Monday, April 6, 2009
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
April Fool's & Twins ~
(several years ago)
We sat down on the couch. I started to cry. Cry might not really convey what I was doing … maybe the right word is “sob”. No … not really … I started to “wail” … yes, that’s it, I started to wail. I buried my face in my husband’s shirt and said those two little words that were sure to make his testicles shrink to the size of peas, “I’m pregnant”. I followed that up with a lot of, “this is the worst thing ever” and “I don’t want to be pregnant” and “goddamn, this is the worst thing ever”.
Trust me, whenever you say, “this is the worst thing ever”, it’s not.
After much consoling, I regained what was left of my dignity and we did what everyone else does, called the doctor.
Dr. Steve was a friend of ours. His daughter and our daughter had been in preschool together for two years and had continued on through third grade together. You might think it’s strange to have a close friend as your gynecologist, and it is … really strange … but once he swabs your vagina the first time and squeezes your boobs, it’s really all downhill from there. It’s as close to “swinging” as I’ve ever gotten.
I made the appointment with Dr. Steve’s office. He had delivered my first two sons and had compassionately helped me through the loss of another. His nurse, Jennifer, was a peach and when I spoke to her, I could tell she was authentically excited for us.
Finally, the day arrived and I headed out to my appointment. My daughter wanted to go out for breakfast and that sounded great, so I arranged for the nanny, Heather, to meet us and take the daughter so I could go to the appointment. We had a delicious breakfast, but when we went back to the car, it wouldn’t start. The battery was dead. Already nervous, I shifted into anxious panic.
Heather showed up right on time. She delivered me to Dr. Steve and I called for Hubs to pick me up there. Then we would deal with the car. After three children, having him there with me for the first appointment, when all you do is pee in the cup and find out that yes, your life is about to become more complicated, wasn’t really necessary for me.
I peed and what do you know ~ pregnant. Hooray. I went back and he felt my tummy and laughed hysterically. Dr. Steve’s daughter is an only child. This is good for Dr. Steve because that means his Porche is not only gorgeous, it’s practical.
He measures and giggles and tells me about the new tractor he’s going to buy with my co-pays. I snarl and plot ungodly ways to castrate my husband.
Dr. Steve thinks I may be about 15 weeks along and wants to do an ultrasound since there’s an opening and it’s across the hall. I pinch the paper robe behind my ass and slip across the hall, practically unnoticed by the throng of women sitting a few yards away. Awesome.
Lisa, who’s performed probably 15 ultrasounds on me, is on duty. Good news. I like her. I lay back on the table and she splooges her icy cold gel onto my belly that makes me seize up like I’ve been electrocuted. She rolls it around and around and around. She makes her bizarre sounds, “hmmmmm”, “mmmmmmumumum”, “uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh”, and rolls it around some more.
Then she says, “Damn, you’re having twins!”
I say, “Yhea, whatever.”
She says, “Really!”
I say, “Okay … he’s not getting me today. Forget it.”
She says, “Seriously, Ann, you’re having twins.”
I lay there pretending to inspect my nails, pursing my lips and giving every outward signal I could that Dr. Steve was not going to nail me on April Fool’s Day again. Nope.
“Ann, sit up and look at this.”
I sat up and looked at the black and white screen … hell, she could have told me it was 15 kittens and I could have seen it, just like cloud animals, and the Virgin Mary.
“Okay. Whatever you say.”
She was showing signs of serious frustration, which made me a bit worried. I looked a little closer. I could see ‘em. Right there on the screen, head … butt, head … butt.
“Oh Damn! Oh Damn! Oh Damn!”
I lay back down. I hyperventilated. She helped me up.
“I have an idea”, she says. “Let’s tell Dr. Steve that you’re having triplets. That will be so funny. You’ll get him good today.”
I would have said, “Okay”, but my brain had turned to oatmeal.
I go back across the hall into my little room not caring who saw my ass. I hear Dr. Steve outside the door. He chuckles and moves some paper and mutters, “yhea, right, they’re not getting me today.”
He comes in and says, “So you’re having triplets.”
I said nothing.
He starts throwing papers from my clipboard into the trash. Then he stops. He looks at me. He looks at the two sets of pictures stapled to the front of the file. He sits down on his little stool and looks again. Then he says this, “Holy crap, Ann, you’re having twins.” Then he put his head down on the counter. Okay ~ even if you know the guy, this is not what you want from your health care provider.
He turns to me and asks where Hubs is. I tell him that I think he’s out in the waiting room waiting for me.
“Want me to go get him?” I asked.
“Hell no. I’m going in my office and lock the door.”
Great.
I take my little green and white checkout paper and head towards the front. Hubs is there and comes over to wait with me. I said nothing. I handed my paper to Brandy who looks at it and then gives me that big, wide-eyed, what-the-hell look. I give her a shut-the-hell-up look. She gets busy processing me for my next appointment.
Julie walks behind Brandy’s chair and of course has to look over to see what’s going on. She looks up with a big smile and the loudest voice in the history of medical checkout and says, “OH MY GOD, YOU’RE HAVING TWINS?” I look at Hubs. He looks at me. We look at her. Brandy elbows her in the gut. I nod yes. He turns white as a sheet. Somebody else yells, “TWINS!” Brandy asks Hubs if he needs CPR. He replies that he wants a DNA test. One of my students walks in. Hugs all around.
We walk to the car without saying a word. My nerves are “tore up”, as they say in North Carolina. I get into the car thinking about my job and about the little house we live in and that everything in my life is suddenly and drastically different. I look at Hubs waiting for some words or sign that everything is going to be all right … that this is a good thing … that everything will be fine because we have each other.
He looks at me, smiles strangely and says, “This isn’t an April Fool’s joke is it?”
We sat down on the couch. I started to cry. Cry might not really convey what I was doing … maybe the right word is “sob”. No … not really … I started to “wail” … yes, that’s it, I started to wail. I buried my face in my husband’s shirt and said those two little words that were sure to make his testicles shrink to the size of peas, “I’m pregnant”. I followed that up with a lot of, “this is the worst thing ever” and “I don’t want to be pregnant” and “goddamn, this is the worst thing ever”.
Trust me, whenever you say, “this is the worst thing ever”, it’s not.
After much consoling, I regained what was left of my dignity and we did what everyone else does, called the doctor.
Dr. Steve was a friend of ours. His daughter and our daughter had been in preschool together for two years and had continued on through third grade together. You might think it’s strange to have a close friend as your gynecologist, and it is … really strange … but once he swabs your vagina the first time and squeezes your boobs, it’s really all downhill from there. It’s as close to “swinging” as I’ve ever gotten.
I made the appointment with Dr. Steve’s office. He had delivered my first two sons and had compassionately helped me through the loss of another. His nurse, Jennifer, was a peach and when I spoke to her, I could tell she was authentically excited for us.
Finally, the day arrived and I headed out to my appointment. My daughter wanted to go out for breakfast and that sounded great, so I arranged for the nanny, Heather, to meet us and take the daughter so I could go to the appointment. We had a delicious breakfast, but when we went back to the car, it wouldn’t start. The battery was dead. Already nervous, I shifted into anxious panic.
Heather showed up right on time. She delivered me to Dr. Steve and I called for Hubs to pick me up there. Then we would deal with the car. After three children, having him there with me for the first appointment, when all you do is pee in the cup and find out that yes, your life is about to become more complicated, wasn’t really necessary for me.
I peed and what do you know ~ pregnant. Hooray. I went back and he felt my tummy and laughed hysterically. Dr. Steve’s daughter is an only child. This is good for Dr. Steve because that means his Porche is not only gorgeous, it’s practical.
He measures and giggles and tells me about the new tractor he’s going to buy with my co-pays. I snarl and plot ungodly ways to castrate my husband.
Dr. Steve thinks I may be about 15 weeks along and wants to do an ultrasound since there’s an opening and it’s across the hall. I pinch the paper robe behind my ass and slip across the hall, practically unnoticed by the throng of women sitting a few yards away. Awesome.
Lisa, who’s performed probably 15 ultrasounds on me, is on duty. Good news. I like her. I lay back on the table and she splooges her icy cold gel onto my belly that makes me seize up like I’ve been electrocuted. She rolls it around and around and around. She makes her bizarre sounds, “hmmmmm”, “mmmmmmumumum”, “uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh”, and rolls it around some more.
Then she says, “Damn, you’re having twins!”
I say, “Yhea, whatever.”
She says, “Really!”
I say, “Okay … he’s not getting me today. Forget it.”
She says, “Seriously, Ann, you’re having twins.”
I lay there pretending to inspect my nails, pursing my lips and giving every outward signal I could that Dr. Steve was not going to nail me on April Fool’s Day again. Nope.
“Ann, sit up and look at this.”
I sat up and looked at the black and white screen … hell, she could have told me it was 15 kittens and I could have seen it, just like cloud animals, and the Virgin Mary.
“Okay. Whatever you say.”
She was showing signs of serious frustration, which made me a bit worried. I looked a little closer. I could see ‘em. Right there on the screen, head … butt, head … butt.
“Oh Damn! Oh Damn! Oh Damn!”
I lay back down. I hyperventilated. She helped me up.
“I have an idea”, she says. “Let’s tell Dr. Steve that you’re having triplets. That will be so funny. You’ll get him good today.”
I would have said, “Okay”, but my brain had turned to oatmeal.
I go back across the hall into my little room not caring who saw my ass. I hear Dr. Steve outside the door. He chuckles and moves some paper and mutters, “yhea, right, they’re not getting me today.”
He comes in and says, “So you’re having triplets.”
I said nothing.
He starts throwing papers from my clipboard into the trash. Then he stops. He looks at me. He looks at the two sets of pictures stapled to the front of the file. He sits down on his little stool and looks again. Then he says this, “Holy crap, Ann, you’re having twins.” Then he put his head down on the counter. Okay ~ even if you know the guy, this is not what you want from your health care provider.
He turns to me and asks where Hubs is. I tell him that I think he’s out in the waiting room waiting for me.
“Want me to go get him?” I asked.
“Hell no. I’m going in my office and lock the door.”
Great.
I take my little green and white checkout paper and head towards the front. Hubs is there and comes over to wait with me. I said nothing. I handed my paper to Brandy who looks at it and then gives me that big, wide-eyed, what-the-hell look. I give her a shut-the-hell-up look. She gets busy processing me for my next appointment.
Julie walks behind Brandy’s chair and of course has to look over to see what’s going on. She looks up with a big smile and the loudest voice in the history of medical checkout and says, “OH MY GOD, YOU’RE HAVING TWINS?” I look at Hubs. He looks at me. We look at her. Brandy elbows her in the gut. I nod yes. He turns white as a sheet. Somebody else yells, “TWINS!” Brandy asks Hubs if he needs CPR. He replies that he wants a DNA test. One of my students walks in. Hugs all around.
We walk to the car without saying a word. My nerves are “tore up”, as they say in North Carolina. I get into the car thinking about my job and about the little house we live in and that everything in my life is suddenly and drastically different. I look at Hubs waiting for some words or sign that everything is going to be all right … that this is a good thing … that everything will be fine because we have each other.
He looks at me, smiles strangely and says, “This isn’t an April Fool’s joke is it?”
Nope, no joke ~
Sunday, March 29, 2009
In Which I Get Screwed By Country Music
Country music isn’t really my thing. It is, however, my daughter’s thing. She’s a die hard fan, a fact I base loosely on region and slightly on a recessive gene I must have picked up from my mother and passed along unknowingly to her. The good and dominant gene, which we both possess, came from my Dad; that would be the ‘live show’ gene.
When combined, those genetic markers make for a child obsessed with concerts … country music concerts.
Together, we’ve attended many shows, big and small. She’s even had the remarkable experience of meeting a lot of country artists like Miranda Lambert, Rodney Adkins, and Little Big Town. Her room is decorated with autographs and photographs, ticket stubs and t-shirts. She loves it. All of it. And I love to see her excitement ~ that’s the real high for me.
Caveat ~ Before anyone starts to wonder if this child is a spoiled monkey, let me assure that she is practically perfect. She’s a straight-A student, plays competitive soccer about 30 weekends a year, helps her brothers in unimaginable ways, does chores, babysits for her own money … I could go on all day. She’s a great kid and when I can, I do things for her just to make her smile. That’s my privilege as her Momma.
Now, to the heart of the matter.
A couple of weeks ago, we went to Miami (pronounced Mi-am-uh, just like Missour-uh), Oklahoma to the Buffalo Run Casino to see Jason Aldean. I wasn’t really familiar with Mr. Aldean, but Hubs bought the tickets off of someone who couldn’t go. Fourth row, dead-ass center. You can’t argue with that and the girl was thrilled!
We left early and stopped for a great dinner and did a little shopping before arriving at the Casino at 7:00 sharp. God forbid we be late for a whole hours worth of AC/DC and Fleetwood Mac from the soundboard. Hooray! We got to our seats easily, everything was marked well and the Casino staff was very helpful, all over the age of 65, but very helpful.
Now, let me be clear about this. When I say “Casino”, I’m not talking casino-casino, Vegas style castle, or Trump-ed up blackjack palace; I’m talking about an airplane hangar stuffed with electronic poker and Wheel-Of-Fortune slots. I have to give them credit on their little showplace though. We’ve been there many times and the intimate setting is perfect and very safe for a Mom and a kid and an excellent place for photo-ops and autographs. That is, until last night.
First of all, when we arrived at our seats, there were roughly fifty 17-25 year olds standing at the stage. They were shouting at the crew about this and that. Seemed to this old gal that they were rather underdressed in their Daisy-Dukes and tanktops since is was only about 40 degrees last night, but I did let my subscription to “In Style” expire. Their partial nudity was only slightly less ridiculous than their counterparts, their FauxBoys (my daughter called them) - Fake Cowboys wearing straw western hats, a wide range of Hollister pastel golf shirts, and mechanically ripped jeans from American Eagle. They grew in number and drunkenness as the eight o’clock hour neared.
At this point, people that paid the “premium” price ($50) for tickets began to seek out management and complain about the stage-front Sodom and Gomorrah spectacle that was unfolding. I’m talking full-on groping, grabbing, and making out. The Premium Seat ticket holders were quickly told that the “artist” (and I use that word loosely) decides about that and that Aldean likes the people right at the stage. At this point, I’m thinking that Aldean has a pretty good scam going, if this is how he operates, night after night. (Doing the Math … 200 premium seats x the extra $25, equals … ummmm $5,000 …that brilliant little Son-Of-A-Bitch!!!)
The band was prompt, I have to give them that. Well, not the Jason Aldean Band, but another starter band (not quite good enough to earn the moniker, “opener”). Three super-skinny, blonde girls, a heroin-thin Bob Dylan look-alike on lead guitar and a bass player that I’m sure was Eric Zoolander pounced onto the sage and I almost popped an aneurysm from the feedback. Oh. My. God. Deafness would have been a gift. They were called “Chasin’ Dixie” … the daughter suggested they chose that name since they were obviously “chasin’” the Dixie Chicks wielding an electrified mandolin and a very fine fiddle.
They punished us for about 40 minutes before closing their show with Crazy On You, which was the highlight of their performance. It was most unfortunate that the most rabid of their hoochie-mama fans had no idea what the hell they were singing. I have to say though, if the sound hadn’t been so fucking bad, I think it would have been a pretty good interpretation. Then, they left the stage and with all of their stuff. Literally … they carried their own stuff off the stage with them.
By the time they finished their show, every person that had been sitting on the front row was gone and the front row chairs were pushed back against the legs of the people on the second row. I had started to get a little nervous. All you could see was people to the front, left, and right and in row after row behind us. The people on the second row started moving out. Before the show even started, people were standing on the front row chairs and the second row chairs became the ‘beer pass’. Boys/men of all sizes skimmed from seat to seat carrying two, three, sometimes four beers at a time, all while balancing on cushy chairs and avoiding the elbows and asses of the chorus line kicking it up just in front of them.
This is when I got really scared … not for me, but for Grandma sitting in front of me. She seemed to be 50ish and had her grandson (maybe 7) and Grandpa who was easily 70 there with her. Grandma was already PISSED and certainly did not like what was taking place right in front of her, so she decided that she would retaliate by pushing the beer boys off the road. No shit! This sweet little lady made an art of pushing those guys off the chair completely unnoticed, forcing them to create an entirely new spectacle before our eyes. It was becoming a wet t-shirt contest for the ages.
Right about that time, one of more obnoxious of the young group turned to the couple behind her and said, “Aren’t you pissed that you paid fifty buck for those (insert air quotes) premium (insert air quotes) seats and I only paid twenty-five and I’m standing in front of you?” She laughed hysterically and turned around and shook her bony ass double-time to some piped in Brooks and Dunn.
Thank God, they announced the band because tempers were about to blow. Jason and his crew took the stage. Everyone in his band looked like Jeff from Top Chef except for the drummer who looked more like Joey Tribbiani from Friends. Aldean, himself, was unimpressive in a plaid shirt, a few buttons short (showing too much of his scrawny chest), baggy jeans, and, lest we forget, the cowboy hat. He looked a little like Mr. T on a budget, wearing entirely too many bulky silver chains and medallions. Then he began to sing. I didn’t think that the sound could get any worse, but I was wrong. I swear to God, you couldn’t make out one word coming out of his mouth. The only semblance of lyric was coming from my sweet child, and the crowd around us who were compensating for the thundering bass and squawk of scratchy feedback.
I’m not sure how an “artist” presents an entire hour of his music looking out into a crowd of people sticking their fingers in their ears, but I have to give it to Aldean, he was a professional in that regard. He never let up; in fact, I think he just started trying to sing louder which led to more squawk and eventually actual ear pain. The bass was so intense that the bottoms of my jeans were vibrating. I sat there watching the legs of my pants shake to the “music” while Aldean entertained hoards of half-dressed bimbos with his “take my picture” antics and backwoods bravado. It was spectacular.
The drunk broad to my right was totally out of control. She was about my age and soaked to the bone, I believe. At one point, she sat on my lap for at least ten seconds before she realized that I wasn’t her chair. She danced with both arms in the air swinging them around like she was spinning an invisible hoola hoop, taking up the space … of an actual hoola hoop. I finally ended up sitting in the chair directly behind my child, looking at her ass or the floor. Good times.
Finally, those musical buffoons left the stage and I grabbed my purse and coat, only to turn around to see them returning. This was a good move, because it produced the single audible piece of music of the night, an acoustic song written for his grandfather and it really was lovely. I have to give it to Aldean, though this was his finest moment of the night, he felt the need to give the audience more of what they had obviously come for.
His “Grand Finale”, again, used loosely, was a worse-than-karaoke version of … God for-freaking-bid, Sweet Child O’ Mine … Good. God. Man. Enough. Already. It was quite possibly the most horrific cover ever and that includes a bad-pot induced Axel Rose impersonation by the lead singer of the notorious, Bananas At Large.
As soon as it was over, I grabbed my daughter by the jacket in a desperate attempt to get the hell out of there, but there was no place to go. It was like being trapped on the Titanic (if the Titanic was run by fake cowboys and Hugh Heffner). Where’s the fucking fire marshal when you need him??? Finally, the redneck reign of terror subsided and we slipped out through the roadie entrance and to the serene safety of the mini-van.
As for Mr. Aldean, he slipped away with an awful lot of money that he didn’t earn. And I’m here to tell you this; it will be a cold day in hell before I give the Buffalo Run Casino another cold, thin dime.
So this is the punk that bent me over … and no, I didn’t get kissed.
And to anyone who says there’s not a God, let me present you with this: When I got home, everyone was asleep. I poured myself a big glass of milk and turned on the television … PBS … Chris Botti and the Boston Pops … I think that speaks for itself.
When combined, those genetic markers make for a child obsessed with concerts … country music concerts.
Together, we’ve attended many shows, big and small. She’s even had the remarkable experience of meeting a lot of country artists like Miranda Lambert, Rodney Adkins, and Little Big Town. Her room is decorated with autographs and photographs, ticket stubs and t-shirts. She loves it. All of it. And I love to see her excitement ~ that’s the real high for me.
Caveat ~ Before anyone starts to wonder if this child is a spoiled monkey, let me assure that she is practically perfect. She’s a straight-A student, plays competitive soccer about 30 weekends a year, helps her brothers in unimaginable ways, does chores, babysits for her own money … I could go on all day. She’s a great kid and when I can, I do things for her just to make her smile. That’s my privilege as her Momma.
Now, to the heart of the matter.
A couple of weeks ago, we went to Miami (pronounced Mi-am-uh, just like Missour-uh), Oklahoma to the Buffalo Run Casino to see Jason Aldean. I wasn’t really familiar with Mr. Aldean, but Hubs bought the tickets off of someone who couldn’t go. Fourth row, dead-ass center. You can’t argue with that and the girl was thrilled!
We left early and stopped for a great dinner and did a little shopping before arriving at the Casino at 7:00 sharp. God forbid we be late for a whole hours worth of AC/DC and Fleetwood Mac from the soundboard. Hooray! We got to our seats easily, everything was marked well and the Casino staff was very helpful, all over the age of 65, but very helpful.
Now, let me be clear about this. When I say “Casino”, I’m not talking casino-casino, Vegas style castle, or Trump-ed up blackjack palace; I’m talking about an airplane hangar stuffed with electronic poker and Wheel-Of-Fortune slots. I have to give them credit on their little showplace though. We’ve been there many times and the intimate setting is perfect and very safe for a Mom and a kid and an excellent place for photo-ops and autographs. That is, until last night.
First of all, when we arrived at our seats, there were roughly fifty 17-25 year olds standing at the stage. They were shouting at the crew about this and that. Seemed to this old gal that they were rather underdressed in their Daisy-Dukes and tanktops since is was only about 40 degrees last night, but I did let my subscription to “In Style” expire. Their partial nudity was only slightly less ridiculous than their counterparts, their FauxBoys (my daughter called them) - Fake Cowboys wearing straw western hats, a wide range of Hollister pastel golf shirts, and mechanically ripped jeans from American Eagle. They grew in number and drunkenness as the eight o’clock hour neared.
At this point, people that paid the “premium” price ($50) for tickets began to seek out management and complain about the stage-front Sodom and Gomorrah spectacle that was unfolding. I’m talking full-on groping, grabbing, and making out. The Premium Seat ticket holders were quickly told that the “artist” (and I use that word loosely) decides about that and that Aldean likes the people right at the stage. At this point, I’m thinking that Aldean has a pretty good scam going, if this is how he operates, night after night. (Doing the Math … 200 premium seats x the extra $25, equals … ummmm $5,000 …that brilliant little Son-Of-A-Bitch!!!)
The band was prompt, I have to give them that. Well, not the Jason Aldean Band, but another starter band (not quite good enough to earn the moniker, “opener”). Three super-skinny, blonde girls, a heroin-thin Bob Dylan look-alike on lead guitar and a bass player that I’m sure was Eric Zoolander pounced onto the sage and I almost popped an aneurysm from the feedback. Oh. My. God. Deafness would have been a gift. They were called “Chasin’ Dixie” … the daughter suggested they chose that name since they were obviously “chasin’” the Dixie Chicks wielding an electrified mandolin and a very fine fiddle.
They punished us for about 40 minutes before closing their show with Crazy On You, which was the highlight of their performance. It was most unfortunate that the most rabid of their hoochie-mama fans had no idea what the hell they were singing. I have to say though, if the sound hadn’t been so fucking bad, I think it would have been a pretty good interpretation. Then, they left the stage and with all of their stuff. Literally … they carried their own stuff off the stage with them.
By the time they finished their show, every person that had been sitting on the front row was gone and the front row chairs were pushed back against the legs of the people on the second row. I had started to get a little nervous. All you could see was people to the front, left, and right and in row after row behind us. The people on the second row started moving out. Before the show even started, people were standing on the front row chairs and the second row chairs became the ‘beer pass’. Boys/men of all sizes skimmed from seat to seat carrying two, three, sometimes four beers at a time, all while balancing on cushy chairs and avoiding the elbows and asses of the chorus line kicking it up just in front of them.
This is when I got really scared … not for me, but for Grandma sitting in front of me. She seemed to be 50ish and had her grandson (maybe 7) and Grandpa who was easily 70 there with her. Grandma was already PISSED and certainly did not like what was taking place right in front of her, so she decided that she would retaliate by pushing the beer boys off the road. No shit! This sweet little lady made an art of pushing those guys off the chair completely unnoticed, forcing them to create an entirely new spectacle before our eyes. It was becoming a wet t-shirt contest for the ages.
Right about that time, one of more obnoxious of the young group turned to the couple behind her and said, “Aren’t you pissed that you paid fifty buck for those (insert air quotes) premium (insert air quotes) seats and I only paid twenty-five and I’m standing in front of you?” She laughed hysterically and turned around and shook her bony ass double-time to some piped in Brooks and Dunn.
Thank God, they announced the band because tempers were about to blow. Jason and his crew took the stage. Everyone in his band looked like Jeff from Top Chef except for the drummer who looked more like Joey Tribbiani from Friends. Aldean, himself, was unimpressive in a plaid shirt, a few buttons short (showing too much of his scrawny chest), baggy jeans, and, lest we forget, the cowboy hat. He looked a little like Mr. T on a budget, wearing entirely too many bulky silver chains and medallions. Then he began to sing. I didn’t think that the sound could get any worse, but I was wrong. I swear to God, you couldn’t make out one word coming out of his mouth. The only semblance of lyric was coming from my sweet child, and the crowd around us who were compensating for the thundering bass and squawk of scratchy feedback.
I’m not sure how an “artist” presents an entire hour of his music looking out into a crowd of people sticking their fingers in their ears, but I have to give it to Aldean, he was a professional in that regard. He never let up; in fact, I think he just started trying to sing louder which led to more squawk and eventually actual ear pain. The bass was so intense that the bottoms of my jeans were vibrating. I sat there watching the legs of my pants shake to the “music” while Aldean entertained hoards of half-dressed bimbos with his “take my picture” antics and backwoods bravado. It was spectacular.
The drunk broad to my right was totally out of control. She was about my age and soaked to the bone, I believe. At one point, she sat on my lap for at least ten seconds before she realized that I wasn’t her chair. She danced with both arms in the air swinging them around like she was spinning an invisible hoola hoop, taking up the space … of an actual hoola hoop. I finally ended up sitting in the chair directly behind my child, looking at her ass or the floor. Good times.
Finally, those musical buffoons left the stage and I grabbed my purse and coat, only to turn around to see them returning. This was a good move, because it produced the single audible piece of music of the night, an acoustic song written for his grandfather and it really was lovely. I have to give it to Aldean, though this was his finest moment of the night, he felt the need to give the audience more of what they had obviously come for.
His “Grand Finale”, again, used loosely, was a worse-than-karaoke version of … God for-freaking-bid, Sweet Child O’ Mine … Good. God. Man. Enough. Already. It was quite possibly the most horrific cover ever and that includes a bad-pot induced Axel Rose impersonation by the lead singer of the notorious, Bananas At Large.
As soon as it was over, I grabbed my daughter by the jacket in a desperate attempt to get the hell out of there, but there was no place to go. It was like being trapped on the Titanic (if the Titanic was run by fake cowboys and Hugh Heffner). Where’s the fucking fire marshal when you need him??? Finally, the redneck reign of terror subsided and we slipped out through the roadie entrance and to the serene safety of the mini-van.
As for Mr. Aldean, he slipped away with an awful lot of money that he didn’t earn. And I’m here to tell you this; it will be a cold day in hell before I give the Buffalo Run Casino another cold, thin dime.
So this is the punk that bent me over … and no, I didn’t get kissed.
And to anyone who says there’s not a God, let me present you with this: When I got home, everyone was asleep. I poured myself a big glass of milk and turned on the television … PBS … Chris Botti and the Boston Pops … I think that speaks for itself.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Barbie's Tragic Fall From Fame
You know what they say …
the bigger they are, the harder they fall …
Barbie, 2004 Christmas Extravaganza
Barbie, 2004 Christmas Extravaganza
(looks a little stoned, if you ask me)
Barbie, the original Fashionista and controversial American icon was found dead today, on her 50th anniversary of her exceptional life. Barbie had an astounding professional career as an astronaut, doctor, mother, pharmacist, farmer, machinist, turkey-plucker, gardener, lawyer, surgeon, concierge, pianist, dog walker, fashion model, and police officer.
After a night of birthday partying with the likes of Kate Moss and Tara Reid,
(courtesy of Amy Winehouse's Facebook page)
Barbie was found face down in the toybox, unconscious. EMT’s were unable to revive her.
Donatello (of Ninja Turtle fame) is a "person of interest" in the case.
After a short memorial service, Barbie will be buried at West Corner Garage.
The public is invited to attend.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Friday, March 6, 2009
Breach of Solitude
What is heard when nothing is said?
Everything?
Nothing?
More than you might think; I know that. Disapproving with fierce, friendless eyes or accepting with a mighty grin full of pluck and pith, I read you. I can feel your pulse popping in my brain, sending secret messages that peel away the layers of your clever disguises and reveal your heart, your secrets.
It’s not a noble endeavor, estrangement. You hide your real self like a child hides candy, not with selfish motives, but because it seems … right … necessary. How many eyes and noses and mouths you must possess.
Those faces are like segments of a sweet citrus fruit, clinging until they are easily broken apart, spraying a delightful fragrance that burns the eyes and nose of anyone present. Once the bitter peel is removed, the juicy, tender flesh that remains dances in the mouth to the tune of ‘Mmmmmmm’ and leaves everyone hungry for more while wiping at a burning retina.
But you refuse to give it in any abundance. Is truth so unsettling that you prefer the sticky adhesive of a polished veneer? Do your knees ache and bleed when you so fervently pray to the gods of your fears, arms outstretched like lightening rods seeking electric pain to erase your sleepless panic … hiding in the quiet dark, praying that time might stand still?
Is what you crave, peace or silence?
... because you cannot get those things from yourself.
Everything?
Nothing?
More than you might think; I know that. Disapproving with fierce, friendless eyes or accepting with a mighty grin full of pluck and pith, I read you. I can feel your pulse popping in my brain, sending secret messages that peel away the layers of your clever disguises and reveal your heart, your secrets.
It’s not a noble endeavor, estrangement. You hide your real self like a child hides candy, not with selfish motives, but because it seems … right … necessary. How many eyes and noses and mouths you must possess.
Those faces are like segments of a sweet citrus fruit, clinging until they are easily broken apart, spraying a delightful fragrance that burns the eyes and nose of anyone present. Once the bitter peel is removed, the juicy, tender flesh that remains dances in the mouth to the tune of ‘Mmmmmmm’ and leaves everyone hungry for more while wiping at a burning retina.
But you refuse to give it in any abundance. Is truth so unsettling that you prefer the sticky adhesive of a polished veneer? Do your knees ache and bleed when you so fervently pray to the gods of your fears, arms outstretched like lightening rods seeking electric pain to erase your sleepless panic … hiding in the quiet dark, praying that time might stand still?
Is what you crave, peace or silence?
... because you cannot get those things from yourself.
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