Another Senseless Holiday Crime Spree

Great. Now I'm never going to get that effing pony.

In Which I Sit On My Butt At The Computer Instead Of Getting On With The Business of Christmas

Okay, so it's December 23, (What?! Already?!?) the tree doesn't even have lights on let alone decorations, the house is so messed up we're waiting for FEMA to deliver a signature white disaster trailer in the drive, and I have not addressed one single Christmas greeting card. Yet here I sit at the computer wasting time.


And guess what? I don't really care.


I'm not depressed or even the least bit sad. On the contrary, I have this unusual sense of calm...and freshly waxed, baby-bottom-smooth armpits. 


Hey my Holiday prep is in a shambles, but come on! Priorities, people. I may not have checked anything off my "To Do, You Lazy Bee-Yatch" list which mocks me at every turn, or taken time to clean or bake or write cards, but having my Simian armpits hairless is way up there on the food-chain of priorities. And for those who know me... Yeti + hairless = huge feat.


Anywho, the bear trap of holiday trappings has been replaced with the preference to socialize. I don't need, nor want anything really. Like we need more crap to clutter our already stacked to the max dwelling. What's more important now isn't whether the house is decorated, but getting together with those equally irreverent like-mind, lovable lunatics I call friends and family. On that front I can say I've been rather successful.


And as Linus says, "that's what (this) Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown."


You can take this stress and shove it. I'm going to lunch. 

So This One Time At the Bowery Ballroom...

Okay, so last week Geo and I were vacationing with family in Northern New Jersey at the same time Old 97's just happened to be performing in New York City not once, but three times. How serendipitous!! I love synchronicity. Synchronicity ROCKS! I jumped online and was lucky enough to buy tickets to the back-to-back shows (Wednesday and Thursday) at the Bowery Ballroom in the lower east side.

The guys had driven all night to the Big Apple from their gig the night before in Baltimore. Over the next two days, they did one presser after another in between energetic shows that ran into the early morning. Rhett and Murry had the unenviable task of performing bright and early Wednesday on Good Day Fox 5. They were visibly scruffy and road weary in a completely Rock 'n Roll way, but still managed to belt out a terrific version of Champagn, IL for the morning folks. After only two hours sleep, Thursday morning pulled out its task-master whip and had the entire band up and in Don Imus' studio at the inhumane hour of 5am for four top-of-the-hour performances, then off to WNYC radio to play "A State of Texas" for Soundcheck before they could remotely think about a cat nap. Whew! Hardcore, man. Most bands would wilt under that kind of grueling schedule, but I’m here to tell you what we witnessed was the polar opposite

Wednesday's show was classic Old 97's. Interspersed amongst old crowd favorites, Won't Be Home, Rollerskate Skinny, and Big Brown Eyes, we were treated to a couple of new tunes like the lovely "Love Is What You Are", the chugging "Please Hold On..." and even  a growling version of "I'll Cry Instead" in honor of John Lennon.



The sold out gathering was all aglow as they exited the steamy venue into the cool street for home.

But Thursday night's performance was On. Its. HEAD!

From the first chord of The Grand Theatre until the long, lingering, last note of Time Bomb the energy was pegging at eleven!! Outside of Love is What You Are and Question, they never let up. EVER. Ken's grinding guitar, Rhett's bellowing vocals and brain-bruising head bangs, Murry's heart-thumping bass punk stance, Philip's signature cadence... we were puddy in their hands. They played the audience to perfection, whipping us into a whisky-soaked, sing-along frenzy. The packed house willingly filled in the vocals for Barrier Reef, Big Brown Eyes, Stoned and Rhett's acoustic set of Niteclub and Our Love. Seriously, how cool is it to step away from the mic and listen to hundreds of people sing your words back to you unprompted?

They all looked like they were having a blast chatting to each other on stage, Ken and Murry playing to the crowd as well as each other.



Several times Ken perched precariously at the end of the stage, teasing the crowd while his telecaster sizzled.

But Dude. The set closing "If My Heart Was a Car".

Holy Mary, Mother of God!

It was completely off the charts INSANE! I've never seen this live before. It started off slowly with Ken literally sitting on the edge of the stage plucking the opening, then it just exploded with a balls-to-wall energy generally reserved for Time Bomb. The front row was anointed with Rhett sweat from his fevered head bobs. This was Rock 'n Roll, Baby!!



All of that and they STILL put in a high octane performance of Time Bomb. Aaaa Time Bomb. The first chord strike of that song is always bittersweet for me. I love it because they all play it with such abandon, squeezing every bit of energy they have left into the performance, but it signifies the end of the evening and I'm never ready for the doors to close. Like an insatiable child, I want to stand up and say "Do it again!"

If this is how they play after walking through the Valley of Exhaustion. Clearly sleep deprivation works for them.

Initially I was bummed not to be able to go to Brooklyn for day three of Old 97's Take Manhattan, but after Thursday's incredible show I was satisfied. I couldn't imagine how they could have topped that one.

In hindsight, I wish I would have recorded more but honestly I just wanted to drink it all in and sing at the top of my lungs.

Friday Photo: Holiday Edition
or Big Mar vs. the TSA


Yeah. This is how we treat our 89 year-old mother of five. But hey, in our defense, she doesn't fly anymore so, what the Hell. We didn't want to deny her the thrill of a government sanctioned grope. Is that so wrong? Besides, I think she liked it...perhaps a little too much. Sick! ;-) 


Love you, Mumsie!

So December. We Meet Again...

You just got here. You can't even take off your coat first before dumping white shite all over us? What the ef?!? What? Did your little boyfriend, Fall run off with the hot chick at the end of the bar Thanksgiving night when you were in the bathroom barfing up the sushi and six martinis you devoured leaving you stranded holding your hair out of your chunk-covered face?

Boo frickin' Hoo! Get over yourself. Four solid months of this crap ain't gonna fly. Have a Xanax with your gin and take a nap. Sheesh!

Crazy Bee-yatch.

To Chia Or Not To Chia
or getting all presidential on your cheesy, gift-giving ass

Okay, so the other day I was at Big Mar's desperately attempting to stave off a food coma when that ever-so-familiar jingle broke through my overindulger-induced fog.


Ch- Ch- Ch- Chia!


That's right. Nothing signals the start of the holiday melee like a barrage of commercials for that ubiquitous holiday kitch gift, the Chia Pet. There's nothing unusual about the televised assault of clay animals and their green manes. It's expected. In fact, I believe the absence of these ads on the airwaves might just initiate the end of days. Wouldn't that be a ginormous kick in the nut sack if the salvation of humanity lies in the existence of an innocent looking clay ram with goofy-ass grass wool. We all better pray there's an onslaught of Chia commercials broadcasting in 2012, or else the Mayans will have won.


But I digress...


What jolted me from my hypoglycemic haze wasn't the irritating earworm jingle, but the offering. This year you can plant not one, but three Presidents AND ... Lady Liberty with actual glowing lamp!! I'm not even kidding. You can choose from Il Duce numero uno, George or Honest-to-goodness Abester or No Drama Obama.

P.S.: since when is Lady Liberty-with or without a green mop top-considered an American (Hello, she's French.) or even a person for that matter?

I can get behind Georgie and Abe, although I think they totally missed the boat by not giving him a chia beard, or was that Mary Todd? Hey-Oooo! (Get it? Some think he was gay and MT was his beard...No? Okay it's just me). I think it's funny as hell, but there's just something that ain't right about our current Prez immortalized in rough, unglazed clay, sporting a day-glo fro.

But wait!! There's more! Like all things American, you have a choice. You can choose either Happy pose Obama (you know, the idealistic, can't we all just get along, Yes we Can!, pre-election Barak) 

or determined pose ("WTF was I thinking trying to fix this shithole, Good Gawd I need a drink, I picked the wrong year to stop sniffing glue") Obama. 

Plus on Amazon you can also throw in a Clinton "Hey-my-penis-is-a-Corkscrew!" for one low price. Sweet!

Yes We Can!!


Of course the biggest question I have scrolling down the Amazon this search page for Chia Obama is how the Hell does a book titled "How to Live With a Huge Penis" end up in this grouping and why only as item #7?

Say what?!?


And you can look inside, too! Go ahead. You know you want to. I double dog dare you. It's right here.


I used to have a chia pet long ago. Never was very good about keeping it watered. My l'il critter was more of a Mexican hairless than woolly ewe, so don't waste your hard-earned dough-re-me buying me one. It will just end up being regifted, probably to you, then your feelings will get all hurt because I didn't treasure your little piece of shit afterthought gift even though you'll pretend to laugh and think it's funny, but we both know things will get awkward and you'll die a little inside. 


If it was a Rhett Miller Chia, hmmmmm. No who am I kidding. I still wouldn't water it and you'd still secretly hate me. 


Now the Clinton corkscrew on the other hand... That's gold, Jerry! Gold!

In Which I Wuss Out And Revisit An Old Holiday Favorite 

Okay, so last year a friend of mine requested the recipe for my Famous-In-My-Own-Mind Lemon Meringue Pie that I serve up every Thanksgiving for the folks on the home front. I don't generally plagiarize myself, but this week is already uber jacked up with all the excessive happy holiday horse shit, that I thought I'd do myself a favor and repost this gem from last year. Don't judge me. Besides they're real, and they are SPECTACULAR! The pies aren't bad either. Hey Ooooo!

Enjoy!

MMMMMMM... PIE

or Yes. They're real...and they are SPECTACULAR!

Okay, so every year at Thanksgiving I am asked, nay required, to bake two homemade lemon meringue pies for mass consumption at Big Mar's holiday table.

It's not that hard--that's what she said! You, too can wow your drunken, lame-ass family and friends. Fire up your printer, because I'm about to blow your mind by sharing our top-secret, passed from one generation to none, Luscious Lemon Pie recipe:

Lemon Meringue Pie

1 bottle of chilled Pinot Grigio or frozen bottle of Limoncello

4 Eggs

¼ Cup Cornstarch

1/8 Teaspoon Salt

1 ½ Cup Sugar

¼ Cup Flour

1 ½ Cup Boiling Water

2 Tablespoons Butter

½ - ¾ Cup Lemon Juice

2 Teaspoons Lemon Peel

First things first, one must always be in the proper frame of mind when one is cooking or baking. This is key if your culinary treat is to come out at all edible. Ergo:

1. Load up your CD player with your favorite tunes of the moment. Crank it up to eleven or just until your ears start to bleed.

2. Uncork the wine or Limoncello. Pour a healthy glass full. Consume. Repeat as needed.

Ready?

Bake pie crust as directed on package, unless you're a Martha Stewart wanna be and just HAVE to make your own crust, then you're on your own. Show off.

Separate eggs (they're notorious for not getting along), squeeze juice. (I said squeeze JUICE, not Judy! Sheesh!) In a non-stick pot, mix together sugar, cornstarch, flour and salt over medium high heat. Stir in boiling water gradually. Cook over direct heat, stirring constantly until thickened.

Refill your wine glass. Consume.

Beat yolks slightly (they don't seem to mind. eggs are kinda kinky that way) and stir in at least 1/2 of the hot mixture. (I usually only put about two spoonfuls in the egg yolk mixture because seriously, whose going to do this step. Really. I know, I know. This is so the yokes don't get all scrambly in the hot, sugary ooze. Yeah. Yeah. Whatever.)

Add yolks, juice, peel and butter. (I usually pour less than half of the juice in at first, then gradually add more as it is cooking. because honestly, sometimes there's just too much juice--That's what she said!!) Continue to cook, stirring until it is clear and thick. Add to cooled pie crust.

Time to Mering-gay, Baby!

Egg whites from the four eggs above (a reminder just in case you've been hitting Step 2 listed above an extra time or three and forgot)

1/4 tsp Cream of Tartar (whatever the hell that is. Really. What the heck is that? Tartar is, like plaque, isn't it? WTF?!? Who wants plaque in pie? Uh...you do, round eye.)

1/4 tsp of vanilla extract

8 tbsp of sugar

Beat egg whites (Holy Crap! ova are apparently the masochists of the food world) and the mysterious Cream of Tartar in your fabulous Kitchen Aid mixer.

Oh. You don't have one. So sad for you, Loser. You'll be working that hand mixer while the rest of us Kitchen Aid owners will have our hands free to refill and enjoy another lovely chilled glass of vino, chat on the phone and flip through a magazine while the mixer works its magic.

Add sugar, one tablespoon at a time until stiff peaks form. Add vanilla. Real vanilla. Not that cheap imitation crap. Mix one last time to infuse the essence of the individual flavors into the delectable white, sugary cloud of confectionery awesomeness known as Meringue. Slather onto previously constructed pie.

Bake for 10-12 minutes in a 400 degree oven. Voila!!

That ought to keep the little bastards all sugared up and happy.

There you have it. Nothing left to do, but fill your glass of hootch, unbutton your pants, grab a fork and dig in. You've earned it.

Happy Thanksgiving y'all!!