Attack Of The Killer Hot Dog Bun 
or Dude...we nearly killed a guy

diabolical hot dog
he's a mean mother
(courtesy of threadless tees)

Okay, so yesterday we had two hot dog eating contestants on our little morning dog and pony show, Pittsburgh Today Live, aka PTL (Jesus loves you). Anywho, one guy was a so-called professional eater, the other a mere novice at the delicate art of gorging oneself for money. There also was an EMT responder in the wings.

An EMT guy? Really? A bit of overkill, right.

So the stage was set with a plate of two hot dogs with buns and a large glass of water for each participant. The idea was each chomping champion would demonstrate his winning method of shoveling an entire hot dog and accompanying bun in his gullet at the speed of light.

First of all... EWWWWwwww.

Few things are as disgusting as watching some numb nut gorge himself on tubes of processed horse hooves, mystery-meat by-product and ground earthworms. Okay, listening to someone inhale copious amounts of this crap is worse. Trust me.

But I digress...

The "Pro" steps up first, showing off his break-in-two-shove-down-piehole method of weiner consumption, followed by a healthy dipping of the bun in water, expertly reducing the girth of the bread from its original inch to a meager quarter inch, thus enabling him to swallow the thing whole.

Again, EWwwwwwwww.

Not to be outdone, the novice nibbler grabbed both hot dogs and wolfed them down. I cannot even convey to you how disgusting that audio was. When he dipped his bun (hot dog, that is), however, it didn't look much smaller than its original undipped form.

This is a key point here.

He proceeded to scarf that puppy down, and....

Clearly something didn't go quite as he'd planned.

He started to gag (as I'm sure you're doing now just thinking about this spectacle) and stepped off the set with a look of sheer panic in his eyes. It was apparent he was having trouble breathing. Someone needed to dislodge that bastard bread ball from his throat. Someone like, oh I don't know, maybe the EMT guy. Remember him? Standing in the wings just in case something untoward occurred.

Yeah, well the urgency of the situation wasn't registering to this health professional until this choking cat started wildly gesturing towards is throat in a kind of macabre charades.

Um... two words. First word sounds like "yelp".  Belt, melt, felt... HELP!
Second word, sounds like "get your ass over here and help me, you stupid bastard before I clock you in the nards"

EMT guy finally strolls up, so I'm thinking great, he'll give him the Heimlich and this hideous spectacle will all be behind us, right?

hudga-hudga-hudga...
Lobster
(for all the Eddie Izzard fans)
is it me, or are you getting a
distinct homo-erotic German vibe
from this image, too?

Wrong!

Instead he puts his arm around him, chats him up, asks about the family, starts to discuss the fate of the much-maligned Pirates management, all the while weiner man is shoving his entire fist down his throat in a desperate attempt to, you know, SURVIVE. Keep in mind our guest hurler is still hooked to the mic, which is on a short cable, which is tethered to the set.

One word: Holy CRAP!! (okay, two words)

To recap: the guest is literally choking in front of the set, the EMT guy is taking his good ole time to perform the hug of life and I'm running to get a trash can while yelling into the headset for the director to end the segment, which she doesn't because no one in the booth has any idea about the graphic expectorating that is about to unfold.

By the time I run back to the set, the deed is done, so to speak, the evidence of said act present on both the floor and the shoes of our now completely humiliated guest.

And yet, the segment is still going on. Live. Over the air. Complete with off-stage sound effects of a non-appetising fashion.

Here's the best part. As I reached over to unplug the mic from the cable so he could take his sorry ass to the men's room and clean up, I realized the entire gruesome pantomime was played out in direct eye line of our host.

No shit. She couldn't NOT look at it. How the hell she didn't lose her cookies, I'll never know. A chain reaction ralph. Now that would have been a first.

And how's this for irony, the cooking segment today...hot dogs wrapped in crescent rolls. I kid you not. Who says the Universe doesn't have a sense of humor.

it sho' does

Death by weiner bun. Not exactly the way you'd want to meet your maker.

Local television is getting so gangsta, Yo.

Triple Bypass of Concert Viewing, Y'all!
or lumping all the goodies in one basket

Artery #1:

Okay, so since I've been back from Beachfest, I've had a steady diet of live musical events. First was the evening I flew back. I literally stepped off the plane, hopped in the car and headed to the Avett Brothers/Nicole Atkins show.

How magnificently Jetsetter-y of me.

By the time I parked and met up with Mary Ann-ski (AKA Betty from SXSW), Nicole Atkins was a quarter way through her set. This was the maiden voyage of the new Stage AE's outdoor venue. Same building, they just pressed the Genie garage door opener, flipped the stage around to face the fenced-in back forty, put up a back curtain and VOILA!! Instant outdoor venue in the heart of downtown.

where the beers are literally
bigger than yo' face

The only SNAFU was the security issue. Only one way in made for a very long line. But wait...the line for the ladies' you-touch-me-like-you-know-me frisking frenzy was non-existent, while the men's side backed up to Youngstown.

Can you believe it? A situation where the men's line is waaaaay longer than the girls'. Bizarro world. But, hey, you can't be too careful when it comes to checking the contents of someone's package.

This is my second time seeing Nicole Atkins. She held the crowd really well for an opener, but I must admit she doesn't really do it for me. I like several of her new songs and her voice has an interesting power to it, but on the whole...meh.



Conversely, never saw the Avett Brothers live before and was blown away by their energy. They had the packed house of 7,000 up on their feet from the first note, pogo-sticking and singing along with practically every tune. It's difficult not to enjoy yourself when the performers are having such a great time themselves.



The cellist, Joe Kwon, was a hoot to watch, constantly bouncing, whipping his lustrous locks and wielding his cello around like it was a wee bass.



I can see why people follow them from venue to venue. At one point Papa Avett who himself was booked at Club Cafe the following evening joined in on the penultimate song of the set.



Loads of fun and a great welcome back to the Burgh, Baby!


Artery #2:

Friday night found me searching my posse for a willing subject to join me for a night with the Irish band, Bell X1. Geo was on his annual Billy Hawk golf weekend rendering him unavailable.

See, I'm not the only one who gets to go away with buddies. In fact, whilst I was recharging in the South Carolina sunshine, Geo was spending the weekend with our other musical love, Francis Dunnery. The guys went to the Pirates game, hung out and went to a Francis' house concert where Geo worked the merch table. Über cool!

Geo, John and Francis
at the ball park without moi :-(

In case you were wondering, yes, I was very jealous. The perfect opportunity to utilize cloning. Get on that science nerds. My social life depends on you.

But I digress...

My buddy Howard finally stepped up to the plate as my proxy husband for the evening. We hung out at the front corner of the bar for a change. Everything was going swimmingly, great vantage point, easy access to alcohol, somewhere to lean... until this couple of asswipes stood in front of us and decided to have an in depth conversation at the top of their lungs.

Beyond rude.

It was bad enough their melon heads completely blocked my view of lead singer, Dave Geraghty, but I seriously could not hear the band over their incessant din. I am not kidding. They were that loud.

Where's a Honey Badger when you need one? Or Mike Doughty for that matter.

don't make me come over there.
i'll rip you a new sphincter.
i don't give a shit

After stewing for a while, I finally grew some stones and gently sent these dudes packing. Hey. I said please, dammit! No sooner had the Chatty Cathy Y-chromosomes moved on, an obnoxiously loud drunk chick and her equally lubed, tooth-challenged beau picked up the ignorant baton and ran with it. So I screamed at her, "Shut the F**k up before I kick you in the balls!" Or so went the conversation in my head.

Sheesh! Some people's kids.

Anywho, the show was fantastic. They played lots of favorites likes these two.





I don't know what the Hell was going on, but the crowd was unusually aggro that night. The incessant chattering went on and on and on...to the point where someone just snapped a twig during a particularly quiet musical moment, reared back and bellowed SHUT UP!!! into the crowd, startling Geraghty mid verse. As an attempt to lighten the room, Mr. G offered this witty tale regarding the back stage area:




Apparently rudely drawn images of the male appendage are prevalent graffiti on dressing room walls. Notice how his lovely Irish brogue makes even the crudest of words sound eloquent and classy. I swear you could get away with anything in America as long as you said it with a brogue.

Artery #3:

The Three Rivers Arts Festival is one of my favorite times of the year in the Burgh. Lots of artists, craftsmen and musicians swarm the lower downtown area, livening up our streets for ten days. The best part is it all takes place literally right outside of my work door.

Sunday's free musical offering was the legendary Talking Heads splinter group, The Tom Tom Club. I wasn't sure I'd enjoy their entire set, but Tina Weymouth, Chris Franz and company kicked it, old-school, 90s dance style.



They were great fun. Much better than I anticipated. The cross-cultural crowd was with them from the beginning, busting their moves on the great lawn. After 30 years (30 years?!?!), they can still bring it in their uniquely peculiar way.



Plus it was the return of the mysterious Hoola Hoop Girl!! Bonus, of sorts.



After regaling the happy horde with their hits including Genius of Love as well as a right-proper rendition of You Sexy Thang, they broke out Talking Heads classics, Take Me to the River and Psycho Killer (Qu'est Que C'est) for the encore.

Score one for the old farts.

Girl's Week At the Beach
or celebrating 20 years of friendship with sun, sand and several spiked Slurpee's

Okay, so my card club gal pals and I have been convening monthly to dish, drink and ... a third thing that begins with a "d" meaning nosh... for 20 years.

I know, right? That's a long time. Most marriages don't last that long.

Anywho, we went round and round as how to mark this momentous milestone before finally settling on a week at Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. We procured an uber decked out, spectacularly swanky three bedroom oceanfront condo with 12...count 'em 12 pools.

excessive pools from our 18th floor perch

Overkill much? Maybe, but Dude, one of them was a swim-up pool bar!

Schwing!!

We seven ladies have seen each other through births, deaths, debilitating illness, marital strifes (big and not so big) and career changes all with love, laughter and ludicrous behavior inspired by alcohol and infantile shenanigans that only a group of "sistas" can understand. We've earned our reward in the sun.

It's been a very good 20 years.

Henceforth a listing of observations from Beachfest 2011:

I am embroiled in an ongoing love affair with the Southern Sunshine, not to mention the lilty drawl tripping off a charming Southern boy's tongue.

Swim-up pool bars are the bomb, Yo! Except when they're manned by a balding, grumpy douche determined to squash our vacation Nirvana by not having coconut rum. What the ef, Fool?!? Did you not see the memo that we were coming?

Senor Douche Bag manning the blender

just a bunch of chicks drinkin' in the pool

Phillip's Seafood House makes The. BEST. Steaks. I know. Ironic, right?

Flip Flop clicks are the true first sounds of Summer.

Sometimes you see something that makes you scratch your head and say, What the ef?

Seriously...WTF?!?

Coconut Rum and Diet Coke after 11pm WILL indeed turn one into a wide awake, giggling asshat Energizer Bunny until 4am. Seriously...



Cornhole is a super addictive game. It's also super funny to say and makes me want to wear my t-shirt over my head like Beavis and proclaim "I want TP for my bunghole".



Who knew tossing corn filled bags at a gaping hole while swilling a cocktail in the afternoon sun could produce a high level of low brow Flintstone fun? Most of Pittsburgh, apparently.

tossing stuff into a hole...
you'd think guys would be really good at this

Three girls in a shower...not as erotic as you might think. Don't ask.

Dude, I sooooo wanted to unplug this beauty and tear off at a blistering... 25 mph.

Temptation, thy name is golf cart

Even in the most packed suitcase, miraculously there's always room for a new pair of fabulous shoes.

Continuing my streak of public humiliation, the big-ole, fist-sized, ugly-ass bruise on my thigh (not to mention the ginormous pounding to my delicate-as-a-flower ego) confirms why there's no running on the pool deck. Hola! Me llamo, Grace.

Margaritaville is sooo... Jimmy Buffet

Fins to the left...

an adorable animal balloon gal
adding to the atmosphere

that should almost cover the afternoon

Sometimes you can't help but get a little Cap'n in ya.

once an idiot, always an idiot

And finally, there is some funny-ass shit printed on t-shirts that even I don't have the balls to wear.

i'd like to show you a couple of things i'm very proud of

why thank you

And thus ends the Reader's Digest version of Girlie Beach Week 2011. It's been a fantastic 20 year run. Hears to another 20 or more. Love you ladies! Cheers!!

P.S.: the world didn't end as planned, so I guess I'm going to have to pay that humongous Visa bill now. Damn...

Friday Video Funny
Jon Stewart + Anthony Weiner + Fake R Kelly = Comedy Brilliance

Okay, so it's no secret how much I loveloveLOVE Jon Stewart and his irreverent band of merry men. I don't just love him, as Woody Allen would say, I LURVE him.

Case in point, the ill-conceived antic by political idiot Anthony Weiner to send a picture of his junk bulging from his jockeys to an intern via Twitter has been getting the right-royal Daily Show spanking.

Pun intended.

The word "weiner" and all it's accompanying hysterical euphemisms have been flying off the little screen so fast and furious, my inner 12 year old has been having a difficult time keeping his pre-pubescent sides from splitting.

The pinnacle, the pies de resistance, if you will, occurred last night with another appearance by the transplendant one and only, Fake R Kelly. I cannot stop watching this. It just doesn't get old. Seriously.

I present to you, The Big Wang Theory. Prepare to be entertained...



Fake R Kelly speaks the truth, Yo.

Two Words On This Memorial Day: Thanks, Dad.

Okay, so maybe it's because of the ongoing wars in which we find ourselves still entangled, or maybe it's my ever-increasing age, or maybe it's just the oppressive heat, whatever, but I find myself feeling very sentimental, a little melancholy and missing my father this Memorial Day.

This photo sits front and center atop our living room mantle. I love this image of my Dad as a young buck, clearly full of proverbial piss and vinegar, standing in his you-got-a-problem-with-that David Caruso hands-on-hips stance. I'm particularly fond of the taped nose. My Dad was a pacifist, but could throw down with the best of them when need be... hence the taped nose. The only thing that would make this photo more perfect, more my father would be if there was a hand-rolled cigarette burning between his two fingers.

He went through a lot of shit over there during World War II so we all could maintain our freedoms over here. A lot of shit. And for that I will be forever grateful. I didn't get it way back then when he was still alive, but I get it now.

So, thank you Dad. Thank you for being brave. Thank you for being strong. Thank you for being a hero.

"It's The End Of The World As We Know It" 
or prepping for the Zombie Apocalypse

Okay, so according to some crazy interpretation of some passage in the Bible somewhere, tomorrow, May 21, 2011 marks the day of the Rapture, or Zombie Apocalypse as it is known in some circles. Reportedly this is the day where all the good and just "saved" people will be lifted up while the rest of us fun-loving heretics are left behind to fend for ourselves amongst the living dead as they clamor for our brains while we sit on our fat asses eating the rest of the ice cream and watching a Jerry Springer marathon.

Or something like that. I don't know.

What I do know is if tomorrow is the last day of world, I'm using the Rapture as my "get out of jail free" card to cover any suspect behavior I exhibit today. BooYah!!

Although I'm pretty sure I'll be counted among the unworthies left behind, just in case there's been some divine fuzzy math calculation and I am lifted up, I'd like my last blog to go out with a laugh.

I'm convinced non-Western cultures hate us because of our collective 10 year-old boy sense of humor. Case in point, The New York Post front page from Saturday. Even though I was completely appalled at my countrymen's reaction to the news of Osama Bin Laden's death, this is outrageously funny mainly because they printed what everybody else was thinking.

You stay classy, NY Post

To quote my friend, it's weird to think of Bin Laden being a horny guy. Just a little bit of Ewwwwwwwww.

In keeping with the spirit of apocalyptic death, destruction, murder and mayhem, the CDC has put out a Zombie preparedness guide. Yep. Better keep that photo ID handy. You don't want to be empty handed, so to speak, when that undead dude cards you at the door. Hey, even morbidly decaying throngs are particular as to who's brains they're chomping. You can't be too careful, you know. The Birther Zombies would never let one of their own live it down if their dinner didn't have a valid American birth certificate.

Pricky in life. Pricky in (un)death.

Oh, and in case you're wondering if you'll make the cut, here's a handy flowchart found by my bud, Steph.

I am soooo being left behind

Anywho, one of the funniest things known to modern man is the folly of autocorrect. As a hip, 21st century society, we think we're all uber clever and shit with our fancy schmancy electronic gadgets that give us the answers to the Universe right in the palm of our sweaty, butter-fused hands. Enter Autocorrect...

Out of man's hubris, comes his humbling.

This marvel of a tiny function bests the, well...best of us. It quietly puts us in our place by filling in our badly spelled blanks issuing from our pork sausage fingers. I've been victim to this evil genius any number of times. Here's the latest.

Damn you, AUTOCORRECT!!!

Speaking of that, there's this great site called damnyouautocorrect.com that keeps a running stream of submitted fails. I'm certain this gizmo is really a 13 year-old boy run amok. It always goes right for the gutter. It is my electronic soul mate. Here're some classic examples.

A hard-on can be a temporary fix of sorts

Mom needs some glasses

foreigners do love to douche

and pay for dinner

well, Paula does love her meat

Santa's special present

little bit, yeah

Grandma just needs a little tuck

is it on a stick?
(i love the last line. ha!)

Autocorrect... Love it. Loathe it.

I kinda love it.

So, anywho, me and my card club gal pals are heading to Mrytle Beach tomorrow. I figure if most pilots' behavior is anything like Quagmire from Family Guy, they'll be no chance he'll make the cut and we'll land safely. Screw this Zombie Apocalyse. If I'm going to be left behind, I'm going to spend it at the beach with a zillion bikers.

No offense to my hairdresser/groomer/yeti tamer, but I hope she's left behind too, because, oh MAN, I'd hate to hanging around waiting for the world to explode sporting a full beard.

Now THAT would be Hell.

In Which We Spend The Evening With The Original Hipster

Okay, so we are having a great run musically.

Sunday Geo and I ventured to our favorite South Side haunt, Club Cafe (I know...again with the Club Cafe. What can I say. We love it there.) to take in the early show of one, Mike Doughty. He used to be the singer of the 90s soul/punk band Soul Coughing, but we never got on board with him until his solo work blew us away. Thank you WYEP.

And man, is he cool. Like Hipster Doofus cool with his bald head, black rimmed glasses, long sideburns, copious tattoos and deep, resonant voice effortlessly spouting those complex scatty grooves. He's an original.

Doughty's had a demon or two with which he has battled, namely drug addiction and depression, but he has channeled all that into some truly memorable music. He creates these great rhythms that get in your head and set up shop for awhile. I find myself unconsciously humming his songs over and over.

Anywho, he shared the stage with his usual sidekick, a cellist named Scrap. It was just the two of them, but Holy Crap you would swear there were a couple more players up their from the fullness of their sound. They played Geo's favorite, I Hear The Bells, first:



One of the things I loveloveLOVE about Mike Doughty is he totally calls out the loud talkers in the crowd.  You know the ones. They think they're the most impressive thing in the room and everyone around them should be riveted by their conversation. As Geo always says, "don't you hate it when the band you payed money to see is so loud you have to scream to talk?" Yeah, that guy. That guy is why Geo doesn't like to venture out much.

Anyhaways, "talking guy" was in the house and Mike stopped mid song to challenge him, in a nice way, but challenge him none the less.



Oh SNAP!!

I love him for that. Sadly, he has to do this at every show because there's always "that guy" in the crowd. Me, I'd probably just tell him to SHUT THE F*CK UP because that's how you get and keep fans, yo, by being all aggro and bitch-slappy.

Or not. His way is probably best.

Later on some wise ass called out for Freebird (you knew someone would) to which MD stated, "the only other thing I hate as much as talking guy is Freebird guy." Adding his desire to start an "It's Raining Men" request campaign.

So next time you have the unique pleasure to see Mike Doughty perform, leave that trite "Freebird" request at home and bellow for "It's Raining Men".  Hallelujah.

Tremendous Brunettes

Bottom of a Well

And of course, perhaps the most peculiar cover to date...Casper, the Friendly Ghost