Walking Endeavor Home 
or the coolest video on the planet right now

Okay, so by now you know about my soft spot for the shuttle program. Photos of the fly-bys of Atlantis, Discovery and Endeavor on their way to their final resting place brought me to tears each and every viewing.

I'm getting teary now just thinking about it.

I am a ginormous sap.

Is this not the funniest juxtaposition?

Whatev. It's who I am. I get attached to inanimate objects, especially those upon which I have bestowed anthropomorphic characteristics. Does that even make sense?

Aaaaaanyway...

This weekend the last of the space shuttle crafts traveled 12 miles through Inglewood to its new home at the Los Angeles Science Center. It was slow going, taking days rolling along at a top speed of 2 mph. The city had to cut down 268 trees, remove 223 traffic lights and raise more than 100 power/utility lines in order for Endeavor to shimmy around trees, homes and poles to accomplish the journey, but HOLY CRAP! How crazy awesome would it be to see this out of your bedroom window?

your rides here

It's once in a lifetime, man.

After 25 missions, logging nearly 123 million miles in flight during 4,671 orbits, battered and bruised, she's earned the fanfare surrounding her retirement. Sweet dreams, l'il marvel.


Bryan Chan from the Los Angeles Times created a spectacular time-lapsed video found here. I've already watched it a zillion times. It's just that cool. Enjoy!

I love the missing tiles on the underbelly

Holy SHIT that's close

And Now For Something Completely Different...

A hedge hog

In an attempt to make up for the prior miserable TMI post, I offer up this funny from Ze Frank, the inspiration for all the Green Brothers' blogs.

"The hedge hog is made up of two parts. The exoskeleton and the underbelly called a scrotum...by idiots."


Now you know how the universe began. Not with a bang, but with a pffffft.

In Which I Am A Maple Tree And Other Fun Menopausal Shit

WARNING: File this under TMI. I am nothing if not an oversharer.


1. Okay, so here's the thing, I have curly hair.

You may say big deal, and you may. Go ahead, Jerk. I'll wait for your Jagoff self.

The significance of this statement is I have NEVER had curly hair. Not for one second of this current life cycle. And yet, there it is. On top of my pea-sized head... curls. Unruly, Medusa-like, you-got-a-fucking-family-of-copperheads-nesting-on-your-head curly-cues.

You know in the Fall when the trees cease producing the chlorophyll that maintains their youthful green leaves, allowing the true colors of yellow, orange and red to emerge for all to marvel at their hidden beauty? Well, ever since I have turned a "woman of a certain age", as my estrogen manufacture has decreased, the ringlets have increased exponentially. Apparently estrogen is human chlorophyll. Dude, I'm fucking deciduous. I'm ready if Barbara Walters ever asks me what tree I'd be.

"I'm a MUTHAFUCKING MAPLE, BITCH!"

Who knew the only thing stopping me from looking like Orphan Annie was estrogen. The irony is I alwaysalwaysALWAYS wanted curly hair. I coveted all three of my sisters for their luscious locks thinking my life would be so much easier with care-free curls. Back in the 80s, I used to pay a lot of money and waste a lot of time at the hairdresser's inhaling the noxious fumes of permanent waves to have that big curly mop. Now I've got corkscrew hair, but have no idea how to tame its whack-ass cowlicks. Seriously. Those things have a mind of their own. I'm looking at you, right side. Why you got to be so ornery, beyatch?


2. Okay, so here's another thing, I have Menopause Head

No shit. I swear to God there are huge swiss cheese holes in my brain through which all new information plummets to the ground in a splattered mess. Names, dates, appointments... if I don't write it down AND set the alarm on my Reminder Ap to repeat-every-fucking-day-for-the-rest-of-your-pathetic-life-until-you-do-it-for-Chrissake, it's lost, dropped and stepped on.

And vocabulary...Fuggetaboutit. Midstream in a conversation, I loose my words. I'm not talking long, sophisticated five-syllable terms either. I'm talking first grade fare like car, ball, muddler.

Oh, and as an added bonus, I have Adult-Onset ADH---SQUIRREL!!!

I get distracted so easily. I am a human gnat...with a beard, perhaps a goatee if I want to get a wee crazy. (see #4) Heaven help me if I don't immediately write down a thought, because it is gone, baby, GONE! Like right now I had a riveting sentence to craftily illustrate the perfect example of the topic at hand, but then the stupid computer at The Special K on which I began composing this tome went wonky and froze every six seconds, and the phone rang with some yahoo's bogus request, and my coworker kept walking in bellyaching that his precious Cleveland Brown game wasn't on CBS. Like I even care about football let alone his stupid Cleveland team, Good God, MAN not when there's an inane hockey strike going on without any ... what do you call it? not relief or progress...SETTLEMENT! That's it! What was I talking about?


3. And get this, I can't see for shit

I am practically blind, but my eyes have been the same level of horrendous myopia for over 30 years. My prescription didn't budge. Now it waffles back and forth more than Mitt Romney over healthcare. In my infinite wisdom, I've decided to try my hand at contacts again. Couple a fluctuating nearsighted prescription with an ever deteriorating ability to read words on a page, and I need a team of physicists to figure out a viable script for contacts.

The first try was with mono vision. You know the drill where one eye is fitted for distance, the other for reading. Supposedly your brain miraculously makes it all work. Mine does not. Mine is a slow learner. Mine is an obstinate cow. Seriously. I'm on the sixth option and still no solution in sight. Pun intended. In most combinations, I can see distance like the finest HD signal. So clearly it hurts my head a little, but I can't see my electronic lover, the iPhone. And THAT my friend, as Liz Lemon would say, is a deal breaker.


4. While you're at it, call me Abe...

As in Lincoln, because as you know by now... I have a beard. And here's the weird thing, as much as I keep the waxing industry going hiding my Sasquatch face, my legs have become significantly less simian. So much so that I have to make a mental note to actually shave them. The bikini area... not so much. That bad boy's still whooping it up, because the universe is a DICK!

And another related thing, as soon I lost all of my estrogen, I lost all the elasticity in my jaw line. I'm not even overweight (technically. shut up.), but Holy Crap I have hanging chad jowls. Mmmmm, pretty. So now when I'm speeding in the car with the windows down and I think what is that weird flapping sound... Oh yeah, that's my FACE!!!!


5. I am officially retired from breederhood.

Yep, the not-so-fertile delta is closed, dried up, and awaiting repurposing. I'm down with the death of Aunt Flo and her annoying monthly visits, but the demise of my sexual desire... not so much. It's so not fair. When I turned 40, my libido went into overdrive following a natural instinct to procreate before the final buzzer.

And It. Was. Awesome! And I miss it desperately.

My piqued sexual interest lasted until about 49 when it quietly faded away into a distant memory. Experts keep saying this is an ideal time of life. I don't see it. What I see is a major disconnect between my head and Vajay. All I know is I'm too damn young to be this dead inside.

So, my advice to women in their 40s is have a lot of sex. A LOT. I'm not even kidding. Don't deny your instinct. Do it a ton. Even if you don't think you want to, do it anyway. Store it up, Sista. Savor it, because before you know it, the fucking change a-happens and your body betrays your ass, or vagina, as it were, and your Menopause Head can't remember how to spell desire, let alone feel it. I wish someone would have given this advice to me at 40, so I'm imparting this sad truth to you because I CARE, DAMMIT!


Wow. That turned into a downer. Maturing (God I hate that word) is actually a joy. It's the other physical shit that's weird and unsettling and sucky. I am more comfortable in my skin, even if that skin is sprouting a beard so thick Sid Crosby would be jealous.

I finally read Nora Efron's famed book of humorous essays on aging titled, I Feel Bad About My Neck. Twenty years ago I would have tossed it aside without a second glance. But now, I totally relate. I feel bad about my neck, I feel bad about my failing eyesight, and I feel bad about my nonfunctional lady bits.

Well, at least I have ringlets...and a large bottle of vodka.

In Which There Is Value In Everyone

Okay, so Geo and I have lived on our street for 26 years. During our time here I have seen the same mentally challenged man with the slightly-too-short pant legs and baseball cap, carry his tote bag past our house on his way home almost every day.

I have watched him age, and yet not age. He looks the same to me except maybe a little grayer. Every day he walks down and up our steep hill. I mean, like 80 degree, crazy-ass, billy goat steep hill. Every day. Twice a day, he makes that trek past our house.

And yet I have never spoken to him.

I don't know why. He seems perfectly gentle, fragile even. Maybe I'm afraid I'll rattle or upset him by approaching him. I don't know. It's ridiculous. I've "known" him for 26 years, but I don't even know his name or where he lives or where he works.

Every time I see him walk by, my heart breaks a little for him. I worry he will be alone with no one to love him. I assume he lives with his parents who are probably aged. Does he have a sister or brother? Will they take care of him? What if his parents die? What happens to him then?

He kind of makes me cry.

But then I think, Dude, you are awesome! You have a job. You have an air of contentment in your simplistic approach to life that is enviable. You have a sense of truth about you. An honesty missing from most of us. Of course this is me projecting a phantom reality onto this familiar stranger, but the fact is he has a productive life.

And that thought warms my heart.

And then I think about my nephew, Jon who is autistic, and how peaceful his outlook on life is, and how much I want to protect him from the nasty in the world, and how very, very proud I am of him and his accomplishments thus far.

He, too, has a job working with kind people who genuinely like him and look after him. He, too, has an air of contentment in his simplistic approach to life that is enviable. He, too, has a sense of truth and honesty about him. And I know for a fact he is loved by his family, especially his sister who surprised herself by how much she missed him when she was in Japan. And I hope for him to one day meet a special woman who will look past his affliction and love him for the lovely human being he is.

Yeah, one of these days I'm going to say hello to my familiar stranger, and maybe tell him how he gives me hope for my nephew.

In Which A Baseball Anniversary Conjures A Treasured Memory 

Okay, so today, September 30th, marks the 40th anniversary of Pirate's Baseball great, Roberto Clemente's 3000th hit. He's the only Pirate to ever achieve such a feat. Little did we all realize this would be Roberto's last hit ever. He perished in an airplane crash on the final day of 1972 delivering supplies to Nicaragua as part of an earthquake relief mission. He had heard the Nicaraguan army was commandeering other shipments of supplies, so he chose to deliver the much needed articles himself to guarantee the precious cargo got to the people who needed them. 

He was like that. 

I was 12 on September 30, 1972. My Dad made me come with him to Three Rivers Stadium that day, but I had no idea why he was hell-bent on dragging me along. I didn't get the significance until later. When Roberto got a standing double, and tipped his hat in front of the scoreboard flashing 3000, my Dad stood, uttered "way to go, Roberto" and teared up. We left shortly afterward. 

I knew something special just happened. Sure, Clemente made sports history that day, but I got to witness this remarkable moment next to my Dad.

I win. 

Hello CoMo! 
or the midwest is not Too Far to Care

Okay, so it's no secret how much I love all things Rhett Miller/Old 97's. I know people think I'm nuts for traveling hither and yon to watch him/them play time and again. What can I say? He/they're just that good. They make me happy, even when they're singing about heartache, loneliness and betrayal. Hell, maybe because of it. Whatever. Nobody writes about life's pathos, with a healthy dose of sexual innuendo like Mr. Miller. Besides, they never ever disappoint and I always always ALWAYS come away feeling invigorated, ecstatic and exhausted, in a good way.

the reason i have mileage points

Fortunately, I'm not alone in my fervor. This sort of devotion is a first for me, but there are innumerable others who have logged many more miles over many more years than I. The cool thing about this band, I guess it could be said for other bands as well, is the number of really wonderful fans in their base willing to embrace other devotees.

Rock 'n Roll Spit Take!

Last week (has it been a week already?!?) I finally got the chance to meet, in the flesh, a Midwest girl, Leslie with whom I've been imaginary friends for over three years. She lives in Columbia, Missouri and -- SURPRISE -- the Old 97's just so happen to be playing in her town. She and I have been talking about hitting a show together for a long while now, so when the dates for the 97's Too Far To Care 15th anniversary tour posted and CoMo was on the short list, it was a no-brainer.

HOLLA!

Meeting a friend AND seeing my favorite band perform its watershed album top to bottom? Yes, Please!

Leslie, Sheri and Wende
the fabulous midwest contingent

One never knows what one is walking into with these sort of meet ups, but I knew in my heart I would love Leslie. She's awesome. Smart, sassy, warm, welcoming and she shares my love of the f-bomb. Like my dear friend, Steph, Les has a similarly zany 10 year-old boy sense of humor. We clicked right away. Sadly, Steph, my RM/97's partner-in-crime couldn't make the trip because she was having her own party with this adorable creature.

OMG! Those cheeks are squeezably delicious!

Ridiculously adorable!

I could not be more ecstatic for her and her hubby, but selfishly, I missed her. Again, Science Nerds...what the hell?! Get on that cloning thang already! What's the hold up, man? Chop Chop! Geez!!

But I digress...

There was a veritable three-point convergence on Leslie's and her brainiac husband, Bert's home. Bert's a self-proclaimed nerd and a wonderfully tolerant man who gracefully suffers his wife's obsession, much like Geo.

cuteness abounds

Wende came from the west (Kansas), Sheri and Mike from the north (Chicago) and I from the east. This group could not have been more wonderful or easy to be around. I really like these ladies (and gents). I felt comfortable immediately. No judgmental looks. No eye-rolling. No audible sighs of disgust. We were all on the same page with the freedom to be as geeked as we wanted to be.

Columbia is a beautiful college town hosting the University of Missouri (Mizzou) and two smaller colleges, reminiscent of well-established eastern college towns. The street crossings are paved with the same bricks as the stately halls of education. There are a handful of eclectic boutique shops sprinkled amongst a variety of eateries and clubs. Of course I didn't take any photos because I'm a dolt, but here's one from the interwebz now.

standard stock photo of Jesse Hall

We headed to a popular local haunt, Broadway Brewery where we feasted on pre-show cocktails, delectable food and great conversation with some pretty amazing dinner guests. I'm still mulling it over, hoping against hope I was somewhat intelligible without being a monosyllabic moron. Well, at least an intelligible monosyllabic moron anyway. Tres cool. I'm still smiling. Some events are more memorable than others. (Insert big, goofy-ass grin here)


Meanwhile back at the venue...

Once inside, our posse doubled in size as we staked our claim in front, Murry side. Rhett's doing double duty for this and the October tour as the opener. He joked about knowing the guys in the headlining band (they're pretty good) before lighting up the stage with his usual intensity, working up a sweat with his six-song setlist of solo work including the Old 97's rarity, Holy Cross. I NEVER want him to stop singing, but it is a bit easier to say goodbye when you know he's coming back in an hour.

I still think his spit sprays are hawt.

Filling out the middle bill were Tennessee natives, Those Darlins. I've been wanting to catch Those Darlins in action since SXSW in 2010 when we missed everyone of their sets after making some difficult musical Sophie's Choices. They're raw and punky and crunchy with a stoned, lesbian kind of vibe. I don't know what I'm saying. I'm just making shit up. Bottom line: they're energetic, fun and all over the place.

Jesse got all fancied up for the occasion
Baby Girl needs a hoagie, yo
coz she ain't got no butt

Murry and Rhett both have said the girls remind them of the 97's 18 years ago. Lead singer, Jesse does thrash her curly mop around like a certain blue-eyed lovely.

You might recognize Red Light Love from a car commercial.



Ken joined the Darlins for their final song.


Dude. You could poke an eye out flipping that pick in the audience like that. lol

They were fun. I'm glad to have finally seen them in action.

By the time our favorite foursome ambled out, the crowd was primed to hear its favorite album start to finish. From the first note of Time Bomb which opens the record, (I know. Weird, right? Playing the closer as the opener is madness, I say. Madness.) to the last lingering chord of Four Leaf Clover the audience was with them, belting out every lyric, reaching for every high note and matching every head thrust with Mr. M.



I have no words to describe how incredible it is to hear the entire venue singing along to every song at the top of their collective lungs. I can't even begin to imagine how fucking rewarding it is to be the writer of those words, standing on stage, listening to that volume rushing back to you. Why, he must feel like the King of All of the World. (fan joke)


They filled in the rest of the set with a heavy dose of their latest, The Grand Theatre (Vol 1 & 2) and a handful of classics, ending not on the usual epic Time Bomb, but rollicking Won't Be Home requested by a pretty coed.


And just like that... they were done.


Okay, it wasn't THAT short an evening, but I'm never ready to call it a night. And it was unsettling not to end with Time Bomb. It seemed unfinished. Fortunately, everyone came out to say goodbye and grab a hug before boarding the bus for Dallas.

I like the midwest version of Old 97's. They're relaxed, open and untethered by corporate brass that sometimes dominates their New York shows.

Murry's such a great sport

photo bombed by flat sarah 

Sweaty, raw-throated, ears buzzing and grinning ear-to-ear with our new groovy merch in our hands, we hung out at Leslie's for another 2+ hours rehashing the night that was full of uncharted awesome.

dude. get your head out of the engine

I was so sad to say farewell and board my little plane in Columbia. I had such a fabulous time finally meeting my wonderful imaginary friends and sharing an evening shaking our asses in front of our favorite band in the land.

nesting-squirrel-hair girl, Sheri, Wende and Les down front

As I said earlier, some events are more memorable than others. This was one of those. I love these four men for their talent, their generosity and for the amazing people they have placed in my orbit. Thanks to my new sista wreckers for the camaraderie and rollicking good time. Can't wait for our paths to cross again.

Rhett's solo set:

Lost Without You

Holy Cross

Sweet Dreams

Come Around

Out of Love

Wreck of the Old 97

Old 97's set:

Too Far to Care in its entirety

Mama Tried

Marquita/Bright Spark

(or as it says on the set list, Marq/BS)

Victoria 

Champaign, IL

White Port (audible)

Question

Every Night is Friday Night

I'm a Train Wreck

Doreen

Encore:

Valentine (electrified w/entire band)

Won't Be Home (by request)

The Power of One Small Step 

or fare thee well to an American hero 

Everyone remembers where they were during huge historical events... JFK's assassination, The Challenger Shuttle explosion, 9/11...

I was nine years old on July 20, 1969 when Neil Armstrong, Buzz Aldrin and Michael Collins fulfilled President Kennedy's challenge set forth eight years earlier to America's best and brightest by winning the space-race to the moon.

Gathered around the little TV in our living room, I remember our entire family was transfixed by the grainy, black and white image of a faceless man, cloaked in a puffy, white space suit, leaving the first human footprint on a familiar, far-off celestial body. I don't remember if we laughed, applauded or cried when we watched Armstrong, America's first civilian astronaut, emerge from Eagle One to step into history, but I do know we all exhaled. The memory still chokes me up with pride and awe. I am a huge sentimental dork, and I am so grateful to have been cognizant of this amazing human accomplishment.

Man. On the moon.

What, are you kidding me? It was surreal to look up at our dusty orb that week and realize there were two human beings perambulating on its surface. Unfathomable.

I think of my immigrant grandparents and their amazing life span witnessing incredible progress from horse and buggy to automobile to airplane to man on the moon. My generation has lived in an era of tremendous technological advancement, but nothing compared to the range of the last century. Even as commonplace as space travel seems to have become, the program still inspires. Just read the hubbub on Twitter the night Curiosity landed on Mars. It's still cool to be a science nerd.

Neil Armstrong passed away on August 25th. He was a quiet man who endured the notoriety of his indelible mark in history with elegance and grace. He was a brave man who brought a nation's dream to life with one small step in an era when the people of our country were united (perhaps the last time in recent history) and still believed together we could achieve anything...

Mr. Armstrong was buried on August 31 under a big, bright blue moon, and a little wink from the Sea of Tranquility.