"New Orleans Ain't A City, It's A Scar..."
or my boys blow up Tipitina's. literally.

Okay, so I have to share this because I think it's kinda awesome, but then again, I am a little biased about the parties involved.

Friday night Old 97's rolled into Nawlins for a Mardi Gras gig at the legendary Tipitina's. I've always wanted to go to Mardi Gras and experience that unique brand of debauchery first hand. Just ask Geo. I've been harping about this journey for years and he's mighty damn sick of hearing it. And now my favorite live band in the entire universe was going to mingle their off-the-charts energy with the craziness of New Orleans' hedonism.

And me stuck in the North.

Jealous, much? You bet your ass!

Fortunately there's this thing called the Internet in which others can gloat share their experiences with us less fortunate fans who are geographically challenged. One of these folks is Jeff Neely, chief administrator from the Old 97's website whose family vacation to New Orleans just happened to coincide with the 97's Tipitina's appearance. Serendipitous, indeed. You can read his full account here.

For this leg of the tour, the guys have been touring with an energetic, in-your-face, punk girl band out of Tennessee known as Those Darlins. These brazen babes are in their 20s and have been teasing the 97's all week about being old men, going so far as posting this good-hearted slam on their Facebook page, "Thanks Grandpas for embarrassing us last night in front of all of our friends in New Orleans! Happy Mardi Gras."



HaHa! Grandpas! I think I like these chicks. HaHaHa!

A fun time not to be missed, for sure, but the enviable experience of this particular show came at the encore break. The normal set up is the band kicks it through 22-25 songs, ending in a clear-out-your-sinuses, string busting, break-neck performance of either Four Leaf Clover or If My Heart Was a Car, after which Rhett returns to the stage for an acoustic two-song set before the rest of the band hits the stage for a 4-5 song explosive encore, finishing the evening with a sweat-soaked Time Bomb.

Everything was going according to plan... and then the bottom literally dropped out.



They ain't afraid of no power outage. Again, how cool and infinitely fulfilling is it to stand on a unexpectedly darkened stage, completely unplugged and listen to a packed house take the reins and sing your words back to you.

The evening didn't end there. Seemingly bewildered as to how to proceed, the lovely blue-eyed one had a brainstorm. Why not, in the midst of the land of unbridled hedonistic drunken debauchery, do a 180 and serve up a Salvation Army song of redemption.



Not the expected send off, but somehow poetically fitting.

My eyes are even more green from envy.

Give Her WHAT?!?
or Happy Valentine's Day from your friends at CBS

Okay, so our Mother Ship, CBS decided to be all warm and fuzzy this Valentine's season by showing how much they are concerned for the well-being of its viewers. After putting their collective thinking caps on, they produced this heart-tugging public service announcement. Better grab for the tissues now.



Wouldn't you have killed to be in that brainstorming meeting?

Clearly, CBS cares... about your "junk" jewelry.

Francis Times Two
or a double shot of Mr. Dunnery to round out the b-day fest

Okay, so as I said in the last blog waaaaaay back last week sometime (Jimminy Christmas, I need to update more often. Cobwebs are starting to form on my keyboard not to mention my wee brain matter.), it's uncanny how often we find ourselves able to indulge in a double dose of our favorite performers on the same trip. Case in point, Geo stumbled on a Francis Dunnery house concert in New Jersey the day after our Rhett show in NYC, essentially on our way home.


Going to a Francis house concert feels like a huge, warm bear hug from your favorite relative who is boisterous, charismatic... and likes to swear. A LOT. F**king A! Francis is big on hugging, and by now you all know how much of a hugger I am. LOVE it! Everyone in his inner circle is so welcoming and genuinely happy to see you, you can't help but feel a part of their family.

Geo, Francis and yours truly
just chilling in the kitchen 

We've been to so many shows now that we've seen all five of his themed concerts a multiple of times each. This, however, was the first time the hosts, Butch and Carole and their guests have ever experienced the personal performance laid before them. It's so wonderful to witness a roomful of newbies fall in love with an artist and his work. They laughed, participated in a few sing-alongs and teared up as Francis sang his closer, Good Life. It was lovely to watch them become enchanted by this amazing musician and his life-affirming message. As my ever-loving, Geo always says, spending an evening with Francis' positive energy never fails to make him feel good about himself in particular and life in general.


It's a great gift, that.


We hung out for a while afterwards, chatted and chowed down a bit until it was time for Francis and Tony to hit the road. We walked them out to the van to give him a present for his new baby girl, Elsie who was born on January 10th, as well as a six-pack of his favorite olive bruschetta. This stuff is like crack to him. Seriously. He cannot get enough. We've become his unofficial dealers. HaHa! Standing in the cold night air, we yakked, were invited to his house and got one last bear hug before they drove off.


The following Saturday, our paths crossed again, this time in our hometown in the familiar game room of our friends, Bill and Beth. As we turned onto Bill's road, a van was pulled over to the side. As we drove alongside of the vehicle, I looked in and lo and behold...Francis and Dorie, a lovely English singer with the voice of an angel, were pouring over a map, looking perplexed. We became their motorcade, leading them to the house.


Like any musician, Francis gets extremely pumped when he's working on new projects. He beckoned Geo and I into his van to treat us to a listen of his new works. So here we are, sitting in a van surrounded by baby items, listening to Francis Dunnery singing live to recorded music from his iPhone of his newest songs... for us.


Awesome.


The show was extra special with the addition of Dorie's magnificent, melodious and full-bodied vocals. She has an amazing range. Her relationship with Francis is so comfortable, it lent an extra layer of playfulness to his performance.


You know, if someone would have told us back in 1994 at the Mercury Lounge that one day we'd not only meet Francis Dunnery, but be part of his circle of friends, I would have scoffed at the thought as sheer madness.


Life is full of surprises when you give up and let it go.

Mix Together One Part Rhett With One Part Francis And Add A Sprinkling Of Friends To Taste
or the recipe for the perfect road-trip birthday celebration (part one)


Okay, so I have the best husband. Period.


This year my darlin' Geo took me on a Rhett/Francis weekend trip for my birthday. It is so uncanny how many times both of my musical loves are performing back-to-back in close proximity of each other. It's like the Universe cracks open his favorite fire water, gropes a few babes, gets all "I love, man"-ish and gives us a big bear hug of love in the form of musical musings.


Once again, Rhett was playing a hop, skip and jump away in New York City at the City Winery. We've been here so often over the last year, the kind folks at the Sheraton recognize us. I don't know if that's a cool thing or just, you know ... pathetic.


Anywho, we sat with our lovely Manhattan mavens, sipping on an amazing Malbec whilst being crooned to by the lovely blue-eyed one. Marcy's so sweet. She forced at gunpoint got Rhett to sign a copy of the Old 97's latest, The Grand Theatre (pronounced The-A-ter) with his trademark birthday message.

Hey, it's a nice sentiment, right?


And she found Steelers gingerbread men.

Zombie Mwelde Moore chases after Ben Asshat
while loco Tequila Toast Man hungrily eyes that loose leg  

Okay. She didn't break Mwelde's leg. That was an unfortunate accident occurring in transport on my watch. In hindsight, I should have taken that as an omen for the outcome of the Super Bowl. Blerg!


Newsflash! I LOVE Rhett solo shows. L.O.V.E.!!!


I know. You're surprised, right, but I just had to say that out loud. I enjoy the band a lot, but I think, gun to head, I prefer his solo gigs. They are so much fun, mainly because Rhett is more chatty, playful and witty alone. He's a skillful showman who really connects with and engages his audience to come along for the ride. He sincerely seems to enjoy himself up there entertaining the crowd. His banter is my favorite part. Just the right amount of humor and irreverence to fill the spaces in between his humongous 26-song set list. 


And the energy... my God the energy is through the roof. 


Turns out I wasn't the only person celebrating an anniversary of birthing during his self-proclaimed Chuckie Cheese night at the Winery. Two other Aquarians got a shout out and song dedication of Singular Girl (with the requisite Hydra refrain) and the standard Happy Birthday, Don't Die.


Eventually it was my turn. Now keep in mind this was the Friday before the Super Bowl and he had already been caught on tape saying how much he despised the Steelers and hoped they'd lose in this interview from Dallas.


I'm still a little bruised. I swear, Miller, if you weren't so damned cute and sweet and talented and smart and funny and and and ...


Anywho, so he doles out the b-day wish and dedicates the following song not to me, but to "her Steelers". Listen for the chorus.




Nice. Very funny, Miller. Poopy head.


Mixed amongst the many favorites, Mr. M treated us all to two new songs. The wonderfully Kinks-ish Perfume from The Grand Theater, Volume 2 slated to arrive in stores in July and a fresh-from-his-three-puppy notebook tune titled Only Home Away From Home perhaps? Sure, let's call it that. 

"Three f**king puppies!!"
(oh mi dio! el esta muy bonito.)

Then he brought out the big gun. Nicole Atkins entered the stage with her big gorgeous hair and bigger voice to belt out the best version of the girl part of Firefly that I have ever heard, outside of Rhett's delightful schizo self duo, of course.




He loves him some Nicole duet.


The two of them together were fabulous, finishing off the master set with a memorable version of Four Leaf Clover.




Even with all her long locks, she's no match for Rhett's flying hair head shake. He remains the master of that domain. I cannot speak for the other "domain". (a tee... a hee)


The evening's music ended in bad-ass fashion with Rhett, clearly channeling the rock 'n roller within his soul, up and kicked the shit out of the music stand sending those adorable three fucking puppies and the notes within flying through the air in a brilliant scatter. In the final chaotic chords of Time Bomb, he knocked into the mic stand and watched as the metal rod toppled into the audience, coming to rest on our friend George's head, before dropping his guitar, punk style, and marching off stage to the howls of another satisfied crowd. 


Rock 'n Roll, BABY!! 


The only thing missing was a full-on hooligan Pete Townsend guitar smash up.


Once George recovered from his head wound, he and Maria were front and center to liberate the set list. They were so kind to send it to me. Heaps of thanks goes out to them.

Why who's that noted on the list?
Holla!! 

The one disappointment of the evening was his absence at a meet and greet, or as John Wesley Harding likes to put it "grin and bare it", depriving us the opportunity to give him a hefty dose of royal shite about that dedication. All in good fun, of course, because truly I could never be mad at him. 


What a terrific way to start the party bus rolling. Next stop. New Jersey.

What the?!???!?
or what do you do when a reporter start speaking in tongues LIVE

Okay, last night was the CBS broadcast of the Grammy Awards. Afterwards on the local LA news, the anchors set up the normal recap of the show by tossing to their reporter in the field, Serene Branson. This is all standard industry issue. Toss to blond correspondent who tosses to a precut package of highlights...of the awards program, not her hair.

Eminem only winning two Grammy's wasn't the only shocker when Tom Tucker and Diane pitched it to Serene...




I repeat: What the???!??

Play that again. Go ahead. Try to make out any actual words from that crazy scat. I double dog dare you. You can't make this shit up. I think she's channeling some dementia-riddled demon.

Now before you go getting all upset that I'm laughing at a poor woman on the verge of a stroke, let me assure you she was taken to the hospital and received a clean bill of health. So...go ahead. It's okay to point and poke fun at the "very heavy, heavy blurtation".

Drunk, Ruffied or just a major meltdown. You decide. All's I know is this is why I am NOT on the air. Well, that and my total lack of talent or appeal.

To balance out the zany Grammy Yin of Serene and her inner demon, it seems fitting on Valentine's Day to share a video of pure goofy Grammy Yang, featuring one Cee Lo Green dressed as a dazzling NBC peacock, singing my favorite, crank-it-to-eleven anti-Valentine Day tune, F**K You.

Excuse me, Forget You. Not unlike those shoes. Gwyneth. WTF. Those shoes have got to go, Girlfriend!




I really love his ass right now.

Thanks once again to Jimmy McParkway for finding that first gem.
Happy VD, y'all!

In Which The NHL Revisits The Old-Tyme Hockey Antics Of The 70s

Okay, so two points of fact:


1. I love a good hockey fight. Any hockey chick worth her salt loves a drop-the-gloves hockey tussle.
2. There is no love loss between my beloved Pens and either New York teams


Friday night's Pens/Islanders game turned into a reenactment of the 1977 Hockey cult favorite flick, Slap Shot.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vW67agGgWAM&feature=related

The Islanders were out for revenge for the humiliation they suffered the last time the two met. My Pens not only shut out the Isles 3-0, a fair hit by Max Talbot put NY's Blake Comeau on the injured list and Brent Johnson took down Rick DiPietro with one brilliant punch in a rare goalie-on-goalie smackdown.


I think I love Johnson. (THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID!!)


Double entendre aside, seriously, how could you not love a goalie who's not afraid to scrap.


Anywho, the mayhem started about ten minutes in with Haley beating on Cooke, then Godard pounding Gillies, then Martin took a cheap sucker punch at Talbot and all hell broke loose.


Players were escorted off the ice.


It just got uglier from there. Gillies boarded our Tangradi and kept pounding his motionless body, inciting another major melee in which practically every player on the ice engaged in another free-for-all.


And more players were escorted off the ice.




(above is a handy compilation of the chaos)

The last five minutes of the game was pure bedlam--one smackdown after another--culminating in NY's Haley, apparently not satisfied with the punch-fest happening at the other end of the ice, charging after, guess who... Johnson, who answered by dropping his blocker, gloves and helmet to face him head on.



(P.S.: Our goalie is awesome!!!)


In the end, only nine Islanders and three Penguins were left on the benches and 346 minutes of penalty time had been doled out. Ridiculous. I fully expected the Pens to ask the synchronized skating girls from the night before to lace up and finish the game.


Holy CRAP! I love a good balls-to-the-wall hockey fight, but...WOW. That was insane, old-time hockey madness in pure Slap Shot fashion. The only thing missing from that game was this:



Max Talbot missed his opportunity, for sure.


April 8th is the next and last meeting of these two teams for 2011. I imagine the Refs will keep a mighty tight lid on that game the second the puck is dropped. No matter what, it's bound to be exciting. I wonder how many fans will be wearing their Hansen Brothers glasses.

So What's The Jail Time For Assaulting A Cardboard Cutout? 
or me and Beets cutting lose at the arena

Okay, so last night me and my cohort in off-color crime, Beets hit the highway donned in our baby blues to partake in an evening of live hockey. Sadly, my darlin' Geo was being held hostage at work and couldn't take advantage of the uber generous offer from his boss of primo first level tickets to watch my beloved Pens battle the Kings. Beets ended up being his proxy.

just a couple of hockey chippies in our blues

She'd never been to the brand, spanking new Consol Energy Arena. In fact, we've never been to a hockey event together. We managed to get there a little earlier to take advantage of the Lexus club passes which were included with the tickets.

Sweet!

When we entered the club, an awesome buffet spread fit for a gluttonous, fat-ass king of yore lay before us. There was grilled-to-the-rarest perfection steak, trout, quayle (not to be confused with the Dan-I-want-to-be-your-VP-but-can't-spell-potato variety), shrimp bisque, a plethora of the finest meats and cheeses, not to mention a dessert table that went on for ... well an entire table.

Yum!

Now when Geo and I frequented the Lexus club at the Pirates' facility, it was all free. You heard correctly...FREE. So natch I thought the same applied here. Besides there was no one taking reservations at the entrance, the plates were there, the crowd was milling about.

We filled up our plates with a cornucopia of festive treats, then started looking for both an available table and flatware. (Good God, Man! We're not animals. We may be middle class, but we learned how to master the use of utensils. *scratches her armpits, drags her knuckles on the ground*) And that's when we came across the REAL entrance to the lounge, replete with a concierge, waiting list and menu of charges.

To her credit, the hostess only looked horrified for a minute at the site of us two rubes with buck teeth, snot-filled noses and a pile of gruel, but then she couldn't have been any sweeter as she informed us the buffet was, wait for it... are you sitting down?...

$45!!?!?!?

We actually contemplated dropping the plates and running as if chased by zombie wolves while she graciously looked for a table to seat us, but decided to be grown ups about it. I know, right? Imagine that. Hell we weren't paying for the tickets, we never get to go out together, parking was cheap... (insert your own personal favorite rationalization here)

So we stuffed ourselves. Literally. To the point we could barely move, because, you know, we're classy like that. Note to self: always find out the scoop on extra perks BEFORE shoving food down your gullet.

Anywho, we had such a great time. The Pens have been plagued with so many injuries of key players that they had to call up a handful of Baby Pens from Scranton.

the new recruits from Scranton
they don't look like much, but boy can they
cross-check your ass into the boards

It could not have been more exciting. The Pens scored first. The Kings tied it up at the end of the first, and that's how it stayed through three. Then the recently returned Jordon Staal stuffed the biscuit in the net with 18.7 seconds left in OT.

Woo fricking HOOOO!! Cue the fireworks. Oh wait...we're inside. Drop that lighter, Jethro!

Beets and I would have had a blast no matter what the outcome. Some highlights:

Not one, but TWO fights during the game.

Engelland got the best of this punk

ok, we lost this take down,
but holy crap I love me a good hockey fight!

Wait. The two-fer gets better. Not one, but TWO Johnsons on the ice. One in Pens Blue:

And one in Kings colors:

I tried to get a shot of him standing next to the goalie named Quick. Would that not have been completely awesome?

At one point our Johnson was upended at their goal and literally became a Johnson in the hole. A tee... A hee. The 12 year old in me was so giddy.

I almost caught the ice chippie-tossed rolled up t-shirt Beets managed to tip. It landed in the empty seat next to me, but the male beast behind us went absolutely mental, scratching and clawing his way through the plastic seat back to get at the worthless thing as if it was wrapped around a gold bar. It's just a t-shirt, Dude.

Our spastic waves were caught on the Jumbo Baloney Tron, much to the abject horror of her teen aged daughter who was present with her male "he's just a friend" companion. Mission accomplished there. Man, you better believe we were totally hoping to be on the Kiss Cam to further her cringe-factor. That would have totally sent her around the bend. Ha Ha!

(Side note: I have no idea why a camera pointing in ones direction inspires one to act like a person inflicted with seizures. Seemingly, no one is immune.)

And then to top it all off, we got groped by Ass Burgh, I mean Ice Burgh

"those aren't PILLOWS!!?!"

AND assaulted the cardboard visage of he of the soft, ruby red lips, Sidney Crosby.

Lick, Lick Slurp, Slurp

All that and we weren't even drunk. Perhaps there's something seriously wrong with our matrix.