Godspeed, Suzette

And the fucking death train keeps rolling along...

Okay, so I had hoped my first foray back to the keys would be a happy romp recapping the awesome of 2013, but clearly the Reaper had a different idea.

Evil Asshat.

On Friday night, the bell tolled for my dear, irreverent friend, Suzette. Her congestive heart failure got the best of her, leaving her on life support until her fragile frame succumbed to the force she could no longer fight. She was surrounded by the love of her children and nieces when she stepped off this mortal coil.

I had a chance to visit her in the ICU, but to be honest, I couldn't bear to let my last image of her be the hollow shell of her former self, hooked to wires and tubes. Instead I chose to keep her lively spirit I wrote about here as the lingering image imprinted on my mind and heart.

We were thick as thieves during her tenure at the Special K, scheming shenanigans, planning parties and laughing so hard I peed a little. Some of my favorite moments were spent with this woman who never acted her age. We were kindred 12 year-old boys. She was everyone's Mom. You know, the cool one you always wanted who fed you, swore like a sailor and told you dirty jokes.

We would roam around a lot together. I remember one day she and I went to an outdoor craft fair named Yankee Peddler in Ohio with her sister and niece. Her family is wonderful, but they don't swear. Can you even fucking imagine it?!? No swearing. On purpose. WHA??? Who lives like that??!? Aaaaaanywho, after a long afternoon of going against our nature, we said goodbye to her sister's family, closed the car door, and let fire a slew of curses.

"ASSHOLESHITGODDAMNFUCKDAMMITCOCKHELL!!"

We could no longer hold them in. Seriously. It was fucking EXHAUSTING pretending to be Sweet Polly Purebread. Suzette and I laughed our asses off after our onslaught of expletives.



not-so-sweet polly purebred

We didn't get together as much once she retired except for our monthly cut and dye jobs at Angie's, cause that's how chicks bond; over chocolate, wine and dye jobs, yo. We always meant to hang more, but you know how it is... good intentions unrealized. Last year her health started to decline quickly, and her daughter moved in to take care of her, which alleviated my guilt a bit, but not much.

Suzette is the first of my friends to die. It's weird and unsettling. Losing parents, grandparents, elderly aunts and uncles is tough enough, but losing a buddy... it hits hard.

On Saturday, we will gather to swap stories amidst laughter and tears in celebration of the life of our spirited friend. She was well loved by all who met her.

Rereading the comments from my post linked to above, I have to share two from coworkers:

"I've loved Suzette ever since the day, while prepping for a Children's Hospital telethon, she walked right up to me carrying a large metal light box, dropped it at my feet and said, 'I've brought my make-up and I'm ready to work."

"... I loved, loved, loved her sick sense of humor. The one time I was eating a little baggie of nuts from the vending machine, and she made a comment about putting a cashew on my wang (ala Dane Cook).
She had me at cashew."


She was one of a kind.

And to quote myself: She was my sassy sister, my irreverent friend, my constant confidant, my fellow 10 year-old, my cohort in crime and one of the few people who got me. Her friendship filled my life with abundant joy and elan. She will always occupy a permanent place tucked away in my heart.

Her presence will be missed on this spinning blue planet, but I have a feeling the fun has just begun in Heaven.

It's Not You, It's Me

or breaking up with my blog

Okay, so five years ago when I started this online journal, I was full of enthusiasm, excitement and so very much to share. After years of being textually mute, the flood gates opened and thoughts, observations and stories gushed forth like a proverbial flood tide. It was effortless. And it was awesome.

Sometimes I could pen multiple posts in one day. Rare, yes, but it happened. The process was exhilarating and the results were for the most part none too shabby. I made some readers laugh. I made some readers cry. I made many readers, okay all three of you including Geo, who has since bailed on this blog, not that I blame him or am bitter because seriously, the quality of this shite has been deteriorating faster than a True Blood Vamp baking in the sun, but then again, maybe I AM bitter because isn't that part of the vows we took back in the era of big 80s hair and shoulder pads...to have, to hold, to stick by and support your spouse's hair-brained, gin-soaked (vodka-soaked just doesn't have the same poetic ring somehow, even thought THAT'S my firewater of choice) delusion of writing no matter how inept or embarrassing the overshare. Jerk.

*deep breath*

But mainly I fulfilled some need inside of me to cut the lock off my creativity's cage and spread my story-telling wings.

It worked out well for a while. I had a blast weaving yarns, but now, not so much. My heart doesn't seem to be in it anymore. Slogging along, churning out hack work even I can't stomach, however infrequently, just isn't fair to my reader or fulfilling to me. I'm in a slump that I'm having difficulty climbing out of.  So, I must break up with this blog. Take a break, as it were.

Blog: Wait.. a break? Haven't we BEEN on a break?

Me: I know it's sudden...

Blog: Sudden? You've been avoiding me for months.

Me: I know, it's not you. It's me.

Blog: Oh, boo hoo. Don't hand me that crap.

Me: No really.You've been great. Always waiting patiently for me, but I just can't commit like before. I'll still drop by from time to time. I just need some time to regroup and to read more. I would like to remain friends.

Blog: I can't believe you dropped the f-word on me!!?! After everything we've been through!

Me: I'll bring you candy...

Blog: ...

Me: and girly mags...

Blog: Oh, I can't stay mad at you. Throw in some cigars and you you've got yourself a deal.

So, apparently my blog is a male who has a sweet spot for candy, Cohibas and... porn? Whaaaa?


OH GOOD GOD! THIS IS BORING EVEN ME!

In order to be a better writer, one has to read. A lot. I haven't been reading AT ALL, and this blog has been suffering because of it. I can feel my vocabulary, as primitive as it is, pooling at my feet. Pretty soon I'll be back to primer stage.

See, Dick.
See Dick run.
Run, Dick, run... to the County Building to change your fucking name. Jesus! Your parents should be slapped for branding you with that hideous, wedgy-inciting moniker in the first place. Sadistic assholes.

Aaaanywho, I'm planning (read hoping) to pen a recap of concerts and travels from 2013 just so my addled mind can remember the spectacular parts of last year, but after that, I make no promises except to not waste your time or Google's valuable server space.

The truth is I miss writing. The thrill of ideas pouring forth faster than my fingers can type. The satisfaction of articulating antidotes around every day antics. Excessive use of alliteration. It has been a pleasure oversharing my bidnez all up in the interwebs the past five years.

Once upon a time, I could weave a colorful yarn. I'm hoping a spark reignites the passion I once felt, but until then, please enjoy a hot towel.

Attempting The Cliched Fresh Start

The photo above is an image John Green, YA author extraordinaire and all around amazing human, posted on Twitter or Facebook or his Tumblr earlier this year. I don't recall if he stumbled upon it himself or if he reblogged the image, but the minute I saw it I couldn't shake it. Such a powerful statement. Simple, profound and healing.

Being forgiven is a gift. A Mulligan many of us don't deserve, but receive anyway. It's an opportunity to be better, to prove you're worthy of a second chance. It's easy.

Forgiving. That's a different story. To be able to forgive a transgression, a hurtful word, a malicious act is a blessing. A true grace. Looking at someone who caused you pain, large or small, and absolving their action is fucking hard. But holding on to the ire is pointless, stifling and  toxic.

Life is far more light and beautiful than that.

So, in the spirit of the image above, I would like to begin 2014 with a clean, emotional slate and attempt to make this charity my mantra. I know it won't be easy to forgive in some instances, but I want to let go of the turmoil, so that's a start, right?

In the words of Disney's Peter Pan ride, Here we goooo...

To those who breached my trust, hurt my heart, dismissed my friendship, misunderstood my intentions, and to those who tried to make me feel small and take my joy away... I forgive you.

And most of all, to the girl whose reflection I face every day in the mirror who isn't the daughter, the sister, the wife, the friend she thinks she should be ...

I forgive you, too.

Buh-Bye, Bitch

continuing our annual tradition of flipping off the old year on New Year's Eve

One of our friends' progeny, passing along our tradition to his friends
our work here is done

2013 was a quintessential Yin and Yang year for me.

High and Low. Light and Dark. Life and Death.

On the high side, Pittsburgh was THE place to be! Big time movies were shot here, the art world shined with a yarn bomb on the Seventh Street bridge, A most adorable ginormous yellow rubber ducky charmed the pants off all who saw it and the Bucs broke their 20 year-old losers streak and brought our city together with good old-fashioned hard work, dedication and joy for the game.

Personally, there was live music out the wazoo, lots of friendships bonded and travel. A LOT of travel. A veritable crapton.

The year began and ended with bookend trips to New York City. In between were Geneseo, Illinois, St. Louis, the triple Bs: Baltimore, Boston and three fabulous nights in Brooklyn, Chicago, my beloved Jersey shore, Bethany Beach, Erie, The Finger Lakes, Philadelphia, New Paltz, NY and Maplewood, NJ. All thanks to my incredibly tolerant, loving Geo... and our Southwest Mastercard.

Nearly half of the aforementioned destinations were Old 97's/Rhett/Francis related, finally meeting imaginary friends and revisiting old, not-so-old, and new compadres. The other journeys involved dear friends and family. All time (and money) very well spent, in my humble opinion. And honestly, in this bloggity blog, mine is the only opinion that counts. So keep your judgy, contrary remarks for your own damn e-journal, unless your think my butt doesn't look big in these jeans, then by all means...remark away.

But I digress...

That was the light part of 2013. The opposing dark realm was too full of heartache, disenchantment, sorrow, divorce (not ours), fucking cancers and death.

Far too much dying.

Far. Too. Much.

But that's behind us. Today is a new dawn, a clean slate, a fresh start and all that other happy horse shit. On this, the first day of 2014, if there is only one tidbit you take away from this crap-ass blog, let it be this piece of wisdom my late brother-in-law, Art imparted to me...

Never let anyone take your joy away.


It's a new day, MoFos. Make the best of it.

Everything Dies Baby That's A Fact...

Well now, everything dies, baby, that's a fact
But maybe everything that dies someday comes back
Put your makeup on, fix your hair up pretty
And meet me tonight in atlantic city

- Bruce Springsteen

As soon as I saw my sister's face pop up on my cellphone, I knew my brother-in-law was gone.

It's so weird how you just... know.

After struggling with various health issues, my brother-in-law, Art passed away peacefully in his sleep next to his lover, his friend, his favorite person on this spinning blue planet. He and my sister, Toni shared 24 wonderful years together. He was the love of my sister's life. They brought out the best in each other.

They met later in life in the wake of their respective divorces. It's a good thing, too because if they had met in their 20s, they would never have been together. They were two opposite extremes. The newly born-again Toni would have run away from Art's younger, bad-boy self. Art had a somewhat checkered past, which is not to say he was criminal, just a little wild in his early years. Okay, more than a little. Believe me, he had some vivid stories from back then that would have scared the bejesus out of her.

But they met at the perfect time. The Universe crossed their paths at the ideal moment. The maturing process had smoothed their respective edges, bringing each closer to a middle ground. Their love story was meant to be. Living proof that good things DO come to those who wait.

In life, timing is everything.

Not formally educated beyond high school, Art was one of the most well-educated individuals I have ever known. He could weigh in intelligently about any subject with anyone. Unlike the rest of us Pelinos, he wasn't excessively chatty, but when he did speak, he spoke articulately and with great eloquence.

Much like my father, he was street-smart which made him a terrific reader of people. Art had the ability to assess someones personality, good or bad, and accept that person for who he was without judgement. That skill also made him an excellent gambler which he LOVED to do, successfully shooting craps and playing blackjack on cruise ships and local casinos.

When he fell seriously ill seven years ago, his mortality became tangible. Ever the pragmatist, Art knew he was living on borrowed time. He would always say how he had lived a rich, full life and this (the present) was gravy. He packed as much life as was possible in his final trips around the sun, booking multiple cruises per year, logging sunny days on the river on his best friend's boat, and spending as much time as possible with my sister.

My brother-in-law was a complicated man. He was not perfect by any stretch. No one is. He was flawed, and those flaws made him human. But in the end, he was a good man. He called my sister his savior. She brought him out of the darkness of his past transgressions into the light. Her effervescent nature filled him with indescribable joy. He felt blessed to be with her, surrounded by her energy. He adored her, and she him. He was a colorful man, and our family will miss his hues. 

The above chorus to Springsteen's Atlantic City has been running through my head the entire time I've struggled to write this post. I think it's the mater-of-fact, practical approach to life and death in the song that I associate with my sweet sister's husband. I can hear Art uttering these words as he scoops Toni up and takes her on another adventure knowing their time together is short. A"Fuck it. Let's go for it and live while we can" attitude.

He told Toni over and over again not to feel sorry for him and his inevitable end. Comforting her by saying his best years were with her, and perhaps giving her the biggest gift of all...the permission to live her life fully after he passed, without guilt or regret. 

I will always be grateful to Art for loving my sister implicitly and making her happier than she ever dreamed possible. He was the partner she always deserved. His heart may have given out, but he will always and forever remain in hers and ours. 



End Of Summer Funfest

Preamble mini-ramble: There's been a fair amount of sadness lately. Okay, more than a fair amount, but I'll probably pen that tough tale later for therapeutic reasons more than anything else. Sometimes life is completely unfair. And hard. And a right-royal bitch face. No matter how prepared you think you are, truth is, you're never prepared. Anywho, for now I want to focus on the positive times and fun excursions that occurred over the past few months, and basically try to clean up a few (hundred) loose ends. And for whatever reason, this post has been sitting here for weeks, taunting me with its unfinished bidnez showing. It has become the bane of my creative existence. It's become a fucking yoke of anxiety. Even if it turns out to be a steaming pile of horse poo, I have to finish it and move on. Rip it off like a GD piece of duct tape on my simian arm. I have no idea what my problem is with this particular post. This was a super fun trip! Whatever, Psyche. Get a grip. Here goes...



Okay, so what could be better than being on vacation? Being on vacation with Geo.

Even though he has worked all of his adult life, he only has three weeks of paid time off compared to my seven. And before you get all cranky and crazy, bellyaching how it's not fair that I have so much time off...shut the hell up.

I've toiled at the Special K for 30 years (my entire youth, people!) entitling me to five weeks vacation plus two in lieu of holidays. Longevity has its advantages. So does being in a union. So think of my tired ass, up at zero-dark-butt-crack, schlepping a camera around on New Year's morning while you all are sitting around in your fucking PJs in a haze, drinking coffee, and nursing a hangover.

So... again, SHUT THE HELL UP.

Anywho, one of the weeks my ever-lovin' and I get to spend together is Labor Day Week. Generally, we take advantage of my sister's good graces and spend nine glorious days at their adorable little place on Long Beach Island.

the long walk to the water

even "working women" enjoy a day on the bay

this is my serenity

you're on your own at the end of the season

THERE'S A BREACH IN CRAB CASTLE!!
I REPEAT: A BREACH IN CRAB CASTLE!!

morning java on the lagoon

This year was no exception, except the blue-eyed lovely, Mr. Miller scheduled a solo date in our favorite club in our favorite city on the first day of our vacation.

How incredibly thoughtful of him. *MUAH*

I'm sure you know what happened next. We packed up Rita, and headed east to Manhattan. For several years, Geo and I had this great run where both of our musical loves, Francis Dunnery and Rhett Miller, would be playing in succession during our time off. Many times they would play back-to-back. One amazing evening they played on the SAME BILL!! Oh, Mama!

Sadly, that has not happened for a while. (insert Sad Panda face here. now insert finger down your throat because that was gag-worthy right there. blech) Aaaaaaanyway, (and I will effort not to sound too douchey) we were invited to stop at Francis and Erica's house on the way to the city. Eeeeeeeee! Ever since we hosted a house concert, Francis has been kind enough to invite us to his home in a small town near the Poconos. We finally were able to make our schedules mesh.

small town 'Merica + college population = ...
makes sense to me
(plus there is the greatest cupcake shop on this street)

The two of them could not have been more warm and welcoming. Their daughter, Elsie is almost three. She is a beautiful, spirited little girl. We visited, noshed and played a little ping pong. Okay, Elsie and I batted the balls around a bit. Neither Geo nor I wanted to challenge Francis' mad skillz. No one needs that kind of humiliation. He invited us into his basement recording studio to listen to many of the tracks to his upcoming album, Monster a prog rock production of his late brother's work. The thing I appreciate about Mr. D is he's always moving forward even when it seems he's moving backwards musically.

Francis, singing vocals, grinding his electric along to the recorded tracks, in his studio... TOO FUCKING COOL! He's streaming some cuts on his presale page here.

Seriously, what a super cool, unexpected honor. He even played the song he wrote for his daughter, at Elsie's insistence of course.

Aaand, naturally that's the time my iPhone decided it was full and stopped recording part way through. Thanks, you Hydro-electric Asshat.

With a huge bear hug and big thanks for a lovely evening, we set off for our next stop, Manhattan!

geo gives me grief about stopping to
snap photos, but c'mon...
this is too funny to pass up

Everytime we go into Manhattan, it's a different experience. The cost for our normal hotel in Soho was Cra-CRA, so we booked at the Wyndam Garden in the Flatiron district on 24th. The room was small, but updated and very clean. The service was exemplary. Plus the bellhop dug my hair. A lot. I highly recommend this lovely little hotel in a great location, especially if you're a redhead.

Manhattan: always dispensing
with the advice

Anywho, the first order of business, as always, was brunch, so we hoofed the four avenue blocks west past the famed Chelsea Hotel to our favorite diner, Moonstrucks. Our mouths watering with each step, running through the menu in our heads, deciding which delectable breakfast treat we'd savor....when this happened

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

WTF??! CLOSED??!?? MOONSTRUCK??!? HOW IS THAT EVEN POSSIBLE??!?

It felt like a punch in the gut. We couldn't believe it. We had to go across the street to touch the building permit sign. We felt lost. Weird how disoriented you get when a life-long institution disappears. Through Yelp! we found a new place called The Dish which offered not one, but TWO bloody marys with brunch. Gotta tell you, after two of those heavy-handed pours, I was feeling no pain and Moonstruck was a fond memory.

Side Note: probably not the best idea to read a large carousel of irreverent greeting cards while "medicated". One tends to A) laugh a little too loudly, scaring the surrounding small chillins and/or Asian tourists B) single-handily boost the economy by buying a shit-ton of inappropriate cards (friends be forewarned) and C) tinkle a little in your pantaloons. Or so my friend tells me happened to her in a similar situation. I wouldn't know first hand. Shhhh...just play along, jerk.


AAAAAaaaaanyway, back at the City Winery...

As my regular reader (singular) knows by now, I am a lover of all things Rhett Miller, especially his solo shows. He's always entertaining and unpredictable. The setlist this evening was Old 97's heavy with only a half dozen or so solo songs. Personally, I prefer a list top-heavy with solo works and a smattering of 97's rarities, sprinkled with his witty banter/storytelling. But then again, any time I get to sit in a darkened room and watch him play is a grand day, especially if Geo is with me.


The crowd was unusual that night. Normally the audience is comprised of 85% devotees, 15% newcomers, but that evening there seemed to be a large portion of patrons who were only marginally familiar with Rhett's extensive oeuvre, 97's or otherwise. Having seen him perform innumerable times (don't roll your eyes, it's unbecoming and they could get trapped back there forever), we just sing along without even thinking twice about his cleverly penned lyrics anymore. It was so refreshing to hear the people throughout the venue laughing at the punchlines of Another Girlfriend, Eyes for You and The Other Shoe. Like being shaken awake to a renewed appreciation for how fun his songwriting is. The man himself seemed pleasantly surprised and energized by the response of the crowd and fed off of their vibe.




Once again EVERYONE, including Geo, joined in for the Barrier Reef and Big Brown Eyes sing-alongs. I can't even imagine how satisfying and fucking cool it is to hear a room of 500+ sing your words back to you. That's what it's about, BABY! Unconditional love barreling back to you in a big ass wave of warmth.

Props to Geo for joining in. He doesn't know a lot of the lyrics, but the ones he does he sings out freely. Hearing him sing, full-out alongside me is my secret joy.

I don't know if it was planned, but we were treated to not one, not two, but THREE encores!

IN-FUCKING-CREDIBLE!!

A great way to erase the bittersweet taste of the final chord of Time Bomb. I have a love/hate relationship with that song. Love the pure energy of that tune. Hate that it signifies the end of the evening. Except for this night. This night continued after Time Bomb. :)

For the first encore, Rhett invited opening act, David Wax Museum on stage to sing Wish The Worst and rift about Susie's pregnancy boobs. And you wonder why I get jazzed by his banter.



He is adorable.

The penultimate encore was Coversville: the beautiful California Stars followed by a hard-charging Over the Cliff. After stepping off stage a brief minute, Rhett returned to sing Broadway, effortlessly hitting the high C as if it was the third song of the evening. Amazing. Doreen ended the show with all the windmills, vigorous, sweat-flinging head bobs and energy he had left.

And then he was done. I swear he could perform for a full three hours, and I still wouldn't be ready to call it a night. There is no performer like him. Seriously, y'all need to go see him. It's church.


Usually I fly in one day for the show, then out the next, but Geo and I planned a two-day stint. The second day was filled with museums, a super fun happy hour with our friend, Marcy at a cool bar near Columbus Circle appropriately called Ivy (...gotta boyfriend problem. Old 97's reference, yo) and dinner with our recently engaged nephew, Zach and Kelly at the greatest kabob joint around, Afghan Kabobs.

Two days extremely well spent, and the perfect lead-in to a relaxing week at the shore where we spent less money in five days than the weekend in New York. Go figure.

Rhett's City Winery Setlist for fellow weirdos who like to keep track of such things:

Lost Without You

Melt Show

Jagged

Adelaide

The Other Shoe

Just Like California

Champaign, IL

Another Girlfriend (big laughs for this one)

Bird in a Cage

Won't Be Home

Eyes For You

Let the Whiskey Take the Reins (best rendition we've heard yet)

Question

Out of Love

Niteclub

Stoned

Come Around

Dance With Me

Salome

504

Barrier Reef (I swear everyone was singing)

Our Love

encore #1

Wish the Worst

Big Brown Eyes (YEAH!!!)

Time Bomb

but wait! there's more!!

encore #2

California Stars

Over the Cliff

encore #3

Broadway

Doreen

fin :(

go home. you're drunk



In Which A City Gets Its Wish

I don't even know where to begin.

Last night the 2013 Pittsburgh Pirates accomplished what many (most) of us only dared to dream. They beat the Cincinnati Reds in a one-and-done, wild card playoff to advance to the REAL playoffs against the St. Louis Cardinals.

Again, I say, Holy HELL!

With home field advantage, word got out via Twitter from pitcher, AJ Burnett and Andrew McCutchen for the fans to stage a black aht ("out" to non-Burghers), asking everyone in attendance to wear black in the stands. All 40,000+, including the 2,000 SRO complied.

There were even hundreds, side-by-side on the Clemente Bridge listening to the game on radios-- you can't see the field from there-- just so they could be a part of Bucco baseball history.

We tuned in at 8 nervous for the outcome, but not expecting what was to come next. Geo and I knew the team would be pumped hosting PNC Park's first ever post season play, but the crowd... Holy SHIT, the crowd was ALL IN. From the first pitch to the final out, they stayed, they cheered, they rocked the HOUSE!

They were a presence not to be denied. Whoever believes the intensity of the fans isn't a factor on a game is speaking out of their ass, because these beautiful MoFos were loud and they took control from the start. I don't just mean loud... I mean shaking the TV from it's bracket LOUD. Thunderous. I realize there are extra mics set out for post season games, but this was cacophonous and constant.

It was electric.

Even in our living room we could feel it.

A deafening chant of CuuuEEEEEEtoooeeeee rattled the Cincy pitcher to his core, making him drop the ball right before he served up a beauty which Martin hit straight out of the park.

Not a factor, my ass.

There were times that the crowd was so much of a factor, it appeared Cincinnati starter Johnny Cueto wanted to be anywhere but in the middle of a baseball diamond in the middle of Pittsburgh’s North Shore.

Don’t think for one moment that the fans didn’t have an impact on the despair felt by Cueto and, by extension, his performance. (Colin Dunlap CBS Pittsburgh)

My favorite comment in the entire broadcast came after that moment. The announcer said, "This is what 20 years of frustration dressed in black looks like."

Indeed.

There were tears. Tears all around... in our house, the field, the interwebs. Tears of pride shed at the start of game. Tears of indescribable joy at the final out--or in my case, at the highlights played over and over during the morning news.

As preeminent Pittsburgh blogger, Jane Pitt said so eloquently, "there is SO crying in baseball, Tom Hanks". Do yourself a favor and read her post. She sums up all the feelings surrounding this game better than I ever could. Plus she's funny as hell.

Back an entire generation ago in 1992, Geo and I went to game five of the playoffs against Cincinnati at Three Rivers Stadium. Van Slyke, Lavalliere, Drebek and company played their hearts out. I remember the electricity, the camaraderie, the community. We were all in it together. High-fiving, embracing each other, celebrating as one cohesive unit. One heartbeat.

That was our first, and ultimately last, playoff game. There is a sweetness to firsts. You never forget them. Your first kiss, your first love, your first post season victory. Last night's win was an entire generation's first taste of the unifying glory of baseball. Hell, most of them were zygotes or barely cognizant the last time the Pirates had a winning season.

I hope the fans present last night remember this feeling, tuck it away in their hearts to tap into during the lean years, because there really is nothing as special as the first time.

That goes for the players, too.

Congratulations, Buccos! You did it for the city, you did it for the fans and I believe you did it for Roberto. It's been a magical run. Even if you don't advance to the next round, you've done us proud. Thank you.

champagne goggle throw down
(courtesy of ian smith)

P.S.: In February, when asked how many games he expected his team to win in 2013, Clint Hurdle replied, 95. The wild card game is considered part of the regular season. That win made the Bucs final win tally... 95.

*sniff*



There's raw video of the locker room party/interviews and photos from the Trib (I know, ICK Richard Scaiffe) here.

And because there isn't enough of a cheese factor in this post, here's a highlights video found by my b-ball lovin' friend, Lizzie:




And one last mash-up of an old-school, mullet-maned 90s singer and your 2013 Pittsburgh Pirates. You Gotta Believe!!



LET'S GO BUCS!!