NO. SLEEP. IN BROOKLYN... saddling up for an Old 97's trifecta

mr. miller being stage gumby
good lord, i love this shot

Where to begin...

Okay, so months ago it was announced my favorite band of musical men were to play three consecutive nights at the Brooklyn Bowl, performing their first three albums in their entirety each night.

Yes, please!

I love these four wiry Texans with every fiber of my music-loving heart. They rocked, punked and blasted through three momentous nights. The powers that be have pinned them as Alt-Country. Alt-Country, my ass! Yeah, maybe Alt-Country hopped up on steroids, Red Bull and whiskey. They shred that moniker every night they grace the stage. Son Volt they ain't, and I thank the Baby Jesus for that.

old 97's do not go quietly into the night

Phone calls were made, arrangements were set, time dragged on. Then, much like a wedding, the event came and whizzed by like a speeding bullet. Although to be honest, enough was packed into each day that 24 hours felt like 48.

Besides standing front row having my hair blown back from the shear power of their rocking out, occasionally anointed by a spray of Rhett-sweat, my favorite thing about these road trips is congregating with friends from near and far. Along with the usual New York contingent, there were a few extras. Sheila and Melissa hopped on the train from DC with Steph, Cindy from Pittsburgh and Greg from Texas whom I haven't seen in three years was in "on business" with his son.

But by far the greatest serendipitous moment was our long-time friend, Myra. She's a former Graham dancer currently teaching at SMU. Every year she returns to New York for one week to teach at the Martha Graham school.  We haven't seen her since 2009. It just so happened THIS was the week she was back in the Apple.

at the fabo hotel pool
jesus, could my head be any fatter?

STILL a Texas beauty

After I tumbled out of the Megabus, (which was awesome, btw. clean, comfortable, no bat-shit-crazy Greyhound types aboard. except for the need to dole out ones fluid intake, everything was cool. there was a bathroom on board that seemed clean, but still...eww.) Myra and I met up at Union Square and headed to Brooklyn.

I stayed at a swanky new hotel, King and Grove of Williamsburg located a block from the venue. Beautiful! There was a rooftop lounge and a salt water POOL! In Brooklyn?!? Hellz yeah!

a lounge with a view

And you better believe I used that puppy as soon as we got there. The humidity was at about 1000%. For this comfort alone, it was worth the stay.

how is this even Brooklyn??!?

We had a terrific time catching up in the breezy shade, consuming fancy-ass food and fruity cocktails. Geo and I miss her.

Anywho, I got to spend some quality time dining, dancing and singing with Marcy, Sarah, Tracey and the lone fellow, Sarah's beau, Vinnie. It was so fun to be in the pit with Marcy, singing our heads off. Brooklyn Bowl is really cool. The bowling lanes are adjacent to the performance area. There's a six foot knee wall separating the dance pit from the lanes. So people are literally bowling while the show's going on. There's a limited seating restaurant in the front serving surprisingly tasty food and kickass frozen Margaritas from a slushy machine. Apparently, they are known for their fried chicken, but who's gonna bounce around with a stomach full of greasy poultry. That would NOT end well. But seriously, Dude...the Ritas, different story. Yum!

There was a different opening act each night, none of whom we listened to except the end of the third. Truth be told, I'd support banning openers at 97's shows altogether, because really, what's the point. They're just irritating. The lone exception was the Travoltas. Now THAT was a fun opening act. In any case, I'd selfishly prefer the band play longer, like.. oh, I don't know... three hours.

The first night's album was their premier, Hitchhike to Rhome, an album they performed start to finish only once upon its tenth anniversary. So many great originals surrounding the three covers. I'm always struck by Rhett's enormous skill for constructing such well-crafted, smart songs at such a tender age of 22. They hold up 20 years later. Such an enormous talent.

and he still looks like he's 30

We planted ourselves Murry side and anxiously waited to hear those gems rarely placed on the setlist. The guys took the stage to Queen's Fat Bottomed Girls, Rhett rocking the white pants, holding his beer up high to the crowd and launching into St. Ignatius. Their energy filled the room, enveloping the crowd as they charged through their first album, clearly enjoying themselves.

The final official cut is Ken's Polka Thing. It's a short accordion solo. The word had gone out on Twitter and Facebook for help procuring the instrument. Luckily they found one, and Ken strapped that puppy on. His disclaimer to being rusty, was unnecessary. He did great!



Rhett joked that unlike the CD, we wouldn't have to wait ten minutes for the secret cut, then busted into Tupelo County Jail.




"We're Old 97's, Motherfucker!"

Ha Ha! I love them.

The rest of the set was filled out with other rare favorites, Lonely Holiday, a smoky Let the Whiskey Take the Reins, the always bouncy Can't Get a Line, and a never-before-experienced-by-me Making Love With You.



Dancing with Tears in my Eyes



(you can watch all my videos from each night here)

And then Ken hit the first strain of Time Bomb, and the usual mixture of exhilaration and sadness struck as Rhett leapt from the amp. It's always bittersweet. They cut loose with every ounce of energy left in them, working themselves and the audience into a froth... and then it's over. Boo.

But wait! There were two more shows with no waiting. :)

Hitchhike to Rhome

St. Ignatius 

504 (she had me singing gooooospel...)

drowning in the days (doot-n-dada)

miss molly

dancing with tears

4 leaf clover

wish the worst (a scream-singing fave)

old 97's theme

doreen (pure rock-no banjo)

hand off

mama tried

stoned (won't you linger...)

if my heart was a car (badass)

desperate times 

ken's polka thing (go ken!)

tupelo county jail

west tx teardrops

lonely holiday

champaign, il

rollerskate skinny (natch)

let the whiskey take the reins (smoking hot)

can't get a line (always fun)

every night is friday night (head banging good)

big brown eyes (YEAH!)

---

making love with you

dance with me

time bomb

(sad panda face)

Okay, so I FINALLY took my Nikon to the show, minus the embarrassingly conspicuous Penis 200 zoom lens. Good thing I didn't bother to lug that hefty bad boy, because I would have had nothing but images of their nose hairs and orthodontia, and ain't nobody got time for that shit. ANYHOO, after the first night, a lot of the photos came out pretty well. Here's a link to my flickr page, if you are so inclined to peruse the plethora of pictures.

In Which Even Happy Firsts Are A Little Rattling

In Which Even Happy Firsts Are A Little Rattling

Okay, so last night the first of our friends' children was wed, hitched, and jumped the broom into holy matrimony. I'm risking the wrath of cliche haters here, but it must be said. Where the hell did the time go?!?? I swear to God he was only born a minute ago!! He just started walking, for Pete's sake! How can he possibly be married??!?

floating on bubbles
far less stinging than pelted rice

Vince is 22 years old, a mere child. So young and fresh-faced, his brother two years his junior looks older than he. I'm not even exaggerating. He barely looks old enough to work legally outside of the child labor laws, let alone enter into a lifetime commitment to another human. The truth is he maybe green in number, but he is definitely old of soul. He is an earnest, sincere and gentle spirit.

the rodgers guys
vince's brother, Nick; grandpa Charlie; Marty (father); Vince
also, Marty doesn't look old enough to have a 22 year old

Ever since Vince was a teenager, he has wanted nothing else but to be married and share his life with the girl of his dreams who would fill in his outline. Michelle does just that. Seeing him standing at the altar, his slight frame swimming in his tux, looking at once stunned, nervous and exhilarated, hearing him choke up a little during his vows... my heart swelled for him. So innocent, hopeful and full of life's promise. Standing before his radiant bride, the world and all its ills melted away, rendered insignificant, trumped by the all-consuming power of burgeoning love.

Geo and I held hands, as we instinctively do at weddings, reminded of the greatest of life's gifts, loving another. Hearts and souls entwined as tightly as the fingers on our clasped hands.

first dance under the disco ball

The reception was a fun affair at the local Elks Club. I love these kinds of receptions. Comfortable, casual, no pretensions and no primer necessary to explain copious forks and spoons at place settings. The food was simple and delicious with a cash bar and dude... a variety of cupcakes instead of vanilla frou frou cake that tastes like lard and lost hope left unfinished on the plate. Once the DJ started the jamz kicking, the dance floor was packed with white folk bustin' out awkward, Caucasian moves. Elaine Benes made an appearance more than once, no doubt painfully recorded for an eternity of unending humiliation. Whatever. A fun time was had by all.

Funny note: We sat next to two tables full of Vince and Michelle's friends. My long-time college friend Dennis, nudged me to point out WE used to be that table of rambunctious youngsters at each others weddings. It's so strange to realize that we're the occupants of the "adult/parents" table now. Which is completely ridiculous, and in direct contrast to the infantile shenanigans perpetrated at any given moment. Not to mention, in our heads we're only, what... 30-35 tops, right?

dancing queens
rockin' the casbah, aka Elks

the groom, realizing he's married

three decades of friendship
Mom of the groom, Cathy (in the b/w) still looks 30
completely unfair

Adult table... Pfffft!! (She says while ingesting a fistful of pain relievers to quiet the pains in her back and feet from dancing in heels. HEELS, PEOPLE!! And I kept them on ALL FRIGGIN' NIGHT! Outrageous! If that's not proof of how dear this kid is, well, then you can kiss my aching asp.)

But I digress...

Surrounded by family and friends, this was the perfect celebration to send these two sweet, kids off into the world, armed with the belief they are invincible and together they can conquer anything life throws at them. They have the world by the short hairs. These two are so crazy about each other, it's heartwarming. And a wee bit sickening. Ha Ha! Seriously, their unbridled optimism is a reminder to all of us of the one thing that makes living on this wildly spinning, blue planet worthwhile. Love.

the happy couple, radiating
seriously, babies

During their ceremony, the lovely blue-eyed one's sweetly sentimental Picture This came to mind.

Picture this
many years from now, me and you, you and me
and our two little children
waking up with the sun in the morning
waking up with the sun in the morning

...

living together happily
and never a dull moment
...

you'll find me amidst the joy and confusion
the kids will climb up our legs as we're kissing
you catch my eye and you register the moment
I'm tired but I'm not too tired for you


That last line gets me every damn time. The lyrics are custom made for newlyweds and seasoned newlyweds. This song is destined to be a reception staple. Or it should be anyway if I have any say in the matter.

A big bear hug of congratulations to Vince and Michelle. May your life be filled with joy, laughter, adventure, understanding, teamwork, abundant love, and may you never ever be too tired for each other.

In Which I'm Hating On The C-Word

My brother has cancer.

A surreal statement I never expected to utter. A couple weeks ago, he was diagnosed with prostate cancer. I spoke with Buddy at length, and he's dealing with it quite nicely. He's positive, hopeful and ever pragmatic. Taking it one step at a time. He is to undergo further testing in the form of an MRI and bone scan to determine if the cancer is isolated...or not.

FUCKING CANCER!


Cancer has been a little too familiar lately. My cousin, Mish has been battling breast cancer since last July. There are apparently a thousand different forms of breast cancer. Okay, maybe just around 20, but still. Hers was contained in one bastard of a tumor which was surgically removed without a hitch. But hers is an aggressive type, so the doctors bombarded her with massive amounts of chemo and then radiation over the course of the last ten months.

She has faced her cancer with candor, grace and humor. Bravely posting updates, milestones and photos of her beautiful, bald head on Facebook for support, because dammit, what's social media for if not to receive comfort, encouragement and reassurance from friends and family in one's time of need.

Her port into which the nurses injected her with a poisonous radioactive cocktail was finally removed several weeks ago. A HUGE milestone for any cancer patient. She is finally back to work, feeling stronger, slowly getting her life back. I'm ecstatic to say she's cancer free now. She's a survivor, but there is and ever shall be a kernel of fear in the back of her (and our) mind(s) that at some point in the future this insatiable mutation will rear its butt-ugly head and ravage a different part of her body. There's a chance her cancer will not go quietly into the night.

FUCKING CANCER!


My head knows prostate cancer is extremely curable, especially if caught early, which my brother's was, (Thank you PSA blood test!) and yet, I don't know how I feel about all of this. If I follow my gut instincts, the calm reaction of my body is telling me everything will work out just fine, and there's no need to worry. Much like on 9/11 when I knew deep down in my gut, my nephew was safe from the horror of the falling buildings. The medical experts in Manhattan will remove the offending cells from my brother, and he'll be good to go for decades longer. I want to go with that. I prefer to go with that. I NEED to go with that.

He's my only brother. I love him with all my heart. He is NOT expendable.

Buddy has had a challenging year thus far. His thriving electrical contracting business in the Hudson Valley has basically dried up, leaving him no choice but to sell off the equipment of his life's work, one unit at a time, to the highest bidder. I don't care how strong or practical you are, that's gotta sting. And now he's facing this.

The good news is both his kids' college educations and his properties are paid for in full. Unencumbered by deadlines and client demands, this unexpected free time will enable him to focus on his wellness without distraction or outside stress.

Sometimes a hardship is a blessing. Sometimes the Universe does you a solid, and gives you exactly what you need without you realizing it at the time.

My brother has cancer, but I know he's going to beat the SHIT out of that fucker. He's a fighter. A baddass. And you better believe all us crazy Italians are going to be standing by him every step of the way. He and Mish are going to be around for a loooooong time. So you can just suck it, Cancer!


For the love of your own private gender parts, you menfolk, get a PSA test EVERY YEAR. And ladies, save the TaTas. Get your annual mammogram. It won't just save your girls, it'll save your life.

The Darker Side of Mother's Day From A Non-Mother

Some Mother's Days are tougher than others.

Back in the Stone Age, Geo and I longed for a child of our own, but biology and financial instability conspired against us, leaving us barren and without the means to adopt. I poured my heart out in all its ugly, uncensored glory here.

99% of the time I'm fine, having come to terms with our fate long ago. Then out of the blue, the heartless 1% claws its bloody way to the surface, rendering me a weepy, melancholic hot mess of a girl, until I can manage to muzzle the sumbitch and stuff her back in the steamer trunk stashed in the dark recesses of my soul before my mascara starts to run in streaks the likes of which Tammy Faye Baker would be proud.

Pfffft! Who am I kidding. I don't wear mascara.

I suppose you could classify this as grieving for a loved one who never was, for lost possibilities. Fortunately, the grieving is brief, but it's something that is always with me, under the surface, waiting to stab me with a pitch fork, because it's a ginormous ASSHOLE that won't GET THE FUCK OUT. Fortunately, I have been blessed with a great life filled with the love of an amazing man, an unconditionally supportive family and incredible friends who willingly share their lives and progeny with me. I can't thank them enough for the honor.

It HAS been a very good life. And yet...

This morning, my dear sister/friend, Steph, with whom I get both my baby and doggie fix, shared a beautifully written blog post on Facebook by a British artist named Jani Franck entitled, "For All the Women Who Are Not Mothers... On Mother's Day". I swear she peered into my wounded heart. It's eloquent, compassionate, touching and totally made me cry whilst reading it. But in a good way. Men don't get the significance of a "good cry" at all. They are completely baffled by it. Poor things. It's a chick thing.

Anywho, it's a meaningful piece I didn't want to lose track of amidst the quagmire of social media. Even though these words left me teary-eyed, they also left me feeling comforted, like a big, warm hug on a day that sometimes feels a little cold.

Here's to all of us ladies who are childless by nature or design. We may not be actively mothering, but we are all nurturers. We might not have kids to kiss, to cuddle, to walk in our footsteps, but we're all mothers in one form or another. Occasionally, we're even Muthas. Ha Ha! Who knows, maybe things will be different in our next life time. Next go round I might have a penis! Imagine how awesome that will be for those urine samples... among other things. :)

What?!?

In any case, this is for us, girls. Bring a tissue. xoxoxo

For all the women who are not mothers.... on Mother's Day

For all the women who are not Mothers, on Mothers Day.

I woke up thinking of us, the not-Mothers.

The ones of us who won't get breakfast in bed, burnt toast and cold eggs made by clumsy little hands.  Not a hand drawn card, or a hastily bought bunch of flowers, or daffodils from the garden.  We won't get  a long distance phonecall from a grown child off travelling, or at Uni - or a Special Lunch Out.  Not today, at least.

The women who are asked the question, again and again - 'when?' and 'why not?' as if there was something terribly wrong with us.

Sometimes, even we think that might be true.  As if there was some secret we've not been let in on.

The ultimate sacrament of childbirth, birthing you into full womanhood.  Like we missed an important final exam and can't get the certificate that says 

'Yes, you are a Grown Up Woman now'.


Detail from 'Red Tent Goddess' painting by Jani Franck

Even though that's not true, of course.

This is for the women whose wombs just wouldn't, couldn't, start to grow a life.  

For those who felt life growing, perhaps many times - but those tiny ones slip away so easily.

Sometimes, we have to choose to let the tiny ones go, because we are not ready for them.

And nobody remembers the really tiny ones, except for us.  Especially today.

For the ones who went through the terrible lottery of fertility treatment - and didn't win the prize.

For the women who just didn't meet the right father, at the right time. 

For the women who find it's too late, for the Crone comes to sit with us all, gently holding our hands as the bleeding slows and stops - much sooner than we were expecting her.

For the women who love a man who cannot father children.  This is a silent sorrow, for it's not our secret to tell or solely our pain to bear.

For the women who love a man who doesn't want to be father, and who after many tearful all-night conversations, make our peace with this.

For the women who love women, whose love can make everything but new life. Not yet, anyway.

For the women who were born with a man's body.

For the ones who decided that our beloved vocation, our calling, wouldn't allow us to be Mothers, too.  A hateful, painful choice few men have ever had to make.

For the ones who think that seven billion (and counting) of us is probably quite enough, and couldn't bring ourselves to ask Mother Earth to feed another little mouth.

For the ones who can't afford to give a child what it needs, perhaps materially, perhaps emotionally - perhaps both.  Who loved our imagined little ones enough to make that choice.  

The women who have lost a child.  You will always be a mother, though you get no card today.

The women who simply never felt it was quite right for us, without even quite understanding why.

We women who have noticed friends and relatives drift away after having children.  The friends of years vanishing into a bubble of motherhood.  Leaving us with no children in our immediate circle to give us the company of little ones at least, because it's fun to hang out with little ones.

The ones who feel joy, of course - but also a deep, unspoken sorrow, when we watch one of our sisters glowing with pregnant bliss, or breastfeeding a little one, or catching the look of perfect love between a mother and child.

Of course it does hurt, sometimes.

Whatever our reasons for having none of our own.

We women who know, of course, that we do so many, other, valuable things.  

We are the women who mother other women's children, who are the birth mother of businesses, projects, ideas, gardens, animals, vocations, art, books, poems, blogs, scientific research, films, communities, causes and so much else......

We know.

That being a mother is just one way to be a woman.  

Just one way, but one way that is held up as an impossible ideal - even for mothers.  The perfect Mama.  The perfect woman.

This isn't because I want your sympathy.  Because I don't, we don't, especially not today.  This one little post, today, isn't for all the lovely Mothers.  

The Mothers I do respect and celebrate, and admire.  I wonder daily how you do the amazing, important, difficult job you do.  We should give you flowers every day.

Today, this is for the ones who are still waiting.

For the ones who know the waiting is over.

This is for you.  This is for us.

In Which We Tex-Mex It Up At The Best Library EVAH 

Okay, so after a ten-year hiatus, popular Tex-Mex group, The Mavericks, fronted by portly, yet suave Raul Malo have reunited for an extensive American and European tour. Raul has been taking his smooth, dulcet pipes on the road with his solo band during those lost years. I don't know what the conflict (if any) there was, but whatever the case...THE BAND IS BACK, BABY!! All is forgiven. And it's evident they are having a blast playing together again.

Thanks to my wonderful friend, Suzanne, I got to sneak into WYEP's in-studio session with all nine members of The Mavericks.

wyep's lilliputian stage

That's a tiny stage, y'all! Nine men make for a snug fit. Despite being cramped, they played four songs that had the room jumping. Forever gracious, they all stuck around afterwards to chat with fans.

does my head look pea-sized, or what?

After dining al fresco at the Tin Front, Homestead's vegetarian restaurant, Mary Ann and I met up with my work friend, Sue, a newcomer to the Mavericks merriment. I love introducing friends to bands that rock my world.

drinking Moscow Mules, pretending we're back in Austin

 

"come in, tokyo..."

I've spoke of the Carnegie Library of Homestead before. It's a grand old structure indicative of its time, sitting atop a hill overlooking the river. Okay, so the river is waaaaaay down there, but you can see it if you look hard enough past all the urban sprawl. The rooms are lined with beautiful wooden shelves filled with various tomes, and there's an iconic portrait of Mr. Carnegie hovering above the masses. They still sell wine and beer, but now you can purchase an adult sippy cup to take into the theater and suck your vino through a big, fat straw all classy 'n shit. Andrew would be proud. I still think a crazy straw was the way to go, but who am I to judge. Pinkies up!!

Anywho, the theater within the confines of the library is a seated venue with a balcony. The problem I have with seated venues is all the sitting... and grumpy asscats yelling for you to sit the fuck down. Sitting in that uncomfortably-polite-white-person way is fine for a mellow, solo act or some fancy-ass classical music hoopla, but c'mon! Who's gonna sit down for the Mexican polka fest that is the Mavericks?

Bobby Buzzkill behind us, that's who.


Buzzkill: Sit DOWN!!

Me: Seriously? What are you, Grandpa? Get up with the rest of us. Clearly, you desperately need to shake your groove thang.

Buzzkill: Either SIT DOWN OR STAND IN ANOTHER ZIP CODE!!

Me: Dude, every time you make me sit down a puppy dies. Do you want that on your head? Well, do ya, Grampa Munster? You may thrive on unnecessary puppy slaughter, but I will not let that happen. Not on my watch, Motherfucker.

And then I made his pointy, wee head implode with my laser beam eyes.


Or so it played out in my head. In reality I moved to the aisle to be festive with my steel drum friends who just happened to be two rows down on the aisle. Thank you modern technology for the easy friend locator.

I swear it's karmic payback for my younger years when I yelled the same shit to wasted chicks standing on chairs in front of me. What the HELL was wrong with me back then? Seriously. Now I'm caught in an a-hole karmic boomerang of my own doing.

Whatever. I abandoned my mates and moved to the aisle when the spirit took me. That's the thing about this band. Their music is so damn FUN! Two horns, one upright bass, one accordion, an animated keyboardist, and Raul decked out in his finest mariachi velvet vest with floral appliqué...now THAT'S a par-TAY! Over the course of 2 1/2 hours, they played all their hits to the delight of the crowd, including an older gent dancing down the aisle. Check him out. He appears at 4:19. He's gotta be a kick to live with, and a complete embarrassment to his kids.

Well done, sir. Well done.



The first encore was Raul crooning solo, covering old standards like the Steve Lawrence/Edie Gourmet classic, Something Stupid, building to a full-band version of the Beatles Shake it Up, Baby which got the entire audience on its feet, where we all remained standing for one of their biggest crowd pleasers, I Said I Love You.

Take that, Bobby Fucking Buzzkill.


(only recorded part of the song, because sometimes you just have to put down the damn camera and enjoy the moment)


The second encore featured Malo's son, Dino on drums for Shake, Rattle and Roll. Then they launched into the final song of the evening, All You Ever Do Is Bring Me Down. Clearly, not wanting the night to end, Malo kept signaling his band to play the chorus over and over and over.



We all left buoyant, happy and humming. Sue became a full-fledged fan. In fact, she couldn't stop talking about how much fun she had the next day at work. Further evidence of the euphoric nature of live music. and its ability to elevate ones spirits. And people wonder why I go to so many concerts.

Some random notes on the evening:

1. Five-inch platform shoes and a short, slinky dress is a dangerous combo, just ask the blonde chippie who fell off her hooker pumps in front of God and everyone waiting in line while she gracelessly descended the outdoor stairs.

2. Because the Fates are a bunch of vindictive dickheads, she naturally ended up sitting in front of us. Very funny, assholes. Between recording the ceiling with her iPhone and Facebooking (is that even a word, let alone a verb?), this helium-voiced, trainwreck of a girl frantically searched under her seat, via blazing bright iPhone flashlight, for her discarded jacket and ticket during the encore. Train..Wreck. With a capital Hot Mess. At least she was dancing, however precariously atop those slender Jezebel heels.

3. Accordions kick up the fun factor ten fold.

4. The crowd skewed older, which none of the band members seemed to mind-hey they're older, too. But, Daaaamn! There were some crazy-fun 60-something women with black and white blocked hair dancing, singing and flinging stuff on stage. They were definitely the mayors of the I-don't-give-a-shit-I'm-doing-my-thing section. They were awesome! An inspiration for all to see it's possible to maintain ones enthusiasm, abandon and verve later in life. I see my future in them. Sorry Geo.

5. Playing air steel drum to Guantanamera is not nearly as hip or cool as one would think.

6. Accordions AND brass kick up the fun factor twenty fold.

7. You can't go wrong with the Mavericks' style of Tex Mex fun.

and finally,
8. Never pass up the opportunity to make a spectacle of yourself.

just because we're lovable idiots

In Which Being A Pirates Fan Is A Lifelong Lesson In Dealing With Disappointment 

Okay, so yesterday was the home opener for the MLB's perpetual bottom-feeder, our hometown Pittsburgh Pirates. The first pitch kicked off the official start to our 21st season since we clocked a winning record. And by "winning record", I mean a season 500 or above. We're not even talking about getting to the playoffs or world series here. Nope. At this dismal point, any final tally above 500 would solicit a fucking championship parade through the streets of downtown, replete with a shit ton of fucking ticker-tape. I'm not even kidding.

We came close last year. Hell, there was a point where we were actually like, 17 games OVER 500.

Over. Five-Fucking-Hundred.

That's HUGE for us, People. Fans filled the ballpark to capacity. Men, women and children proudly donned Pirates gear openly without shame, ridicule or humiliation. The bandwagon was bursting with new recruits chanting "yes, we can!" The Zoltan himself threw out the first pitch. Television Sports Czars actually started including the Buccos in their roundups. Cats and dogs were living together. The entire city caught the fever.

Holy Shit! Could it be? Could this actually be the year we bust out from behind the unofficial moniker of MLB farm club? Hellz yeah, it could! It was glorious.

Then September happened.

First came one loss. No biggie, right?

Then another. And another. And another. Then it pretty much went to shit.

Soon it wasn't a matter of how many games above 500 the Pirates would finish the season, but more like Dear God, PLEASE, for the love of all that is holy, let us end at 500 just this once. C'mon! Throw us a frickin' bone! We're begging you!

But, alas, the dream to burst the curse was dashed, leaving both die-hard and fair-weather fans crumpled in a depressed heap. We'd been duped yet again.

@&^$*#@%!!?!

Fool me once, shame on me. Fool me 20 times, and well, pass the fucking Xanax.

Ah, but it's another year, another team, another chance. Hope springs eternal, even if this Spring seems an eternity away thanks to a cold-hearted, bi-polar, hot-cold Mother Nature. She took April Fool's Day seriously, yo. Rain, sleet, snow, wind then sunshine all in the course of six hours. Sweet Baby Jesus, that ain't right. Not one bit.

Opening Day put us in the minus column against the Cubbies, but we can take it. We've had 20 years to learn how to deal with disappointment. Who knows. Maybe this year they just might crack it... says the crazy woman who knows better, but will still get sucked into the hot mess of optimism.

I'm a hockey chick, not a baseball fanatic, but DAAAAMN, I'd like to witness one more successful season before my soul leaves this mortal coil. Is that too much to ask? Maybe, but maybe not. Pirates Baseball is one ginormous maybe.

If nothing else positive happens, at least we know Jalapeno Hanna can throw a mean purse beat down.

In Which The Pens Land A Holy Trinity

Okay, so by now you know how much I love hockey in general and the Pens in particular. This year's half-season lockout was torture, what with the Steelers imploding, the winter dragging mercilessly on and 30 Rock closing up shop.

It was a glorious week in mid-January when NHL hockey returned (coinciding with my beloved Rhett Miller's solo show. Passions colliding.) with a shortened schedule which has played out like an extended playoff season from the get-go. My boys struggled at first, but are now sitting on top of the heap, currently riding a 13 game streak WITH a missing Malkin and Letang.

So, fast forward to this week...

Pens GM, Ray Shero shrewdly jumped ahead of the trade deadline next week to craft deals for two team captains and a big-ass defenseman.

First up, long-time Dallas Stars Captain, 34-year-old Brenden Morrow was swapped for Joe Morrow and a prospect, rendering Stars fans shocked and speechless. He waived his no-trade clause with a franchise he called home for 14 years to move to a team in the running.

"Not long after Brenden Morrow caught an early-morning flight out of the only National Hockey League city he's ever known Monday, his 8-year-old daughter came upon his wife crying. Morrow's wife, Anne-Marie, relayed what little Bryelle told her via a text Brenden received during a layover. 

She said, 'Mom, it's going to be OK. It's only a couple months -- and he's got a chance to win the Cup.'"

Bright little girl.

It's gotta be tough coming from a leadership role for nearly 14 years to go back to player. When Morrow spoke at his conference, he addressed that particular issue with a humble acknowledgment that the Pens is Sid's team. He's happy to play his role, and thrilled to be playing alongside such talent. Showing their class and fraternity, several players traded numbers so Morrow could retain his number, 10.

welcome aboard

Then one day later, Shero and company acquired San Jose Sharks' big defensemen, 33-year-old Douglas Murray for second round draft picks in both 2013 and 2014. Our defense has been struggling with Letang out most of this shortened season. Murray's big frame can fill a much needed position in front of the net, not unlike the much-maligned Hal Gill who was instrumental in our last cup victory.

"San Jose has become home for me and I'm leaving with an empty feeling with the teams we had here not getting it done, but it's extremely exciting going to Pittsburgh, going to the best team in the league already. They always have some great players and I'm just excited to get there, get used to the team and take a run at the Stanley Cup." - Douglas Murray

And he ain't afraid to fight. Woot!



Then this morning came the big news, Shero worked his voodoo magic and snagged Calgary Flames' nine-season Captain, 35-year-old Jarome Iginla right out from under Boston.

It's a freaking Easter miracle!!

aaaaaaaaaaa...

When everyone went to bed, Boston had a lock on Iginla. Then the magical trade fairies wearing Ray Shero masks proclaimed, "Ain't NOBODY got time for that."

POOF! Penguin.

So sad. NOT!

Iginla has consistently scored 30 goals per season, fed Sid the winning goal for Canada in the 2010 Olympics AND donates $2,000 to charity for each goal he scores. Great guy for a great team.



Because I can't resist, one more gem from the interwebs.

Crosby and Iginla
pittsburgh's own dynamic duo

All the NHL is hating on us bad right now. heehee


The dream of drinking from Lord Stanley' Cup is a powerful motivator. All three of these seasoned veterans cashed in their long-term allegiances in pursuit of their chance to hoist those precious, shiny metal rings, handed only to the most deserving battle worn.

When Hossa bailed on us to search for his holy grail as a Red Wing with Detroit, I thought it was a shitty thing to do. Our team still had promise. But now I get it. These guys play hard their entire career. They just want to wrap their bloodied and bruised hands around that cold steel and grab a taste of that one magical moment that gives their entire life meaning.

The stage is set pretty damn tight for our Cup dreams to become a reality. Shero's doing everything in his power to make it so. Fingers crossed our newest black and gold will complete their life's work in a sea of waving white towels.

the dream is alive