling a five gallon bucket with the devil's droppings, when that beyatch drops another load. Now she's just dicking with me.

Asshole.

I swear I heard her snicker.

Geo thinks my irrational obsession resolve to purge our property of these offending plums is ridiculous. He's all, "It's organic. Let it rot. It's good fertilizer." Which I know is code for "Stop freaking the hell out and get out of my face with your crazy. How about you get your ass inside and do something useful like make me some dinner, woman." And I'm all like, "Did you just pull the June Cleaver card on me?!? Tell me you did NOT just go there, because I got a bucket of GD plums you can organically shove somewhere special."

And then I set his hat on fire with my laser beam eyes superpower... causing more plums to rain down.

FR*@C#&%!!!!

I think I need a vacation.

*sigh*

So, this is my Sisyphean task. Every fucking day I fucking pick up the fucking plums.

Screw you, Nature. You may have won this round, but screw you.

Jumping Around The Library With Ingrid Michaelson
or I have lost the ability to think of clever titles so kindly make up your own witticism here and keep your snarkiness to yourself, bitch

(that is the Fiona Apple of subtitles, yo)

Ingrid
one of the best photos I've ever taken
don't know how that happened

Okay, so I have been looking forward to Ingrid Michaelson's return to the Burgh ever since seeing her enormously fun free performance at the Arts Festival a several years ago. A couple week's ago I had the honor to introduce my concert buddy, Mary Ann to the talents of Ms. Michaelson. 

But first, the food. It always seems to be about the food at this age. And the drink. Let's not forget the libation. Sadly in this case the drinks were virginal, unlike the consumers.

Before the show, MA and I feasted on authentic Mexican tacos at a hip new Homestead restaurant called Smoke. The proprietors are from Austin, TX and Meadville, PA. An unlikely combo, but it works in a big way. The atmosphere is funky and the fare fantastic. And we even drank a brown rice Horchata made famous by indie rockers, Vampire Weekend. 

delicious with or without
looking psychotic in a balaclava

(P.S: Burgh Gormand is a great food blogger who is starting up his own big red taco truck soon. I can't wait to try them. Look for him in the city.)

But I digress...

One of the things I love about live shows is the performer's interaction with the audience. I love those little glimpses into the artist's personality. Without that connection, I might as well save my money and just plug in my iPod. 

There are no walls at an Ingrid Michaelson concert. She does not shut herself off from her fan base, she embraces them. She has the enviable ability to turn a nearly 900 seat venue into an intimate cabaret theater with her anecdotes. Cute and quirky, she charms everyone to their feet with the first stroke of her adorable ukulele. 

A ukulele. She plays a ukulele. You can't possibly be depressed when a ukulele's in the room. 

And her voice is absolutely angelic, crisp and clear with an incredible range to die for. She effortlessly engages with her fans throughout the evening with genuine affection. That affection runs both ways.

There was a lovely moment during her cover of Elvis' I Can't Help Falling In Love With You. The band had left her alone on stage at her piano. Half way through the first verse, the entire audience serenaded her. She was visibly touched and got a little verklempt even, stopping several times during the intro of the next number to say how gorgeous the moment was.

She's delightfully witty as well. She tells great stories. A ginormous moth had landed on the guitarist during a number, subsequently chasing Ingrid along the front of the stage. The men folk slapped Mothra to the floor, prompting Ingrid to name it Tristan and compose a song in it's honor, imagining a little montage of she and Tristan holding hands at the beach, taking buggy ride, feeding each other strawberries and so forth. It was hilarious.

I didn't tape that, but did capture her adventure on a Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade float.



Bottom line is, unless you're made of stone, it is impossible not to have a blast and be uplifted after one of her shows. She's witty, talented, smart, charming and has a nice rack for guys.

What? She does! Gotta give the girl her props.



The evening ended too quickly with the entire band surrounding her and her uke, taking turns with the lyrics to her ridiculously catchy You and I while the house joined in the sing along in classic Ingrid style.



It's a rare experience that keeps you happy and humming songs for days afterward. Thanks to Ingrid and her effervescent life force for a joyous night. Come back any time. We'll definitely take you the way you are.

Where's A Penis When You Need One
or this is not what you think, Internet pervs who are googling porn and other random salacious shit

Okay, so the last couple... several... six days I've been dealing with (read: ignoring) the all-too-familiar symptoms of the plague in my peepee hole. You ladies know the ones: the annoying sense of having to tinkle an extra 100 times, not just the normal 28 times a day, followed by the white-hot poker burning your weewee, and urine as cloudy and thick as a finely poured Boddintons.

UTI country, BABY! Yeeee Haaaa!!

In a misguided attempt to delay the obvious trek to the clinic, I tried the holistic cranberry juice approach. Nature's Drano. Not so much this time.

Note 1: do you know how hard it is to find plain cranberry juice in vending machines? There are none. Zip. Zilch. Nada. Seriously. They're all blended with apple, raspberry, apple raspberry and the dreaded grape. I know what you're thinking. I could have just dragged my lazy, fat ass to the grocery store and BOUGHT a bottle of cranberry juice, but that's just crazy talk. I would have to actually GO TO THE GROCERY STORE and I'm kinda morally opposed to markets right now, which is code for I-just-can't-bear-to-buy-food-so-why-can't-someone-just-do-my-grocery-bidding-for-me-meanwhile-this-entire-paragraph-is-crap-and-not-at-all-worth-your-time-reading-it-so-sorry-to-waste-two-minutes-of-your-life-you'll-never-get-back-and-also-I-am-on-drugs-so-please-ignore-this-incoherent-hyphenated-rant-Thank-you--The management.

Note 2: spell check insisted on changing "weewee" to "peewee". heehee

Anywho, the discomfort was too great to ignore this morning so off to the clinic we went. Me and my burning bush.

Yaaaaaay.

After the usual 20 questions, including the one where I got the skunk eye about STDs, because clearly the doctor had read my bio regaling the world with tales of my whoring history, I was sent to the bathroom with a plastic cup to fill.

The first hurdle was trying to get the goddamn moistened towelette open to clean the shitz off my peep. No lie, that thing was made of nylon. I struggled and struggled, stretching the bastard, working up a sweat until I noticed the fucking notch. *sigh* So this is how it's going to go.  I swear I heard snickering when I finally freed the wipe.

I don't know about you, but I have never been good at catching urine in a cup without completely dousing my hand, arm, pant leg. Standing there, debating whether or not I should take my pants off altogether, trying to calculate the feasibility of shoving my man hand AND a big-ass cup between my legs and the toilet bowl, I thought "I could sure use a penis right now."

I mean, come on. How easy do guys have it. They don't even have to pull their pants down. Just unzip, place in cup, fill cup, walk away.

Note 3 (and perhaps the most important note of this post): don't EVER shake hands with a dude after a urine sample. They totally don't wash their hands, yo. ACK! Except for Geo. He always washes. With soap. Good man.

Me? I'm playing Frogger with the stream. There is absolutely no way to control it. It has a mind of its own. It's Satan's Stream. Complete with fiery horns to scrape your sphincter.

Start going... now hold the cup... wait, is it shooting out straight? to the left? Oh shit! It's running down my backside. Why is it running down my backside?!?! GodDAMMIT! MOTHERF*CKER! It's forked to the right... Great. Now it's all over my forearm. I have suspect pee ALL OVER MY GODAMN FOREARM! And my shirt sleeve. I'm burning this shirt. There better damn well be pee in this cup or I'm going all spider monkey on someone in my pee shirt.

There was. And it was cloudier than the suicide season in Seattle.

The verdict: I have the Mother of all UTIs. I don't do this shit half-assed, yo. It's all or nothing all up in my urethra.

I was given a wide berth and an armload of drugs. One to change my urine to a startling sunset orange and enough Cipro to clear this bad boy up and make a tidy profit on the Anthrax market.

Until next time ladies, drink plenty of fluids, make sure you and your one-night stand wash your junk BEFORE getting busy and keep wiping front to back!!

The more you know...

In Which We Lose Another Influential 80s Musician Too Soon

Sad news broke this week that Adam Yauch, founding member of the 80s premiere rap/hip hop band, The Beastie Boys, passed away at the age of 47 from complications of cancer.

Cancer sucks, y'all.

In 1986, three Jewish kids from Brooklyn (Mike D, Ad-Roc and MCA), achieved the unimaginable. They singlehandedly put rap in the mainstream. Their critically acclaimed Licensed to Ill became the first rap album to be #1 on Billboard album charts, opening the door for those who came after.

Admittedly I was not a huge fan of the band or genre, but who can deny the wit, artistry and shear fun of such tunes as She's Crafty, Brass Monkey, No Sleep til Brooklyn, Girls and the quintessential party anthem, (You Gotta) Fight For Your Right (to Party).

I have a soft spot for that last song. I will always remember our friends, Carla and Kirby's three year-old son, Atticus, sitting in the back of the car, quietly singing in his sweet, slightly southern voice "you gotta fight, for your right, to Paaaaaaaaaw-tay!" Atticus is 16 now, but hearing that unmistakable chorus takes me right back to the vision of his little toddler self.

Aside from his musical achievements, Yauch was a charitable man. A practicing Buddhist, he started the Milarepa Fund devoted to promoting Tibetan independence. He organized numerous concerts to raise monies. A genuine good guy in the prime of his life, which makes his death all the more sad.

On the day his death was announced, Coldplay paid tribute with this moving version of the Beastie Boys hit. As my twitter friend, Jeff tweeted, you aren't aloud to hate Coldplay anymore.



Cancer sucks.