What The EF??

Okay, so this past weekend Saturday Night Live did a skit in which Madonna and Lady Gaga perform together. The two divas end up in a pretty entertaining cat fight. However, I kept getting distracted by the obvious plastic surgery Ole Madge was sporting.

Holy Crap!

Her eye tuck is so taught, now she's starting to resemble the elderly Rachel Welch after her misguided dance with the knife. Madonna barely looks like herself any more. Okay, she's still a ringer for that creepy puppet, Madam, but still. Damn! Someone needs to host a plastic surgery intervention for the Material Girl. Did she learn nothing from Jacko?

Please. Someone stop her from tightening her face again!

Check out what I mean for yourself

And another thing. Would someone please buy Lady Gaga some real gutchies. This see-through stuff is getting old especially with her being all hootchie-like and her legs flying up in the air. Her Momma must be so proud.

Stop The Presses!

or just another stupid celebrity "scandal"

I know..I'm late with this. I couldn't get my shi-ite together last weekend to weigh in on this. Whatever.

Okay, so the buzz all over the latter part of last week was David Letterman's admission he had sexual relations with several Late Night female (I love how they feel the need to qualify gender) staffers.

*gasp*

That NEVER happens in the work place! He must be the devil himself. To this I say...

BFD (Big Effin Deal)

Seriously. Who gives a shit. So he messed around with some consenting adult women from his staff. He wasn't married and a father then, and even if he was it's NONE OF OUR BUSINESS. That entire affair(s) is between him and his girlfriend, now wife.

The best part of this story, however, is the asshat who tried to extort two million smackers from Dave was a 48 Hours investigative producer! I mean, come on! This Cat has spent his career uncovering clues of would-be criminals, and yet he doesn't realize blackmail is rarely successful? Those boneheads pretty much always get caught. Moron.

So here's what went down (as if you haven't heard). Bozo reads his GF's diary entries detailing Letterman's entries (if you know what I mean, and I think you do), places a package in the back seat of Dave's car containing evidence of said dalliances and threats of exposure via a screenplay and movie deal, Dave drops off a fake check for a cool 2 million, Lex Luthor picks up the check, Feds slap his stupid ass in jail.

Here's the scoop straight from the horse's mouth:

Allegedly, Boy Genius was in over his head with alimony and other debt. Boo Hoo. That doesn't mean you betray your girlfriend by using her diary as a means to shake down her boss for some hefty do-re-mi. Did he really think Dave wouldn't involve the feds? Apparently yes. Yes he did.

Naturally there was the onslaught of related viewer polls, "Will this hurt Late Night's popularity?" "Does this revelation make you feel negatively towards Letterman?" "Will Jon and Kate make a murder/suicide pack sparing the American public any more of their inane bullshit?"

Uhhh.. no. no and unfortunately, no. Sadly we will all have to endure more drivel about that wack-ass couple.

But I digress...

You know it's not like Dave touted himself as the poster boy of family values, pounding his chest while perched on his pompous pulpit screeching how his moral compass is so much stronger than the rest of us peons below like so many deluded politicians and holy rollers. I'm talking about you, Larry Craig and Mark Sanford.

He's just a talk show host. A talk show host with a lot of class and courage to come clean and address this issue head on. Yeah he fucked up, but no good comes from lying. It's better to just admit it, take your lumps, tuck your tail between your legs, face the consequences and move on. He's publicly apologized to his wife and staff members who are now facing the barrage of a full-press media frenzy, hell bent on naming names and dragging more people through the mud in the name of "news gathering" in order to quench their blood lust for higher ratings.

He's got a lot to atone for if he's to repair his relationship with his wife. I don't envy him that journey. But again, that's between him and Regina. It is none of our bid-ness, as Dave used to say. All I know is he still continues to be the best entertainer on late night and one of the classiest schlubs on TV.

You know, politicians could take a lesson from Davy boy on how to handle a scandal. Hey, that rhymes.

Lord Stanley Lord Stanley...Show Me The Candy!

or our boys finally get their bling

Okay, so last night the members of the my beloved Pittsburgh Penguins received their Stanley Cup Championship rings at a private party overlooking the confluence bordering our picturesque hometown.

Each ring bears the players name and number, the Cup, the four playoff victories, the Pens logo and 167 diamonds weighing four carats, more or less.

Yeah. 167 diamonds. It's a big ring.

It's an UGLY-ASS big ring!

I mean really. Look at that monstrosity. It practically covers the entire first digit of Sid's ring finger. That sucker's got to tip the scales at, like I don't know, five pounds? Okay. I exaggerate, but come on! That's almost as hideous as the Steelers Super Bowl ring.

No matter.

Our boys battled through 28 unbelievably intense playoff contests to earn the right to hoist the treasured Cup and proudly don this hardware. They can design it however the Hell they want. They've waited a loooooong time for this. It's the icing on the cake. A really ginormous, gaudy cake whose icing is four inches thick and sweet enough to make your teeth jump ship just from smelling it.

And for those of us who bleed and sweat right alongside them during that emotionally draining post season, tomorrow is our day when the Championship flags are raised in the rafters of the igloo. The final celebration of an incredible fairy tale season.

Congratulations boys!! Now it's time to get back to work. There's a lot of space left in those rafters.

Let's Go Pens!!

P.S.: Warning: I'm going to be a girl right now. Look at Sid's beautiful face ...and those lips! How is it they are always so red? Really. I'd like to know. It's like he's wearing lipstick. Seriously. I'd like to know.

P.P.S.: Here's a picture of the freshly minted cup names!!! It makes me so happy!

"Go For It Roy!!"

or an unexpected end to an otherwise dismal season

Okay, so Geo and I went to the penultimate Pirates baseball game at the ever-so-lovely PNC Park with our good friends Doug and Kelly. It was prize day wherein the Bucco organization literally cleans out its proverbial closet of all the random extra crap they couldn't give away over the season and shove it into the waiting arms of those attending.

This year the give-aways were as disappointing as the putrid performance of the Pirates players. A magnetic schedule for 2010?!? Really? That's what you're giving away? A schedule. Seriously? I spit my disgust in your general direction.

Anyhoo...

I arrived around the third inning in time to see our team score two runs. Then the Dodgers scored to tie it 2-2 so, that was pretty much it for highlights of the game.

The biggest cheers from the crowd came when Cheese Chester pulled ahead of Sauerkraut Sal, Oliver Onion and my darling Jalapeno Hanna (on a steeeeck. Jeff Dunham fans will get that) to win the ever popular Perogie Race. For those non-Burghers, the Perogie race is when four grown men and women don big-ass perogie costumes and run around the outfield to the finish line tape in right field. It's very popular and some nights the only thing worth cheering.

That's Kelly with Sauerkraut Saul

The second biggest crowd pleaser of the afternoon was a dude in the middle deck catching back-to-back foul balls for his kid. It was brilliant. His performance was so good, the Pirates immediately traded him to the Atlanta outfield stands for a fan to be named later. You know, in a rebuilding effort.

That's funny because it's true.

Back to the game...

At the top of the ninth, the Bucs bobbled a simple double play to start a Dodgers' rally ending in a soul-crushing score of 5-2. It was such an excruciatingly painful performance, the 8 year old boys around us started taunting our team with Little League dis like "we need a catcher, not a belly scratcher". There was nothing left to do but laugh. Really. This bungled loss would be a fitting end to a nightmarish season. The final nail in the coffin of every Pirates fan hopes and dreams of a respectable end to a record breaking dismal season.

But wait... surprisingly the bottom of the ninth started out with a couple hits and a run. All throughout the game, the Dodgers kept walking our better player, Garret Jones to get to Lastings Millege who played into their hands by being completely flat at bat. A successful strategy to this point, the Dodgers decided to keep playing the odds and walked Jones once more to take their chances with Millege, loading the bases in the process.

This was the last chance for Millege to redeem himself. Will he be the goat or the hero?

His bat finally connected with the ball sending it deep to right field. The blistering orb slipped under the glove of the outfielder and headed for the wall. Two Pirates scored easily. Seeing there was no throw coming, Jones--who was intentionally walked, remember--rounded third and charged home to score the winning run!!

Then Jones broke away from his exuberant teammates, and lead the pack towards second to celebrate with the former goat, now game hero, the man of the minute, Lastings Millege. The crowd (what was left of us) went wild, the fireworks went off, the team jumped and cheered like kids.

An unexpected fantastic finish. And it felt good!!

For one brief moment, there was joy in Mudville.

On a Happier Note...

It's Big Mar's 88th birthday today!

88 years old. Holy Crap! I can't imagine being 88. Hell, I can't imaging being 80 or 70 even.

She wears it well. Sure she's slowed down and can't get around as well without a cane or an arm to hold onto, but her mind is sharp as a tack. She still does crosswords, reads voraciously and plays cards with her BFFs. And she still is the best cook in the family. It's nothing for her to whip up dinner for 10 or 14 or 22. She never sweats it. Even holidays with the entire brood and an assortment of strays, she never freaks. She loves the chaos.

Amazing.

Growing up all of our friends used to come hang at our house. They loved her as much as we did. She was like everyones Mom only better because she always had fresh bread baking or some other wonderful culinary treat cooking on the stove. Don't get me wrong. She wasn't shy about disciplining us or our friends if we needed it. But she always did it fairly. Then it'd over and she'd feed us cake.

Our house was the family party house. Any relatives from out of town would always stay with us..as crowded and inelegant as it was. She and my Dad made if fun for them. She's still one of the most cheerful, fun-loving old ladies I know. I like to think we all got our positive disposition and sense of humor from her.

She's smart enough that had she been born in these times, she could have been anything she wanted to be. A lawyer. A doctor. An executive. But she was born in an era when not many had the opportunity to go to college. She became a wife and mother instead. And I'm thankful for that. I wouldn't want anyone else to be my Mom. She is the best. Elegant and smart, quick to laugh and loves unconditionally. And boy does she love kids. Here's a photo of her whooping it up with my nephew Mike who is a complete carbon copy of my brother, Bud. (Her little baby boy. Her favorite, by the way. Oh yeah. Don't deny it Big Mar.)

She wants to live to be 95. I hope it's longer...much longer.

So here's to you, Big Mar. Happy 88th. May you always find humor in the mundane, laughter in the little things and be surrounded by those who love and cherish you.

Salut!

Calling All Cocktails

or here we go again...

Okay, so today has been one of those off days.

First of all, I had an extra steel drum practice this morning, and I could not have stunk up the place any more. Like a huge turd. A ginormous, garlic-laden Chinese take out, beer loaf fueled, noxious gas cloud accompanied turd. With a capital "T".

You'd think I never heard these songs before. We're supposed to perform for some big-time charity event in a couple weeks. Pffft! Yeah. Like that's not going to be too humiliating. And no, you're not invited unless you have really, REALLY deep pockets to donate thousands and are, you know, deaf. Then you can sit in the front row.

Moving on...

Part two of my "off" off day involved a trip to the hospital for a three-years-running follow-up ultrasound of my petite decolletage. After waiting for over half an hour (thank God they had wifi so my iTouch could keep me company) I was ushered into a badly lit room and handed a lovely cloth gown. Ladies, you know the one I'm talking about...it has the repetitive little diamond pattern on it much like your Pappy's boxers from the 50s. Mmmmm... Dead sexy.

This thing has almost as many random ties as Medusa has snakes for hair. Seriously. I don't know what my problem is, but I can never seem to front tie the damn thing closed. There's always a gap through which some such embarrassing girlie bit peeks. Hellooo, Sailor! Why bother covering up anyway, right? I'm just gonna have to whip out my fun bags for some stranger to wrangle. Thank God it's a chick and not some burly, furry Sasquatch Dude with a nicotine stained red beard and missing bottom teeth who doesn't wear boxers or briefs. Eeeewww!

"Hi. I'm Pam. Now lay back and let's whip that bad-boy out so I can squeeze about three inches of this ice-cold gel on your girls and press this flat DE-vice clear down to your gizzard over and over and over and over..."

Good times.

After thirty fun-filled minutes of awkward chit chat and even more awkward silences, the tech scurries out of the room to consult the doc. Turns out there are two cysts they want to do a TFA or PFA or DDT or BFD or WTF...whatever the Hell it's called. It's a fine needle aspiration of the fluid contained in the aforementioned offending cysts.

Shit.

It's not necessarily bad. It's probably nothing, much like the last time. And it certainly could be far worse. Like big-time worse. Like festering death hidden in the hollows of my innards, worse. I have two dear friends who are dealing with the Big Bad Wolf of cancers, so I should quit whining, right? Right. But still...

Shit.

I hate being a statistic.

See, now if I'd only been a big ole hootchie and got knocked up way back when, I probably wouldn't be facing this crap. But, Nooooooooooo. I had to be a good girl.

Anywho, I was fine...until I called Geo. Then the tears just started flowing. Absolutely ridonkulous with a capital DONK. I mean, really. I'm not dying of cancer. It's nothing, but you know, that's how girls are. Well, that's how THIS girl is. The first familiar voice and WHOOSH! Waterworks.

So you know what I did? I bought two Reese's Peanut Butter Pumpkin bars and ate both of them. Then I washed them down with the tallest fucking Mojito I could concoct. Because sometimes in life the only pacifier is cocktails and chocolate.

Time to turn that frown upside down. *ice cubes tinkling* Ready for a refill.

Bell X1 Blows Into Town in a Sprinter

or how to spend an excellent Tuesday night in Pittsburgh

Okay, so yesterday Geo and I ventured out of the comfort zone of our Italian leather sofa to catch the Irish band, Bell X1 at a great little intimate club on the South Side. And get this...it was a Tuesday.

Yeah. Tuesday. A school night. We're rebels. You can't stop us and our maverick ways.

Anywho, long story short (wha? a short story from me? I know, right? this post is full of surprises!) we.LOVED.THEM!!

They were so much better than we expected. The lead singer, who I will call "Michael" since I have no idea what his name is, totally looks like an older version of Michael Cera from "Arrested Development" fame.

They write such great music. It's full of layers and witty phrasings delivered with an off beat cadence. "M.C." is so much fun to watch perform. Much like my heartthrob, Rhett, he's one of those artists who closes his eyes, gets completely absorbed into the music and lets his body convulse however it wants without the slightest bit of self consciousness. At times I thought, "this is how Frankenstein would look if he was so inclined to dance". How could you not enjoy being a part of that type of abandon?

There are so many great lines in their songs, all delivered with a silky smooth voice:

My tongue is scaling... the north face of your neck/and we're glaring... like warriors/but I have a feeling you won't look at me that way...in the morning

Your picking your knickers out of your ass like your plucking a one string harp

and my favorite from The Great Defector:

You're the chocolate at the end of my...cornetto/I love the way your underwire bra/always sets off that X-ray... machine

One funny thing that happened, at the top of the show "Michael" asked everyone to move the tables and chairs closer to the stage. Of course, we all complied. At the end of the set there was no room for the band to weave through the crowd to wait in the back for us to do the little end-of-show dance and beg them via applause to return for an encore. So "Mikey" looks out and exposes the entire sham that is the encore by saying something like "this is where we'd normally walk off and then you clap for us to come back. Do you want us to come back? Should we just pretend we went off stage and just keep playing?" To which everyone cheered and yelled for them to stay.

Anywho...we had such a great time. They left us wanting them to return again soon. A school night very well spent. Here are three songs from the evening recorded on my Barney Rubble pocket camera.

Flame (in which he dances like a spazzy Frankenstein and plays... COWBELL!)

Rocky Takes a Lover

and the closer, The Great Defector (won't you tell us about those rabbits, George)

You can hear more songs streaming on their myspace page here. Enjoy!