In Which I'm Hating On The C-Word
My brother has cancer.
A surreal statement I never expected to utter. A couple weeks ago, he was diagnosed with prostate cancer. I spoke with Buddy at length, and he's dealing with it quite nicely. He's positive, hopeful and ever pragmatic. Taking it one step at a time. He is to undergo further testing in the form of an MRI and bone scan to determine if the cancer is isolated...or not.
FUCKING CANCER!
Cancer has been a little too familiar lately. My cousin, Mish has been battling breast cancer since last July. There are apparently a thousand different forms of breast cancer. Okay, maybe just around 20, but still. Hers was contained in one bastard of a tumor which was surgically removed without a hitch. But hers is an aggressive type, so the doctors bombarded her with massive amounts of chemo and then radiation over the course of the last ten months.
She has faced her cancer with candor, grace and humor. Bravely posting updates, milestones and photos of her beautiful, bald head on Facebook for support, because dammit, what's social media for if not to receive comfort, encouragement and reassurance from friends and family in one's time of need.
Her port into which the nurses injected her with a poisonous radioactive cocktail was finally removed several weeks ago. A HUGE milestone for any cancer patient. She is finally back to work, feeling stronger, slowly getting her life back. I'm ecstatic to say she's cancer free now. She's a survivor, but there is and ever shall be a kernel of fear in the back of her (and our) mind(s) that at some point in the future this insatiable mutation will rear its butt-ugly head and ravage a different part of her body. There's a chance her cancer will not go quietly into the night.
FUCKING CANCER!
My head knows prostate cancer is extremely curable, especially if caught early, which my brother's was, (Thank you PSA blood test!) and yet, I don't know how I feel about all of this. If I follow my gut instincts, the calm reaction of my body is telling me everything will work out just fine, and there's no need to worry. Much like on 9/11 when I knew deep down in my gut, my nephew was safe from the horror of the falling buildings. The medical experts in Manhattan will remove the offending cells from my brother, and he'll be good to go for decades longer. I want to go with that. I prefer to go with that. I NEED to go with that.
He's my only brother. I love him with all my heart. He is NOT expendable.
Buddy has had a challenging year thus far. His thriving electrical contracting business in the Hudson Valley has basically dried up, leaving him no choice but to sell off the equipment of his life's work, one unit at a time, to the highest bidder. I don't care how strong or practical you are, that's gotta sting. And now he's facing this.
The good news is both his kids' college educations and his properties are paid for in full. Unencumbered by deadlines and client demands, this unexpected free time will enable him to focus on his wellness without distraction or outside stress.
Sometimes a hardship is a blessing. Sometimes the Universe does you a solid, and gives you exactly what you need without you realizing it at the time.
My brother has cancer, but I know he's going to beat the SHIT out of that fucker. He's a fighter. A baddass. And you better believe all us crazy Italians are going to be standing by him every step of the way. He and Mish are going to be around for a loooooong time. So you can just suck it, Cancer!
For the love of your own private gender parts, you menfolk, get a PSA test EVERY YEAR. And ladies, save the TaTas. Get your annual mammogram. It won't just save your girls, it'll save your life.
Monday, June 10, 2013
Sunday, May 12, 2013
The Darker Side of Mother's Day From A Non-Mother
Some Mother's Days are tougher than others.
Back in the Stone Age, Geo and I longed for a child of our own, but biology and financial instability conspired against us, leaving us barren and without the means to adopt. I poured my heart out in all its ugly, uncensored glory here.
99% of the time I'm fine, having come to terms with our fate long ago. Then out of the blue, the heartless 1% claws its bloody way to the surface, rendering me a weepy, melancholic hot mess of a girl, until I can manage to muzzle the sumbitch and stuff her back in the steamer trunk stashed in the dark recesses of my soul before my mascara starts to run in streaks the likes of which Tammy Faye Baker would be proud.
Pfffft! Who am I kidding. I don't wear mascara.
I suppose you could classify this as grieving for a loved one who never was, for lost possibilities. Fortunately, the grieving is brief, but it's something that is always with me, under the surface, waiting to stab me with a pitch fork, because it's a ginormous ASSHOLE that won't GET THE FUCK OUT. Fortunately, I have been blessed with a great life filled with the love of an amazing man, an unconditionally supportive family and incredible friends who willingly share their lives and progeny with me. I can't thank them enough for the honor.
It HAS been a very good life. And yet...
This morning, my dear sister/friend, Steph, with whom I get both my baby and doggie fix, shared a beautifully written blog post on Facebook by a British artist named Jani Franck entitled, "For All the Women Who Are Not Mothers... On Mother's Day". I swear she peered into my wounded heart. It's eloquent, compassionate, touching and totally made me cry whilst reading it. But in a good way. Men don't get the significance of a "good cry" at all. They are completely baffled by it. Poor things. It's a chick thing.
Anywho, it's a meaningful piece I didn't want to lose track of amidst the quagmire of social media. Even though these words left me teary-eyed, they also left me feeling comforted, like a big, warm hug on a day that sometimes feels a little cold.
Here's to all of us ladies who are childless by nature or design. We may not be actively mothering, but we are all nurturers. We might not have kids to kiss, to cuddle, to walk in our footsteps, but we're all mothers in one form or another. Occasionally, we're even Muthas. Ha Ha! Who knows, maybe things will be different in our next life time. Next go round I might have a penis! Imagine how awesome that will be for those urine samples... among other things. :)
What?!?
In any case, this is for us, girls. Bring a tissue. xoxoxo
Some Mother's Days are tougher than others.
Back in the Stone Age, Geo and I longed for a child of our own, but biology and financial instability conspired against us, leaving us barren and without the means to adopt. I poured my heart out in all its ugly, uncensored glory here.
Pfffft! Who am I kidding. I don't wear mascara.
I suppose you could classify this as grieving for a loved one who never was, for lost possibilities. Fortunately, the grieving is brief, but it's something that is always with me, under the surface, waiting to stab me with a pitch fork, because it's a ginormous ASSHOLE that won't GET THE FUCK OUT. Fortunately, I have been blessed with a great life filled with the love of an amazing man, an unconditionally supportive family and incredible friends who willingly share their lives and progeny with me. I can't thank them enough for the honor.
It HAS been a very good life. And yet...
This morning, my dear sister/friend, Steph, with whom I get both my baby and doggie fix, shared a beautifully written blog post on Facebook by a British artist named Jani Franck entitled, "For All the Women Who Are Not Mothers... On Mother's Day". I swear she peered into my wounded heart. It's eloquent, compassionate, touching and totally made me cry whilst reading it. But in a good way. Men don't get the significance of a "good cry" at all. They are completely baffled by it. Poor things. It's a chick thing.
Anywho, it's a meaningful piece I didn't want to lose track of amidst the quagmire of social media. Even though these words left me teary-eyed, they also left me feeling comforted, like a big, warm hug on a day that sometimes feels a little cold.
Here's to all of us ladies who are childless by nature or design. We may not be actively mothering, but we are all nurturers. We might not have kids to kiss, to cuddle, to walk in our footsteps, but we're all mothers in one form or another. Occasionally, we're even Muthas. Ha Ha! Who knows, maybe things will be different in our next life time. Next go round I might have a penis! Imagine how awesome that will be for those urine samples... among other things. :)
What?!?
In any case, this is for us, girls. Bring a tissue. xoxoxo
For all the women who are not mothers.... on Mother's Day
For all the women who are not Mothers, on Mothers Day.
I woke up thinking of us, the not-Mothers.
The ones of us who won't get breakfast in bed, burnt toast and cold eggs made by clumsy little hands. Not a hand drawn card, or a hastily bought bunch of flowers, or daffodils from the garden. We won't get a long distance phonecall from a grown child off travelling, or at Uni - or a Special Lunch Out. Not today, at least.
The women who are asked the question, again and again - 'when?' and 'why not?' as if there was something terribly wrong with us.
Sometimes, even we think that might be true. As if there was some secret we've not been let in on.
The ultimate sacrament of childbirth, birthing you into full womanhood. Like we missed an important final exam and can't get the certificate that says
'Yes, you are a Grown Up Woman now'.
Even though that's not true, of course.
This is for the women whose wombs just wouldn't, couldn't, start to grow a life.
For those who felt life growing, perhaps many times - but those tiny ones slip away so easily.
Sometimes, we have to choose to let the tiny ones go, because we are not ready for them.
And nobody remembers the really tiny ones, except for us. Especially today.
For the ones who went through the terrible lottery of fertility treatment - and didn't win the prize.
For the women who just didn't meet the right father, at the right time.
For the women who find it's too late, for the Crone comes to sit with us all, gently holding our hands as the bleeding slows and stops - much sooner than we were expecting her.
For the women who love a man who cannot father children. This is a silent sorrow, for it's not our secret to tell or solely our pain to bear.
For the women who love a man who doesn't want to be father, and who after many tearful all-night conversations, make our peace with this.
For the women who love women, whose love can make everything but new life. Not yet, anyway.
For the women who were born with a man's body.
For the ones who decided that our beloved vocation, our calling, wouldn't allow us to be Mothers, too. A hateful, painful choice few men have ever had to make.
For the ones who think that seven billion (and counting) of us is probably quite enough, and couldn't bring ourselves to ask Mother Earth to feed another little mouth.
For the ones who can't afford to give a child what it needs, perhaps materially, perhaps emotionally - perhaps both. Who loved our imagined little ones enough to make that choice.
The women who have lost a child. You will always be a mother, though you get no card today.
The women who simply never felt it was quite right for us, without even quite understanding why.
We women who have noticed friends and relatives drift away after having children. The friends of years vanishing into a bubble of motherhood. Leaving us with no children in our immediate circle to give us the company of little ones at least, because it's fun to hang out with little ones.
The ones who feel joy, of course - but also a deep, unspoken sorrow, when we watch one of our sisters glowing with pregnant bliss, or breastfeeding a little one, or catching the look of perfect love between a mother and child.
Of course it does hurt, sometimes.
Whatever our reasons for having none of our own.
We women who know, of course, that we do so many, other, valuable things.
We are the women who mother other women's children, who are the birth mother of businesses, projects, ideas, gardens, animals, vocations, art, books, poems, blogs, scientific research, films, communities, causes and so much else......
We know.
That being a mother is just one way to be a woman.
Just one way, but one way that is held up as an impossible ideal - even for mothers. The perfect Mama. The perfect woman.
This isn't because I want your sympathy. Because I don't, we don't, especially not today. This one little post, today, isn't for all the lovely Mothers.
The Mothers I do respect and celebrate, and admire. I wonder daily how you do the amazing, important, difficult job you do. We should give you flowers every day.
Today, this is for the ones who are still waiting.
For the ones who know the waiting is over.
This is for you. This is for us.
I woke up thinking of us, the not-Mothers.
The ones of us who won't get breakfast in bed, burnt toast and cold eggs made by clumsy little hands. Not a hand drawn card, or a hastily bought bunch of flowers, or daffodils from the garden. We won't get a long distance phonecall from a grown child off travelling, or at Uni - or a Special Lunch Out. Not today, at least.
The women who are asked the question, again and again - 'when?' and 'why not?' as if there was something terribly wrong with us.
Sometimes, even we think that might be true. As if there was some secret we've not been let in on.
The ultimate sacrament of childbirth, birthing you into full womanhood. Like we missed an important final exam and can't get the certificate that says
'Yes, you are a Grown Up Woman now'.
 |
| Detail from 'Red Tent Goddess' painting by Jani Franck |
Even though that's not true, of course.
This is for the women whose wombs just wouldn't, couldn't, start to grow a life.
For those who felt life growing, perhaps many times - but those tiny ones slip away so easily.
Sometimes, we have to choose to let the tiny ones go, because we are not ready for them.
And nobody remembers the really tiny ones, except for us. Especially today.
For the ones who went through the terrible lottery of fertility treatment - and didn't win the prize.
For the women who just didn't meet the right father, at the right time.
For the women who find it's too late, for the Crone comes to sit with us all, gently holding our hands as the bleeding slows and stops - much sooner than we were expecting her.
For the women who love a man who cannot father children. This is a silent sorrow, for it's not our secret to tell or solely our pain to bear.
For the women who love a man who doesn't want to be father, and who after many tearful all-night conversations, make our peace with this.
For the women who love women, whose love can make everything but new life. Not yet, anyway.
For the women who were born with a man's body.
For the ones who decided that our beloved vocation, our calling, wouldn't allow us to be Mothers, too. A hateful, painful choice few men have ever had to make.
For the ones who think that seven billion (and counting) of us is probably quite enough, and couldn't bring ourselves to ask Mother Earth to feed another little mouth.
For the ones who can't afford to give a child what it needs, perhaps materially, perhaps emotionally - perhaps both. Who loved our imagined little ones enough to make that choice.
The women who have lost a child. You will always be a mother, though you get no card today.
The women who simply never felt it was quite right for us, without even quite understanding why.
We women who have noticed friends and relatives drift away after having children. The friends of years vanishing into a bubble of motherhood. Leaving us with no children in our immediate circle to give us the company of little ones at least, because it's fun to hang out with little ones.
The ones who feel joy, of course - but also a deep, unspoken sorrow, when we watch one of our sisters glowing with pregnant bliss, or breastfeeding a little one, or catching the look of perfect love between a mother and child.
Of course it does hurt, sometimes.
Whatever our reasons for having none of our own.
We women who know, of course, that we do so many, other, valuable things.
We are the women who mother other women's children, who are the birth mother of businesses, projects, ideas, gardens, animals, vocations, art, books, poems, blogs, scientific research, films, communities, causes and so much else......
We know.
That being a mother is just one way to be a woman.
Just one way, but one way that is held up as an impossible ideal - even for mothers. The perfect Mama. The perfect woman.
This isn't because I want your sympathy. Because I don't, we don't, especially not today. This one little post, today, isn't for all the lovely Mothers.
The Mothers I do respect and celebrate, and admire. I wonder daily how you do the amazing, important, difficult job you do. We should give you flowers every day.
Today, this is for the ones who are still waiting.
For the ones who know the waiting is over.
This is for you. This is for us.
Saturday, April 27, 2013
In Which We Tex-Mex It Up At The Best Library EVAH
Okay, so after a ten-year hiatus, popular Tex-Mex group, The Mavericks, fronted by portly, yet suave Raul Malo have reunited for an extensive American and European tour. Raul has been taking his smooth, dulcet pipes on the road with his solo band during those lost years. I don't know what the conflict (if any) there was, but whatever the case...THE BAND IS BACK, BABY!! All is forgiven. And it's evident they are having a blast playing together again.
Thanks to my wonderful friend, Suzanne, I got to sneak into WYEP's in-studio session with all nine members of The Mavericks.
That's a tiny stage, y'all! Nine men make for a snug fit. Despite being cramped, they played four songs that had the room jumping. Forever gracious, they all stuck around afterwards to chat with fans.
After dining al fresco at the Tin Front, Homestead's vegetarian restaurant, Mary Ann and I met up with my work friend, Sue, a newcomer to the Mavericks merriment. I love introducing friends to bands that rock my world.
I've spoke of the Carnegie Library of Homestead before. It's a grand old structure indicative of its time, sitting atop a hill overlooking the river. Okay, so the river is waaaaaay down there, but you can see it if you look hard enough past all the urban sprawl. The rooms are lined with beautiful wooden shelves filled with various tomes, and there's an iconic portrait of Mr. Carnegie hovering above the masses. They still sell wine and beer, but now you can purchase an adult sippy cup to take into the theater and suck your vino through a big, fat straw all classy 'n shit. Andrew would be proud. I still think a crazy straw was the way to go, but who am I to judge. Pinkies up!!
Anywho, the theater within the confines of the library is a seated venue with a balcony. The problem I have with seated venues is all the sitting... and grumpy asscats yelling for you to sit the fuck down. Sitting in that uncomfortably-polite-white-person way is fine for a mellow, solo act or some fancy-ass classical music hoopla, but c'mon! Who's gonna sit down for the Mexican polka fest that is the Mavericks?
Bobby Buzzkill behind us, that's who.
Buzzkill: Sit DOWN!!
Me: Seriously? What are you, Grandpa? Get up with the rest of us. Clearly, you desperately need to shake your groove thang.
Buzzkill: Either SIT DOWN OR STAND IN ANOTHER ZIP CODE!!
Me: Dude, every time you make me sit down a puppy dies. Do you want that on your head? Well, do ya, Grampa Munster? You may thrive on unnecessary puppy slaughter, but I will not let that happen. Not on my watch, Motherfucker.
And then I made his pointy, wee head implode with my laser beam eyes.
Or so it played out in my head. In reality I moved to the aisle to be festive with my steel drum friends who just happened to be two rows down on the aisle. Thank you modern technology for the easy friend locator.
I swear it's karmic payback for my younger years when I yelled the same shit to wasted chicks standing on chairs in front of me. What the HELL was wrong with me back then? Seriously. Now I'm caught in an a-hole karmic boomerang of my own doing.
Whatever. I abandoned my mates and moved to the aisle when the spirit took me. That's the thing about this band. Their music is so damn FUN! Two horns, one upright bass, one accordion, an animated keyboardist, and Raul decked out in his finest mariachi velvet vest with floral appliqué...now THAT'S a par-TAY! Over the course of 2 1/2 hours, they played all their hits to the delight of the crowd, including an older gent dancing down the aisle. Check him out. He appears at 4:19. He's gotta be a kick to live with, and a complete embarrassment to his kids.
Well done, sir. Well done.
The first encore was Raul crooning solo, covering old standards like the Steve Lawrence/Edie Gourmet classic, Something Stupid, building to a full-band version of the Beatles Shake it Up, Baby which got the entire audience on its feet, where we all remained standing for one of their biggest crowd pleasers, I Said I Love You.
Take that, Bobby Fucking Buzzkill.
(only recorded part of the song, because sometimes you just have to put down the damn camera and enjoy the moment)
The second encore featured Malo's son, Dino on drums for Shake, Rattle and Roll. Then they launched into the final song of the evening, All You Ever Do Is Bring Me Down. Clearly, not wanting the night to end, Malo kept signaling his band to play the chorus over and over and over.
We all left buoyant, happy and humming. Sue became a full-fledged fan. In fact, she couldn't stop talking about how much fun she had the next day at work. Further evidence of the euphoric nature of live music. and its ability to elevate ones spirits. And people wonder why I go to so many concerts.
Some random notes on the evening:
1. Five-inch platform shoes and a short, slinky dress is a dangerous combo, just ask the blonde chippie who fell off her hooker pumps in front of God and everyone waiting in line while she gracelessly descended the outdoor stairs.
2. Because the Fates are a bunch of vindictive dickheads, she naturally ended up sitting in front of us. Very funny, assholes. Between recording the ceiling with her iPhone and Facebooking (is that even a word, let alone a verb?), this helium-voiced, trainwreck of a girl frantically searched under her seat, via blazing bright iPhone flashlight, for her discarded jacket and ticket during the encore. Train..Wreck. With a capital Hot Mess. At least she was dancing, however precariously atop those slender Jezebel heels.
3. Accordions kick up the fun factor ten fold.
4. The crowd skewed older, which none of the band members seemed to mind-hey they're older, too. But, Daaaamn! There were some crazy-fun 60-something women with black and white blocked hair dancing, singing and flinging stuff on stage. They were definitely the mayors of the I-don't-give-a-shit-I'm-doing-my-thing section. They were awesome! An inspiration for all to see it's possible to maintain ones enthusiasm, abandon and verve later in life. I see my future in them. Sorry Geo.
5. Playing air steel drum to Guantanamera is not nearly as hip or cool as one would think.
6. Accordions AND brass kick up the fun factor twenty fold.
7. You can't go wrong with the Mavericks' style of Tex Mex fun.
and finally,
8. Never pass up the opportunity to make a spectacle of yourself.
Okay, so after a ten-year hiatus, popular Tex-Mex group, The Mavericks, fronted by portly, yet suave Raul Malo have reunited for an extensive American and European tour. Raul has been taking his smooth, dulcet pipes on the road with his solo band during those lost years. I don't know what the conflict (if any) there was, but whatever the case...THE BAND IS BACK, BABY!! All is forgiven. And it's evident they are having a blast playing together again.
Thanks to my wonderful friend, Suzanne, I got to sneak into WYEP's in-studio session with all nine members of The Mavericks.
 |
| wyep's lilliputian stage |
That's a tiny stage, y'all! Nine men make for a snug fit. Despite being cramped, they played four songs that had the room jumping. Forever gracious, they all stuck around afterwards to chat with fans.
 |
| does my head look pea-sized, or what? |
 |
| drinking Moscow Mules, pretending we're back in Austin |
 |
| "come in, tokyo..." |
I've spoke of the Carnegie Library of Homestead before. It's a grand old structure indicative of its time, sitting atop a hill overlooking the river. Okay, so the river is waaaaaay down there, but you can see it if you look hard enough past all the urban sprawl. The rooms are lined with beautiful wooden shelves filled with various tomes, and there's an iconic portrait of Mr. Carnegie hovering above the masses. They still sell wine and beer, but now you can purchase an adult sippy cup to take into the theater and suck your vino through a big, fat straw all classy 'n shit. Andrew would be proud. I still think a crazy straw was the way to go, but who am I to judge. Pinkies up!!
Anywho, the theater within the confines of the library is a seated venue with a balcony. The problem I have with seated venues is all the sitting... and grumpy asscats yelling for you to sit the fuck down. Sitting in that uncomfortably-polite-white-person way is fine for a mellow, solo act or some fancy-ass classical music hoopla, but c'mon! Who's gonna sit down for the Mexican polka fest that is the Mavericks?
Bobby Buzzkill behind us, that's who.
Buzzkill: Sit DOWN!!
Me: Seriously? What are you, Grandpa? Get up with the rest of us. Clearly, you desperately need to shake your groove thang.
Buzzkill: Either SIT DOWN OR STAND IN ANOTHER ZIP CODE!!
Me: Dude, every time you make me sit down a puppy dies. Do you want that on your head? Well, do ya, Grampa Munster? You may thrive on unnecessary puppy slaughter, but I will not let that happen. Not on my watch, Motherfucker.
And then I made his pointy, wee head implode with my laser beam eyes.
Or so it played out in my head. In reality I moved to the aisle to be festive with my steel drum friends who just happened to be two rows down on the aisle. Thank you modern technology for the easy friend locator.
I swear it's karmic payback for my younger years when I yelled the same shit to wasted chicks standing on chairs in front of me. What the HELL was wrong with me back then? Seriously. Now I'm caught in an a-hole karmic boomerang of my own doing.
Whatever. I abandoned my mates and moved to the aisle when the spirit took me. That's the thing about this band. Their music is so damn FUN! Two horns, one upright bass, one accordion, an animated keyboardist, and Raul decked out in his finest mariachi velvet vest with floral appliqué...now THAT'S a par-TAY! Over the course of 2 1/2 hours, they played all their hits to the delight of the crowd, including an older gent dancing down the aisle. Check him out. He appears at 4:19. He's gotta be a kick to live with, and a complete embarrassment to his kids.
Well done, sir. Well done.
The first encore was Raul crooning solo, covering old standards like the Steve Lawrence/Edie Gourmet classic, Something Stupid, building to a full-band version of the Beatles Shake it Up, Baby which got the entire audience on its feet, where we all remained standing for one of their biggest crowd pleasers, I Said I Love You.
Take that, Bobby Fucking Buzzkill.
(only recorded part of the song, because sometimes you just have to put down the damn camera and enjoy the moment)
The second encore featured Malo's son, Dino on drums for Shake, Rattle and Roll. Then they launched into the final song of the evening, All You Ever Do Is Bring Me Down. Clearly, not wanting the night to end, Malo kept signaling his band to play the chorus over and over and over.
We all left buoyant, happy and humming. Sue became a full-fledged fan. In fact, she couldn't stop talking about how much fun she had the next day at work. Further evidence of the euphoric nature of live music. and its ability to elevate ones spirits. And people wonder why I go to so many concerts.
Some random notes on the evening:
1. Five-inch platform shoes and a short, slinky dress is a dangerous combo, just ask the blonde chippie who fell off her hooker pumps in front of God and everyone waiting in line while she gracelessly descended the outdoor stairs.
2. Because the Fates are a bunch of vindictive dickheads, she naturally ended up sitting in front of us. Very funny, assholes. Between recording the ceiling with her iPhone and Facebooking (is that even a word, let alone a verb?), this helium-voiced, trainwreck of a girl frantically searched under her seat, via blazing bright iPhone flashlight, for her discarded jacket and ticket during the encore. Train..Wreck. With a capital Hot Mess. At least she was dancing, however precariously atop those slender Jezebel heels.
3. Accordions kick up the fun factor ten fold.
4. The crowd skewed older, which none of the band members seemed to mind-hey they're older, too. But, Daaaamn! There were some crazy-fun 60-something women with black and white blocked hair dancing, singing and flinging stuff on stage. They were definitely the mayors of the I-don't-give-a-shit-I'm-doing-my-thing section. They were awesome! An inspiration for all to see it's possible to maintain ones enthusiasm, abandon and verve later in life. I see my future in them. Sorry Geo.
5. Playing air steel drum to Guantanamera is not nearly as hip or cool as one would think.
6. Accordions AND brass kick up the fun factor twenty fold.
7. You can't go wrong with the Mavericks' style of Tex Mex fun.
and finally,
8. Never pass up the opportunity to make a spectacle of yourself.
 |
| just because we're lovable idiots |
Tuesday, April 2, 2013
In Which Being A Pirates Fan Is A Lifelong Lesson In Dealing With Disappointment
Okay, so yesterday was the home opener for the MLB's perpetual bottom-feeder, our hometown Pittsburgh Pirates. The first pitch kicked off the official start to our 21st season since we clocked a winning record. And by "winning record", I mean a season 500 or above. We're not even talking about getting to the playoffs or world series here. Nope. At this dismal point, any final tally above 500 would solicit a fucking championship parade through the streets of downtown, replete with a shit ton of fucking ticker-tape. I'm not even kidding.
We came close last year. Hell, there was a point where we were actually like, 17 games OVER 500.
Over. Five-Fucking-Hundred.
That's HUGE for us, People. Fans filled the ballpark to capacity. Men, women and children proudly donned Pirates gear openly without shame, ridicule or humiliation. The bandwagon was bursting with new recruits chanting "yes, we can!" The Zoltan himself threw out the first pitch. Television Sports Czars actually started including the Buccos in their roundups. Cats and dogs were living together. The entire city caught the fever.
Holy Shit! Could it be? Could this actually be the year we bust out from behind the unofficial moniker of MLB farm club? Hellz yeah, it could! It was glorious.
Then September happened.
First came one loss. No biggie, right?
Then another. And another. And another. Then it pretty much went to shit.
Soon it wasn't a matter of how many games above 500 the Pirates would finish the season, but more like Dear God, PLEASE, for the love of all that is holy, let us end at 500 just this once. C'mon! Throw us a frickin' bone! We're begging you!
But, alas, the dream to burst the curse was dashed, leaving both die-hard and fair-weather fans crumpled in a depressed heap. We'd been duped yet again.
@&^$*#@%!!?!
Fool me once, shame on me. Fool me 20 times, and well, pass the fucking Xanax.
Ah, but it's another year, another team, another chance. Hope springs eternal, even if this Spring seems an eternity away thanks to a cold-hearted, bi-polar, hot-cold Mother Nature. She took April Fool's Day seriously, yo. Rain, sleet, snow, wind then sunshine all in the course of six hours. Sweet Baby Jesus, that ain't right. Not one bit.
Opening Day put us in the minus column against the Cubbies, but we can take it. We've had 20 years to learn how to deal with disappointment. Who knows. Maybe this year they just might crack it... says the crazy woman who knows better, but will still get sucked into the hot mess of optimism.
I'm a hockey chick, not a baseball fanatic, but DAAAAMN, I'd like to witness one more successful season before my soul leaves this mortal coil. Is that too much to ask? Maybe, but maybe not. Pirates Baseball is one ginormous maybe.
If nothing else positive happens, at least we know Jalapeno Hanna can throw a mean purse beat down.
Okay, so yesterday was the home opener for the MLB's perpetual bottom-feeder, our hometown Pittsburgh Pirates. The first pitch kicked off the official start to our 21st season since we clocked a winning record. And by "winning record", I mean a season 500 or above. We're not even talking about getting to the playoffs or world series here. Nope. At this dismal point, any final tally above 500 would solicit a fucking championship parade through the streets of downtown, replete with a shit ton of fucking ticker-tape. I'm not even kidding.
We came close last year. Hell, there was a point where we were actually like, 17 games OVER 500.
Over. Five-Fucking-Hundred.
That's HUGE for us, People. Fans filled the ballpark to capacity. Men, women and children proudly donned Pirates gear openly without shame, ridicule or humiliation. The bandwagon was bursting with new recruits chanting "yes, we can!" The Zoltan himself threw out the first pitch. Television Sports Czars actually started including the Buccos in their roundups. Cats and dogs were living together. The entire city caught the fever.
Holy Shit! Could it be? Could this actually be the year we bust out from behind the unofficial moniker of MLB farm club? Hellz yeah, it could! It was glorious.
Then September happened.
First came one loss. No biggie, right?
Then another. And another. And another. Then it pretty much went to shit.
Soon it wasn't a matter of how many games above 500 the Pirates would finish the season, but more like Dear God, PLEASE, for the love of all that is holy, let us end at 500 just this once. C'mon! Throw us a frickin' bone! We're begging you!
But, alas, the dream to burst the curse was dashed, leaving both die-hard and fair-weather fans crumpled in a depressed heap. We'd been duped yet again.
@&^$*#@%!!?!
Fool me once, shame on me. Fool me 20 times, and well, pass the fucking Xanax.
Ah, but it's another year, another team, another chance. Hope springs eternal, even if this Spring seems an eternity away thanks to a cold-hearted, bi-polar, hot-cold Mother Nature. She took April Fool's Day seriously, yo. Rain, sleet, snow, wind then sunshine all in the course of six hours. Sweet Baby Jesus, that ain't right. Not one bit.
Opening Day put us in the minus column against the Cubbies, but we can take it. We've had 20 years to learn how to deal with disappointment. Who knows. Maybe this year they just might crack it... says the crazy woman who knows better, but will still get sucked into the hot mess of optimism.
I'm a hockey chick, not a baseball fanatic, but DAAAAMN, I'd like to witness one more successful season before my soul leaves this mortal coil. Is that too much to ask? Maybe, but maybe not. Pirates Baseball is one ginormous maybe.
If nothing else positive happens, at least we know Jalapeno Hanna can throw a mean purse beat down.
Thursday, March 28, 2013
In Which The Pens Land A Holy Trinity
Okay, so by now you know how much I love hockey in general and the Pens in particular. This year's half-season lockout was torture, what with the Steelers imploding, the winter dragging mercilessly on and 30 Rock closing up shop.
It was a glorious week in mid-January when NHL hockey returned (coinciding with my beloved Rhett Miller's solo show. Passions colliding.) with a shortened schedule which has played out like an extended playoff season from the get-go. My boys struggled at first, but are now sitting on top of the heap, currently riding a 13 game streak WITH a missing Malkin and Letang.
So, fast forward to this week...
Pens GM, Ray Shero shrewdly jumped ahead of the trade deadline next week to craft deals for two team captains and a big-ass defenseman.
First up, long-time Dallas Stars Captain, 34-year-old Brenden Morrow was swapped for Joe Morrow and a prospect, rendering Stars fans shocked and speechless. He waived his no-trade clause with a franchise he called home for 14 years to move to a team in the running.
"Not long after Brenden Morrow caught an early-morning flight out of the only National Hockey League city he's ever known Monday, his 8-year-old daughter came upon his wife crying. Morrow's wife, Anne-Marie, relayed what little Bryelle told her via a text Brenden received during a layover.
She said, 'Mom, it's going to be OK. It's only a couple months -- and he's got a chance to win the Cup.'"
Bright little girl.
It's gotta be tough coming from a leadership role for nearly 14 years to go back to player. When Morrow spoke at his conference, he addressed that particular issue with a humble acknowledgment that the Pens is Sid's team. He's happy to play his role, and thrilled to be playing alongside such talent. Showing their class and fraternity, several players traded numbers so Morrow could retain his number, 10.
Then one day later, Shero and company acquired San Jose Sharks' big defensemen, 33-year-old Douglas Murray for second round draft picks in both 2013 and 2014. Our defense has been struggling with Letang out most of this shortened season. Murray's big frame can fill a much needed position in front of the net, not unlike the much-maligned Hal Gill who was instrumental in our last cup victory.
"San Jose has become home for me and I'm leaving with an empty feeling with the teams we had here not getting it done, but it's extremely exciting going to Pittsburgh, going to the best team in the league already. They always have some great players and I'm just excited to get there, get used to the team and take a run at the Stanley Cup." - Douglas Murray
And he ain't afraid to fight. Woot!
Then this morning came the big news, Shero worked his voodoo magic and snagged Calgary Flames' nine-season Captain, 35-year-old Jarome Iginla right out from under Boston.
It's a freaking Easter miracle!!
When everyone went to bed, Boston had a lock on Iginla. Then the magical trade fairies wearing Ray Shero masks proclaimed, "Ain't NOBODY got time for that."
POOF! Penguin.
So sad. NOT!
Iginla has consistently scored 30 goals per season, fed Sid the winning goal for Canada in the 2010 Olympics AND donates $2,000 to charity for each goal he scores. Great guy for a great team.
Because I can't resist, one more gem from the interwebs.
All the NHL is hating on us bad right now. heehee
The dream of drinking from Lord Stanley' Cup is a powerful motivator. All three of these seasoned veterans cashed in their long-term allegiances in pursuit of their chance to hoist those precious, shiny metal rings, handed only to the most deserving battle worn.
When Hossa bailed on us to search for his holy grail as a Red Wing with Detroit, I thought it was a shitty thing to do. Our team still had promise. But now I get it. These guys play hard their entire career. They just want to wrap their bloodied and bruised hands around that cold steel and grab a taste of that one magical moment that gives their entire life meaning.
The stage is set pretty damn tight for our Cup dreams to become a reality. Shero's doing everything in his power to make it so. Fingers crossed our newest black and gold will complete their life's work in a sea of waving white towels.
Okay, so by now you know how much I love hockey in general and the Pens in particular. This year's half-season lockout was torture, what with the Steelers imploding, the winter dragging mercilessly on and 30 Rock closing up shop.
It was a glorious week in mid-January when NHL hockey returned (coinciding with my beloved Rhett Miller's solo show. Passions colliding.) with a shortened schedule which has played out like an extended playoff season from the get-go. My boys struggled at first, but are now sitting on top of the heap, currently riding a 13 game streak WITH a missing Malkin and Letang.
So, fast forward to this week...
Pens GM, Ray Shero shrewdly jumped ahead of the trade deadline next week to craft deals for two team captains and a big-ass defenseman.
First up, long-time Dallas Stars Captain, 34-year-old Brenden Morrow was swapped for Joe Morrow and a prospect, rendering Stars fans shocked and speechless. He waived his no-trade clause with a franchise he called home for 14 years to move to a team in the running.
"Not long after Brenden Morrow caught an early-morning flight out of the only National Hockey League city he's ever known Monday, his 8-year-old daughter came upon his wife crying. Morrow's wife, Anne-Marie, relayed what little Bryelle told her via a text Brenden received during a layover.
She said, 'Mom, it's going to be OK. It's only a couple months -- and he's got a chance to win the Cup.'"
Bright little girl.
It's gotta be tough coming from a leadership role for nearly 14 years to go back to player. When Morrow spoke at his conference, he addressed that particular issue with a humble acknowledgment that the Pens is Sid's team. He's happy to play his role, and thrilled to be playing alongside such talent. Showing their class and fraternity, several players traded numbers so Morrow could retain his number, 10.
 |
| welcome aboard |
Then one day later, Shero and company acquired San Jose Sharks' big defensemen, 33-year-old Douglas Murray for second round draft picks in both 2013 and 2014. Our defense has been struggling with Letang out most of this shortened season. Murray's big frame can fill a much needed position in front of the net, not unlike the much-maligned Hal Gill who was instrumental in our last cup victory.
"San Jose has become home for me and I'm leaving with an empty feeling with the teams we had here not getting it done, but it's extremely exciting going to Pittsburgh, going to the best team in the league already. They always have some great players and I'm just excited to get there, get used to the team and take a run at the Stanley Cup." - Douglas Murray
And he ain't afraid to fight. Woot!
Then this morning came the big news, Shero worked his voodoo magic and snagged Calgary Flames' nine-season Captain, 35-year-old Jarome Iginla right out from under Boston.
It's a freaking Easter miracle!!
 |
| aaaaaaaaaaa... |
When everyone went to bed, Boston had a lock on Iginla. Then the magical trade fairies wearing Ray Shero masks proclaimed, "Ain't NOBODY got time for that."
POOF! Penguin.
So sad. NOT!
Iginla has consistently scored 30 goals per season, fed Sid the winning goal for Canada in the 2010 Olympics AND donates $2,000 to charity for each goal he scores. Great guy for a great team.
Because I can't resist, one more gem from the interwebs.
 |
| Crosby and Iginla pittsburgh's own dynamic duo |
All the NHL is hating on us bad right now. heehee
The dream of drinking from Lord Stanley' Cup is a powerful motivator. All three of these seasoned veterans cashed in their long-term allegiances in pursuit of their chance to hoist those precious, shiny metal rings, handed only to the most deserving battle worn.
When Hossa bailed on us to search for his holy grail as a Red Wing with Detroit, I thought it was a shitty thing to do. Our team still had promise. But now I get it. These guys play hard their entire career. They just want to wrap their bloodied and bruised hands around that cold steel and grab a taste of that one magical moment that gives their entire life meaning.
The stage is set pretty damn tight for our Cup dreams to become a reality. Shero's doing everything in his power to make it so. Fingers crossed our newest black and gold will complete their life's work in a sea of waving white towels.
 |
| the dream is alive |
Saturday, March 23, 2013
Fun Times At Mr. Small's
or some other such woefully inadequate titling
Okay, so I used to hate going to Mr. Small's, the sanctuary-turned-concert-venue in one of the dullest mill towns in outer Pittsburgh, because the crowds were annoying, the sound system was horrible and the putrid smell of hot dog water wafted in from the vendor set up RIGHT in front of the intake fan outside the entrance.
Nothing heightens a rock show like the pervasive scent of hot wiener juice.
"Wiener juice" heehee
Oh CRAP. Here come the porn bots and freaky fetishists looking for a jolly. Sorry, Charlie. No scintillating abnormalities here. Oh, great. Now the midgets-wearing-diapers-and-oversized-bonnets enthusiasts are blowing up my timeline. Aaaaaand here come the firearm-stockpiling malcontents. Etcetera Etcetera Etcetera...
You see how this works? It's a slippery slope, People! This is how the fall of modern society starts...one silly-ass blog mention at a time like this one about... Um... what was I talking about? Oh yeah! Mr. Small's.
Aaaaywho, my self-imposed moratorium on this particular venue has definitely been lifted being as I will have frequented this establishment three times in as many weeks--last Thursday for my beloved Old 97's (for whom I will travel to the very pits of Hell to see), Thursday night for quirky They Might Be Giants, and next Friday for Scottish rockers, Frightened Rabbit.
Last week's Old 97's show was spectacular, as always. There were at least 15 people in our group of devotees perched stage left, Murry side.
I've written so many times about their greatness live, that I have run out of superlatives and creative ways to effectively convey their superior stage performance. Lucky for you I have preached ad naseum here, here here, oh and here. (Sarcasm included at no extra charge)
A couple fun notes about this particular show:
1. They barreled on stage with the perennial crowd pleaser, Barrier Reef. During the long musical intro, Rhett's acoustic wasn't up to snuff so he ended up guitarless for the start of the vocal. Clearly not knowing what to do with his unexpected idle hands, he put one on the mic stand and the other awkwardly in his pocket. Adorable. Eventually his electric appeared, restoring his comfort zone.
2. A lovely, spirited blonde girl of four years dancing and twirling on the far edge of the stage caught Rhett's eye. He sprinted over, guitar in hand, to say hi only to SCARE THE LIVING CRAP out of her. She leapt into her mother's arms and buried her face in Mommy's neck. Poor Baby. Rejected by a 4 year-old. Ha Ha! Mr. M made up for it later by personally handing the tot his setlist. She'll appreciate his gesture later in life, after she puts a little salve on that emotional scar.
3. Dude! They played Can't Get a Line!! Old 97's fans will be the only one's excited by that fact. They also played Busted Afternoon (another rarity) and No Baby I, the song from which this illiterate piece of blog gets its title. (Everytime the Blue-eyed one sings this one, I pretend he's singing it just for me. Shut up. It's my fantasy, dammit.)
4. Oh, and hey! No eau du wiener juice! Score.
*link to the rest of Frank Vilsack's photos here
Fast forward to Wednesday night...
They Might Be Giants is a band that has been around since 1982, but this is the first time I've ever seen them live. Geo and I amassed several of their early efforts, but nothing of late. They are uber prolific. They are also hard to pigeon hole, what with their nerd pop, accordion-laced, short-form witty observations on tiny life moments. They have also produced three children's albums.
The joint was packed to the gills, so Sue and I opted to hang in the bar corral just behind the sound board. The opener, Moon Hooch, consisted of three guys, two of whom wielded a big tenor sax and weird oboe thingie which made everything sound a little Philip Glass-ish. Sue dubbed this new genre, Sax Rock. Sucking down a couple heavy-handed V & Ts helped make them tolerable.
When TMBG took the stage, all the lovable nerd boys behind us sang along to everything, which I sincerely appreciate because the charm of TMBG songs is the cleverness of the lyrics which were nearly impossible to decipher, what with the marginal acoustics in the Baby Jesus' cavernous former home.
The band played for nearly two hours, bantering with the crowd, popping up in the balcony, making up a song about Mr. Small's.
And then this happened.
Pretty entertaining evening. No confetti cannons this time, but a fun time for sure.
or some other such woefully inadequate titling
Okay, so I used to hate going to Mr. Small's, the sanctuary-turned-concert-venue in one of the dullest mill towns in outer Pittsburgh, because the crowds were annoying, the sound system was horrible and the putrid smell of hot dog water wafted in from the vendor set up RIGHT in front of the intake fan outside the entrance.
Nothing heightens a rock show like the pervasive scent of hot wiener juice.
"Wiener juice" heehee
Oh CRAP. Here come the porn bots and freaky fetishists looking for a jolly. Sorry, Charlie. No scintillating abnormalities here. Oh, great. Now the midgets-wearing-diapers-and-oversized-bonnets enthusiasts are blowing up my timeline. Aaaaaand here come the firearm-stockpiling malcontents. Etcetera Etcetera Etcetera...
You see how this works? It's a slippery slope, People! This is how the fall of modern society starts...one silly-ass blog mention at a time like this one about... Um... what was I talking about? Oh yeah! Mr. Small's.
Aaaaywho, my self-imposed moratorium on this particular venue has definitely been lifted being as I will have frequented this establishment three times in as many weeks--last Thursday for my beloved Old 97's (for whom I will travel to the very pits of Hell to see), Thursday night for quirky They Might Be Giants, and next Friday for Scottish rockers, Frightened Rabbit.
Last week's Old 97's show was spectacular, as always. There were at least 15 people in our group of devotees perched stage left, Murry side.
 |
| half the crowd plus a spare part |
 |
| courtesy Amy Crawford |
 |
| courtesy of Frank Vilsack |
 |
| courtesy of Frank Vilsack |
 |
| time bomb jump courtesy of Amy Crawford |
A couple fun notes about this particular show:
1. They barreled on stage with the perennial crowd pleaser, Barrier Reef. During the long musical intro, Rhett's acoustic wasn't up to snuff so he ended up guitarless for the start of the vocal. Clearly not knowing what to do with his unexpected idle hands, he put one on the mic stand and the other awkwardly in his pocket. Adorable. Eventually his electric appeared, restoring his comfort zone.
2. A lovely, spirited blonde girl of four years dancing and twirling on the far edge of the stage caught Rhett's eye. He sprinted over, guitar in hand, to say hi only to SCARE THE LIVING CRAP out of her. She leapt into her mother's arms and buried her face in Mommy's neck. Poor Baby. Rejected by a 4 year-old. Ha Ha! Mr. M made up for it later by personally handing the tot his setlist. She'll appreciate his gesture later in life, after she puts a little salve on that emotional scar.
 |
| the moment just before Rhett scared the tiny tot |
3. Dude! They played Can't Get a Line!! Old 97's fans will be the only one's excited by that fact. They also played Busted Afternoon (another rarity) and No Baby I, the song from which this illiterate piece of blog gets its title. (Everytime the Blue-eyed one sings this one, I pretend he's singing it just for me. Shut up. It's my fantasy, dammit.)
CAN'T GET A LINE
BUSTED AFTERNOON
4. Oh, and hey! No eau du wiener juice! Score.
*link to the rest of Frank Vilsack's photos here
Fast forward to Wednesday night...
They Might Be Giants is a band that has been around since 1982, but this is the first time I've ever seen them live. Geo and I amassed several of their early efforts, but nothing of late. They are uber prolific. They are also hard to pigeon hole, what with their nerd pop, accordion-laced, short-form witty observations on tiny life moments. They have also produced three children's albums.
 |
| um...i can't feel my face |
When TMBG took the stage, all the lovable nerd boys behind us sang along to everything, which I sincerely appreciate because the charm of TMBG songs is the cleverness of the lyrics which were nearly impossible to decipher, what with the marginal acoustics in the Baby Jesus' cavernous former home.
DR. WORM
The band played for nearly two hours, bantering with the crowd, popping up in the balcony, making up a song about Mr. Small's.
And then this happened.
HE'S LOCO
Pretty entertaining evening. No confetti cannons this time, but a fun time for sure.
Old 97's setlist
Barrier Reef
Won't Be Home No More
Brown Haired Daughter (Murry started writing this one, Rhett finished it)
Stoned
W Texas Teardrops
Lonely Holiday (one of Geo's faves)
No Baby I (for me. that's my story. shut up)
Champaign, IL
Victoria Lee
Can't Get a Line (!!!)
Halcyon
Please Hold On While the Train is Moving
Busted Afternoon
Color of a Lonely Heart is Blue
Jagged
I'm a Trainwreck
Smokers
Big Brown Eyes
The Easy Way (another rarity)
4 Leaf Clover
Rhett solo:
Long Long Long
encore:
Every Night Is Friday Night
Rollerskate Skinny
Time Bomb
Friday, March 1, 2013
Friday Video(s) Returns!!
Okay, so my favorite thing to come out of the interwebs this entire week is a screaming goats mash up of popular songs.
What the hell is a screaming goat mash up, you say? Let me start from the beginning.
First there was this hilarious compilation video of goats screaming... like humans.
I. Am. Crying!!
Being an urbanite, I had no idea goats screamed like that. My friend who lived several years in an English village has confirmed that yes, goats scream like freaking humans much to the horror of her offspring. But holy crap! Comedy gold right there.
Naturally, this led to a pile of videos in which snippets of the aforementioned goats are inserted into popular songs at the opportune moment, hence the "mash up". The best by far, in my humble opinion is the Bon Jovi classic, Living on a Prayer.
Again. Crying!
There are a ton more on YouTube. Here's just one site featuring a selection. The fact that the goat's tongues are wagging with every utterance, kills me. Never gonna tire of this one. It totally speaks to my inner 10 year-old boy sense of humor. Seriously, this is my favorite item from the last seven days.
Okay, well maybe it's a tie with this.
Call me Munchma.
These names are going on our list beside Dick Fitzwell, Erin McCooter and Craven Moorehead. Don't know what's funnier, the names, or Colbert completely losing it. This is the shit for which the interwebs were made, yo.
God bless your pointy little heads.
Okay, so my favorite thing to come out of the interwebs this entire week is a screaming goats mash up of popular songs.
What the hell is a screaming goat mash up, you say? Let me start from the beginning.
First there was this hilarious compilation video of goats screaming... like humans.
I. Am. Crying!!
Being an urbanite, I had no idea goats screamed like that. My friend who lived several years in an English village has confirmed that yes, goats scream like freaking humans much to the horror of her offspring. But holy crap! Comedy gold right there.
Naturally, this led to a pile of videos in which snippets of the aforementioned goats are inserted into popular songs at the opportune moment, hence the "mash up". The best by far, in my humble opinion is the Bon Jovi classic, Living on a Prayer.
Again. Crying!
There are a ton more on YouTube. Here's just one site featuring a selection. The fact that the goat's tongues are wagging with every utterance, kills me. Never gonna tire of this one. It totally speaks to my inner 10 year-old boy sense of humor. Seriously, this is my favorite item from the last seven days.
Okay, well maybe it's a tie with this.
Call me Munchma.
These names are going on our list beside Dick Fitzwell, Erin McCooter and Craven Moorehead. Don't know what's funnier, the names, or Colbert completely losing it. This is the shit for which the interwebs were made, yo.
God bless your pointy little heads.
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