In Which I Weigh In On Unspeakable Acts Of Human Cruelty 

I made it through page 10 of the Jerry Sandusky Grand Jury report before I got physically ill.

That's the section devoted to the 2002 eyewitness account by a graduate assistant of the former Penn State coach anally raping a ten year old boy in the shower at the Lasch Football building, the inaction of all parties involved to stop this despicable monster and the ensuing cover up.

I was red with rage. I still am.

This entire, disgusting hot mess could have been avoided had someone, ANYONE done the right thing and called the police immediately. The boy was only ten. TEN, for crissake!

Sure it's shocking to witness such a vile act, but I'm sorry, you don't just run to your Daddy and cry on his shoulder then wait a day to talk to your supervisor who talks to his supervisor who sweeps it under the carpet never to be spoke of again. Screw chain-of-command proprieties! In that instance you step in, pull that prick off of that little boy, call the police and beat the shit out of that fucker until the cruiser gets there.

I repeat, he was TEN FUCKING YEARS OLD!

Do you remember being ten? Do you remember how innocent you were at that tender age, not having a care in the world with no responsibilities except to do well in school and play with your friends. Trusting the adults around you to take care of you. Knowing nothing about the dark side of the world or the big bad wolf dressed in upstanding-charitable-organization-founder's clothing. Can you even imagine how shattered that little boy became in that moment. How splintered his little psyche is now after walking nine years down that dark path.

He looked right. At. The. GA.

How do you NOT do something after registering the terror in his little eyes?

I tell you what, if it was my kid, GODDAMN there would be a crater in Sandusky's head inflicted by the bloodied lead pipe in my hand.

Last night the Board of Trustees at Penn State cleaned house, terminating all involved including the President of the college and Joe Paterno.

Good.

They should all rot in hell for placing priority on football over a child's innocence. Their silence allowed this predator to violate at least 20 other young boys through his unchecked involvement in The Second Mile, a charity Sandusky started to "help children who need additional support and would benefit from positive human interaction."

I taste bile.

And yet there are still Paterno supporters who feel he was targeted by the media as a scape goat. Really.  I say to them, if this was Paterno's grandchild being heinously violated you better believe he would have demanded the firings of every single department member including the janitors.

These same die-hard supporters call him a victim in this sordid scenario. Clearly they have not read the Grand Jury Report. If the had, they'd realize Paterno's not the victim here. The victims are the children who are forever damaged and deeply scarred by the sick and vile actions of a pedophile enabled by the INACTION of heartless men solely concerned with their own survival.

The video of Paterno asking the students who had gathered around his house Tuesday evening to pray for the victims in this case makes me want to vomit. It's offensive. Where was this compassion back in 2002 when he had the power to stop the madness? Too little, too late Jo Pa. Buh-Bye. You got to have a life. These poor kids were robbed of theirs. As for that bastard, Sandusky may he be buggered by Clydesdales for all of eternity for what he's done.

Last night students rioted in the ironically named Happy Valley not because of their outrage over a cover-up of a despicable crime perpetrated on an innocent child, but because the football coach was fired.

(shakes head)

Someday, when these students gaze into the eyes of their own ten year old child, they'll look back on their misguided anger and feel ashamed.

The only positive thing we can hope to come out of this quagmire is next time, and sadly there seems to be no shortage of predatory monsters in the world, finally the child will come first.



Much better written related articles by Harlen Coben, Rick Reilly, the former Pitt Girl, Pittsburgh Sports writer Gene Collier

In Which Ray Davies Lands In The Burgh

Okay, so the one regret I have from our virginal voyage to SXSW last winter (has it been over a year already?) is that we didn't head on back to La Zona Rosa to catch the bulk of Ray Davies' set after dumping out of Stone Temple Pilots early.



Kings of the Brit Pop

Last night that wrong was righted in exemplary fashion on an architecturally elegant library stage east of center city. Pittsburgh may not be as romantic as a Waterloo Sunset, but the love was certainly flowing unconditionally last night for legendary Brit, Ray Davies.

After dining on some very tasty vegetarian fare served to us by a braided, hippy-type lass with road-kill breath and an irksome, high-pitched, helium voice, while being serenaded by a fashionably-challenged, tattooed Reubenesque jazz singer with the odd moniker of Phat Man Dee and her crooning paramour, my SX buddy, Betty and I ventured the four blocks to the historic landmark.

It was a big couple of days in the Burgh. Bruce Springsteen was playing back-to-back concerts across the river in Oakland with local rocker, Joe Grushecky. Rumors were circling in the Will Call line that Mr. Davies was planning to high-tail it after the show to take the stage with the Boss and company. It didn't happen, of course, but boy that would have been something. But honestly, this Honey Badger didn't give a shit that Ray called it a night, being as I had neither a ticket nor any inclination to crash that party. We were having quite the party of our own in Homestead.

Hipster Doofus to the right

Once we downed our customary libation amongst the annuls of "oral tradition", it was time to take our place amidst the near-capacity crowd.


file this on the shelf of Yum

 Dressed in a dapper, fitted black jacket and skinny jeans that may or may not have been originals stored in his cedar chest from his Kinks genesis in the 60s, this Dedicated Follower of Fashion took the stage with an Irish guitar accompanist in tow. The only deviation from his past hipster persona were the sensible sneakers he now sported in place of his trademark Beatle boots.

He performed eight new and old numbers acoustically, including the classics Sunny Afternoon and Waterloo Sunset, coaxing the audience to sing and clap along from the get-go.




(I got busted by the photo Nazi while taping the start of Waterloo Sunset, hence the lack of videos. Whatev. It was a grand night of popular rifts.)

Then the band joined in and things got jumping with a full-on rocker version of 20th Century Man. Davies dished out the hits one after another to the crowd's delight: Dedicated Follower, Hollywood Boulevard, Ape Man, a bluesy start to You Really Got Me before cutting loose with a trademark power pop rendition, stopping occasionally to dance like the delightfully awkward white guy he is and punctuating several songs with a rock star jump. He got some pretty sweet air, too. And he wasn't even winded. Not bad for a 67 year old pioneer of Brit Pop.

The evening came to a close with a very spirited Lola and All Day and All of the Night that had all of us middle-agers on our feet dancing and singing. With the last note still hanging in the air, he made his way down across the front row shaking hands, signing autographs and genuinely looking like he had as much fun as we did.

Long-Standing College Tradition Or Cheap Way To Grab Free TP

Okay, so the kids at John Brown University have established a unique 30-year b-ball tradition to celebrate the first basket of the season. 

The coach knows it's coming, along with a mandatory technical foul, but come on! That is awesome. How fantastic would it be to open every fiscal year with a steady stream of unspooling toilet paper? (pun intended) Bonding worker bee to manager in a blur of white for at least a moment before the mental beatings begin again. 

In TV land, this would be the perfect ploy to mark the start of a ratings month. Surely people would tune in to watch the spectacle of hundreds of rolls of Charmin cascading onto the anchors from every angle in the studio. Think of the numbers a stunt of this caliber could generate!

Hmmmmm... 

 February book is just around the corner. Time to stock up.  

Best. Costume. Evah!

Okay, so it's the Halloween weekend and lots of folks are prepping their Slutty Nurse, Slutty Librarian, Slutty Slut Slut costumes for one party or another. I have several friends who come up with really cute costume pairings with their kids. Go-togethers like cookies and milk, peanut butter and chocolate, Xenon and the practical application of Xenon in the form of a flash lamp.

Note: That last one is a real combo my Special K bud, K-Schnikes and his boy are whipping up this year. His son's an adorable science nerd. I'm banking on him to perfect that cloning thing.

And then there's this... perhaps the most perfect pairing on the planet.



"this is how daddy makes the pain go away"
BFFs Forever

HaHaHa! This shit just got real, Yo. The only thing missing is bitter regret.

Clearly, this fam ain't Ozzie and Harriet and Papa Bear ain't gonna win Parent of the Year, but DAMN! That is hysterical! That is covered in awesome sauce! (Is that made-up phrase one or two words? Does it even matter? Aaaa, first world problems.) If we had little kids, I would totally steal this idea.

Halloween. The holiday of hand outs, hangovers and hilarious getups.

Because Americans Just Aren't Lazy Or Douchey Enough 

What. The. Hell.

I don't even know what to say. 

Okay, so I saw this in a commercial break during Always Sunny in Philadelphia. It's a joke, right? Please tell me it's a joke. In the words of Archer's Lana Kane,

Noooooope.

As if the world doesn't already think Americans are fat, lazy and stupid enough, here comes Snuggie 2.0 to confirm that belief. Let's examine the selling points that would convince one to drink the Kool Aid of the fashionably damned, shall we?

"It's the best way to stay warm outdoors!" (If you've lost every modicum of self esteem)

Hi. I'm Mary Margaret and I'm not wearing pants.

"It will be the talk of your next tailgate!" (um...yeah. everyone will talk about what a ginormous DORK you are)

I'm too sexy for my cult robe.
Have some. It's grape.

"Oh Oh! Gotta go? No worries. The Forever Lazy has zippered hatches in front AND back." (because nobody wants to be downwind of your backside bidnez all smashed up in your honking, shocking pink, adult-sized, baby onesie)

Oooops. I just crapped my pants!

Good God, man! What happens when the zipper sticks, people!!?!

But by far the best part of this YouTube posting by far is the commentary stream.

Me neither, zkree. Me neither.

"I Think I Will Miss You Most Of All, Scarecrow"

last morning shenanigans

Okay, so one of my favorite people on this crazy blue planet, Jimmy McParkway is leaving for greener pastures in the Boston television market.

:....(

That's my lame attempt at an emoticon of me, crying. I'm bad at emoticons.

breaking news...
"two monkeys are still at large"*
*actual newsfeed statememt

I've been stalling all week cooking, cleaning a bit, grocery shopping... Okay, so I should be doing those things ANYWAY, but the point is I just couldn't bring myself to sit down and write this farewell. I even took a yoga class, for Chrissake!

A YOGA CLASS!!!

People, I must have been desperate. I am not that flexible. And it was hot yoga, too. Steam room heat AND my own personal waves of summer? I was literally combustible. I kept waiting for my flaming-red hair to ignite. That is some huge denial. I suppose it was my misguided belief that as long as I didn't commit his departure to virtual pen and paper, he wasn't leaving.

But he is.

And I miss him already.

Blerg...

Jimmy brought a youthful exuberance to the Special K. Six years ago he walked into our studio and breathed life into the stale atmosphere. He's loud, boisterous and energetic even at 4:30 in the morning. His humor is delightfully skewed.

CSI Special K
Rug Installation Division

We hit it off right away.

Sushi face with my cohort in crazy

He was always entertaining us with his rapier wit, impressions of Sean Connery, Al Gore and Minnesota accents as well as a perfectly executed Elaine Benis dance.

who's leading this mess?

Traffic A-Go-Go

Jimmy is also a magnificent klutz at times. I used to lovingly refer to him as our golden retriever pup because he couldn't quite judge the size of his large paws when he walked. Some mornings there would be loud crashing noises coming from his area behind the set during the show. He'd fall off his chair (he was young and pliable, ergo no hip fracture), trip on a chair leg running for the four-shot or send an unsecured set piece flying in a thundering boom live... on the air.



That STILL makes me laugh out loud. I love him...

no, that is not a tampoon

Mothra...DEAD

Stay... Stay...

"Trim Mon"
our Rasta cam 

time to get rid of the little cap'n in him

He was the one who introduced me to the wonderful world of social media via Facebook and Twitter, is everyone's IT person for the iPhone and is my main source for hilarious YouTube videos like Get Your Betty Ready, Sofa King and Conan's hilarious Power to the V. Not to mention this guy.



I can't hear this without thinking about Jimmy and I dancing in the chroma key like a couple of big ole dorks. "It's just like meenee mall."

I got all my greatest blog fodder from him.

Between shows we'd dance around the studio, record hoola-hoop antics and be just plain irreverent. He was usually the instigator of the the marvelous mayhem. We call this one, Absolute Ball Room.



It was always quiet in the studio when he was on vacation. It's deadly still now. Although we're trying to uphold the high standard of malarkey set over the last six years, it's just not the same without Jimmy.

happy 30th, Dorf

traffic with a side of lieder hosen

On-air talent come and go in this business. It's a fact. I try not to get attached because it hurts too much to say goodbye to the ones I care about. But occasionally someone comes along who is too special not to embrace. Someone who's silly antics makes any day better. Someone who is not merely a coworker, but a friend.

So thank you for brightening my world, Jimmy. Thank you for your boundless humor, your indomitable spirit and for one particular Kingpin-inspired video that will forever be on my iPhone to cheer me up when I'm missing you. You know which one I'm talking about.

dude, your prom dates a hootchie

Yes. I think I will miss you most of all, Scarecrow.

Although it pains me to see you leave Pittsburgh, I know this is the right move for you. Please know you will forever occupy a special place in my heart. All the best to you always, friend. See you soon.

XOXO

P.S.: You're gonna be wicked awhesome in Baaahston.

Take It To The Bridge
or the connection between two concerts

Okay, so every year my sister and her hubby generously allow Geo and I to crash for a week at their beach house on the Jersey Shore, sans Snooki or the Situation. It's a charming little cape cod on a lagoon perfect for washing the sand out of your hoohah. It's damned relaxing to spend the afternoon idly floating on the gentle tide, too as long as you can ignore the jumping fish swimming all around. Bleeeeech!

Cocktails help. A lot.

First of all let me say one thing. We suck at packing.

Packing FAIL

Seriously, what is with us. It doesn't matter how long or short our trip, we CANNOT pack light. We fill every square inch of the Rita mobile. It looks like we live in our car down by the river. We are retarded. And get this, we actually had to go back out for groceries because there was absolutely no room for food. I am not even kidding. There was literally no room for food.

But we did find room for vodka. There's always room for vodka. Priorities, dude. And man, did we hit the mother load of liquors on the way to the island.

soooo pretty

Oh, MOMMA!!

And this is just half of their selection. No shit. The opposite aisle was packed to the gills with sweetly fermented potato goodness.

our personal pool to get the shitz out yo muffin

Over the years, Geo and I have developed a shore routine. Most days we take a nice long walk on the beach, he heads back to buy fresh caught seafood for dinner before imbibing, I hang out by the surf soaking up the sea breeze until I cannot stomach my own stench (or another piece of sand in a sensitive area) at which time I head back to dive into our personal pool to rid myself of the days glorious grime.

just me and my brella

I think this shit-o-matic followed me from Coney Island

After getting sufficiently pruney, I do one of my most favorite things on God's green earth. I shower outside.

Ohmigodjesus! It is the most freeing, exhilarating and delightfully naughty feeling to be outdoors, with the heat of the sun beating down on you, watching gulls fly by, totally nekked. Okay, so there's a thin plywood stall to stand in, but still, hellooo...NAKED.

heeheee

Who wouldn't want drop trough and lather up under that gorgeous sky?

But I digress...

Since my days start hours before the butt crack of dawn, I'm usually up much earlier than Geo. In years past, I'd get up, make coffee and read on the pontoon or attempt to will my every-lovin' awake with my mind, AKA a finger poke to the face. But that just led to annoying bloodshed. And who wants to clean up that kind of mess on vacation.

So this year I started a new morning tradition. Behold... (cue the chorus of angels)

The Pee Wee Herman Adventurer 2011!

Dude, it has a basket! I love this bike! It's so wonderfully retro with no gears for me to jam in a completely uncool, spazzy way. Every morning I ventured out to procure breakfast treats, take a long spin around the neighborhoods and document a sight a day.

september by the bay

Ole Barney piercing the sky

everything is happier at the beach

queen of the long, shadowy legs

ridiculously large house 

after the morning catch

lagoon vista

So. Much. Fun. And the best part was, I could placate my ADD while letting sleeping spouses lie. Now everybody's a winner. Woot!!