Jumping Around The Library With Ingrid Michaelson
or I have lost the ability to think of clever titles so kindly make up your own witticism here and keep your snarkiness to yourself, bitch

(that is the Fiona Apple of subtitles, yo)

Ingrid
one of the best photos I've ever taken
don't know how that happened

Okay, so I have been looking forward to Ingrid Michaelson's return to the Burgh ever since seeing her enormously fun free performance at the Arts Festival a several years ago. A couple week's ago I had the honor to introduce my concert buddy, Mary Ann to the talents of Ms. Michaelson. 

But first, the food. It always seems to be about the food at this age. And the drink. Let's not forget the libation. Sadly in this case the drinks were virginal, unlike the consumers.

Before the show, MA and I feasted on authentic Mexican tacos at a hip new Homestead restaurant called Smoke. The proprietors are from Austin, TX and Meadville, PA. An unlikely combo, but it works in a big way. The atmosphere is funky and the fare fantastic. And we even drank a brown rice Horchata made famous by indie rockers, Vampire Weekend. 

delicious with or without
looking psychotic in a balaclava

(P.S: Burgh Gormand is a great food blogger who is starting up his own big red taco truck soon. I can't wait to try them. Look for him in the city.)

But I digress...

One of the things I love about live shows is the performer's interaction with the audience. I love those little glimpses into the artist's personality. Without that connection, I might as well save my money and just plug in my iPod. 

There are no walls at an Ingrid Michaelson concert. She does not shut herself off from her fan base, she embraces them. She has the enviable ability to turn a nearly 900 seat venue into an intimate cabaret theater with her anecdotes. Cute and quirky, she charms everyone to their feet with the first stroke of her adorable ukulele. 

A ukulele. She plays a ukulele. You can't possibly be depressed when a ukulele's in the room. 

And her voice is absolutely angelic, crisp and clear with an incredible range to die for. She effortlessly engages with her fans throughout the evening with genuine affection. That affection runs both ways.

There was a lovely moment during her cover of Elvis' I Can't Help Falling In Love With You. The band had left her alone on stage at her piano. Half way through the first verse, the entire audience serenaded her. She was visibly touched and got a little verklempt even, stopping several times during the intro of the next number to say how gorgeous the moment was.

She's delightfully witty as well. She tells great stories. A ginormous moth had landed on the guitarist during a number, subsequently chasing Ingrid along the front of the stage. The men folk slapped Mothra to the floor, prompting Ingrid to name it Tristan and compose a song in it's honor, imagining a little montage of she and Tristan holding hands at the beach, taking buggy ride, feeding each other strawberries and so forth. It was hilarious.

I didn't tape that, but did capture her adventure on a Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade float.



Bottom line is, unless you're made of stone, it is impossible not to have a blast and be uplifted after one of her shows. She's witty, talented, smart, charming and has a nice rack for guys.

What? She does! Gotta give the girl her props.



The evening ended too quickly with the entire band surrounding her and her uke, taking turns with the lyrics to her ridiculously catchy You and I while the house joined in the sing along in classic Ingrid style.



It's a rare experience that keeps you happy and humming songs for days afterward. Thanks to Ingrid and her effervescent life force for a joyous night. Come back any time. We'll definitely take you the way you are.

Where's A Penis When You Need One
or this is not what you think, Internet pervs who are googling porn and other random salacious shit

Okay, so the last couple... several... six days I've been dealing with (read: ignoring) the all-too-familiar symptoms of the plague in my peepee hole. You ladies know the ones: the annoying sense of having to tinkle an extra 100 times, not just the normal 28 times a day, followed by the white-hot poker burning your weewee, and urine as cloudy and thick as a finely poured Boddintons.

UTI country, BABY! Yeeee Haaaa!!

In a misguided attempt to delay the obvious trek to the clinic, I tried the holistic cranberry juice approach. Nature's Drano. Not so much this time.

Note 1: do you know how hard it is to find plain cranberry juice in vending machines? There are none. Zip. Zilch. Nada. Seriously. They're all blended with apple, raspberry, apple raspberry and the dreaded grape. I know what you're thinking. I could have just dragged my lazy, fat ass to the grocery store and BOUGHT a bottle of cranberry juice, but that's just crazy talk. I would have to actually GO TO THE GROCERY STORE and I'm kinda morally opposed to markets right now, which is code for I-just-can't-bear-to-buy-food-so-why-can't-someone-just-do-my-grocery-bidding-for-me-meanwhile-this-entire-paragraph-is-crap-and-not-at-all-worth-your-time-reading-it-so-sorry-to-waste-two-minutes-of-your-life-you'll-never-get-back-and-also-I-am-on-drugs-so-please-ignore-this-incoherent-hyphenated-rant-Thank-you--The management.

Note 2: spell check insisted on changing "weewee" to "peewee". heehee

Anywho, the discomfort was too great to ignore this morning so off to the clinic we went. Me and my burning bush.

Yaaaaaay.

After the usual 20 questions, including the one where I got the skunk eye about STDs, because clearly the doctor had read my bio regaling the world with tales of my whoring history, I was sent to the bathroom with a plastic cup to fill.

The first hurdle was trying to get the goddamn moistened towelette open to clean the shitz off my peep. No lie, that thing was made of nylon. I struggled and struggled, stretching the bastard, working up a sweat until I noticed the fucking notch. *sigh* So this is how it's going to go.  I swear I heard snickering when I finally freed the wipe.

I don't know about you, but I have never been good at catching urine in a cup without completely dousing my hand, arm, pant leg. Standing there, debating whether or not I should take my pants off altogether, trying to calculate the feasibility of shoving my man hand AND a big-ass cup between my legs and the toilet bowl, I thought "I could sure use a penis right now."

I mean, come on. How easy do guys have it. They don't even have to pull their pants down. Just unzip, place in cup, fill cup, walk away.

Note 3 (and perhaps the most important note of this post): don't EVER shake hands with a dude after a urine sample. They totally don't wash their hands, yo. ACK! Except for Geo. He always washes. With soap. Good man.

Me? I'm playing Frogger with the stream. There is absolutely no way to control it. It has a mind of its own. It's Satan's Stream. Complete with fiery horns to scrape your sphincter.

Start going... now hold the cup... wait, is it shooting out straight? to the left? Oh shit! It's running down my backside. Why is it running down my backside?!?! GodDAMMIT! MOTHERF*CKER! It's forked to the right... Great. Now it's all over my forearm. I have suspect pee ALL OVER MY GODAMN FOREARM! And my shirt sleeve. I'm burning this shirt. There better damn well be pee in this cup or I'm going all spider monkey on someone in my pee shirt.

There was. And it was cloudier than the suicide season in Seattle.

The verdict: I have the Mother of all UTIs. I don't do this shit half-assed, yo. It's all or nothing all up in my urethra.

I was given a wide berth and an armload of drugs. One to change my urine to a startling sunset orange and enough Cipro to clear this bad boy up and make a tidy profit on the Anthrax market.

Until next time ladies, drink plenty of fluids, make sure you and your one-night stand wash your junk BEFORE getting busy and keep wiping front to back!!

The more you know...

In Which We Lose Another Influential 80s Musician Too Soon

Sad news broke this week that Adam Yauch, founding member of the 80s premiere rap/hip hop band, The Beastie Boys, passed away at the age of 47 from complications of cancer.

Cancer sucks, y'all.

In 1986, three Jewish kids from Brooklyn (Mike D, Ad-Roc and MCA), achieved the unimaginable. They singlehandedly put rap in the mainstream. Their critically acclaimed Licensed to Ill became the first rap album to be #1 on Billboard album charts, opening the door for those who came after.

Admittedly I was not a huge fan of the band or genre, but who can deny the wit, artistry and shear fun of such tunes as She's Crafty, Brass Monkey, No Sleep til Brooklyn, Girls and the quintessential party anthem, (You Gotta) Fight For Your Right (to Party).

I have a soft spot for that last song. I will always remember our friends, Carla and Kirby's three year-old son, Atticus, sitting in the back of the car, quietly singing in his sweet, slightly southern voice "you gotta fight, for your right, to Paaaaaaaaaw-tay!" Atticus is 16 now, but hearing that unmistakable chorus takes me right back to the vision of his little toddler self.

Aside from his musical achievements, Yauch was a charitable man. A practicing Buddhist, he started the Milarepa Fund devoted to promoting Tibetan independence. He organized numerous concerts to raise monies. A genuine good guy in the prime of his life, which makes his death all the more sad.

On the day his death was announced, Coldplay paid tribute with this moving version of the Beastie Boys hit. As my twitter friend, Jeff tweeted, you aren't aloud to hate Coldplay anymore.



Cancer sucks.

A Tale of Two Concerts 

Okay, so this week I had the good fortune to attend rare back-to-back concerts on my unorthodox Speical K weekend.

The first was the ultra teeny-bopper band All American Rejects with my KD cohort, Yoko. Of course I didn't realize they were tweener idols until we got there and stood amongst the masses of idol youths. I did the math and realized I could be any one of the band member's Mom. Sadly, not their slutty teenaged Mom either.

yaaaaaaay...

We were definitely in the Mom-waiting-in-the-wings-for-her-adolescent-while-complaining-about-the-noise section. So we hiked up our Mom jeans and bellied up to the bar for some liquid strength.

And by "we" I mean me.

They're not a bad group, really, just not for me. They started with the only song I recognized, Dirty Little Secret, and continued on in high-energy fashion, thrashing about on stage, climbing atop the monitors eliciting a cacophony of squeals from the adolescent girls with every wink and point in their direction. After about three songs, it all just sounded the same to these seasoned ears. The entire concert seemed so staged, like it was the same performance of the same setlist with the same stories told each and every night. Definitely not worth the hearing loss.

I'm spoiled by the Old 97's who's extensive catalog spans numerous genres. They never play the same show twice. And they never disappoint. Not that I'm biased or anything. By comparison, I found myself looking at my watch in hopes this evening was coming to a close. Whereas I NEVER look at my watch at a 97's show. Just sayin'.
The big, pricey backdrop, the extensive stage crew, the buses... someone's paying big bucks for this feh tour. I don't get it. I don't get how they pick the Chosen Ones to throw money at hand over fist. But then again, it ain't for us fucking "Moms".

Now go eat a hoagie, you skinny bastards.

(Truth be told, the band mates were sweethearts when meeting fans after the show, but seriously, they need to bulk up.)


In deep contrast to the play date the night before, I knew from the onset the English Beat/Squeeze concert would be a toddler-free zone. As out of place as I felt Wednesday night, Thursday night's vibe was all Snuggie comfy-cozy with my middle-aged peeps.

Dave Wakeling still kicking the jams

I have to admit, I bought tickets to this gig solely because The English Beat were the openers. I liked Squeeze in the 80s, but am ambivalent about them now. They're one of those bands whose music I skip when it comes up in shuffle on my iPod. Not to be douchey, but they're a bit too far in my past. Does that make sense?

in case you didn't know who they are
big signage for failing eyesight
they know their market

The Beat, however, are way up on my favorites list. Dave Wakeling is the sole survivor of the original cast of characters, but boy he puts together a fun group. Being a seated venue filled with stilted white people, everyone sat politely for the first song. Song number two... Sheila and I along with a smattering of others, busted up the Puritanical proclivity by standing and dancing in our limited space. By song four, everyone of us uptight whities were on our feet, singing and unabashedly dancing to our own inner rhythm.

They are such a good time, I defy anyone to sit still during their Ska-talicious beat. Their shortened set included lots of hits, I Confess, Save it For Later and ending with Mirror in the Bathroom, all extended versions.



I Confess is for Geo. It's his favorite. You should hear him sing it in the car. He's great. It's cut short because I could bare to stay motionless and quiet no longer. And no one needs to hear my caterwaul preserved on tape. EVER.

So in the middle of Save it for Later, this happened...



The bass player lifted this lad from the audience on to the stage. That little kid could not have been any happier! He pogoed and bopped at full tilt for the rest of the song. He made my bladder leak just watching him.

What?!?

Too much information? Grow up, Pussies. That's for realz.

Ohmigod! Too much fun! For once, I wasn't praying for the warm-up to spontaneously combust. It was the first time I have ever seen an opening act get a whooping Standing O. An hour was definitely not enough.

As a matter of full disclosure, I had kinda planned an early escape several songs into Squeeze's show, but when Glen Tilbrook walked out he looked so much like my college crush, Hank that it was oddly familiar and comforting. (Hank at 50, not 20 y'all, because that would be all kinds of weird if I had a crush at 20 on a guy who looked like his future middle-aged self) He had the same face shape, same irresistible big blue orbs, same mannerisms. I liked him immediately.

Irrational, yes, but there you have it. Whatever. I'm a chick. Don't question.

Difford and Tilbrook

notice the fab purple satin suit
only an Brit can get away with that one
or maybe Prince

I'm so glad we stayed until the encore break. The show was way more enjoyable than expected. Tilbrook's voice is still clear and strong, hitting all the high notes without a crack. And man, can he play guitar!! I had no idea he was the shredder of the band. They played pretty much everything I could long to hear, Muscles From a Shell, Tempted, Another Nail in My Heart, Annie Get Your Gun, Cool for Cats, Up the Junction...

Behold the beauty of the purple satin suit!






Besides the animation projected on the screen behind them in the above video, there were other amusing loops like a girl dressed in a 60s micro mini dancing awkwardly and a x-rayed figure swimming, smoking, fornicating. Okay, probably not that last one.
And Holy Crap! Weirdos, you are the best thing about life, ever.

Seriously, half of the fun of this particular evening was watching the crazies in the audience. God bless your collective pointy little heads.

Between the l'il balding dude literally darting up and down the aisle to video tape songs and Narcissistic Barbie and Ken attempting their self portrait a ridiculous number of times during the show with their antiquated 90s phone equipped with a blinding light as bright as a thousand suns, we were crying. So were the couple behind them, because their retinas were singed. At first it was uber annoying, but as it went endlessly on and on and on, it became downright hysterical. Best part is, they never did get a decent photo. Ha! Tools.

So, to recap:

Night out AS the oldster sucks. Night out WITH the oldsters rules.

The Ennui Of Henri

In an attempt to assuage my own malcontent over the Penguins post-season shortcomings, I offer a taste of classic film noir featuring an indisputably French kitty, Henri.



Poor Henri. Under appreciated, toiling in tedium, surrounded by morons...

Welcome to the Special K, Pussy.

There's just so much to love about this video. The dispirited glance over the shoulder, the idle listlessness, the utter disdain. Its melancholy is so deliciously French. The only thing missing is the curl of smoke from a long, brown cigarette, strong coffee and a beret.


(special thanks to Steph for passing on this gem)

On a completely unrelated note, looking through the analytics page for this blog, one of the keyword searches that lead an unsuspecting (and no doubt highly disappointed) reader to this train wreck of a publication was "farting Cinderella photos".

Clearly, I'm reading the wrong blogs.

WHAT THE FRENCH, TOAST?!?!?!?!!!!!!
or where has our hockey team gone?

Okay, so normally when a team has home ice advantage, it's an ADVANTAGE. The home team skates to victory under a blanket of undying love and support from its boisterous fans who have effectively rattled the opponent, hence the aforementioned advantage.

Normally.

This go-round... not so much.

The Pens squandered a 3-0 lead after the first period, loosing in overtime in game one of the playoffs, and then proceeded to do the EXACT SAME THING in game two, losing by a score of 8-5.

F*^$%&$@^&$*+@#%"&#+@!!!!!

Don't let the 3 point gap fool you. Last night's game was a close, hard-fought battle. Simply put, our defense wasn't as sharp as the Flyers.

PUFFT! PUFFT!! (that's me spitting at the ground in disgust, in case you couldn't figure out my lame attempt at sound effects. pufft!)

These were two of the best matches ever contested, fast play, brilliant saves, high intensity... and the completely wrong outcome.

Oh, the pain.

Now we're down two heading to Philly. Not the position The Pens (or anyone) expected to be in. Blerg.

At least there was this all-about-awesome, board-breaking hip check heard around the arena from James Neal.



BOOM! That's some fun shit right there.

It's not impossible to come back from a 2-0 series deficit, as long as they keep their heads in the game. They have to want it more. Pure and simple.

Time to get hungry, boys.

It's The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year 
or It's Penguins' Playoff Hockey season, BABY!!

what you probably can't tell is this is the actual
signage on the actual side of Consol Energy Center
snapped from a monitor at the special k
i am too lame to walk the four blocks
don't judge 

This is the most beautiful sign in town for a hockey fan. As the chyron states... Pittsburgh has playoff fever!

Our Boys of Winter came within one point of division leader, the dreaded New York Rangers, ending with a whopping 108. Astounding for a team whose two top scorers and leading defense man were missing for a good part of the season.

Oh, and then there was all the rancor from the Flyers' coaches Laviolette and Berube the last week of regulation play, calling Pens' Coach Bylsma gutless and Sid and Geno the "two dirtiest players" on our team.

Really?

No DeeJay's ribs for you. EVER.*

Then NBC's commentator, Mike Milbury, jumped on the Haters bandwagon, calling Sid a goody-two-shoes punk and Byslma a skirt wearer.

Top that off with Ranger's Coach Tortorella declaring the Pens the "most arrogant organization in the league" and calling our top two players whiners.

Sounds like somebody feels a wee bit threatened, no? Could it be because he's back

too cute with the flowing mane

and he's finally back

le sigh

and him...he's back with a vengeance! 

proudly posing with 50 goal puck
(he's kind of an adorable neanderthal)

Scoring 50 goals and posting 109 points total, to capture his second career Art Ross scoring championship trophy, despite missing a portion of the schedule due to injury. Awwwsome!

The other teams should be scared. Finally our battered club is healthy with only two players on the DL. In Sid's long absence, the lines have gelled, proving a formidable force in his absence. Crosby's return is the extra grease in an already well-oiled machine, quietly making an impact with his every touch of the puck.

But that's all in the past now. The slate is wiped clean. It's Stanley Cup playoff season. This is an entirely different beast with an intensity unlike no other. The level of play is through the roof. Anything can happen.

It's the only sport in which I look forward to watching OTHER teams compete. It's the only sport I miss when it's all said and done. It's the only sport that incites me stand in my own living room and scream out with enough force to bruise my ovaries.

I am not even kidding about that last one.

Sweet Baby Jesus, I love this game!

The north east cover of Sports Illustrated posed the following question:

I think you know my answer.

It all starts tonight with game one at home against our cross-state rivals, the effing Flyers. Bring it on!

So what could be better than the Pens hoisting the cup once again? Sid or the Tanger taking this kind of victory lap.



A girl can dream, right?

LET'S GO PENS!!!!!



*Laviolette let slip he attributes the Flyers 5-1 winning record at Consol to a standing order of local proprietor, DeeJay's famous ribs delivered to the plane after each game.