Friday Photo #(place your favorite digit here)
or playing with our food 

Okay, so we are rarely short on delectable confectionery treats. Someone is always bringing cakes from school visits, (dusty) muffins from Costco or big-ass, size-of-your-face cinnamon rolls compiled of enough artery-clogging goo to stop your heart just by looking at them. This week we had all of those AND a trash bag full of Halloween candy. 


Meet our little friend, Sanchez. 


Clearly, we had waaaaaay too much sugar.

The Rubin, The Rhett And The Running Around Like Sex In The City
or another whirl-wind shee-shee cosmopolitan 24 hours

Okay, so last week my fellow Old 97's/Rhett Miller enthusiast, Steph and I met up on a long grey stretch of highway and drove to the Big Apple to catch the blue-eyed lovely one play a completely unplugged, all-acoustic show at the Rubin Museum.

It's peculiar how things are now. Meeting people on the Social Internets is similar to having pen pals back in the stone age, only now the responses are immediate and the volume of connections are virtually limitless. You may recall, I became aware of Steph via this photo she posted with me and Geo standing in the background.

Steph being all adorable with the man of evening
(p.s.: thanks again for the great view)

Then she was part of our summer Rhettventure which is where we formally met face-to-face.

Carrie, Samantha, Aidan, Charlotte and Miranda

And now she's become one of my favorite people on this sticky webby. We get along swimmingly. We travel well together, have similar interests and the same warped 12 year-old boy sense of humor. She gets me, which is not always easy to find someone who does. I tease her that she's like the little sister I never had.

Anywho, once we figured out the exhausting hour-long dance of the Turnpike interchange and finally ended up in one car (don't ask) we made it to our hotel in Soho in record time. There was absolutely no traffic to speak of. None. Crazy, right? I mean, come on! It's NYC. There's always gridlock.

Right then we should have known this was going to be a great day.

The first sign of Providence was at the hotel check-in.

Clerk: I'm sorry. You're room is not available.
Me: What?
Clerk: I'm afraid all we have left is a Penthouse, but it only has a king size bed. I'm so sorry. It'll be the same price. Will that be okay?
Me: *does imaginary spit take all over the counter* HELLZ YEAH!!! I mean, I guess so. If we must...

Have I mentioned how much I love the Four Points Sheraton?

our swanky Penthouse suite
21st floor Mother Pluckers!!

So we go from a cramped single room to a two-room luxury SWEET! Holla!! OMG! Geo would have been in hog heaven. There was a ginormous 60" plasma in the bedroom hanging above the pocket doors. I probably wouldn't have seen him all night. HaHa!

our view at dusk

our view at night

The thing about following an artist around the East Coast is you cross paths over and over with other fans who travel from show to show. Okay, this is kind of pathetic, but we've been to so many events over the last couple of years that we now know a fair number of people in attendance. So many so that sometimes I feel like the Mayor of Millerville. The Rubin was no different.

While Steph and I chugged, er...I mean sipped daintily with pinkies up on a rich, full-bodied Pinot Noir, we chatted with Joslyn, Sheila, Marcy, Sarah, Tracey (who came directly from the airport-suitcase in tow) and a lovely new fan friend, India.

India and I were at many of the same New York shows, but never met until now. She and her husband are huge fans of Old 97's. She was there with two of her friends who were unfamiliar with Mr. Miller.

The Rubin is a museum dedicated to Tibetan arts and culture. The sold-out lecture hall was smaller and had the feel of an intimate house concert. Being uptight white people, everyone sat quietly, attentively listening to Rhett croon, until Singular Girl of course. All bets are off with that song. Our entire row sang the abandoned hydra line. You have to. I think it's mandatory to sing that lyric now.

Rhett's performance was his usual brilliance. He sang his heart out as always. It was refreshing to hear the newbies in the audience chuckle at some of his more clever lyrics. Who am I kidding. They're all smart, witty and engaging. Being so familiar with them, it's nice to be reminded via fresh ears how craftily written his songs are.

He performed a new song scribbled in his adorable puppy spiral-bound notebook. Puppy notebook... He's such a lovable dork. Rhett had written it that morning, inspired by one of the two pieces of art he chose from the Rubin collection to project on the back of the stage.

The Hungry Ghosts

Let the Whiskey Take the Reins

Songs about Tibet are overrated. Songs about whiskey, not so much.

Okay, so I know it's just a coincidence, but I like to think he threw in Lashes just for me. That's my story, dammit.

Lashes  *sigh* 

At the end, he was presented with a long white scarf by the moderator.

The only disappointment of the evening was he didn't do a meet and greet. Oh well. It's not like I'm never going to see him perform again, right?

The festivities continued when Marcy, Sarah, Tracey, Steph and I all piled into the back of the driver, Tony's car and headed to Dos Caminos for an amazing Mexican dinner in celebration of Marcy's birthday.  It felt like our own personal Sex In The City moment. I was the lone redhead so I guess I would have been Miranda. I imbibed enough to be Miranda.

We drank, dined and dished about anything and everything. The ladies shared entertaining stories of their collective adventures on the road, the cities they've been to, the zany people they've met along the way. It was so much fun! My face hurt from laughing so much. The tequila might have had something to do with it, too. I love these spirited Metropolitan Mavens.

And just like Cinderella at the stroke of midnight, our New York adventure was over. We were back in our pumpkin, rolling West. But boy was it fun while it lasted.

Until next time...

I Ain't Afraid of No...Rabbit?
or hangin' with the Scots. Hootman!!

Okay, so remember me? 


It seems we were on a little break. No, it wasn't you at all. You've been here the entire time being all supportive and encouraging and shit. It was totally me. I've been less than focused of late. Okay, more like scattered and tattered and completely unable to sit still to create ... whatever the Hell this is. 


Maybe it's a wave of, oh let's call it "pre" shall we, pre-menopausal mind melt. Maybe it's the flux of extracurricular activities to which I cannot seem to say no. Maybe it's the drastic reduction of my red wine consumption.


I'm going with the later.


The later I can fix.


Now hand me that bottle with the screw cap. I don't have time to pop a cork, dammit! This is an emergency!


Yeah. So let's start over.


Hi there! My name is Murry and I gotta tell you about these five Scottsman Geo and I spent the evening with. Yes, I realize I just ended the sentence with a preposition. This ain't a high-brow tome I'm penning here. Besides, English is not my first language. That's my story and I'm running with it. Hey! It's my blog, so shut up, Gringo.


But I digress...


I fell in love with the Scottish band, Frightened Rabbit when Betty, Barney and I went to SXSW this past March. I was familiar with their music beforehand, but seeing them play four times that week made them my new imaginary BFFs with a side of brilliant brogue. I've been talking them up like crazy to Geo ever since, so when they set a tour date here in the Burgh, we jumped on it.


The day of the concert, three of the charming lads stopped by WYEP for an in-studio session at noon. Shhh. Don't tell anyone, but I managed to sneak away from the Special K a tad early (just a tad, I pinky swear) to dash across town to catch the performance. Counting on the inevitable tardiness of rock folk, I crossed my fingers, drove like a controlled hell and managed to walk in before the doors opened.


Brothers Scott and Grant along with Gordon were terrific, playing four songs and charming the rapt audience with tales from the road. Truth be told, with that brogue they could have recited the alphabet and we all would have been enchanted, hanging on their every A, E, I, O, U sometimes Y.

The Head Rabbit and Me

I had a lovely chat afterwards with lead singer/songwriter, Scott who could not have been any nicer. For this tour, he's been drawing bearded characters on anything from cardboard to album sleeves. They sell them at the merch table for $20, first come-first served. This was the bearded fellow from our show. The couple in front of us bought it. So close...

One other funny tidbit from the in-studio. Scott's brother, Grant has a chemical formula tattooed on his forearm. Turns out it's the chemical equation for the skin cream he uses. Weird, but whatever. Who am I to judge.


The show was terrific. The venue...meh. It's not an awful setting, but they remodeled the upstairs from open space around the perimeter to these little pods with awkwardly placed couches that didn't face the stage. Begs the question um...why?

look. they have Frightened Rabbits... in their pants

We stood against the railing as our little cubicle filled up with young FRabbits enthusiasts. Halfway through, Geo, my wonderfully thoughtful Geo, swapped places with the youngins standing behind us. They could not have been more thrilled or more genuinely polite and thankful. They were so sweet, I didn't even mind the one girl's horrifying singing voice. Okay, well maybe I minded a little. She was dreadful! I'm not kidding. It will make your brain bleed. Watch. You can't not hear her assaulting your senses.

Poke 

(my ears with a long stick)

But then again, how can I fault her. She was enjoying the hell out of herself. And it's not like I haven't tortured those poor saps around me with my wretched pipes.

Living In Colour

Nothing Like You

As always, there are a few more videos on my YouTube channel here. 


Anywho, a fun time was had by all. The evening ended around 11:30pm, making my 3am wake-up call punishing, but worth the foggy mind, buzzing eardrums and burn marks on my face from shoving my head under the coffee maker in the morning. As our one friend always says, you can sleep when you're dead.

Cavorting Amongst A Calvalcade Of Crazies
or all Hallow's Eve in the South Side

Okay, so everyone knows Halloween is primarily an excuse for humanoids with a vagina (and sometimes a brain) to shed their inhibitions along with their dignity and act out their fantasies by parading around in public in their finest hootchie wear.


I know what all you swinging Richards are thinking as you scan the scantily clad, temporarily tarted-up trollops ...


Me: What a skank!
Male: *stare* I'm sorry. Did you say something?
Me: Your gonads are on fire.
Male: What? Yeah. That's cool...
Me: Exactly.


Anywho, Saturday night my SXSW bud, Howard and I made our annual trek to the South Side to watch Night of the Singing Dead, Rowan and Martin's Coffin. 

It just wouldn't be an outing without
a lime slice and swizzle stick

Night of the Singing Dead is a locally produced musical tribute dedicated to all the performers/personalities who have passed on to the great beyond, focusing on the recently deceased. I can best describe it as a group of your friends getting together, burning a spliff or three and deciding to put on a show in the proverbial barn. Everybody wears cheesy costumes, tells off-color cornball jokes and tries to crack each other up with outrageous behavior. It's ludicrous and lame and I love it. I wrote about this locally written wit and groan fest last year here.


This year's offering was great fun as always. The set was a replica of the Laugh-In joke wall complete with hidden windows for comic effect. The opener was an hilarious June, Ward and Beaver Cleaver bit sung to Fever. As you might expect, the beaver references were fast and furious leaving us drunken louts breathless from laughter. I didn't record the entire bit, because clearly I am a giant asshat. But trust me, it was epic, and not just because we were imbibing either.


No theatrical skewering would be complete this year without a hit on our numskull QB, Ben Rapelisberger and his misguided super-sized schlong.


Back to the cavalcade of crazies...


So we head out of the theater to inhabit the streets with the creatures of the night. One of our favorite things to do is people watch. The human genus is fascinating on a normal day. Halloween just ups the ante 10 fold.


First thing out of the gate, we encounter the mother load. A veritable clown car of high-heeled hootchie girls. We just stepped out onto the sidewalk when a limo bus pulled up, opened its door and out poured all the classics: hootchie nurse, hootchie Catholic School Girl, hootchie sailor girl, hootchie teacher, a whoopie cushion... Wha?!?


One of these things is not like the other.


How'd she get in there? She had waaaaay too much cloth on to be part of that crowd of teetering teasers. She must have paid for the bus.


Here are some other encounters of note:


Apparently even Superman needs access to quick cash. Who knew?

ATMs are Clark's Kryptonite

• Lots of Playboy bunnies, including a burly six foot dude in Go-Go boots, fish nets and curly back hair (as you may remember, straight dudes in frocks rock my world)
• one Snookie, which was one too many
• Blue-haired Katy Perry and her cupcake bra
• The Four Diapered Horsemen of the Apocalypse-seriously. just diapers and a t-shirt
• Nuns canoodling with priests
• Hunter S. Thompson chatting up Jesus. Fear and Loathing with our Lord Jesus (and his busty Nurse Nancy)
• Papa Smurf
• 101 blood-soaked zombies
• several males as bananas (calling Dr. Freud)
• one gaseous wiener

and finally...


Dick in a Box!!

One. Cut a hole in the box...

But hands down the scariest sight of this unholy night was found lurking in a darkened doorway. A beer-bellied old creeper leaning against the door jam wearing nothing but a leopard thong.


*shudder*


When I caught sight of him I literally screamed out loud, as did Howard... as did the young couple behind us. Then we all gouged our eyes out in unison.


The next night my lovely little hamlet celebrated Halloween. We had a fair amount of adorable tots, pre-teens and teens knock on our door. 

The only way Stink Bugs could be adorable this year

This was by far the cleverest costume of the evening.

Dear God: Thanks, but I'd like to exchange my
gift for an aged XL in smouldering hawt, please.

Nerds. You gotta love 'em.

"But I Know, I Know, I Know I'm Not Alone..."
or spending an energetic evening with yoga loving Michael Franti

Last Saturday my work buddy, Sue and I travelled to the Carnegie Library in Homestead to be drenched in the shiny, happy positive energy of Michael Franti and Spearhead.

And, Dude! They sold alcohol! At the library. No shit. We got lit amongst the literature.

Brrrrrrrrrilliant!

Best. Bibliotecca. EVA!!

Randy Andy smiling approvingly at the lushes
amongst his literary legacy

The only draw back to this venue is the acoustics, which is kind of an important thing being a music hall. I don't know if we were in a dead spot, or the mix was wack, but every time he spoke in the mic it sounded like Charlie Brown's teacher talking. "Wa Wa Wa Wa Wa"

I'm not kidding. I admit I have trouble understanding chatter at bigger concerts in general, but everyone in our section was having the same issue so it wasn't just me and my impaired hearing. We all just shrugged our shoulders and Woo Hooed along with the crowd, completely ignorant to what we were cheering on. Could have been a simple "Hello Pittsburgh!" or "those deaf chicks in the balcony are buying!!" It all sounded the same to us. Unintelligible.

The coolest man in the room

I fell in love with Franti's work after hearing his 2006 release, Yell Fire! and have been wanting to see him in concert ever since. His music and message is buoyant, upbeat and completely infectious. Even when he strays from his signature songs of love, peace and harmony into the political realm, he still manages to be positive in his admonitions. "El Presidente, you behave!"

He is uber cool and his optimism is ridiculously catchy. I absolutely cannot sit still during one of his songs. It's embarrassing. I awkwardly bound around the room with complete abandon. Good thing there's usually no one around to witness the horror of my Elaine Benis dance movements. The humiliation is worth it, because there is nothing like a big ole dose of happy feet to make you forget your sorrows.

a sea of white folk bouncing to the beat

Anywho, the theater is smaller holding probably around 250 people, but the stage is large enough to accommodate all the band members and their equipment while still leaving ample space for Michael to jump and dance around. Which he did... for two hours, only slowing down midway for a slower three song set.

Right out of the gate, as soon as Franti stepped on stage, the energy hit the roof propelling the audience to it's feet. He was non-stop pogo jumping, tribal dancing and belting out the good Ju Ju, effortlessly wrapping the crowd around his finger. He has incredible energy for a 40+ humanoid. He hardly broke a sweat and wasn't the least bit winded. Amazing. Must be all the yoga he practices.

The evening was spectacular, uplifting, energizing. The masses clapped and danced along with every offering from the stage. We were putty in his gentle hands.

One cat in the balcony was so into it, he just had to remove his shirt, terrifying...er, I mean treating us all to his pasty-white, beer belly in full glory.

Seriously. Why.

I ask you, why is it only white guys with big guts, farmers' tans and pants barely hanging on under there mid section are the ones who go shirtless? Why don't any of the gorgeous six-pack ab, tanned Adonises ever go au naturale? So not fair!

But I digress...

At one point he picked some people to join him on stage during "Shake It" to .. um, shake it with him.

a full-on dance par-tay

Shake it! Sh-sh-sh shake it!

He fearlessly cruised through the crowd during his bouncy "Hey Hey Hey"

fearlessly up close and personal 

ending up on our balcony to sing Happy Birthday to the girl in the hat before motoring on, successfully avoiding contact with the aforementioned pasty-white, sweaty, shirtless dude.

Is that a groovy gee-tar, or what?

 

Happy Birthday to her

Finally, he called everyone under 16 and over 60 to the stage for the big finale of his huge hit "Say Hey, (I Love You)".

"And I know one thing. I love you. Baby girl."

I didn't take any videos this night because of the whole Charlie Brown teacher sound factor, but here's a video of the finale from this summer's Bonnaroo Music Festival.



Besides being a purveyor of peace, love and positive vibes, Franti is a humanitarian. Ten years ago he performed in a third world country where most of the people living there never owned a pair of shoes. As a sign of solidarity he decided to go barefoot for three solid days. Ten years later he still doesn't wear shoes. To mark his anniversary, he created the Soles4Souls charity to collect money as well as actual shoes to send to those children around the globe who have none. He spoke with a family from Pittsburgh who are doing their part.



Just a little thing he does to give back. There's a lot of good karma floating around him. We could all take a lesson. We're all in this thing called life together. Like Michael says, "I know I know I know I'm not alone..." You can find out more on his website here.

If you're in need of a serious lift in your spirits, go buy his CDs here.  And be prepared to be moved, with or without your shoes.

Date Night!!
or spending the night with three of our favorite Irish blokes

Okay, so it's not technically "date night" since we don't have precocious progeny to pass off to self-absorbed, text-obsessed teens with raging hormones and gnat-like attention spans who charge a small fortune to tend to our cherubs every need in between G3 gossip fests... but still, we left the familiar confines of our house on a Saturday night to partake in a tasty Merlot and listen to live music amongst random adults in a crowded cafe. So, yeah. Date Night.

Anywho, as the years roll on it seems to take the threat of a ginormous stack of Acme dynamite under our buttocks to get Geo and me off our comfy couch and back out the door once we're snuggled in the bat cave. I'm usually up for almost anything, but Geo has much more discerning taste. The talented lads from the Emerald Isle known as Bell X1 fit his criteria.

It's been a year since lead singer David Geraghty and friends played our fair city. (See, I've learned his name since last year's post here. He still reminds me of Michael Cera though.) Instead of jamming all six band members atop the tiny stage, only three band mates toured this time around. Just a guitar, bass, keyboard and ... an iPod??!?

Yep. An iPod. It provided the back beat for their opener "How Your Heart Is Wired".

Technology kicks ass! Or in this case kicks a mean rhythm.

What we've learned by going to Club Cafe... less equals more. Less performers on stage equals more welcomed chatter with the audience. Dave answered inquiries tossed out from the crowd, pondered the term business casual regarding the dress code for their West Wing tour the next day and told some entertaining stories including one about Bono being heckled during a particularly pompous moment, but it was the music that shined brightest. His hypnotic delivery of old hits, Flame, Mr. Benn and of course The Great Defector as well as future classics, Velcro and Night Watchman from their yet-to-be-released CD, was brilliant.

Embracing their inner nerd, we witnessed a little background vocal pre-production to round out "Ribs of a Broken Umbrella".

Like last time, the merch guy pushed the tables up against the platform prior to the show leaving a singular narrow path to the stage making it nigh impossible for them to gracefully walk off the staging. Once again, we all played along as the guys pretended to leave for the encore, because really, what's the point. They had fresh, fan-bought beers so it wasn't like they had to go backstage to down a couple cold ones to soothe their parched throats. Plus there was that whole penned-in-by-the tables thing.

You remember how all the bands we saw this summer did a cover at the end of their shows? Alejandro Escovedo covered The Stones' "Beast of Burden", Ingrid Michaelson did Britney's "Toxic" and Guster regaled us with Phil Collins' "In the Air Tonight"... Well in keeping with this trend, Bell X1 tacked on our favorite Smiths tune to their final song of the evening.

A perfect ending to another enchanting evening of music in a year filled with song.

When Burgers Are Posers
and other unexpected catalog fodder

And now for something completely salty... In an attempt to illustrate the mood swings of my literary stylings of late I present the following:

Okay, so it's that time of year when several dells are decimated by the parade of catalogs monopolizing our mailbox. Among the plethora of publications is a catalog called Solutions. It offers tons of crap which are supposed to make life's day to day duties easier. Believe it or not, some of it is actually useful.

While perusing through the most recent of the 2800 copies we get a year, Geo stumbled on this one-of-a-kind must have for the discerning picnic thrower. I give you... the Ham Dogger

"Make a hamburger with a "hot dog" twist--even stuff it!!"

That's right. A wiener shaper for your meat, because it ain't a party until your burger looks like a wang.

"Gee Honey. Our parties have been lacking a certain...je nez ce johnson."

Hey that reminds me...my "boyfriend" is on the fritz. Do you have a "solution" for that? No prob. Check out page 123.

What the?!?

Wha?!? So when the hell did Solutions become your place for personal "massagers" to *Ahem* soothe aching muscles? Tucked away in the later part of the catalog are all sorts of intimate accoutrement.

That one's "Ultra Smooth" and has a daisy in it for the ladies who like to be romanced, even when it's by their own hand, so to speak. What gal can resist a glassed-in posey ticklin' her mitten? Now if it would mix me a mean Mojito prior to the "luvin"-- I'm in, BABY!

Can't you just hear Betty, your friendly Indian phone bank operator saying, "Please to suggest customers who bought de Ham Dogger also bought de Whisper of Destiny 'relaxer'."

Whisper Destiny
nubby in all the right places

Good thing the Ham Dogger and that battery-powered puppy aren't on the same page.

Ladies. Same old burger giving you the blahs? Got an itch that needs scratching? Have we got a Solution for you! But please, for the love of all that is freshly ground...don't confuse the two.