Celebrity Roundup

I couldn't find any blogs out there that talk about celebrities and gossip, so I decided to break some new ground and give a quick roundup of the weeks developments.

• Bill Murray's wife is divorcing him because he likes drugs, fucks around, punched her in the face and often left the country without telling anyone. On the upside the Dalai Lama has granted him total consciousness on his deathbed, so at least he has that going for him.
  


• Ashlee Simpson announced that she is pregnant with Pete Wentz's baby. Hey Pete, maybe you should rename your band Pull Out Boy.
  


• Scarlett Johanson released an album of Tom Waits covers last week. Yeah, that pretty much is the joke. He's a singer turned actor and she's an actor turned singer. These two should star together in Duets II, because clearly they are this generations Huey Lewis and Gwyneth Paltrow.
  


• Sharon Stone blamed the devastating earthquake in China on their bad Karma. Bad Karma? Really? C'mon everybody knows the earthquake was because God hates yellow people. Duh!
  


• Harrison Ford and Calista Flockhart are engaged! Hopefully they'll have a sex tape coming out soon, because I always wanted to see a corpse fuck a coat hanger.
  


• Al Gore's Inconvenient Truth is being worked into an Opera. If I wanted to hear a fat lady sing about global warming I would have called Tipper. Pow! Zing! High Five!
  


• Shania Twain and Mutt Lange are divorcing after 14 years of marriage. Apparently, Twain wanted to know whose bed have Mutt's boots been under. I guess Lange wasn't in it for love, so Shania was outta there.
  


• Eddie Murphy has signed on to do Beverly Hill Cop 4. It must have been a tough call. Do I do Norbit 2 or BHC4? I got to act opposite the great Joey Travolta in BHC3, and I had to act opposite my-over-the-top-self in Norbit. What to do? What to do? I guess I gotta go with BHC4 and Joey Travolta.
  


• The Rachael Ray Duncan Donut ad was pulled this week because her scarf was deemed to look like a kiffiyeh, a terrorist adornment. After years of annoyingly perky behavior I guess Jihad it coming to her. Ba-dum-bum. Thanks folks I'll be here all week, try the roast beef and remember to tip your servers.

Hacky, sure, not very funny, debatable, but it's Friday and sometimes you just gotta get out a few one liners to start the day.

Lollapalooza 2006

Once, again I find myself staring at a blank page with nothing to write. I know these "Best of" posts are getting old, but here is another one to chew on, until I can get my creative juices flowing again. My brother and I free-lanced for Blender.com a couple years ago at Lollapalooza. He took a bunch of amazing pictures, because his photography is money, and I wrote the article. Here is my personal account of the weekend with a link to the much different article that made it onto the site at the bottom.

Day 1:

I love the smell of live music first thing in the morning, that sweaty, smoky, stale beer, pot filled air, smells like rock-n-roll. My brother and I exit the car at one end of Grant Park and begin walking the ¾ of a mile to the far end of the venue where the media tent is located. As we’re walking, and walking, and walking it dawns on me that flip-flops may not have been the best choice in footwear. On a good day I walk about 500 yards, mostly between the couch and the fridge, and here it is 15 minutes into the first day and I’ve already got a mile under my belt. There’s little doubt it’s going to be a long weekend, and I don’t mean watching the "Lord of The Rings" long, I mean visiting your great grandma in the old folks home long.

Lollapalooza at first glance is completely overwhelming, especially for an overly-prepared OCD guy like myself. My three pages of spreadsheets with highlights circles and notes outlining what bands I want to see and interviews I need to conduct, immediately goes out the window when I see the size of the venue. Proximity is going to be the driving force behind what bands I get to enjoy this weekend, because my fat ass isn’t making a mile sprint in the Chicago heat just to hear the Shins play “New Slang” when I can just as easily hear Matisyahu play “Chop ‘Em Down” and only have to move 100 feet. Okay we’ve established my laziness, now it’s time to buck up, focus, and head out to the first stage, which happens to be right beside the media tent, cause that’s how I roll baby.

The Subways take the stage and we get the first of what seems like a thousand “How the fuck are you Lollapalooooooooza”, that we will hear over the next three days. Riding the success of their platinum single “Rock & Roll Queen”, the Subways Josh Morgan said “I think tonight’s going to be our best gig”. The early day slots at festivals always seem to be hit and miss, because let’s face it, most bands have a hard time finding their groove in the mid-day heat. This was not the case for the Subways who thrashed through their set list as if they had just consumed a case of Red Bull.

The first band is in the books, and their energy must have been infectious, because I decide to make the trek back across the venue to check out Aqualung. While the temperatures are cooler than last year, the sun is pretty relentless and the Matthew Broderick line from Biloxi Blues repeats over and over in my head “It’s hot, Africa hot, Tarzan couldn’t take this kind of heat”. Providing a stark contrast in style to the Subways, Aqualung delivers his airy vocals and orchestral melodies to a subdued, but attentive crowd. Listening to intense, mellower music works in the clubs, but when you’re standing on hot pavement you need something that will make your feet move, and mine did just that straight over to the food area.

After inhaling an Italian sausage like I was Tony Soprano, it was time to find some shade at one of the side stages. Local, unsigned, singer-songwriter Cameron McGill made the most of his first Lollapalooza appearance, delivering a heartfelt set to a crowd who seemed a million miles away from the rest of the madness. Set amongst large trees and backed by Lake Michigan this stage was the perfect refuge from the heat and pounding guitars that were just across the park.

Looking at my schedule I see that it is time to feel like an old man chaperoning a high school dance, so I head back to one of the main stages where the teenage girls gathered to swoon over Panic! At The Disco. The first of several 80’s retro sounding bands slated for the first day, took the stage in full circus-chic fashion. Members of the Lucent Dossier Vaudeville Cirque join the band on stage to provide artistic visuals, and also interact with the band members throughout the performance. To their credit they succeeded in walking the tricky line between theatrics and absurdity.

I’ve always been more of a Motley Crue rather than Depeche Mode kind of guy, but I found myself enjoying the rebirth of what we old folks used call “Alternative” music. I saunter across the field to see the Editors. Despite a relentless touring schedule they manage to energize the crowd mainly through the exaggerated antics of lead singer Tom Smith. Smith is one of those guys whose voice and body don’t quite match up. To hear this deep booming voice come of out of someone with a Justin Timberlake sized body, took a song or two to get used to. When asked why they consider themselves a “non-rock-‘n’-roll band”, bassist Russell Leetch explained that they liked to focus on the music and what they do on stage rather than the being known for what goes on backstage.

With the 80’s retro bands in my rearview mirror it’s now time to get my rock fix, luckily The Raconteurs are sound checking. From the first notes Jack White plays on his guitar the crowd seems to sense they are going to see a great show. Whether they are cranking out their radio hit “Steady As She Goes”, which seems to come at you from every angle or being one of several bands to cover the over-exposed Gnarls Barkley’s summer hit “Crazy”, every moment of their guitar driven set is sonic gold. There were several great performances on the first day of the festival, but none brought the house down like The Raconteurs. If I were an elementary school teacher their set would earn the illustrious check/plus in my grade book.

After some stretching, and lots of water, I head out of base camp, AKA the media tent, to work my way to the Violent Femmes, who somehow have made an entire career out of ten songs, then past Death Cab for Cutie and eventually home. Feeling like Mike Tyson’s punching bag, I slump into the car and try to mentally sort through the days highlights.

Day 2:

Good morning Uncle Erik! Oh yeah, my brother has kids, and they wake up early, and by early I mean even Amish parents would tell them to go back to bed. After crushing my Niece in a couple games of Crazy Eights, I am dressed and ready to head out for day two. As we arrive back downtown, I seriously start to question whether I am going to make it through the day. In the back of my mind I know that a couple of great gigs will get me back in the game, and that’s precisely what was offered up by the live music Gods.

Skateboarder turned singer-songwriter, Matt Costa, opens the second day of shows with the perfect hangover set. Quiet and melodic enough to get the musical juices going again, without offending the pounding the ears took the day before. This moment of tranquility lasts until mid-afternoon when Wolfmother takes the stage and unleashes their take no prisoners brand of classic guitar rock. They single-handedly set the bar higher than any band that played before them, and arguably anyone who will play after them. My inner rock child was smiling with its hands raised and locked in the devil horn position.

After Wolfmother rocked the faces off of those in attendance, many of those with their ears ringing walk across the field where the masters of all things costume, Gnarls Barkley, proceed to get to work on their booty’s. The crowd erupts as Cee-Lo and his band of groovy guys and gals take the stage in impeccable tennis whites. Rob and Amber, of Survivor fame, were seen sitting on the side of the stage feeling the R&B flow. Most of the set inspires mild head-bobbing, until the much covered hit “Crazy” when the grassy field became an all out dance floor. If you like people watching, this was the place to be, because it never gets old watching white people dance.

Now that my face was rocked off and my booty had been shaken, it is time to once again refuel at the food tent. After downing a couple hot dogs faster than Kobayashi on the 4th of July, I am off to enjoy the surreal world of Flaming Lips singer Wayne Coyne. I can only describe a Flaming Lips show as what it would be like if you could get into Willie Wonka’s head and then go to his happy place. Large blue balls danced against the Chicago skyline, as several Santa Clauses and aliens gyrated on either side of the stage. Confetti and streamers littered the sky as stage hands dressed as superheroes helped Coyne into a large plastic bubble that he used to surf the crowd. When I asked him about his stage show Coyne said “We just try stuff and if it works we go fuck that’s cool, but we never really know what’s going to work”. On this particular night it all worked and walking away from the stage was like climbing out of Alice in Wonderland’s rabbit hole. I had to turn and take one last look just to make sure what I just saw actually happened.

Checking the schedule once more I see that I have one more band, and then I can sign off on the second day of Lollapalooza 2006. This year’s festival was all about making choices, and the bigger names didn’t always deliver the best performances. This was the case with Saturday’s headlining acts, the hip-hop media darling, Kanye West and the lesser known Spanish idol Manu Chao. While 90% of Saturday’s attendees were watching a ho-hum set by West who was upset with the audio quality provided by his hometown, the other 10% arguably saw the best show of the weekend. Manu Chao may not be a household name in the US, but his blend of Latin, reggae and punk had the crowd in a constant state of motion. He made the most of his rare North American appearance and the crowd responded appreciatively trying to savor every precious moment of his time on American soil. Even though at times I felt like the only gringo at a Spanish wedding, the music transcended the language barrier and everyone came together to share a euphoric experience. Gracias Manu Chao, gracias.

Day 3:

Sunday is here and while others more pious than myself head to their respected places of worship I am once again in the car headed to my holy place for this weekend, Grant Park. What looked so large on Friday, has become almost a second home to me over the three days, and with a sun burnt face and sore legs I am off to see if the Frames can help me get my groove back. As I make the walk over to the stage, it is easy to tell which fans have are here for the first time and who has been here all weekend. The newbie’s all have the look of wonder and expectation, while the veterans have the 1000 yard stare.

The Irish band the Frames seem to be the musical panacea that the weary members of the crowd need to carry on. The charismatic lead singer Glen Hansard gets the crowd involved early, before they have time to zone out, and he keeps them involved throughout the show. The best moment of the set comes when music super fan Beatle Bob steps from the shadows to join the band on stage. Having Bob join a band onstage is similar to Roger Ebert giving a film the thumbs up. Bob and Hansard engage in a game of old dance craze mimicry that brings a moment of levity and bonds the crowd with the cast on stage. As Beatle Bob exits Hansard remarks “I believe that was quite the honor”.

Since it’s the last day, time to check out some of the non-musical aspects of the festival. Over at the Mind Freak area they are having an egg tossing Battle Royale, while a cast of characters behind the tent is applying more face make-up than Kiss. In talking to the director, we find out that a flash mob is getting ready to take place in a few minutes, just one of the many strange events that is scheduled for this area. Over the course of the weekend, there has been everything from improvisational comedy to film festivals. Within the past year my brothers hugging of trees has become stronger, so we stroll through Causapalooza checking out some of the various social and environmental groups.

Out of nowhere I start to hum Hava nagila, hava nagila, Hava nagila venis'mecha, and that can only mean one thing, it’s time for some Matisyahu. Reggae performed by an Orthodox Jew isn’t exactly the typical formula for mass crowd surfing, but immediately after he takes the stage the steady stream of bodies begins flowing as if on a conveyer belt to the front of the stage. One of the body surfers has on a fake Matisyahu beard, the only problem is that he is crowd surfing on his stomach. Rule number one of crowd surfing, for obvious reasons, is always stay on your back. He may have learned that lesson the hard way. Going down my checklist of things to see before I die, I notice that number 294 is to see an Orthodox Jew perform flawless beat box. I guess I can check that one off. While the main crux of the crowd sways to the rhythmic beats, it is clear that more than a few fans are setting up camp for the Red Hot Chili Peppers who play later in the evening.

There is a buzz in the air as fans are slowly pulled like the Millennium Falcon in the Death Star’s tractor beam towards one of the main stages for hometown favorite Wilco. Jeff Tweedy and company are surrounded by several other performers backstage, confirming that they are truly a band’s band. As they take the stage one of the loudest roars of the weekend breaks through the Sunday evening haze. The band mixes in a nice blend of new songs with old standards, but it really doesn’t seem to matter what they play the crowd appears to love them unconditionally, even when Tweedy displays the zit on his forehead he gets a rousing round of applause. The festival could have closed after Wilco and it would have been a phenomenal event, but alas there are a few more bands left on the schedule.

I have a bittersweet feeling going into the last set of the weekend, I am relieved that the long grueling three days is over, but I am also saddened that I won’t be coming back tomorrow for more. On the main stage Perry Farrell takes a moment to thank all of the hard working people who made the festival possible and to introduce the Red Hot Chili Peppers. The Peppers start strong, but end up playing an uneven set of older songs, strange covers and new songs without much in between. Despite their set list, John Frusciante is clearly a force to be reckoned with, as he steals the show with his consummate guitar licks. Near the end of the show I look out at the sea of fans, the Chicago skyline, Lake Michigan, The Red Hot Chili Peppers, and I realize what Mr. Farrell has known for years, Lollapalooza is truly something special.

Click Here for the article that made it onto the website.

Beer for My Horses

Amy had a friend from Colorado in town for the weekend, so it was me and the girls for a few days. They do not share my love of hockey or horse racing, and in turn, I do not share their love of shopping and gossip, which means I spent a lot of time down in manland. My basement is dark, cool, has a 42" plasma, a leather recliner and a refrigerator stocked with beer. It is so chalk full of testosterone that if Lance Armstrong watched a game with me, his second testicle would probably grow back. After spending Saturday night holed up in manland watching the Pens fail to get anything going, I was ready to get out of the cave.

Sunday morning, the sun is up and the temperature is perfect for a day at the track. I bid adieu to the ladies, jump in the truck and head out to watch the ponies for the afternoon. John Denver had it right when he said "Sunshine on my shoulders makes me happy" and "Country Roads take me home, to the place, I belong, West Virginia". The tunes are loud and the wind is whipping through my slightly damp locks, as I hit the gas and point my vehicle for the Mountaneer state. Just over the state line I feel my IQ drop and I suddenly get the urge to rape Ned Beatty, but I suppress that tingling in my pants and enjoy the winding two-lane country roads. I smell money, unhealthy food and horseshit, the track must be close.

I park and start my two mile walk to the racing area. I second hand smoke two packs of Marlboro Lights on the way in, and have a smart ass exchange with a 90 year old security guy. I see the track entrance, but it looks like he is blocking the door, so I ask him how I get to the track and he says "It's right there". No shit grandpa, I was asking you if I could get in this way or if I had to go around. No worries, in seconds I am outside, I have a beer in my hand and the second race has 15 minutes to post.

I know almost nothing about what to look for in a horse, but I wander over the staging area and size them up anyway. I try and decipher the program and all of the hieroglyphics on the page. The horse ranking, the weight it will be carrying, its win/loss record, when the last time it took a shit, how it does when a Hispanic rides him vs. an Irish guy, you know, the basics. I abandon these strategies and go with just the name. The 11 horse is "Bigger and Better Deal". Perfect. I used to watch this movie on HBO back in the day called Hardbodies, and the main character's pick-up line was to dialogue chicks with the BBD, aka bigger and better deal. Then the track announcer comes on, scratch the number 11 horse. WTF?

The first bet of the day, I go simple; $10 on the 9 horse to place. And down the stretch they come...come on 9, come on 9...Results are official 10, 4, 9. You suck 9! Damn, I missed by one spot. This is pretty much how the next couple of races go for me. I bet to show, and they come in fourth, I bet to place and they come in third. Finally, in the fifth race I catch a break. Of course the favorite for that race was scratched, leaving my horse with the best odds to win, meaning I would rake in a huge payoff of $1. You can't get anything these days for a dollar. Not true, you can have one of these tasty KFC snackers. (Sorry for the obligatory product placement)

It's getting hot, like Alabama hot, so I grab a hot dog and some shade, before the sixth race. The track is an awesome place to people watch. You got your horse people in pressed wranglers, who know the trainers, the horses and study the field with expertise. Then, you got your middle-management, cigar smoking wannabees who think they're at the fucking Kentucky Derby. On their arm is usually a trophy wife in a sundress and a large hat, smiling with that vacant Stepford stare. Next up, are the rednecks who missed the memo on dressing for their size. They brag about betting $2 on a horse to show. Don't spend your $.60 in winnings all in one place. (Like I'm one to judge after my big $1 payoff) You also see a bunch of old folks who look like they took a wrong turn at the Wheel of Fortune slot machine, and decided to stop for a second and watch all the pretty horses. Finally, you have the hardcore gambling guys who have 15 different bets on every race. When they lose, it looks like they're in the middle of a ticker-tape parade. You throw all of these folks into a yahtzee cup, shake 'em up and then let them roll out over the track area.

I decide that the sixth race will be my last of the day. I place my usual $10 bet and hope for the best. All I want to do at this point is watch the race and get back to town, but of course there is a long delay as a horse is injured at the gate. Looks like it will be stable to table for that unlucky bastard. I almost decide to pack it in and eat the bet, but I stay just to see what happens. Good call, because my philly finally comes in, and I make a whopping $7.

The day on the whole is a mixed bag, but I'll take it. I walk back through the slots area, which looks more like an old folks home than a casino. Everywhere you look, you see the blue-hairs slumped over in front of flashing lights, mindlessly putting their retirement savings into the machines. Back in the truck, the windows go down, the tunes go up, and I'm back into full on open road, Easy Rider mode. Smooth sailing back to the International House of Estrogen or IHOE.

Summertime and the Livin's Easy

I bet you didn't expect to get four posts in one week, well I aim to please all three of you, who only read this because you're bored at work. I know how it is, and I do not judge. I think my iPod is trying to tell me something. In the last week I've heard Metallica's "For Whom the Bell Tolls" four times. I probably haven't heard this tune four times in the last five years, and yet here it is again rockin' my soul at 8:47 am. We have the dreaded "all hands" call with the new owners today, so maybe this song is apropos.

Back to the subject at hand, Memorial Day. How can we truly honor those who have served and paid the ultimate price for this country? Three day weekend bitches! What started as a day to honor those killed in the Civil War, has become an excuse to gorge ourselves on burgers, dogs and beers. Is it right? Is it respectful? Not really, but it is American.

We didn't invent the three day weekend, but this country puts work before family and life. We don't have 35 hour work weeks or take month long holidays like the Europeans. We don't break up the work day with long breaks like they do in South America. A majority of us are working 50-50 (50 hours a week, 50 weeks a year) so when the long weekend rolls around, we go apeshit like Lindsay Lohan at Hyde after getting out of rehab.

Memorial day isn't just a great weekend for us working stiffs. For the stay at home suburban Mom, this is the greatest day of the year, because of five little words. The pool is now open! The swings at the park are silent and the aisles in Target have become a ghost town, because the MILF's are working on their skin cancer, while little Connor and Brayden are busy pissing in the pool. God, I hate that little Connor kid.

The unoffical start to summer is upon us, so break out the grill, crack open a beer, enjoy the traffic jams and the $4 gas, be thankful that the Pens are still playing, but take a second to remember why we have an extra day off.

Cheers!

Blog Soup

I recently found an old online journal I used to write in, and some of the entries were interesting, even though most were not. If my blog were a sitcom, this would be one of those lame clip shows, where the actors flashback to prior episodes, because the writers went on vacation. Unfortunately, I didn't go on vacation, I'm just lazy. Sorry, for the recycling.

May 16, 1983
I got my period for the first time. Soooooo embarassing!!! I went to the nurse's office and she called my Mom. My Mom was all excited and wanted to do a woman's day like they did on the Cosby show, but all I wanted to do was crawl into bed and die.
2008 Commentary: I think my journal must have gotten mixed up with someone elses, because I don't remember this at all.

April 7, 2004
Pittsburgh lost the lottery for the 1st overall draft pick to the Caps. Looks like they won't be getting this Russian kid, Ovechkin, who is supposed to be the next Lemieux. Kind of sucks, because the Pens were looking like a solid hockey club in the last 10 games of the season, despite still having the worst record in the league.
2008 Commentary: Can you even imagine if this team had Ovechkin on it? In case you were wondering the guy we ended up drafting 2nd overall in 2004 was Evgeni Malkin. I'd say it would have worked out for the Pens either way.

April 27, 2004
Steelers Draft 2004: I like that we finally drafted a QB. We haven't had a consistent starter since Bradshaw. We'll see if he pans out, but all the analysts think he's the man.
2008 Commentary: I'd say that Big Ben panned out.

July 9, 2004
Day 1 of our Michigan lake house vacation was great for about 6 hours. Then, I ripped my knee open jumping a fence. I'm telling everyone that I was stabbed by a midget in a bar fight, but the real story is much less cool. I got 15 stitches, which is fine, but I couldn't use the pool or hot tub for the entire week, which sucked balls. To make matters worse I had a reaction to the antibiotics and was doubled over with cramps for the better part of two days. I still had a good time, but it could have been so much better.
2008 Commentary: I'm notorious for vacation injuries, and this was just another instance of my out-of-town bravado, that resulted in a trip to the emergency room. I still have the scar, and I still tell the midget story, so at least I have that going for me.

August 31, 2004
After sitting in this cool coffee house/bar watching singer-songwriters on a dark, rainy, muggy night in Arlington, I ventured home about 11:30 pm. While attempting to navigate the maze that is the Virginia highway system I somehow missed my split, probably because of all the fog on my windshield, and I ended up doubling back a few times before getting home. It took me 23 miles to get to the club and 40 miles to get home, you do the math.
Frustration level is at 7.

Upon arriving home at around 12:45 am I grab my ipod, phone and run into the house having to piss like the slow, white, racehorse that I am. Just before entering the house I turned around and the truck is still running. Hmmm, that's odd, because I used the automatic lock to lock my doors....I USED THE AUTOMATIC LOCK TO LOCK MY DOORS! Well, ain't that a bitch. Of course Amy is out of town on business, so the one time the extra keys aren't in the house, I pull this moronic move. I run upstairs, piss, grab a coat hanger and the rod that opens the horizontal blinds. I try to break into my truck from the back window, because there's a little lock/unlock button.
Frustration level is now at 9

After dropping one rod into the truck and breaking another, I go into MacGyver mode. I place a wad of string between the window and the truck frame to create a gap. Then, I take a screw and place it through the hole at the end of the rod, and I use electrical tape to keep it all in place. Keep in mind, it's dark and I can't see anything, because my windows are tinted and reflecting the street light. I'm like Stevie Wonder trying to thread a sewing needle. After 15 minutes of hitting the button, with no luck, I go inside and try to get some light. Well, shit on a shingle, the power outlets apparently don't work on the outside of our townhouse. I'm so pissed at this point, I would have kicked Mother Teresa in the face, if she were kneeling there praying for me.
Frustration level is now at 11 (Well, it's one higher, isn't it? It's not ten)

I get my psyche back into MacGyver mode. I twist a small wooden ball onto the end of the screw that is taped to a curtain rod, and again attempt to hit the lock. After scraping most of the skin off of my arms squeezing through the back window pane, I achieve the goal. On the good side, the truck is unlocked, on the bad side, I don't have any curtain rods left in the house and my arms look like the Nazis faces at the end of "Raiders of the Lost Ark".
Frustration level is back down to a 5

I drag my exhausted ass upstairs and grab some water. BAM! I inhale a huge gulp into my lungs. I drop the water bottle and fall onto the floor gasping for air. After almost throwing up and choking for about 15 minutes, I finally get back to a somewhat normal status, before falling into bed about 2 hours later than I should have. This night will certainly go down in the dumbass hall of fame.
2008 Commentary: Looking back, this night was pretty funny as an outsider, but it also is somewhat painful, because I cleary remember how it sucked so much ass at the time.


Well, there you have it, my version of a clip show. I know it wasn't on par with "A very special Blossom", but really, who can compete with Mayim Bialik for humor gone serious? I don't even think that last sentence was germane to the post, but I sure do love inserting Blossom references whenever I can. WHOA!

Will Erik lock his keys in the truck again?
Will he sustain another injury with the 4th of July coming up?
Will he get the courage to tell his Dad about getting his period?

These questions and many others will be answered in the next episode of Soap, errr, I mean Craw's Words.

If Music Be the Food of Love, Play On!

Holy shit, it's been a crazy couple of months for new music. My iPod is getting more hits than Sadaharu Oh. It seems like every day after work I am pulling down a couple albums, but I am happy to weed through the maze of new music, so you can just sit back, relax, and enjoy the best of the best.

Death Cab for Cutie - Narrow Stairs
One of the most anticipated albums of the year has arrived to great fanfare. The songs just flow into one another and create a symbiosis that is mesmerizingly hypnotic. I could probably list a half dozen key tracks for this one, but I'll try and narrow it down to just three.
Key Tracks: I Will Possess Your Heart, Bixby Canyon Bridge, No Sunlight

Eels - Essential Eels
These guys have been around for awhile and I've heard of them, I just never got around to actually hearing them. That is until yesterday, and now I'm hooked. Sort of like Beck meets the Lemonheads, with a twist. The National are yesetrday's news, I think I've got a new band crush. EC + Eels 4eva!
Key Tracks: Trouble with Dreams, Mr. E's Beautiful Blues, I Like Birds

NOFX - Greatest Songs Ever Written (By Us)
Big props to Bruce who turned me onto their show on Fuse, which follows them as they navigate the ins and outs of touring in Asia. Of course I enjoy the drama of the backstage shenanigans, but the music is always the pearl that I try and pluck from the music reality show oyster. This is their greatest hits package and like most punk bands they play hard, play fast and then play the next song. Put the top down and turn the radio up, "One more round and it's bottles to the ground..."
Key Tracks: Franco Unamaerican, Bottles to the Ground, The Separation of Church and Skate

Mason Jennings - In the Ever
Mason is a staple in my collection, and gets a lot of spins, but this effort is unfortunately a miss. If you stick to the key tracks you'll be OK, but I wouldn't bother venturing off the beaten path. Doesn't it suck when someone you really enjoy puts out a bunch of blah songs? Oh well, I can still feast on his old stuff until the next go 'round.
Key Tracks: Fighter Girl, Your New Man, Memphis Tennessee

Griffin House - Flying Upside Down
At times it seems like Griffin is trying too hard for the radio hit that will take him out of the clubs and into the arenas. He walks the thin line between genius singer-songwriter and adult contemporary radio loser. He's at his best when he tells stories set against a folksy groove, and he manages to do that on about a third of the tracks here. If I were the host of a cheesy public-access music review show, I would rate this one 'a mixed bag'.
Key Tracks: Better Than Love, I Remember, Let Me In

The Black Crowes - Warpaint
I've been a fan of the Crowes for many, many years now, and they usually have great songs or shitty songs, with very little in between, and this release is no different. I saw their acoustic show on TV last week, and the one song that really stuck out was Locust Street. It's nice to see the old Robinson brothers can still collaborate long enough, without killing each other, to produce at least a few gems.
Key Tracks: Locust Street, Goodbye Daughters of The Revolution, Oh Josephine

Barenaked Ladies - Snacktime
Those crazy ladies are back with a kid's album. Their standard albums are usually simple, hooky and infused with mucho tongue-in-cheek humor. They've applied that formula to this effort as well, and I applaud them for giving me something to play in the car with my daughter.
Key Tracks - 7-8-9, Pollywog in a Bog, The Ninjas

This is Ivy League - Self Titled
Simon and Garfunkel meet the Beach Boys is how most people describe these guys. They truly have the college alternative sound nailed down. This album is still growing on me, and I think I will like it better when the leaves turn in the fall. It just has that nip in the air, back to school feel.
Key Tracks: London Bridges, A Summer Chill, The Richest Kids in Town

enjoy!

Sell Out, with Me, Oh Yeah

Hey everybody, it's yard sale time! A time to search high and low for dated electronics, outgrown clothing and assorted household items which have become expendable. This is the second time that we have done a garage sale or yard sale or get rid of your useless shit sale, whatever label you want to slap on it. The first time was in Colorado, before we moved back East. We made a few hundred bucks, but this time we didn't have any big ticket items, so we had to increase our volume to match revenues. Wow, maybe I have learned something about economics in my 12 years as a desk jockey. Suck on that Greenspan.

A day or two before the big event, we gather up our seldom used treasures and start tagging them with prices. And the haggling begins... How much should we charge for this Ayatolla Ass-a-hola shirt? Definitely go at least $10 for the leather assless chaps. Do you think I can get $5 for this pink Menudo sombrero? The autographed picture of Jesus that says "Jewish Carpenters Rule!" should fetch us at least $20. Are you ever going to use this thigh master? Finally, we get the items tagged and stacked in the garage, now it becomes a waiting game.

Saturday morning, 7:00 am, yeah, you heard me, 7:00 am, and it's go time. Mandelbaum! Mandelbaum! I grab a quick shower and dance around to A-Punk by Vampire Weekend, while Amy begins to stir. Off to the bank to get some change. Shit! The bank doesn't open until 9:00, quick detour to the grocery store and the manager is nice enough to hook me up. The old Saturday Night Live skit about making change goes through my head, as I exchange twenty's for smaller denominations. "We'll give you combinations you may not have thought of. For a twenty dollar bill we'll give you two $5's, two $1's, three $2's and twenty dimes. Making change it's what we do"

Back at our flat, Amy and Maggie are having breakfast, which gives me time to start turning our driveway into a white trash Wal-Mart. Baby clothes here, electronics there, beer funnels go in aisle two next to the Millenium Falcon replica made entirely out of Mountain Dew bottles and Skoal cans. Don't forget the neon Pabst Blue Ribbon sign, that needs to go right down in front to draw in the summer teeth crowd. Alright, this joint is coming together, just need to set up the greeter area and get some tunes going. Hmmm, I don't think that "Darling Nikki" is appropriate for an early morning community event, how about we go with some mellow Norah Jones instead.

It's 8:00 am and the curtain goes up. The morning starts slow with a bunch of drive-bys. You know, the looky-loo's who slowly roll past the crib, gawking at our mountain of junk, then they roll away. Hey essay, is my kracker ass kracker shit not good enough for you? I guess they weren't in the market for a rockin' Sony 200 CD changer. C'mon essay, you know iPods are just a fad and that CD's will make a big comeback, and when they do you'll be begging me for this changer. If you buy now I'll throw in 200 CD's free. You get a changer and 200 CD's, that's a $2200 value, for $30.

As the morning progresses, so does the traffic. I am officially the worst haggler ever. The tag says $20, they ask if I'll let it go for $2., I say how about $10, they say $5 and I say sold for 75% less than my original asking price. That's right you get a $30 hose and a $25 hose roller-upper, all for $5. Congratulations on making me feel like a total schmuck. Where's Amy? She is a much tougher nut to crack at the haggling game. This lady had her down to $2 for some baby clothes and she demanded $2.50. The lady gave her $2.35 and left. WTF? Amy got on her bike, like the kid in "Better Off Dead", and tracked her down yelling "I want my fifteeeeen cents!".

An hour before the end of the big sale, we finally hit pay dirt. This lady, who can only be described as an Asian version of my Mom, stops by and loses her shit. For those of you who don't know, my Mom's basement looks like a fully stocked bomb shelter, because she'll buy anything as long as it's on sale. I'm pretty sure she has Heinz ketchup and Betty Crocker au gratin potatoes from 1987 down there mixed in with some Jaromir Jagr peanut butter and a Wheaties box with the 1992 Penguins on it. This Asian version of my Mom calls her daughter, who lives a few blocks away, and together they buy about 50 of Maggies old outfits. Meanwhile, her husband is in the car, and like every guy married to an obsessive shopper, he's banging his head off the stearing wheel and cursing under his breath. They sorted through the clothes for a good 25 minutes, and I was sure that any second the hubby was going to commit Hari-Cari.

Ding! Yard sale's done! Ding! Yard sale's done! Ding! Yard sale's done! Time to count the cash and see how we did. Bam! $160. We started with $80, carry the one, multiply by 3.14, subtract the remainder and we get a grand total of $80 profit. Not bad for four hours work on a beautiful Saturday morning. More importantly I got rid of a ton of shit we never use. Unfortunately, I still have that damn 200 CD changer, and my daughter didn't sell either. I thought that a strawberry-blonde kid with stunning blue eyes would pocket us at least $50, but alas we had no takers. Maybe next year when she's potty trained and the economy rebounds, we'll do better.

Hey, Hey, What, Get Laid Off

The announcement of my company's acquisition by one of our competitors came weeks ago, but the closing of the deal is upon us, and the tension in the office is palpable. If you've ever gone through an acquisition, a bankruptcy or a down-sizing, then you know the feeling. It starts with rumors and gossip. "Psst, hey, did you hear we are getting bought?", "Psst, hey, did you hear they are making layoffs?", "Psst, hey, did you hear that Britney Spear's vagina got its own record deal?".

Then you get the official e-mail, "All-hands meeting, Thursday at 2:00 pm", and the office erupts into pandemonium, Jamie in Accounts Receivable starts doing shots of Jack Daniels, Steve in Sales, puts a gun to his head, Gary in Finance, starts screaming like Nancy Kerrigan, "Why! Why! Why!", and that creepy IT guy is balled up in the corner holding a Dell laptop and whispering "My Preciousssssssss". Me, I just shrug my shoulders and get back to work.

I've been laid off from every job I've had since graduating college. A grand total of six times so far, with number seven looming on the horizon. It all started when the record store I was managing in Nashville closed. For all the young kids, a record store is where old people used to have to actually pay real money for music. That's right, if we wanted to hear the latest chart topping tunes, we had to leave our house, go to the mall and actually buy an entire album. We couldn't buy just one song. If I wanted to enjoy "Baby Got Back" by Sir Mixalot, I had to spend $17.99 for 12 other songs that sucked ass. I know, it was a sick, sick world, but I like big butts and I can not lie.

After the record store closed, I got a really sexy job as a Regional Inventory Control Coodinator. I purchased and transferred copiers around the country. I'd brag to all my friends "Dude, I totally transferred 20 Canon C5068's from Atlanta to Memphis this morning. They said it couldn't be done, but I am the Burt Reynolds of the copier world!". Well, this gig came to an end, and I moved over to Accounts Payable. Can I get a woot woot for dot matrix printers? I'd print huge reports and then reconcile them, I was living the dream. I used to reconcile accounting reports recreationally on the weekends, and now I was actually getting paid to do it. I'm getting a semi right now just thinking about it.

Well, that gig went the way of the dinosaurs, so I packed up my shit and moved to Lakewood, Colorado. Buh-bye southern twang and hello purple mountains majesty. The internet was just starting to take over the world, so I worked with a recruiter to get a job in technology. I became a Help Desk hero, with stars in my eyes. Our company delivered online education, so we offered courses on how to use programs like Microsoft Office, Photoshop and download porn.

Our clientele was mostly older people who were using the computer for the first time, so my typical help desk calls were always great fun. Once it took me 45 minutes to help an elderly woman type a URL into her AOL browser. Getting ass raped in prison was less painful than this call. I know you're thinking how would I know how painful an ass rape is. I was in the klink for taking tags off mattresses back in '84 and this MS 13 latino bitch starts talking smack about my Duran Duran tattoo, so I put a cigarrette out in his eye and yelled in his face "Wild boys always shine". Not my smartest move, because his cohorts caught me in the shower later that night and expanded the ol' Hershey Highway to 6 lanes. My bad, lesson learned.

That start-up ran out of money and they were eventually purchased by a larger company, so I moved over to another start-up, which did online conferencing. I could write a book with the madness that went on at this company. It was the height of the dot com boom, when the frat house lifestyle took over the corporate world. Toga! Toga! Toga! We had a foosball table, free drinks and happy hours in the office every Friday. We held funerals for fish, played office golf and plotted complex pranks. Then came the bust. Investment money dried up and the layoffs ensued. It was so bad, they even started laying off the foosball players. Believe me, it was a sad day when I had to take my goalie off his pole and show him the door.

Then, I went back to the online learning company for a couple of months before they went belly up. Like a scene from "Groundhog's Day" I was laid off by the same guy, at the same company, 3 years earlier. Before I was let go, the office was down to 2 people, an IT guy and me. I actually went to work in a huge office with one other person. It was like a post-apocalyptic movie where 2 people are holed up in an old abandoned building. He stacked and inventoried equipment, while I answered a handful of calls each day. Talk about isolated, it was like that time I spent in a Turkish prison with a naked guy watching gladiator movies.

Which brings me to my current position, and my longest tenure at any one company. Next week we have the dreaded "all hands" call. We'll see how it all plays out, but as long as the creepy IT guy doesn't trade his 'Preciousssssssss' for a trench coat and a shotgun, I think we'll all be ok wherever we end up.

I'm Your Handy Man

Being a Dad, and a home owner, means that I am forced to put things together, but let me assure you, that even though I take these tasks one day at a time, I'm no Dwayne Schneider. I have a long tradition of carpentry projects that always go askew. When I was a kid, I built soccer goals that leaned to the left or right. In shop class, I had to design and build a box, that's it, just a simple box with four sides, a bottom and a lid. It was the hardest thing I was assigned in my four years of high school. I can't draw a straight line, even with a ruler. I can't cut a straight line, even with a table saw. When they tell you to measure twice and cut once, I pretty much ignore that rule, because I like to get things done quickly and often half-assed. Example. I built this book case in college to save money, and I had to nail it to the wall to keep it from falling over. So you see, while I do like Mechanical Resonance by Tesla, I, myself, am not mechanically inclined.

I think my biggest problem is that I hate reading complicated directions, and my frustration level for these types of jobs goes from a 1 to a 10 in about thirty seconds. Putting up a ceiling fan for me is a minimum of two full-blown tantrums complete with the throwing of screw drivers , five trips back and forth to the tool box, up and down two flights of stairs, 25 utterings of 'fuck this bullshit', and a final trip to Home Depot, where I can never find anything I need without the help of some old dude, who looks like he was alive when Noah built the Ark.

This weekend I had to install a baby gate at the top of our stairs, and I was less than enthusisatic about the whole thing. The first fiasco is going to Baby's R Us to buy the gate, and because our stairwell has a bannister, I need a special kit that costs more than the gate to avoid drilling holes in my stairway post. The Baby's R Us we go to is always a welfare experience. I haggled for Dominoes in a Tijuana shop that was nicer than this place. We go in and Amy gets a carnation for Mother's day and I get a headache in the form of donking off a quick hunge for the gate and the kit. I guess it's worth it, if it keeps my kid from taking a header down the stairs, but sometimes I wish kids were like colts, and just got up and mastered the art of walking hours after birth.

We get the gate and the kit back to the house and Amy takes Maggie into another room, while I begin the daunting task of taking out the 50,000 pieces necessary to put this Rube Goldberg device together. First setback. I need a drill and a saw. I guess this gate wasn't made in China, because everything I've put together in the past five years has only needed an allen key, which might be the suckiet tool ever. I swear it's a Chinese conspiracy to make us look like complete douchebags. Hey, if my kid only makes $.05 an hour to satisfy your gluttonous consumerism, then you have to build a two story entertainment center using only a bent piece of metal. Good luck fuckers!

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Needing tools that aren't in my arsenal sets me back a day, but my father-in-law comes through. It's a rainy Sunday and I'm in full out-of-touch Dad attire; underwear, a t-shirt and black socks, because when I get stressed I sweat, when I sweat, I get frustrated, when I get frustrated, shit gets broken. I have everything laid out on the floor in front of me and I start sawing, screwing and drilling, while trying to read directions with no pictures. WTF? No pictures! Just long paragraphs of words in 4 point font. I'm convinced that Asians have slanted eyes because they write so fucking small. I finally give up, look at the finished picture on the box and decide to wing it.

If these directions were an SAT problem, my reading comprehension score would be a zero. Ok you have 30 minutes to complete this section. Take a 3/4 inch hoozle-rod and drill it into the back of piece A. Fill in the 4 nozzle hickeys with the bracket mounts, but don't tighten all the way. Attach Piece B to piece A with plated wing nuts. Then you turn the page...Attachez le morceau B au morceau A avec les ecrous-papillons plaqués...Ok these directions are now in French. Where did the English go? Anyone? Bueller? Bueller? sil vous plait aidez-moi!

I get the kit part of the project done successfully, and my confidence grows. Bam, bam, bam I get the gate part of it done rather easily as well. Well smack my ass and call me Tim Taylor. It was like an out of body experience. I was throwing shit together, like an Indy 500 pit crew and it actually came out OK. There's hope for me yet. Now if you'll excuse me I have to go rotate my tires. Anyone seen my allen key?

The Race is On

You know hockey is a lot like the Grateful Dead, either you get it or you don't. And like the Grateful Dead, hockey has a core following of fans that love the sport in a cultish way. I am one of those fans. I buy the hockey package from my sucky ass cable provider every year, and I watch almost every Penguins game. I go to see them when they are in DC, and the arena is always jammed with other Pittsburgh fans. There are very few sporting events better than seeing hockey in person, and if you've been to a game, then you know what I mean.

I don't need hockey to be talked about on SportsCenter, Around the Horn or PTI, and good thing, because ESPN has banished it like a bitter divorcee after the NHL signed a TV contract with VS. ESPN keeps telling me, in no uncertain words, that hockey is dead in the US, but then why are the arenas always packed with thousands of fans? Why do the Penguins always sell out? Why did the Grateful Dead always sell out? Because there are people in this country who go against the grain and refuse to drink the Kool-Aid that the national media is dispensing. If you want to spend all of your air time promoting the NBA, go for it, but watching seven foot stoners trade baskets for 150 minutes just doesn't do anything for me.

The Conference Finals start tonight, and I am as excited as a dread-locked suburban kid in '72 who just got a "miracle ticket" in the parking lot to see Jerry and the boys. I'll admit that this year is a little sweeter, because Sidney, Geno and the gang are involved, but every year I look forward to watching the playoffs. Plus, it helps bridge the gap between the Super Bowl and training camp.

The intensity of the games, the hitting, the speed, the nail-biting when your team is short-handed and the anticipation when they are on the power play is immeasurable. I live and die with every goal, and when the Pens score I channel Mike Lange, and his trademark sayings just spew out of me; "Book 'em Dano", "Get in the fast lane Grandma the bingo game is ready to roll", "Buy Sam a drink and get his dog one too", "Call Arnold slick from Turtle Crick" and my wife's personal favorite "Get that dog off my lawn". When the Pens close out a series I rip off my jersey and run around the house screaming like a little girl who just got her first Barbie.

Bud Light presents Real Men of Genius.
Today we salute you Mr. Over Enthusiastic TV Sports Watcher. You're not even at the game and yet you still wear your jersey and scream at the refs with wild abandon. You protest every call, and mock the opposing players with long strings of curse words that would make Eddie Murphy blush. You have the arena songs queued up on your iPod to play after goals. Even when you have guests over, you carry on like a toddler who didn't get their way, embarassing your family and yourself. So crack open an ice cold Bud Light because it's all worth it when your team achieves the ultimate goal, and you helped get them there with your game day rituals, Mr. Over Enthusiastic TV Sports Watcher. Bud Light Beer, Anheuser Busch, St. Louis, Missouri.

Screw Bud Light, it's time to pop open a Yuengling, fire up the HD, turn up the volume and spend every night for the next few weeks in hockey heaven. Badger Bob you couldn't have been more right when you said "It's a great day for hockey!"

Timing is Everything

This entry may be on the emascluate side, but it's posts like this that keep the women folk coming back for more. If you have a penis, please come back later in the week and I'll try and get my balls out of my wife's purse and write a proper post. Every now and then I get asked how we met and the short answer is "in college", but here is the long answer.

Freshman Year
I first met Amy when she stopped by my place of employment, the immortal Pizza Palace, on her way to tanning. That pretty much sums up where our priorities were at the time. I was slaving behind a deli counter to pay for school and she was artificially sunning herself. I hated her financial freedom , but I loved her sweet little booty. Her friend from high school was dating my roommate, or as dating is called in college, bumping uglies. (Amy's least favorite term for coitus, which is my least favorite term for oh, let's go with fucking)

So they dropped in to enjoy my witty banter. The only problem was that my jaw was broken and wired shut, essentially rendering me an idiotic mute like Harpo Marx. The meeting was brief and included a lot of nodding and smiling from my end of the conversation. Even though my penis was in my high school girlfriend's purse back in Slippery Rock, something clicked for me. The same can not be said for Amy. Later that semester she went to a formal with my other roommate, and I did have a fleeting tinge of jealousy, but it was completely unfounded and passed quickly.

Sophomore Year
I got a new set of roommates and guess whose picture was proudly on display atop one of their dressers? That's right, none other than my future bride. I really should have tried to hook up with more Catholic girls in college, instead of hanging around with all of the Jewish chicks who laughed at my menial blue-collar job, my goyishe farm boy looks and piece of shit car. I guess J.A.P.'s just don't appreciate the beauty of a kick ass Chevette. That car was built like Michelle Rodriguez, light brown and tough as nails. Sophomore year came and went, and I spent most of it flirting with an ugly girl, while Amy and my roommate floated around like Ross and Rachel before they went on "a break".

Junior Year
At the last second, a friend of mine decided to live on-campus, thus opening up a room for me in an off-campus apartment. Guess who was in the apartment on the floor below me? That's right, none other than that tramp, Amy. I know you're all thinking, this is perfect, this must be where he closes the deal, this is where the magic happened. Not exactly.

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I had met a girl over the summer while I was working at Kennywood, and my penis was in her purse up at State College that fall. By the way, my Kennywood gig was as a fry-guy at the Potato Patch, and I made $4.10 an hour, but it was one of those kick ass summers that could have been made into a great 80's movie starring Andrew McCarthy. The tagline could have been: They thought they'd be friends forever, but forever couldn't last.

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Oh wait, that was the tagline for "St. Elmos Fire". The real tagline could have been: Sinking fries by day, drinking guys by night. See what happens when fun in the sun turns into intoxicated delights on hot crazy nights.

Quote of that summer: "Yinz guys ride dat Still Phantom yet? That's one bitchin' coaster-n-at, fills like yer goin' ta go dahn into da grahnd, but then ya don't."

Best use of a sick day that summer: I called off work because I was in the lazy river at Sand Castle water park.

Back to junior year. By spring semester, I had begun hanging out quite a bit with Amy and her roommates. I even took a "Death and Dying" class just to spend more time with the ladies. 5 Stages of grief according to Kübler-Ross...and go: Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression and Acceptance. *Jumps up and does crotch-chops while yelling suck it bitches* I also made excuses, like wanting to watch Guiding Light with them, so that I could evoke my charms on any takers, but there weren't any takers, and I don't really have many charms to evoke, so yeah, that didn't really pan out. At least not yet, stay tuned...

Senior Year

Actually, the summer before Senior year, Amy's boy from Sophomore year and I had become pretty good friends. One night after the bars closed we drove out to Amy's house and ended up crashing in her bed, while she slept upstairs. In the morning I met my future father-in-law for the first time. Knowing we were hung over, he made us burnt bacon and dry white toast sandwiches to further our dehydration and intensify our hangovers. Then he went out back and did some yard work. A truly professional move, and one that I need to remember when the suitors come calling for Maggie. Passive-aggressive perfection.

Back at school in the fall, Amy and I started hanging out again. We went to a Saturday afternoon swimmer party, and just got jacked up. We were so messed up we took a cab home early and hung out in my buddy's room. Amy finally had enough of my aloofness, and planted one on me. This is where it gets weird. We hooked up for a bit and then we drove out to Loch Raven Reservoir and hugged, then drove back to the apartment. To this day I'm not sure why this little road trip took place. Maybe I just needed to hug a girl in the woods near a large body of water to make our union offical. Whatever happened at that reservoir it must have worked because we have been inseparable since.

I tell this tale today, because thirteen years ago, the Mrs. and I tied the knot. A lot of things had to come together perfectly in order for our little twist of fate to pan out, but for whatever reason the stars aligned and smiled upon us. Just over 2 years later we were married. Now, I'm not saying we were too young when we got hitched, but here is a picture of Amy in her wedding dress.

Then just a few decades later we had our first child. Here is a picture of Amy just after giving birth.

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Ok, I think I finally found my balls again, so I am going to wrap this up, go lift some weights, eat a 22 ounce steak and watch Die Hard to get my testosterone back up. Oh yeah, one last thing:

LET'S GO PENS!!!

Let's Get It Started In Heeeeeere

And the bass keeps running, running and running, running... That tingling in my nether regions means one of two things, either I need another shot of penicillin or it's time for some Herndon fucking Live bitches! Every May through August the town of Herndon, VA hosts free concerts on Friday nights near the library that has only books. No CD's, no DVD's, just books. WTF?

Few things bring out suburban white families like alcohol and cover bands. For most of these folks this is the only live music they see all year and they just lose their shit. The bible-thumping stay at home Mom with four home-schooled kids, will sell her soul to the devil and flail around like Richard Simmons promoting "Deal-a-Meal", when the Dewey Beach party band breaks into "Livin' on a Prayer".


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Our typical evening starts with some pre-game at Jen and Bruce's crib. After we get our livers primed, we grab the folding lawn chairs and start the walk towards Mecca. The thud of the bass drum dances on the horizon, and as we get closer the knee-biters and skate rats start to multiply like wet Gremlins. The stroller parade is in full force as we get to the entrance and stake out a spot next to the walking path. We put the blanket down, arrange the chairs in a half circle, and our pit is ready for an evening of debauchery.

After several more cocktails, some chicken skewers and mediocre versions of "Jesse's Girl", "Semi-Charmed Life" and "Flagpole Sitta", the stroller parade packs up and heads out to put the young-ins to bed. Leaving behind the drunks and several large packs of roving tweens. As we hang out, a teenage kid tries to sell us a large Dominoes pizza for $5. I say we'll give him $3, and after consulting with his cohort he reluctantly obliges. Then, I hand him a five dollar bill and ask for change. Yes, I am a total douche, but that was pretty damn funny.

The sun is setting and this is usually the time when we start to make our way to the stage. The first three rows are packed with wide-eyed kids looking at the band like they are the sluts on "Rock of Love" seeing Bret Michaels for the first time. The next couple of rows are parents with younger kids on their shoulders holding beers and remembering what life was like before they decided to breed. We weave our way to a nice middle ground, and with our heads in a fog and our ears begging for more 80's rock, we regress to a time when hair bands, mullets, jean shorts and air guitars ruled the world.

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It's about this time that the wives have had enough and make their way back to the home front, reducing our pit of debauchery to just two lonely chairs and an over-flowing garbage can. We protest "How can you leave during 'You Shook Me All Night Long?', but they are unimpressed and head out anyway. Bruce and I look at each other say 'fuck 'em' and throw up the devil horns as "Rebel Yell" eminates from the speakers. A couple songs later Bruce and I look at each other again and realize the wives were right. It's time to abandon Betty from Accounting who is beyond drunk and air pole dancing (if there is such a thing) to "Hungry Like the Wolf".

Now getting to Herndon Live is easy, it's daylight and we are only slightly buzzed, if at all, but getting back is like playing a combination of Frogger and Pitfall with a broken joystick. The first hurdle is getting passed the aforementioned skate rats who are attempting "Jackass" like stunts to impress the girls who are feverishly texting on their cell phones. The second hurdle is crossing a busy intersection. A few times I have stumbled almost getting hit by a car, as Bruce laughs his ass off. The third hurdle is getting passed the smoke and crowd eminating from the local adult beverage establishment "Jimmy's". Getting through the cigarette smoke is easy, not going in while everyone is singing along to "Sweet Home Alabama" is the real challenge. The final hurdle is finding the strength to finish the walk back to the homestead.

We're finally home, but let's keep this train rolling. After party time yo! Fire up the iPod and rock out to the original versions of the songs we heard played earlier. The only thing better than hearing the Simple Mind's tune "Don't You (Forget About Me)" once, is hearing it twice. "Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey! Oooooohooohooh woooah". On that note, it's time to call it a night and pray that the pizzeria combos and bottled water will save me from praying to the porcelain god in the morning.

See you next Friday!!!