Tag Archives: entertainment

The Moran Elf Project 2012: Watch it, Bucko.

 The little rat bastard is BACK.  Billy Bob Joe…Merry Christmas; come trash my house.

Let’s face it.  He is creepy, snarky and get’s into all my shit.  But he is very loved, intensely anticipated and he is filled with the stuff that makes Moran little-people-memories. So let’s see what the little North pole Juvie has in store for my clan.  Bring it, Elf!

Welcome, Trouble.

Dec 1: Welcome, Trouble.

Those pretzels were for lunches.  Not a good start.  I may send him out to the Jewel to get new snacks ’cause we are not made of money around here, Elf.  Wasteful troll.

Dec 2: State is not for Suckers.  Go Lulu.

Dec 2: State is not for Suckers. Go Lulu.

I was SO pissed off he punched holes in the Cuties with little toothpicks.  Those things are pricey.  I may juice HIM.

Thanks, Billy Bob Joe, for the Mammories.

Thanks, Billy Bob Joe, for the Mammories.

I will make him finish that whole glass.  And if he comes back from his little “check-in visit” from the North Pole tonight and that Oberweiss is not fully consumed, then it will still be waiting for him to finish in the morning.  And the day after that.  And the day after THAT.

Cause Mommy Dearest doesn’t screw around.

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Bitch Pirate Barbie strikes again.

apples1I think someone is officially DTF.

fishies

Here fishy, fishy, fishy…..

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elfbutt

Too much egg nog at the office party, ya little brat?

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Jar-head, busted.

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“Creepy Elf boyfriend, I am falling and I can’t get up!”

“I’LL SAVE YOU!”

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Twas The Crappiest Day of Christmas.

Yesterday, I think I definitely had one of the more crappy days of the year.  But HEAR YE!  HEAR YE!  A Decree!   I hereby announceth that instead of being all moany and poorme, poorme, life suckity sucks about it, I am going to put a happy lens on the camera…a little fun twist, tinted green and red for the holidays….without further ado, here is the account of my very, merry shitty day yesterday, complete with jazz hands:

1.) Woke up with out the use of my right elbow. The pain was unbearable.  And I loved every minute of it.  Everyone should have an auto immune disease that attacks your joints.  Rheumatoid Arthritis for the house, bartender!

2.)Off to the dentist: OH EM GEE!!! It was so freakin’ fun! The excitement was high from the beginning as I was almost completely out of gas and there is not one mother trucking gas station 50 miles from where I live in Siberia. So I had a veritable BALL driving in the car with the heater off, on a 14 degree day, singing one of my favorite holiday ditties, “Please Santa, Get Me to the Dentist Soon Because I Will Die in the Cold If My Car Breaks Down on Fairfield Rd.” La! La! La!

When I arrived, it was all sunshine and roses, as every dental appointment usually is…I had to wait 30 minutes extra, but that’s ok because I didn’t really have any agenda for the day.

Once I finally got in the chair, the dental hygienist zapped my root nerves with the Invisilign thingy two times! I loved it so much, that she did it again. What a Christmas treat. It was so funny that I cried and I got a charlie horse in my toes from flexing for 60 straight minutes. I was totally bummed that there was an appointment after me because I REALLY wanted to have it done all over again…. *sigh * now, I have to wait 6 more months.

I really had to hurry home and get Cracker off the bus, but before that, I got to sing my “Christmas Santa Don’t Let me Die” song all the way on fumes to the closest gas station, praying that I could still make it home in time to get #3 off of the bus. BTW, the Shell station rocked.  I even got some gasoline on my brand new gloves! Luckily, I will be able to smell that for weeks and weeks.  Who needs perfume?  And isn’t it so awesome when it costs $70 to fill up your car? I love that.

3.) One of the most rewarding parts of my day was dressing up in Alpha’s Lacrosse jersey and going to to mall to stand at a gift wrapping booth to get donations, only to get treated like shit from every third person who walks by…the whole environment was oozing with Christmas spirit.  Who knew that no one would want to be nice and smile?  I was so excited when I finally wrapped one present.  ONE.  Huh.  Well, at least I bought a new outfit for the show, with the last of my cash in my account.  I think it makes me look really superfat, so life is awesome.

4.)  Oops, I forgot to eat today.  Hee Hee!!

5.) So I am really pumped because I get on the highway from the mall to head downtown and I am hoping, well, begging really, to be in Friday traffic for about 4 hours, but I was so bummed, ya’all!  I was only stuck in the car with no food or water and a dead cell phone for only 2.5 stinking hours.  Lame.

6.)  I get to the venue, which I will call, Cabaret Club, to find out I have only a reservation for 2 and need to cancel for the first time EVER.  WHAT????? WOOT!!!  WOOT!! WOOT!!  Hee Haw and Merry Christmas, I must be dreaming!  All this hard work really didn’t pay off, thank you Jesus.  Who would have thought, that the same show last year, which was a massive failure because it sold out  in less than a week, only to annoyingly add a repeat performance?  Glad THAT didn’t happen again this year!  Phew!  For me, ya’ll, the best part was that I still have to pay everyone.  That’s right, I had to PAY money to NOT do my show.  Schwing!

7.)  I felt like I won the lotto when I went to feed my meter after tech and found a parking ticket on my car for $75.  Just wake me from the dream.

8.)  I know I wasn’t going to be negative but the only really horrible thing that happened is that some girl found my discarded credit card near my car…she actually had the nerve to go home and Google my name, find out that I was, um, “performing” at Cabaret Club that night and called to say she was coming to bring it to me.  What a horrible person.  Karma is a bitch, lady.

OK…Truth?  For reals?   The best part of my night was the support of my pals,  BassMan, PianoMan and DrummerSub, my lighting/sound buddy TechFro, all the staff at Cabaret Club and Credit Card Angel.  And what really pulled me out of the muck was listening to some lovely music made my some really special pals.  Thank you.

Let’s do this again, bitches!  Tonight, take 2.  Heidey Ho and Merrrrryyyyy Christmassssss!!!!

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BAN THE CLAW

THE CLAW

THE CLAW

Do you see this thing? This evil tool from the game room of the pits of hell?

It’s the claw game.  Most of you have seen one.  It’s the gargantuan crack-like monster lurking in the corner of dusty and dirty game rooms in mid-rate family restaurants across the land.

And Bambi is addicted.

I mean it, I am not sugar-coating it.  Where did I go wrong?  Why can’t she be drawn to the mint bowl like Alpha or the lollypop stash like Cracker?  But Bambi aims higher.  Oh, and let me say also that Bambi is a doll.  A gorgeous, sweet, funny, lovable sweetheart and I love her more than anything.  But she turns…Every time we encounter the crappy animal stuffed beast, she spots  it, right at the moment when we walk in.  If she doesn’t find one right away, her eyes bulge with her mission, eyeballs ever searching, jutting, tearing apart the layout with tiger-like prowess.  She makes her mark and she starts to jiggle, jostle around and sweat.  And she spots her Shangri-La.  She is instantly transformed, she is Gollum.  THE CLAW THE CLAW, THE MIGHTY CLAW.  From the second we sit down, she starts the “claw whine” and I know how badly it will end.  It will end with her crying all the way home.  But let me fill in the middle.

She starting the please game.  “PPLLLEEEASSSEEEEEEEE. “

“Honey, you can’t play that game, we go through this every time.”

“But Mommy, just ONE TIME.”

“No, sweetie, no one ever wins.”

(This is when, conveniently, the little brat from the next door table returned with her gloating father, carrying a cheap ass, Korean-stuffed, lower-quality-than-carnival-crap teddy bear.)

DAYUM

“MOMMMMMMMMM-“

“Just- Honey, can we order first?”

Movie in my head:  I walk over the table, grab the satanic prize  from the little brat and then I smack the dad in the face repeatedly while yelling at him for not being a team player.

If parents across the world would just say NO, then the owners of these establishments would remove them for non-use.  But we get suckered in.  Because we are hungry and we want the cheeseburger and draft beer and we can’t have them until they stop begging and we give them a fucking quarter.

We try to avoid this.  Mike and I do a “claw check”  when looking for a place to eat, much like the old “kid friendly-non smoking” peek in from days of yore.  He double parks and I run in.  If there is a claw, we move onto the next Applebees-barnabys-Hackneys-TGIF’s-crap place that we are looking to dine at…

Santa even had the elves construct a real claw game for HOME.  She plays with it non-stop, while I crouch in the corner and whack my head repeatedly with a wooden spoon to the beat of the circus song that plays over and over and over and over and over an

This should sate her, we gave her the crack pipe.  We let her use it in the comfort of our home.  Surely, she need not go out to get a buzz.  But crack kills, kids, crack kills.

We had an incident the day after Christmas.  Damn, I let my guard down ONE MINUTE.  We were heading to meet family at Buffalo Wild Wings.  It was my cousin Coconut’s birthday and we were all coming together to celebrate.

THERE WAS THE CLAW.  Stop staring at me, you big red greedy whore. You thief, you stealer of little tykes’ hopes and dreams.  Starter of addictive personalities.  DON’T EVEN LOOK AT IT.

What could we do?  We couldn’t leave, this was not our gig.  I could have said, “a table please, very far away from the claw”,  and an older motherly hostess would, with a twinkle in her eye, lightly chuckle while winking and lean in to whisper, “I completely understand, let’s see what we can do”.  And she would put us in the farthest corner from the devil box.  Alas, we didn’t have Aunt Bea, but this young waitress at the prime of her life with her tight sports jersey and her perky, non-breastfed boobs and she would not get it.  She will know soon enough when she starts to breed, but this time,  the slutbag she seats us right smack dab in front of it.  Not directly near it, but riiiiggghhhttt where Bambi can stare at it.

Who am I kidding?  She would have found it.  All the kids were walking around, scoping out the video situation.  Planning and strategically toying with our money in their quick little minds.

I was at the women’s table with the mommies and the offspring.  “A round of chicken tenders, chocolate milk back, for everyone!  And three beers for us, please.”  Cracker was getting a cold and was not recovered from her 5 minute nap in the car.  She whipped off her shoes and hunkered down into doublefisting both her and Bambi’s chocolate milk.  Seven minutes after that, the caffeine kicked in, her legs started to pump and spin like the Road runner, and for the next hour, I chased her while she did laps and half tripped every nubile, perky breasted waitress in the joint.  My beer was neglected.  I needed one of those hats with the beer holders and the straws – Spongebob recently owned one of those.  So J.

And everytime she came back, she went to me first.  Ol Battleaxe Betty who tells it like it is.  “No one ever wins, sweetie.  They make them that way.  Yo-”  (And piping in from the party of 8 in the corner) “I got one Daddy!  I got one!”

Bambi claws at me, “SHHHEEEE GOOOOTTTT ONNNNEEEEEE, MOMMMMYYY PLLEEASSEEEEEE”

“Go talk to your father.”

And Mike who is sitting at the guy table, shoving habanera teriaki wings in his mouth with one hand, and alternating drinking his beer and playing computer poker with the other.  He licks his fingers clean and gives her money.  And the  nightmare continues.

Mike gave the lil nugget almost THIRTY dollars in the span of an hour and half.  Are you fucking kidding me?  AND, it was in 4 quarter increments.  Do you know how many times that means she went back to him to ask for more?  And he gave them to her?

Oh, but by no means was she alone in all this.  She had a partner in crime.  My cousin, Felt and his wife, Teeth, have two adorable little boys, Heisman and Wrestler Fan.  Heisman and my very sweet Alpha were happily content at the end of the table, wolfing down smily face fries and taking turns with the Nintendo DS.  Apricot’s little guy, Star Wars kid, who is like a 4th child to me, brought a little buddy along with him so all the boys were content in their mini-man-dom.  Cracker continued to run laps while gnawing on a chicken tender, which leaves us with the dynamic duo, Bambi and Wrestler Fan.

Those kids were nothing, if not diligent.  At one point, Wrestler Fan, I think was amazed at her determination and put all his efforts into grabbing one for Bambi.  And we all rejoiced!  Our champion!  Our knight!  Victorious!  Slaying the dragon and bringing Guenevere the riches of the world!  Now she can shut it, sit down and eat her mac and cheese.  But it wasn’t the one she wanted.  She wanted the MONKEY. And there were tears.  She flung the unwanted stuffed alligator at Cracker, who screeched with glee and whipped it at the couple behind us.  Bambi was finally cut off.  “You are CUT OFF.”  She remained pouting at her seat, in claw rehab.  There she moped, moaned, keened and wailed until I finally chugged my Blue Moon and declared to Mike, “Wipe your wing-stained mouth, help me grab Cracker and let’s hit it.  I can’t stand it anymore.”  And we dragged Bambi to the car, and she cried the whole way home.

The next morning, my cousin and Coconut’s wife Apricot called me, trying to entice me with bloody mary’s and HBO mockumentary marathons.  As tempting as it was, I was in my own different little rehab, so I had to decline.  But before we ended our chat, she added, “So, wow, Bambi really is addicted to the Claw.  You weren’t kidding.”

Thus,we move on..we start anew, we remain vigilant in our quest for non-claw dining and we strive to encourage home use.

And the bright side is that, although she is tiny enough to do it, she has not been one of the Chuck E Cheese idiots that have tried to climb inside.  Dumb, Bambi ain’t.  😉

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I Once was lost, but now I’m found.

Why?

Glen and Mar with The Swell Season at the Chicago Theatre June 15th, 2008

*Note: there is virtually nothing funny here. This is a seriously serious account of one of the most fabulous nights of my life.*

So, if you know me and regularly read this blog, you know two things:

(1) I have a slightly unnatural obsession and mad crush on Marketa and Glen. The concert the other night put Mike and I over the edge. We would star in the new TV show, “Swingtown” with them. Of course, we wouldn’t, but it’s the thought that counts. That, and, they would look at us and go “ew”.

(2) The last concert I went to, I was abused by a drunk young feck and cried in the bathroom because I am old and fat. (Please visit the Aunt Barbara thread.) I have since realized that I could be older and I could be fatter. All better.

(3) I have been in a little funk and have not really been inspired to blog as of late.

I am now re-inspired.

The show was the most incredible and emotional concert I have ever seen. I have seen a lot. Sorry, Stones, my #1 all-favorite band. You have just had your Start Me Up asses kicked by The Swell Season.

We brought my mom as a thank you for turning us onto the movie. After Once opened in theaters here, she begrudging gave up her copy to me, shoving it my hand and said you will fall in love with this BUT GIVE IT BACK. She almost broke her foot last week while sitting for my middle kid “Bambi”. She jumped into the pool to save her from drowning. She insisted on going to the concert ON CRUTCHES. She yelped when I suggested that she stay home. “WHAT? Are you KIDDING me?” If she were dead, she would demand that we drag her body to the seat and duct tape a glass of wine in her hand. Nice visual.

And let’s face it: we all were a little bit of a mess, me and my mental state was of course, the sloppiest. I was hit with a neurotic stick repeatedly for a couple of hours. From the very first song I was clutching Mike’s knee and smacking my Mother’s arm: “Oh my God, I LOVE this song! Oh my God, I LOVE this song! Oh my God, I LOVE this song!” Glen is hilarious. I would be laughing once minute and blubbering like a baby dropped on her head. I am a true idiot. Could it have been the Margaritas that the cocktail waitress kept bringing us? Perhaps. But I was Spongebob Drunk Ass absorbing the love in the room. Chicago Theatre is one of the most beautiful theatres on the planet. I have seen some pretty big names perform there for the last 25 years and they officially own that space.

And let’s talk about

Definition of Chemistry: ” Miraculous power of transmuting something common into something precious.”

They are both insanely charming in their own right.

They are both gifted and blessed with the upmost talent and that special something that makes people stop everything, shut their mouth and listen with all the power one can muster. And they are a couple. When Mike and I saw the movie at my cousin “Apricot” and …I don’t have a name for him yet..how about “Celinelover”? No, he would be pissed. Let’s call him “Coconut”. I digress. While watching the movie, I was shocked at how I reacted. I burst into tears watching the “Falling slowly” scene and was like “what the fuck?” I looked at Mike to laugh at myself, rolled my eyes to laugh at how stupid it was that I was blubbering like a baboon (Do baboons blubber? Or is it whales?) Then I realized that Mike was SO man-crying. I guess I was moved at the sheer beauty of the scene but maybe because, being a musician, it was so honest and in the moment and beautiful. These are the moments that I cherish when I perform, whether it’s in front of hundreds of people or when I am simply singing a lullaby to my kids.

The point I guess I am trying to make is that I don’t know if they are really a couple. That is the magic of the movie. [SPOILER ALERT – JUMP THE THE NEXT PARAGRAPH OR YOU MAY WANT TO SLAP ME IF YOU HAVEN’T SEEN THE MOVIE} It’s doesn’t have the neat, tie-it-up-in-a-bow Hollywood ending that we are used to…but you leave wanting them to be together. And, holy shit, they are really in love in non-movie life. You can’t make that shit up. You see it in every look they give each other. Every time they approach each other between songs and whisper something (like we can hear anyway, haha). It’s a beautiful dance and if they are indeed, not a couple, they have figured out that, shit, it sells CDs and sold out concerts because whether it’s real or a ruse, it’s romantic as hell. If it’s not true, please don’t ever tell me. It’s the ultimate documentary of love with a hell of a soundtrack.

Let me just wrap this nonsense up with two more things

(1). I loved their other tunes, not just the ones from the movie. The band featured some of the Frames members, including a guitarist from Chicago and Liam, the violinist was breathtaking. The gorgeous song Moon was insane, Marketa was mesmerizing and the acoustic closing of the show was knock-your-socks off brilliant. It’s true, I couldn’t find my socks after the concert.

Here is a really bad cell phone pic of the last number.

I didn’t even mind that we got home at 1:30am (I am sure that the band was still partying at their room at the “W”) and I woke up with a HELLA hangover with the baby at 6am.

(2) Marketa and Glen, if you ever read this, which you never will, don’t be scared. My fascination is harmless. Ever heard of John Hinkley? No. Nothing like that.

It feels good to be back.

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Her Skin Grew Over the Seat…

There is a very sad woman, who was just recently removed from a bathroom she has not left for over 2 years.

“A 35-year-old woman who sat on her boyfriend’s toilet for so long that her body was stuck to the seat had a phobia about leaving the bathroom, the boyfriend said. ‘She is an adult; she made her own decision,’ said her boyfriend, Kory McFarren. ‘I should have gotten help for her sooner; I admit that. (DO YA THINK???) But after a while, you kind of get used to it.'” Full article here

DUDE.

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I can’t even find the words to type how insane that is that he let her stay in there, sitting on the toilet. Bringing her clothes and food to her everyday. “They had conversations and had an otherwise normal relationship”…

People are FUCKED up.

On a lighter note, I love Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova. He would never let her ass mold to the toilet seat. They are the Once couple and they are dating in real life.

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I am slightly obsessed with them. I google them a little bit too much. My husband and I are in love with that movie and “Falling Slowly” has become our song. I promised Mike that I wasn’t going to blogtrash him if I started this blogging thing, but I can’t help it. He totally man-cries when we listen to that tune. And I don’t blame him – it’s totally emotional for us. For whatever reason, does an emotional thing to our souls.  Jesus, that is a stupid description. But seriously, I almost want to stop listening to it, to avoid ever getting sick of it. My 6 year old daughter is learning the song and I am accompanying her really badly on her $34 pink rock and roll ToysRUs guitar. It’s a kick ass version soon to be sweeping the charts over at youtube.com – look out for it.

There is a video of Glen and Marketa performing on Michigan Avenue and there is like, NO ONE THERE. There are maybe 2-3 people looking at them at the end, like who are those fucking people? Don’t bother me on my lunch hour.

Here is the link to the video…

What the FECK. If Mike and I knew about that, we would have not only been there, but we would have been FREAKING OUT. In a totally embarrassing and inappropriate way. We may have even tried to make out with them, I don’t know, but it would have been strange, weird and cool as hell.

I sang last night with a friend at Maxime’s downtown and I got home tooooo late. I woke up with my eyes fastened shut by my fake eyelashes. I was in my bra and underwear and I passed out still wearing my fake bling jewelry. It left little indented marks all over different areas of my skin. I am a hot mess and I need to go take care of myself before the girls think Courtney Love has now become their mother.

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Pineapples, Cottage Cheese and 4 Million worth of plastic.

(Insert 50’s housewife music here)
OhNoTheyDidn’t.com, my source for this delightful day in the life piece, states, “Don’t know who Jocelyn Wildenstein is? She’s a New York socialite who’s reportedly spent over $4,000,000 on plastic surgery over the years to keep her husband” To read about who in the hell she actually is, Click here
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I just…I…
Hm.
Dear Peter Bogdanovich, if if you ever decide to do a remake of your sensational 1985 Oscar winning Mask and would like to replace Eric Stolz because he’s to busy filming Howl, please look no further.
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Feck.

FeckFeckFeckFeckFeckFeckFeckFeckFeckFeckFeckFeckFeckFeck

I love the word, fuck. Love it. But since it’s St’ Patty’s time, I like to say FECK. Feck Feck feck.

I am going to write a book.

I have decided this. My life is and always was, excessively goofy. It is pretty much a daily occurrence for something ridiculous to happen to me. And I think I owe it to my children to write this shit down. I am working on the outline now and I have already run unto a problem. I am getting to the high school years and now I don’t know what to do. I need to make a call here because there is some FECKED up shit and do they really have to know everything about their mother? I mean, I don’t know half of what my parents did and frankly, I. Don’t. Wanna.

Do they need to know about how I lost my maidenhood or how I scaled my wall drunk at their grandfather’s 40th birthday party? Do they want to read about how I chugged a bottle of Jack Daniels and peed on Sean Gorley’s living room carpet, only to wake up in his soccer uniform (shin guards included)? Must they hear about me trying to make out with a hot BBQ and do they really need to know about my crazy Boulder band daze?

I think not. So I will have to be really selective. But that crazy stuff. That’s the shit that I want to remember, too. It’s good for me. It puts hair on the chest. Reminds me that my kids are never going to be allowed to leave the fecking house. If I had my druthers, they would all be put in a convent until college. But then they might come out weird.

And so what do I call this blockbuster? Oprah’s next book club selection and the reason for my future Pulitzer?

Mama was a Slut but now she makes a mean PB and J? Mommy is bad with money and let me tell you why? How to fuck up a perfectly privileged childhood and education by Mommy? Hmm…Not so much.

I think I will focus on the fun stuff and remember that my children, even if full grown will be reading this and while I want to give them a true account of the many faces and places of Mommy, I want them to respect me. And so I guess I have to respect myself and leave out the scary crap. Maybe I should do and unabridged adult version. Entitled Mom does Porn.

Oh, this will be fun. One more thing for me to fit in my already insanely busy day.

Feck.

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The Pogues Made Me Blog, Love Aunt Barbara.

drunk.jpgdrunk.jpg

There. I am officially doing it.

Last night, I had a moment of clarity when I realized that here I was, almost 40 years old and moshing with smelly men, and that I needed to start a blog.

Why not, everyone else is doing it. And who the hell is going to read it anyway?

   

So, about my night…

I went to the Pixies WHOOPS I mean Pogues show last night (I bought last nights tickets as a Christmas present for my husband, I thought I was buying him Pixies tickets…when he opened them, he wasn’t going crazy. I said WTF, honey, Merry Christmas, he said, cool, you love these guys. I was so excited that I guess I subconsciously bought the wrong ones.)

 


WOW. What an interesting night. Now, I love the Pogues and I saw them at a summer music festival in the late 90’s, Shane McGowan was not in the band anymore. He is a massive drunk who is an amazing artist but man, google his image. He drank so much he…just…forgot to deal..wit his teeth. Whoops. Eventually he was kicked out of the band in the 1990’s. That festival that I saw was pretty tame for some reason, anyway I don’t remember it being to out of control but you should have seen the oldest member of this boardblog site in the irish MOSH PIT last night.
Shane was so drunk that they made the audience wait an hour and a half before they came out. That sucked. (I heard the next day that he was late because they couldn’t find him. They couldn’t FIND HIM. God, I love that about him.)

I realize that I am an old fart, but I thought I looked kinda cute and I certainly thought I was fooling everyone with my cute little mini skirt, boots and peekaboo top. Until some guy bumped into me and said, “Oh Hey Aunt Barbara. When did you get here? At least you boobs still look good.”

THUMP.
OMG.

I literally was crying in the bathroom. Then I was crying because I was crying in the bathroom. Then I realized how gross the bathrooms are and I cried because everything is so different now, I mean, I NEVER cared about how gross the bathrooms were. Now, all I wanted were some baby wipes and antibacterial lotion.
When, seriously, when did I get old?
I am going to be 40 next year and I literally feel like I am still in my 20’s. I have such a warped sense of self.

Also, I miss smoking. The ban has created a whole other problem.

People stank.

Even before the concert started, as we all piled in like cows to the slaughter, I am smelling the nasty of all these people around me and I realize, I miss the smoke smell. I can’t handle the guy in front of me who clearly has not showered for days after, let’s see (I analyzed his stank for the better part of an hour) curry, beer burps, a random beer fart here and there, uh, and the worst smell, that make me throw up in my mouth a little bit, did someone get a little somethin somethin lately, DUDE. BATHE. O. M . GAWWWDDD.

Then the band started and Shane was spitting and practically puking on everyone through the nubs of his 4 remaining teeth and then people started to sweat. (By the way, the band was amazing. Shane is fucking insane, but he is stilll awesome. Love Spider. And Phil Chevron was back in action after battling throat cancer and it was the highlight of the evening to see him singing “thousands are sailing” – quite amazing. And so ends my mini-review)

I am a little damaged still from the whole scent experience. Lift the ban so I can fill my lungs with smoke instead of stinky drunk Irish college boy.

Speaking of drunk Irish college boy, 15 years ago, this kind of a scene was like a candy store for me. I LOVE drunk Irish college boys. Well, I did but man, it’s hard to look back at what I used to find hot. I was a total tard.

The funniest thing all night was Mike and this other older guy blocking me. They were my bodyguards, shoving and punching people away from me. Mike has his leather coat on and never took it off. We had to leave a little early because we thought he was going to have a coronary.
Feck, we are old.

But the date ended perfectly when we went to our most favorite city hang out, The Green Mill, and drank a dirty martini and listened to Gypsy Jazz…. A great, if not incredibly stinky night. Merry Christmas to me.

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