Cavorting Amongst A Calvalcade Of Crazies
or all Hallow's Eve in the South Side

Okay, so everyone knows Halloween is primarily an excuse for humanoids with a vagina (and sometimes a brain) to shed their inhibitions along with their dignity and act out their fantasies by parading around in public in their finest hootchie wear.


I know what all you swinging Richards are thinking as you scan the scantily clad, temporarily tarted-up trollops ...


Me: What a skank!
Male: *stare* I'm sorry. Did you say something?
Me: Your gonads are on fire.
Male: What? Yeah. That's cool...
Me: Exactly.


Anywho, Saturday night my SXSW bud, Howard and I made our annual trek to the South Side to watch Night of the Singing Dead, Rowan and Martin's Coffin. 

It just wouldn't be an outing without
a lime slice and swizzle stick

Night of the Singing Dead is a locally produced musical tribute dedicated to all the performers/personalities who have passed on to the great beyond, focusing on the recently deceased. I can best describe it as a group of your friends getting together, burning a spliff or three and deciding to put on a show in the proverbial barn. Everybody wears cheesy costumes, tells off-color cornball jokes and tries to crack each other up with outrageous behavior. It's ludicrous and lame and I love it. I wrote about this locally written wit and groan fest last year here.


This year's offering was great fun as always. The set was a replica of the Laugh-In joke wall complete with hidden windows for comic effect. The opener was an hilarious June, Ward and Beaver Cleaver bit sung to Fever. As you might expect, the beaver references were fast and furious leaving us drunken louts breathless from laughter. I didn't record the entire bit, because clearly I am a giant asshat. But trust me, it was epic, and not just because we were imbibing either.


No theatrical skewering would be complete this year without a hit on our numskull QB, Ben Rapelisberger and his misguided super-sized schlong.


Back to the cavalcade of crazies...


So we head out of the theater to inhabit the streets with the creatures of the night. One of our favorite things to do is people watch. The human genus is fascinating on a normal day. Halloween just ups the ante 10 fold.


First thing out of the gate, we encounter the mother load. A veritable clown car of high-heeled hootchie girls. We just stepped out onto the sidewalk when a limo bus pulled up, opened its door and out poured all the classics: hootchie nurse, hootchie Catholic School Girl, hootchie sailor girl, hootchie teacher, a whoopie cushion... Wha?!?


One of these things is not like the other.


How'd she get in there? She had waaaaay too much cloth on to be part of that crowd of teetering teasers. She must have paid for the bus.


Here are some other encounters of note:


Apparently even Superman needs access to quick cash. Who knew?

ATMs are Clark's Kryptonite

• Lots of Playboy bunnies, including a burly six foot dude in Go-Go boots, fish nets and curly back hair (as you may remember, straight dudes in frocks rock my world)
• one Snookie, which was one too many
• Blue-haired Katy Perry and her cupcake bra
• The Four Diapered Horsemen of the Apocalypse-seriously. just diapers and a t-shirt
• Nuns canoodling with priests
• Hunter S. Thompson chatting up Jesus. Fear and Loathing with our Lord Jesus (and his busty Nurse Nancy)
• Papa Smurf
• 101 blood-soaked zombies
• several males as bananas (calling Dr. Freud)
• one gaseous wiener

and finally...


Dick in a Box!!

One. Cut a hole in the box...

But hands down the scariest sight of this unholy night was found lurking in a darkened doorway. A beer-bellied old creeper leaning against the door jam wearing nothing but a leopard thong.


*shudder*


When I caught sight of him I literally screamed out loud, as did Howard... as did the young couple behind us. Then we all gouged our eyes out in unison.


The next night my lovely little hamlet celebrated Halloween. We had a fair amount of adorable tots, pre-teens and teens knock on our door. 

The only way Stink Bugs could be adorable this year

This was by far the cleverest costume of the evening.

Dear God: Thanks, but I'd like to exchange my
gift for an aged XL in smouldering hawt, please.

Nerds. You gotta love 'em.

"But I Know, I Know, I Know I'm Not Alone..."
or spending an energetic evening with yoga loving Michael Franti

Last Saturday my work buddy, Sue and I travelled to the Carnegie Library in Homestead to be drenched in the shiny, happy positive energy of Michael Franti and Spearhead.

And, Dude! They sold alcohol! At the library. No shit. We got lit amongst the literature.

Brrrrrrrrrilliant!

Best. Bibliotecca. EVA!!

Randy Andy smiling approvingly at the lushes
amongst his literary legacy

The only draw back to this venue is the acoustics, which is kind of an important thing being a music hall. I don't know if we were in a dead spot, or the mix was wack, but every time he spoke in the mic it sounded like Charlie Brown's teacher talking. "Wa Wa Wa Wa Wa"

I'm not kidding. I admit I have trouble understanding chatter at bigger concerts in general, but everyone in our section was having the same issue so it wasn't just me and my impaired hearing. We all just shrugged our shoulders and Woo Hooed along with the crowd, completely ignorant to what we were cheering on. Could have been a simple "Hello Pittsburgh!" or "those deaf chicks in the balcony are buying!!" It all sounded the same to us. Unintelligible.

The coolest man in the room

I fell in love with Franti's work after hearing his 2006 release, Yell Fire! and have been wanting to see him in concert ever since. His music and message is buoyant, upbeat and completely infectious. Even when he strays from his signature songs of love, peace and harmony into the political realm, he still manages to be positive in his admonitions. "El Presidente, you behave!"

He is uber cool and his optimism is ridiculously catchy. I absolutely cannot sit still during one of his songs. It's embarrassing. I awkwardly bound around the room with complete abandon. Good thing there's usually no one around to witness the horror of my Elaine Benis dance movements. The humiliation is worth it, because there is nothing like a big ole dose of happy feet to make you forget your sorrows.

a sea of white folk bouncing to the beat

Anywho, the theater is smaller holding probably around 250 people, but the stage is large enough to accommodate all the band members and their equipment while still leaving ample space for Michael to jump and dance around. Which he did... for two hours, only slowing down midway for a slower three song set.

Right out of the gate, as soon as Franti stepped on stage, the energy hit the roof propelling the audience to it's feet. He was non-stop pogo jumping, tribal dancing and belting out the good Ju Ju, effortlessly wrapping the crowd around his finger. He has incredible energy for a 40+ humanoid. He hardly broke a sweat and wasn't the least bit winded. Amazing. Must be all the yoga he practices.

The evening was spectacular, uplifting, energizing. The masses clapped and danced along with every offering from the stage. We were putty in his gentle hands.

One cat in the balcony was so into it, he just had to remove his shirt, terrifying...er, I mean treating us all to his pasty-white, beer belly in full glory.

Seriously. Why.

I ask you, why is it only white guys with big guts, farmers' tans and pants barely hanging on under there mid section are the ones who go shirtless? Why don't any of the gorgeous six-pack ab, tanned Adonises ever go au naturale? So not fair!

But I digress...

At one point he picked some people to join him on stage during "Shake It" to .. um, shake it with him.

a full-on dance par-tay

Shake it! Sh-sh-sh shake it!

He fearlessly cruised through the crowd during his bouncy "Hey Hey Hey"

fearlessly up close and personal 

ending up on our balcony to sing Happy Birthday to the girl in the hat before motoring on, successfully avoiding contact with the aforementioned pasty-white, sweaty, shirtless dude.

Is that a groovy gee-tar, or what?

 

Happy Birthday to her

Finally, he called everyone under 16 and over 60 to the stage for the big finale of his huge hit "Say Hey, (I Love You)".

"And I know one thing. I love you. Baby girl."

I didn't take any videos this night because of the whole Charlie Brown teacher sound factor, but here's a video of the finale from this summer's Bonnaroo Music Festival.



Besides being a purveyor of peace, love and positive vibes, Franti is a humanitarian. Ten years ago he performed in a third world country where most of the people living there never owned a pair of shoes. As a sign of solidarity he decided to go barefoot for three solid days. Ten years later he still doesn't wear shoes. To mark his anniversary, he created the Soles4Souls charity to collect money as well as actual shoes to send to those children around the globe who have none. He spoke with a family from Pittsburgh who are doing their part.



Just a little thing he does to give back. There's a lot of good karma floating around him. We could all take a lesson. We're all in this thing called life together. Like Michael says, "I know I know I know I'm not alone..." You can find out more on his website here.

If you're in need of a serious lift in your spirits, go buy his CDs here.  And be prepared to be moved, with or without your shoes.

Date Night!!
or spending the night with three of our favorite Irish blokes

Okay, so it's not technically "date night" since we don't have precocious progeny to pass off to self-absorbed, text-obsessed teens with raging hormones and gnat-like attention spans who charge a small fortune to tend to our cherubs every need in between G3 gossip fests... but still, we left the familiar confines of our house on a Saturday night to partake in a tasty Merlot and listen to live music amongst random adults in a crowded cafe. So, yeah. Date Night.

Anywho, as the years roll on it seems to take the threat of a ginormous stack of Acme dynamite under our buttocks to get Geo and me off our comfy couch and back out the door once we're snuggled in the bat cave. I'm usually up for almost anything, but Geo has much more discerning taste. The talented lads from the Emerald Isle known as Bell X1 fit his criteria.

It's been a year since lead singer David Geraghty and friends played our fair city. (See, I've learned his name since last year's post here. He still reminds me of Michael Cera though.) Instead of jamming all six band members atop the tiny stage, only three band mates toured this time around. Just a guitar, bass, keyboard and ... an iPod??!?

Yep. An iPod. It provided the back beat for their opener "How Your Heart Is Wired".

Technology kicks ass! Or in this case kicks a mean rhythm.

What we've learned by going to Club Cafe... less equals more. Less performers on stage equals more welcomed chatter with the audience. Dave answered inquiries tossed out from the crowd, pondered the term business casual regarding the dress code for their West Wing tour the next day and told some entertaining stories including one about Bono being heckled during a particularly pompous moment, but it was the music that shined brightest. His hypnotic delivery of old hits, Flame, Mr. Benn and of course The Great Defector as well as future classics, Velcro and Night Watchman from their yet-to-be-released CD, was brilliant.

Embracing their inner nerd, we witnessed a little background vocal pre-production to round out "Ribs of a Broken Umbrella".

Like last time, the merch guy pushed the tables up against the platform prior to the show leaving a singular narrow path to the stage making it nigh impossible for them to gracefully walk off the staging. Once again, we all played along as the guys pretended to leave for the encore, because really, what's the point. They had fresh, fan-bought beers so it wasn't like they had to go backstage to down a couple cold ones to soothe their parched throats. Plus there was that whole penned-in-by-the tables thing.

You remember how all the bands we saw this summer did a cover at the end of their shows? Alejandro Escovedo covered The Stones' "Beast of Burden", Ingrid Michaelson did Britney's "Toxic" and Guster regaled us with Phil Collins' "In the Air Tonight"... Well in keeping with this trend, Bell X1 tacked on our favorite Smiths tune to their final song of the evening.

A perfect ending to another enchanting evening of music in a year filled with song.

When Burgers Are Posers
and other unexpected catalog fodder

And now for something completely salty... In an attempt to illustrate the mood swings of my literary stylings of late I present the following:

Okay, so it's that time of year when several dells are decimated by the parade of catalogs monopolizing our mailbox. Among the plethora of publications is a catalog called Solutions. It offers tons of crap which are supposed to make life's day to day duties easier. Believe it or not, some of it is actually useful.

While perusing through the most recent of the 2800 copies we get a year, Geo stumbled on this one-of-a-kind must have for the discerning picnic thrower. I give you... the Ham Dogger

"Make a hamburger with a "hot dog" twist--even stuff it!!"

That's right. A wiener shaper for your meat, because it ain't a party until your burger looks like a wang.

"Gee Honey. Our parties have been lacking a certain...je nez ce johnson."

Hey that reminds me...my "boyfriend" is on the fritz. Do you have a "solution" for that? No prob. Check out page 123.

What the?!?

Wha?!? So when the hell did Solutions become your place for personal "massagers" to *Ahem* soothe aching muscles? Tucked away in the later part of the catalog are all sorts of intimate accoutrement.

That one's "Ultra Smooth" and has a daisy in it for the ladies who like to be romanced, even when it's by their own hand, so to speak. What gal can resist a glassed-in posey ticklin' her mitten? Now if it would mix me a mean Mojito prior to the "luvin"-- I'm in, BABY!

Can't you just hear Betty, your friendly Indian phone bank operator saying, "Please to suggest customers who bought de Ham Dogger also bought de Whisper of Destiny 'relaxer'."

Whisper Destiny
nubby in all the right places

Good thing the Ham Dogger and that battery-powered puppy aren't on the same page.

Ladies. Same old burger giving you the blahs? Got an itch that needs scratching? Have we got a Solution for you! But please, for the love of all that is freshly ground...don't confuse the two.

In Which I Ponder Mortality

Okay, so we had a scare this week involving my beloved Mum, Big Mar. She called me Monday in a panic, unable to breath.

There was no answer at her doctor's office--What. The. Hell?!-- so I opted for one of the new Medi-Fast walk-in clinics. I've had great success with these stand-alone medical facilities in the past and have been very pleased with their speed of service. These places are fabulous. They have X-rays, blood drawers and lab specialists on site to make diagnoses quick and painless. You can usually get in and out of there in about an hour.

Urgency dictated I bypass my usual Medi-Fast for one closer to Big Mar's house. What's the difference. They're all the same, right?

Wrong.

This particular clinic was ghetto. Oh it looked clean enough, but the place gave off a weird vibe and was jammed with ne'er-do-wells. We waited for about 45 minutes to get into a room, then when the doctor finally stopped by he stood as far away from my Mom as humanly possible while checking her lungs. I'm not kidding. I swear if he had Inspector Gadget Go-Go-Gadget Arms and a 20 foot stethoscope, he would have stood at the nurses station to do the exam.

Dude, if you're that freaked out by sick people, chances are you've chosen the wrong career.

Here's the best part, after waiting for another 25 minutes to get an   X-ray, Dr. Germaphobe pops his head in to tell us "oh, yeah...the      X-ray machine is broken, but you probably have pneumonia. You'll have to go to the hospital."

Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr...

I looked at my poor, sick Mom struggling to inhale her breathing treatment and a tear rolled down my cheek. She looked so pale and frail and worn out. She's 89 years old, but she's still feisty, fun and full of life. Sitting there hunched over, she looked so weak and helpless. Right then the inevitability of her mortality hit me. I got up, sat next to her and hugged her to me, my tears streaming, wetting her hair as she leaned her head into the crook of my neck. 
I realized two things right then:

1) I'm not ready to say goodbye to her. Not yet. I don't know if I'll ever be ready, but definitely not now. I need her to be here for at least a few more years.
And 2) I feel completely ill-equipped to care for her properly.

I don't have kids. I'm the youngest of five. I don't know how to take care of myself let alone someone else, and yet somehow the tables had turned. I am now the "parent." I have no earthly idea what I'm doing, but I know I can't do this alone.

The second guessing going on in my brain was deafening. What could I have done better? Should I have taken her to see the doctor sooner? Should I have insisted she move in with me? God she would HATE that. She's too independent to ever accept moving in with any of us.

Fortunately my sister, Toni showed up at the hospital to endure the eight hour ordeal with us. I was so relieved to see her smiling face. I immediately felt the burden lift. She and I are the emotional ones in the family, but she has a very calming presence to both me and Big Mar. She's a doer, not a ponderer like me. Between the two of us, we're able to make a sound decision.

I'm happy to say me Mum is on the mend. She's still in the hospital, but the steroids and other meds are working wonders. She's back to her vivacious, effervescent self. I tease her that she'll be able to bench press 300lbs by the time she gets sprung. She's a tough old bird, and I love her with all my heart.

This scare with Big Mar (hey, that rhymes) has got me thinking about my own mortality. Geo and I don't have children so really, how much does our passing matter. My demise will be a mere blip in the Matrix. It's through one's children that one's impact in life is measured. Besides Geo, who's going to miss me anyway. Seriously.

And no, this is not a cheesy ploy to get all two of you to chime in with pronouncements to validate my existence. Although all testaments to my greatness will be gladly accepted, noted and listed according to level of adoration. 

I kid.

Okay, maybe only a little. Testament of one's importance on this crazy blue planet is essential to placating the fragile human ego. Validation. Affirmation. Confirmation of one's worth... Isn't that why people take to the stage, pen songs and write bloggity blog blogs? Aren't they all means to the same end? Just ways for someone to stand up and scream, "Hey look at me World! I matter!" We all want to believe our absence will leave a permanent gap in the Cosmos. Maybe people don't fear the physical act of death so much as the fading away from the human conscious.

Pondering my own mortality, I have to admit I've had a pretty good life so far. I have no regrets. Geo and I have experienced amazing things in our travels both here and abroad. I have friends and family who have enriched my life in ways too numerous to count. I've known the gift of being loved unconditionally as well as the unmitigated joy of loving to the fullest extent of my heart.

I guess what I'm trying to say is if it all suddenly went dark tomorrow and my spirit was freed from this mortal coil... I'd be okay with it.

"Show Me Penis!"
or the discombobulation of a game show host


Okay, so my crack staff of Internet scanners in charge of finding all things humorous, AKA Jimmy McParkway, presented me with a gem from the newly revamped Family Feud.


I have been a lover of The Family Feud since its start way back in my stone-age youth. You don't have to be a braniac like on Jeopardy. It's a simple game anyone with a pulse can play. Plus there's a touch of Schadenfreude watching John Q Pubic embarrass himself by spontaneously spouting  off-the-top-of-the-head-oh-my-GAWD-did-I-just-say-that-out-loud wildly inapproriate answers, leaving himself wide open to the comedic ridicule of the host. 

Don't judge me.

Over its long and varied history, The Feud has been helmed by an assortment of hosts like Louie Anderson and Seinfeld's Mr. Peterson, but hands down my favorite leader of the pack animals has always been the original, Richard Dawson. Suave, charming and quick with a witty ribbing when a family member combusted under pressure. He was the master.


Until now.


I give you the modern, what-the-ef-was-that? styling of Mr. Steve Harvey:



There's a new sheriff in town, Bee-yatch!

On The 70th Anniversary Of A Beatle's Birth

Yesterday would have been John Lennon's 70th birthday.

70th. Hard to believe, isn't it.

The Beatles were together only a short time and Lennon churned out a mere handful of solo efforts, but he and his band mates left an indelible mark on the music scene. I'm always amazed by the lasting impact of those four mop-topped lads from Liverpool.

Being a pre-teen during their hey day, my musical tastes leaned toward the lighter, pop fare of Paul McCartney. It was only with the passing of time and life experience did I come to appreciate and prefer the collective works of John Lennon. His wit, pain, and longing for a better world have stayed with me throughout the years.

The messages in his solo works like Whatever Gets You Thru The Night, Give Peace a Chance and especially Imagine are still relevant today. Whenever I see people doing questionable things, I find myself singing Lennon's Instant Karma!. It's gonna get you...

In addition to being a legendary lyricist, Lennon was also a terrific humorist. His collection of absurd short stories, "In His Own Write" kept my college roommates and I in tears many a night...with or without the help of Mary Jane.

Lennon struggled with his own personal demons for much of his life. It wasn't until Sean was born and he took on the role of primary care giver did he flourish and step into the lightness of being. Finally, at age 40 he had stared his demons down and came through more centered than he had been his entire life. He even put to rest his long standing conflict with Paul. He seemed full of hope. The promise of this new upward direction in both his life and music was echoed in his most positive work, Double Fantasy.

And then he was gone.

I remember so vividly the day he was shot. An incredibly sad day. Yet I find his death very poetic, romantic even. He spent so much of his adult life in inner turmoil. It had taken him almost 40 years, but he was finally at peace with his past and happy for the first time in his life.

When you think about it, isn't that the best way to leave this mortal coil... when you're content and fulfilled instead of angry and bitter.