He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother

I reference my Grandpa on my mother’s side a lot.  He’s the one that was the Storyteller, although his siblings were no slouch at spinning a yarn either.  The fact that the whole family was nuts certainly proved to be fertile ground for good stories. 

Back in the early 1900s, it was common for Italian families to have some of the kids continue to live at home, even after they got married.  My mom’s uncles Ants and Meek were no exception.  (Ants was short for Antony and Meek was short for Amicio.  The latter came from when his mother would call him in for dinner, “AMEEEEEEEEEEEKIO!”  All his friends could hear was the MEEEEEEK part, so it stuck.)

L to R: Uncle Meek, my Grandpa, Uncle Ants, Guy I Don’t Know, and my Grandma, at my grandparents’ 35th anniversary party, circa 1966.  Yes, they wore ties even for parties held in the basement.  Grandpa wasn’t particularly tall but you can see how big the Uncles are.  It’s from them that I get my size. 

As the oldest, my Grandpa was generally more responsible, but the brothers were real rascals who liked to drink and tussle and carry on.  Meek was a Pittsburgh cop, one of the last to walk a beat in the city, without a gun.  Nobody messed with him or they were likely to see the business end of his nightstick.  In fact, no one messed with my little 5-foot nuthin’ mom, either, when she’d walk through town on the way to and from work, because they knew they would stay healthier that way.  Officer Meek didn’t play.

Sometimes, Meek would have to referee the fights between his own parents.  He’d come home from a long day on patrol and they would both run to him, each shouting their own version of the day’s quarrel over top of the other, in Italian of course.  One night it got so bothersome that he took out his handcuffs and cuffed them together.  He told them he’d unlock them when they worked it out, then he went upstairs to have dinner with his wife and daughter.  They worked it out by the time dinner was over.  I suppose it was just a matter of motivation.  Moms says she thinks they secretly liked each other… I mean…  they had 13 kids after all.  But I’m not so sure.

Back when my Grandpa was a boy, shortly after they’d immigrated to the US, his mother yearned to return to Italy for a visit.  His dad, Guiseppe, agreed and paid for a ship to take his wife and my grandpa back to the Old Country.  But shortly after she got there, she changed her mind and wanted to come back home.  Through friends and relatives, she got her request back to her husband.  He send word that it would take a while before he could earn her return passage.  But that wasn’t exactly true.  He figured, she wanted to go to Italy, he sent her to Italy.  So she’d better stay there for a while, to make the trip worth the money.

Of course, his ulterior motive was that he got be a Man About Town, loaf with his friends at the firehouse and generally be free from family obligations for a while.  OK, it was more than “a while.”  He left her there for more than a year.

Meanwhile, my Great Grandmother, pissed off to beat the band, earned her own boat-fare back by various means, including stealing eggs.

Then one afternoon, Grandpa Guiseppe was having coffee on his neighbor’s porch when he spotted his wife striding up the sidewalk, with his son in tow.

Startled, he exclaimed (in Italian), “Ai!  The Devil has returned!”

I bet not even a grown up Uncle Meek, nightstick and all, could have calmed the storm that night.

She got even with her husband in other ways.  He had a natural way with musical instruments and could play almost anything.  He’d go from banjo to flute to bass violin…  Then one day he hit on the kazoo.  Great Grandma did NOT like that one bit.

One evening Uncle Ants came home and found his mom busy stuffing little pieces of rag into his father’s kazoo holes. 

She said, “Come Ant-no-ee, help me before he get home.”

That night when his dad came home and picked up the kazoo, all he could produce was a big PFFFFFT PFFFFFFT POOOOT.  He snapped the kazoo over his knee and tossed it out the window.  Problem solved for both parties.

But anyway, this is the story I really wanted to tell.  (Those others just kind of jumped out.)

One night Ants came stumbling into the house after a long night at the bar.  He tripped over something coming in the door and knew it was his brother Meek, drunk and passed out on the floor.  Being a good brother, he decided to take him upstairs and put him to bed.  As he picked Meek up, he began talking to him…

“Fer Chrissakes, what are you doing on the floor, Meek?  What, you can’t even make it up the stairs?  How much did you have to drink?” 

Grunting and sweating, he dragged him up the stairs.

“Goddamn, you’re heavy.  You putting on weight?  What’s with the beard, Meek?  Didn’t you shave this morning?  You can’t go around looking like a bum… you gotta take a shave in the morning.”

As he wrestled his load to the top of the stairs, he saw someone standing in the hallway, laughing.  It was Meek.  Only then did he realize that he had not, in fact, been carrying his brother, but a rolled up carpet, just back from the cleaners.

Picture from aspenmeadows.blogspot.com

I’m just glad he didn’t try to shave it.

Grammy Night - 1975

...Or, The Night I Caught the Funk

The Grammy awards were on last Sunday and I didn’t watch them.  I haven’t watched them in ages.  It’s not that I have anything against the Grammies themselves; it has more to do with the state of modern music.  I don’t like very much of it.

Yes, I know, it’s generational thing and everyone get off my lawn.  It’s the same battle every aging person has with the generations that follow.  “No one makes good music like they used to any more.”

It hurts me to say that because I dedicated a giant portion of my life to popular music.  I worked 13 years in the record business for the sole reason of staying involved with music.  (It sure wasn’t because of the pay or the hours.)  Before that, I hung out at record stores for hours, devouring every detail that the record covers and backs could show me.  I was always the kid in the neighborhood who knew who sang what song, even when the DJ didn’t mention it.  So I take my music cred pretty seriously.

I think it all started to get away from me in the late 80s.  Even when I was working in the business, my tastes separated from what was popular to those things for which I had cultivated a taste.  I may have been able to wheel and deal in Top 40, but I rarely listened to it.  Instead I followed the blues and remained on the lookout for good old no frills rock and roll, the louder the better.  But it had to have a hook.

I turn on the radio these days and it disgusts me.  All I hear are talentless auto-tuned star wannabees clamoring for their time on TV or YouTube, backed by programmed beats and atonal keyboards… I have issues with any album that says in the credits: “Drums programmed by…” Drums should be beaten, not programmed.  And in my day, if you couldn’t sing, you screamed.  (See Tyler, Steven.)  And if you couldn’t at least do that, then you didn’t make freakin’ records!

It doesn’t get any better when I listen to rock radio.  Seems to be all thrashing and wailing, but no hooks.  I hear a big indistinguishable wash of guitar noise, but no groove.

In my later years in the business, the Grammies only mattered when it came to our store promotions.  Whoever won a Grammy, or looked good performing, would be a big seller that week.  So we had to be on our toes.

I think I gave up actually watching the show the year after the famous Jethro Tull debacle.  That was the first year they had a “Heavy Metal” category and the geniuses in the Academy voted for Jethro Tull as the winner, who were neither heavy, nor metal.  Tull beat out Metallica, AC/DC and other legitimate metal bands.  I can only imagine what the voters’ thought process was there…

“Hey, remember that song “Bungle in the Jungle?”  I liked that; I’ll vote for Jethro Tull.”

It wasn’t always like that for me.  Back in my formative years in the early 70s, the Grammies were still relevant.  In fact, they were vital!  It was the one reliable way that you could see the popular groups perform.

Time check: No cable TV, no MTV, no SNL, no computers or YouTube.  There were very few avenues to see the top stars.  You had American Bandstand or Soul Train.  You had the Midnight Special (for which I was not allowed to stay up, until my teenage years.)  You had the afternoon talk shows like Dinah Shore or Mike Douglas.  You saw in the TV Guide that someone was performing on one of those shows, or you had to go to a concert.  (No one I knew ever went to concerts, again, until I was well into teenhood.)

So Grammy night was a big deal because not only were the top artists going to perform, but also present, which meant you got to see what they looked and talked like.  Remember, if there wasn’t a good picture on an album cover, you might not know anything about how an artist looked.  (Unless they were from the Tiger Beat/Girls fanzine crowd.)

I remember watching the American Music Awards one night (or some non-Grammy music award show) and Elton John hosted.  At that time, I was a huge EJ fan and was eating up his first Greatest Hits album.  But it wasn’t until I saw that show that I even knew he was English!  Seeing up standing up there being all clever and witty with his British accent just impressed the hell out of me and probably laid the groundwork for my future appreciation of Monty Python.

OK, back to the Grammies and the story I intended to tell with this post.  (Yes, I know I do take the long way ‘round sometimes.)

I will never forget the night I first saw Stevie Wonder play: Grammy night, 1975.  The prior summer Stevie Wonder release “Fulfillingness’ First Finale” and the single “You Haven’t Done Nothin’” reached #1.  While it’s not his most recognized single now, it was my gateway to The Funk.  I loved that sound he had.  I had no idea if it was a guitar or a keyboard or what… (which I now know to be a synthesizer).

So Stevie took the stage and played “You Haven’t Done Nothin’” and just rocked the place.  I was in awe.  Stevie was up there with his dark shades on, his shoulders rockin and beads in his hair swingin’.  The entire audience was on their feet, dancing in their seats.  I remember the camera panning over to show Gladys Knight and the Pips and the Pips looked like they were doing their act.  They were getting D.O.W.N.  I went out and used my meager allowance money that next week to go buy the single.

Eyes newly opened, I began paying attention to some of the other Stevie Wonder songs that the radio started playing again.  Both “Higher Ground” and “Superstition” were getting airplay, even though they came from his prior two albums.  Both had that same plucky synthesizer sound I loved.  I couldn’t find either one as a single though, so one afternoon when we were out shopping I whined and pleaded so unrelentingly to my mother, she gave me the money to buy the full album “Talking Book,” which contained “Superstition.”  That was my first record album.  Not AC/DC, not BTO, not Aerosmith… freakin’ Stevie Wonder.

After that, it seemed like every year, Stevie Wonder was on TV winning Grammies and playing his ass off.  “Songs in the Key of Life” came next, which produced two more #1 singles, “Sir Duke,” and the incredible “I Wish.” 

“I Wish” was the Shit.  What a groove!  From the opening that layers synth line upon synth line to the down home slice of life lyrics, when it comes on, you can’t help but start to move your shoulders.

Not too many years ago I saw a show on the making of that album, which featured various other stars and musicians talking about the songs.  I remember the rap artist Coolio talking about being at junior high school dance, with the boys holding up one wall the girls holding up the other.  But he said when the DJ put on “I Wish,” the groove defeated the inherent awkwardness of the situation and everyone just had to get off the wall and dance.

In fact, I just found that clip… check it out if you’d like to see how the song was made and hear some people talking about it.

I know that there are still talented musicians working out there.  Sure would be nice to hear some funk that was more than a bass beat.  Or a rock song that didn’t sound like it was produced by factory machinery.

This is me, not holding my breath.

Didn't She Almost Have it All?

I was all set to write a nice, easy, breezy story about my adventures last night at Sitcom Kelly’s party.  No fuss, no controversy, just tales of drunken debauchery and child care.  Then the poster girl for Downward Spiral had to go and kick the bucket.

We were having a wonderful time at the party.  As you may remember from my post in October, Sitcom Kelly is providing foster care for a 3-year old dear of a girl.  It was initially supposed to last a month or so, but conditions change quickly.  I believe the next hearing for the birth parents comes up in March, so Kelly has had her all this time.

The little peanut is bright, playful and just plain adorable.  She enjoyed her time in the spotlight last night, getting all the grownups to play with her toys with her.

At one point, Kelly told her, “Go ask Mr. Bluz if he’ll play ‘Don’t Spill the Beans’ with you.”

She didn’t actually say anything, but she looked up at me and batted her pretty almond eyes and gave me a shy smile. 

I said, “That’s good enough for me, I’ll be right there.”

The funny thing is that I was concerned with not knowing how to play “Don’t Spill the Beans.”  I told everyone, “I’m Italian!  I never spill the beans!  Omerta!”

It really didn’t matter, because when you’re 3, you don’t worry about trying to balance the beans on the lid of the swivel-pot.  You just put all the beans in the pot and then flip it over, with great gusto, while squealing.  The harder the flip, the further the beans get thrown around the room.

After “Don’t Spill the Beans,” we moved onto “Candyland,” which I DO remember how to play.  That didn’t matter either.  Three-year old rules say that you pick a character, push him along the entire path until the end.  Then you throw all the cards on the ground and look for the cards that have the treats on them.  Then you put your guy on the picture of the treat on the board, and squeal.  The squealing seemed to be an integral part of the game.

When the games were done, we grownups sat around yakking and it turned out I was a minor celebrity.  (Very minor… like “Oh, that’s you…”)  Some of the party guests had heard about the Sitcom in Sitcom Kelly and were surprised to realize that I was the guy that was enabling her delusions writing the Sitcom Idea Document with her and blogging about her virtual adventures.  This turned into a discussion for the benefit of the newcomers in the room, who did not know about their host’s alter ego, or the Pits in the basement.  Judging from the reactions in the room, we would be on the right track if we somehow produced this show.  The ideas killed.

So the party was toodling along when one of the guests had her phone buzz and then exclaimed, “Oh my, Whitney Houston’s dead.”

I said, “You have an alert set up for Whitney Houston news?”

Turns out she received a text message from a friend.

It was funny because I had just seen a piece on Whitney Houston on Friday, on one of those entertainment “news” shows.  They showed her looking like hell, with focus on these marks on her legs.  They said it looked like some kind of splatter but I thought they looked like needle marks.  Granted, I was at the computer and not paying full attention.  But I’m pretty sure they said something about her going to rehab.

Anyway, as you know by now, she died Saturday afternoon of a drug overdose and was found in a Beverly Hills hotel bathtub.  To me, that sounds like the 21^st Century version of Elvis.

I’ll put this out there… I was never a huge Whitney Houston fan.  It was nothing personal, owing more to my general distaste for pop music than anything she did.  I will certainly admit that she was drop-dead gorgeous and had talent out the wazoo.  And I’m keenly thankful for all the Whitney Houston records, tapes and CDs I got to sell over the years when I managed the record stores, which helped me make my sales projections whenever she had a new album out.

But boy, did she ever take a fall.  Someone with her talent should have been mining gold for the last 15 years. She could have been making records and touring and raking it in hand over fist, rather than stuffing drugs up her nose and slumming it with her ghetto trash husband.  In her more recent attempts at performing, her voice was shot.

Maybe she really is the Elvis of our time.

In the 90s, she was a hit machine, then once she got married, she seemed to lose relevance and along with that, her talent.  Her last genuine hit was “I’m Your Baby Tonight” from 1990. 

Her version of the National Anthem, sung lip-synced at the Super Bowl in 1991during the first Gulf War, was brilliant and set the bar for future renditions.  No one has come close.  I know I sold the single hand over fist.

She didn’t release another record until 1998 and only two more in the 14 years after that.  Her last album, from 2009 reached #1 on the Billboard charts, but only sold 2.5 million copies worldwide.  (Her albums sold in the tens of thousands in the 80s.)  (I will also grant that sales of all albums are a shell of what they once were, due to the new music technologies.)

On her last two albums, (plus a Greatest Hits), she hasn’t had a single reach higher than #70 on the Hot 100 chart.  So a #1 album with a #70 single tells me that a lot of people with fond memories of the Whitney that Was, bought the album when it was released.  But the songs didn’t stand up.

We know she tried acting in the 90s but that didn’t really work out.  She was in the hit movies “Waiting to Exhale” and “The Bodyguard,” the latter of which made bank on the strength of her song, “I Will Always Love You.”  But did you ever see the movie?  She couldn’t act.  She had range of basically two faces… narrowing eyes and being pissed off, and narrowing eyes and pretending to be lusty.  Meh…

Next thing you know, the years have rolled by, drugs and booze have taken their toll on her instrument, and she’s doing a low-rent reality show featuring her dysfunctional family.  Shows like that succeed because people like to look at how messed up famous people are and then enjoy how much better off they are themselves.

It shouldn’t have had to come to this.  She had it all… looks, talent and limitless opportunity.  She had name recognition and status that would open any door she chose.

Whitney in her prime, 1988… Dazzling.

WTF?  Whitney after years of drug and alcohol abuse.

Yes, I know that age is a factor, but not the biggest one.  She had the assets to remain stunning well into her later years.  But drugs and alcohol take it right out of you.  It’s like Indiana Jones says, “It’s not the years, it’s the mileage.”

Just goes to show that when all your friends and business partners tell you that someone is no good for you, perhaps you may want to listen. 

Otherwise, you may just be the next lump of wasted potential found in a hotel bathtub.

Rest in peace, Whitney.  I hope you find the peace that you never found while you were here.

Hey, maybe now’s a good time to sell my vintage Whitney Houston standee!

The “Ladies Corner” of a back bedroom from one of my old Cleveland apartments, circa 1990.

Odd Bits - Finger Afterglow Edition

In case you haven’t seen the previous post, please do so.  It will be worth your while.  It’s some of my best (and funniest) work.  You won’t be sorry.  I almost didn’t put this post up, just so I could let it ride longer.  Unfortunately, that would have made the following information stale.  And with that, I bring you…

Hey Bluz, what do you think about…

…Tom Brady’s supermodel wife Gisele dissing his receivers for dropping passes?  At first thought she called up a radio station or something and complained.  But what really happened is that she was surrounded by heckling Giants fans while trying to catch an elevator out of the stadium.  I’m by no means a Pats fan but as far as I’m concerned, this shouldn’t even be a story.  It’s pretty unfair. 

Tensions were running high and she was being put under pressure.  I’ll tell you this, if it was me and I had just watched my team lose and was surrounded by a bunch of gloating jackals yelling shit at me, I’d have said a lot more than she did.  I’d have to be bleeped so many times, I’d sound like Morse code.  Of course, not being a super-model, I probably would have gotten the shit kicked out of me.

Would it really be too much to ask that the Giants fan learn how to win with a little class?

That said, I got this from my alert brother-in-law:

…Karl Rove whining about Clint Eastwood’s Super Bowl commercial?  Shut the fuck up, Karl.  I know you feel betrayed because you think Clint is “one of you,” and he intimated that the country is not barreling headlong off the proverbial cliff and might, in fact, be getting better. 

What Karl hopes no one remembers is that the Detroit bailout money started flowing during his boss’s administration.  President Obama read the tealeaves and kept it going because it made sense.  Think of all the jobs that weren’t lost because the auto companies didn’t go belly up. 

In the mean time, the Republicans have a vested interest in making everyone think the declining conditions that started in 2007 are continuing, so that they can blame Obama in the 2012 elections.  Unfortunately the facts indicate otherwise.  Yes, the bailouts were costly, but then again, that was only “up front.”  The banks have already paid back their bailout money, with interest.  The car manufacturers have paid back a lot of it, but not all.  But the investment kept Detroit in business and people working.  Think of the cost to our country if they hadn’t.

Lastly, I dare Karl to tell it to Clint’s face.  All Clint would have to do is squint at him with his best Gran Torino glare, and Rove would ruin his good undies.

…Karen Handel resigning from the Susan G. Komen board?  That didn’t take long… Karen Handel was an unsuccessful candidate for Governor of Georgia, endorsed by Sarah Palin, who joined the Komen board last year.  One of her campaign promises was to pull funding for Planned Parenthood.  And we’re supposed to believe that she had nothing to do with Komen’s funding pull?  Right.

The press releases from Komen keep saying that they never intended to target PP and they continue to double down on that statement.  Unfortunately for them, there have been a number of leaks from people close to the situation, that say otherwise; that PP was in fact, targeted.

Good riddance.  Now how about the rest of the chickenshit board members that caved to the radical right resign as well?

…the new TV show, Smash?  I can’t even watch the promos without giggling like a grade-schooler. Around my family, “Smash” is another euphemism for dropping an urgent deuce.  That’s not exactly Must See TV, in my book.  What are going to do to follow up, make a show about singing and dancing children, and call it “Squirts?”

…The California Appeals court ruling the Gay Marriage Ban unconstitutional?  Last year, the courts in California ruled that Proposition 8, which banned same-sex marriage, was unconstitutional.  Obviously, Prop 8 backers appealed the ruling and this week, the appeal was denied.  The only down side is that the ruling was quite narrow, applying only to this case, making it difficult to use in other states. 

It’s a fair bet that this one will go to the US Supreme Court, although both sides want to tread lightly.  If the SCOTUS were to firmly uphold the ruling, it would be devastating to the bigots and moralists that want same-sex marriage banned.  Personally, I don’t see that happening.  I think it will be upheld, but in a narrow sense, again to only apply to the California law.

The Prop 8 proponents and other social conservatives are moaning about overturning the Will of the People.  Normally I would also defer to the Will of the People, but not this time.  Civil rights should never be subject to the whims of the majority.  If the courts didn’t lead on things like this, we would never have had the Civil Rights Act of 1964.  Even now, there would still be pockets of the country still enmeshed in Jim Crow if not for the courts over-ruling the Will of the People.

“We the People” refers to all Americans, not just those that were born white and straight.

…the Catholics having to provide insurance that covers contraception?  Love it.  It’s about time, too.  And I’m reading that House Speaker Boehner is vowing to pass legislation to over-rule the President’s position.  No word on how he’s going to get the President to sign it, let alone get it through the Senate.  His threat is nothing but an attempt to create an anti-Obama campaign issue and rally the religious right.

Boehner is a Catholic himself and I find that hilarious.  Unless he’s got a dozen kids, he’s a fucking hypocrite to complain about Catholics using birth control. 

The article linked above also raises a point of hypocrisy with the Church itself.  They don’t want their dollars going to insurance that pays for birth control.  So how are the wages they pay their employees any different if they use them to buy condoms?

I think the Church is over-playing its hand.  Last survey I saw said that over 90% of Catholics have used birth control.  Do you really think that the thought of getting their birth control covered by insurance is going to cause them to change a vote that would normally to go Obama?  I think the reaction will be closer to people doing the Happy Dance.

The only thing that gives me pause is Catholic Guilt.  I know that the priests are going to be up there every Sunday using to guilt to hector people into not to voting for Obama.  This is where the years of injecting guilt into the flock, from grade school on, is liable to pay off.

Also, one doesn’t have to be Catholic to work at a Catholic hospital or university.  There is no reason these non-Catholics should be deprived of benefits given to every equally qualified worker in the country.

Still, I can’t see the rank and file Catholics looking this gift horse in the mouth.  The Catholics I know are “Cafeteria Catholics,” meaning they may show up in church on Sunday, but don’t necessarily buy into every tenet of Catholicism, like the ban on birth control.  I know I have a number of Catholic readers, at least one of whom works for the diocese.  Where do you all stand on this issue?  I’d be interested to know. 

Now lastly, speaking of birth control…

…The new Plan B/Day After Pills being put into vending machines on a college campus?  Great idea!  It’s just too bad it’s necessary.  Plan B should be over-the-counter in every pharmacy in America.  But until that happens, putting a secured vending machine on a college campus is a fantastic idea.  These are the people that need it most: college students with raging libidos and still-developing judgment.  Using Plan B the day after an impromptu dorm room dalliance is far superior to any of the alternatives and far less apt to ruin a young student’s life. 

If men could get pregnant, Plan B pills would be available on pull out rolls, like toilet paper.  And the right to abortions would have been written into the Constitution.

A Bird in the Hand

OK, that’s another Super Bowl in the can.  My take: entertaining game, the G-Men won, causing misery for Tom Brady and the cheating Patriots and Pinky made really good chili.  Madonna’s halftime show was adequate, although I was generally unimpressed with the day’s commercials.  (Not nearly enough really memorable ones.)  All in all, it was a good day.

So what was the big story on Monday?  Some rapper chick flipped the bird during the halftime show and as usual, people were losing their freakin’ minds.  Over a finger.

I don’t care what it “means,” it’s a finger!  It’s not like it was a split second of Janet Jackson’s sad little boob.  If you see all five, they’re waving goodbye and you wave back.  Just the one?  Apparently you go to the media and proclaim your outrage.

I watched the entire show and I never even noticed.  How bad could it have possibly been?  

OK, when you see a picture, it looks bad because a picture is frozen.  The offending finger just hangs there, continuing to Eff You for as long as you look.

One story that cracked me up is where the Parents Television Council screamed that because the NFL promised a clean show,” The NFL lied because a performer known as M.I.A. felt it necessary to flip off millions of families.”

Yeah, like the NFL set it all up that way.  It's only a lie when the entity in question knows it was going to happen.  I don't think anybody but this Miss M.I.A. knew what was coming.  And it's such a tragedy for America, no?  The terrorists have won.  I’m sure that any second now, the country will crumble like it did in the Mayan Calendar/End of the World/Dodge Truck commercial.

Now let me go on record as saying that I think it was a stupid and pointless gesture on the rapper chick’s part, except for the part where she obviously wanted people talking about her.  That worked like a charm.  But seriously, all this outrage?  It’s just people wanting to feel relevant and morally superior to the rest of the unwashed masses.  Again.

So to get to the bottom of it all, I decided to have a dialogue with the Parents Television Council.

Bluz: So what’s your fuckin’ problem?

PTC: Don’t take that tone with me, motherfucker, or I’ll bitchslap your ass back to the den of iniquity from whence you came.  Wait, is that tape recorder on?

Bluz: No, now as you were saying?

PTC: We say that the NFL ought to limit the performers for halftime to nice, wholesome, family-friendly acts.  Like country music.  We in the PTC love country music.

Bluz:

PTC: Ew, that’s not fair.  He’s friends with that wicked Willie Nelson.  Willie must have made him do that.  OK, forget country.  They should book that nice Canadian boy, Justin Bieber.

Bluz:

PTC: Oh dear.  My kids are going to be crushed when I have to burn their Bieber CDs.  Wait, didn’t the Rolling Stones play halftime a few years back?  Have them do it again!  I know they used to be Satanic, but they seem sweet now.

Bluz:

PTC: Oh dear, oh dear, this isn't working out at all.  Maybe some of the 80’s rocker hae straightened out.  Are there any around, or are they still high on smack?

Bluz: 

PTC:  Maybe we can bring Madonna back.  She was good on Sunday… Even if she touches herself on stage the way she used to, it’s still better than...

Bluz:

PTC: Maybe we should just forget the musicians altogether.  Why don’t we get some people to ballroom dance?  Yeah!  We can get some wholesome TV stars and they can come out and waltz, and…

Bluz:

PTC: Oh, not Rebecca Howe!  Now Mr. Colcord will never marry her.  So what about that vampire girl?  She never had sex with that sparkly vampire until they were married!  Maybe she can dance for us...

Bluz: 

PTC: OK, scrap the music, scrap the dancing; I say we just do the news.

Bluz:

PTC: Aww, not America's Sweetheart!!  What about animal acts?

Bluz:

PTC: I know, we can go and talk to people in rest homes.  Oh, our nation's seniors have so much they can tell us.

Bluz:

PTC: Come on now!  We have to have something wholesome!  Think of all the little people!

Bluz:

PTC: No, I mean children!  The sweet, innocent children!

Bluz:

PTC: [glaring at Bluz] The President!  At halftime, we should have the President deliver an uplifting speech to the nation!

Bluz:

PTC: No way… he’s got three strikes against him… He’s black, he’s a Democrat, and that’s photoshopped!

Bluz:

PTC: He’s still black and Democrat.

Bluz:

PTC: [in shaking voice] You too, Dubya?  OK, I give.  Everybody in the country is a middle finger-wagging heathen.  What do YOU think that we, the tight-sphinctered, pure-minded, righteously indignant citizens of middle America, would like to see?

Bluz:

PTC: Can we get them???  That would be just aces!

Bluz:

PTC: I’m sorry, we answer to a higher power.

Bluz:

PTC: You know, you have a bad attitude.  What would your mother say?

Bluz: 

Bluz: She'd say I’m her #1 Son.

Super Dreams: Attending Super Bowl XL

It's Super Sunday here in America, our de facto National Holiday.  That alone should tell you that I'm not up to writing anything coherent today, and if that didn't do it, my Penguins are playing the NJ Devils at 1.  That means I am NOT doing anything productive.  However... 

I will take this opportunity to retell one of my favorite stories: How my family, friends and I found our way to attend Super Bowl XL, featuring the Steelers and Seahawks playing in Detroit, February 5, 2006.  This is a combination of two posts I wrote in February of 2010.  Trust me, except for Cassie, you didn't see it.  Ahem...

2005 was an incredible season that really started in 2004.  That was Ben Roethlisberger’s rookie year.  We went to a lot of games that year… We saw the Steeler lose at Baltimore, in the game that made Ben a starter after Maddox got hurt.  We saw the very next game, Ben’s first start, against the Dolphins in Miami, following Hurricane Jeanne.  (Full story of that adventure is blogged here and part 2 is here.)  We saw the game against the Jets in Pittsburgh.

My brother lucked out and hit the Steeler Season Ticket Waiting List Lottery for the playoffs and so we then had the opportunity to go to the Jets game, featuring the Holy Doink (Jets kicker misses 2 field goals in the last 2 minutes, including one off the post) and the AFC Championship game against the Patriots (aka Soul-Crushing loss #2).

Getting this far with a rookie QB made the prospects for the 2005 season very bright.  That year we traveled to Green Bay for the Steelers/Packers game and saw the Steelers lose in OT in Baltimore as Tommy Maddox had to step in for an injured Ben. 

After losing 3 in a row, the Steelers won their last 4, starting with the Bus rolling over the Bears in a Heinz Field snowstorm.  They charged into the playoffs with the 6^th seed and a game in Cincinnati.  That’s where my brother and I met this clown and almost had to fight our way out of the parking lot:

Huge wins against the Colts (the Heart Attack game) and the Broncos (a Mile High shellacking) set up the Jerome Bettis Homecoming Super Bowl in Detroit MI.  As I touched on in this post, this game was the perfect storm. 

First of all, it was within driving distance, eliminating the need for airfare.  Second, we grew up in Toledo and have a great nest of friends there.  We could stay with them and forget about hotel reservations.  All we had to do was get tickets.  This job is always entrusted to my brother, The Ticketmaster.

He was able to secure a block of tickets, but it wasn’t going to be cheap.  There was a block of 6 tickets available at $2600 apiece.  That was a big chunk to swallow.  To do this, I’d have to devote my entire annual bonus and tax return, then live fairly lean for the rest of the year.  Even so, it was still going to be uncomfortably tight, so my brother and dad told me to fork over the 2K and they’d help with the rest.  For this I have been eternally grateful.

So my parents planned to fly up from Florida and Ed and I drove out from Baltimore.  The other 2 ticket were claimed by long-time football trip-going friends.  Bob, who came with us on the Hurricane Trip and many other football adventures, drove out from Charlotte NC.  The other ticket went to Margaret, an old Toledo neighbor who was a veteran of the many Cleveland trips we undertook in the 80’s.

Weather was an issue, however.  We had to bump up our departure time and plow through some snow to get to my buddy’s house, but we made it uneventfully.  Bob had a much tougher time coming up from the south.

Normally when you think of going to the Super Bowl, you’re thinking about sunshine and palm trees.  Not so with this one.  Detroit was coated with about a foot of snow and temps were in the 20’s.  It was terribly difficult to find our way around because all the street signs were covered with blown snow.  And apparently all Detroit could afford by way of event signage were some marker-on-cardboard signs, which were taped under various street signs. 

Our first order of business was to secure the tickets.  To do that, we had to get to a Detroit hotel, where the sellers (ticket brokers) had a “suite.”  How long could that take?

Answer, “forever.”  There was a line that snaked back and forth across the entire width of the hotel floor, crammed with people full of Super Bowl dreams.  Gee, it seems there’s a lot of money to be made in reselling Super Bowl tickets.  What I wonder is where all the tickets came from?  These brokers had access to literally thousands of tickets.  Don’t tell me there’s not a ton of back-room dealing at the league level.  It also occurred to me that it would make a great “heist” movie if someone could do a story about ripping off a ticket broker at the Super Bowl.  I’m picturing “Ocean’s Eleven”, with jocks.

Our tickets came with a tailgate party, which we located about 11:00 and was within sight of the stadium. 

It looked close, but of course, "you couldn't get there from here."  We had a long way to go before we could get inside.

Unfortunately it didn’t officially “start” until noon, so we had nothing to do but stand around and freeze.  When it finally did open, we realized that cold beers and lukewarm hot dogs were not really helping our attitudes, so we bailed on the tailgate and went to hang out in a Greektown casino.  I figure I’ve paid my suffering-in-the-snow tailgating dues with that 11-degree game against the Patriots.

Our tailgate site.

 Family portrait... Freezing together, cheesing together.

We could see from the TV monitors in the casino that the lines to get in were tremendous.  Once we could see that they were letting people in, we got moving and got into line… a line that was over 6 blocks long.  Enterprising citizens of Detroit were selling beers from store doorways, which helped pass the time.  Also helping kill time were the group of anti-abortion protesters holding graphic signs and screaming at everyone in line.

God’s children, ruining everyone’s time in line.  (Funny how they're all men, too.)

They were really bothering our friend Margaret, as they were calling everyone sinners, apparently for going to a football game and not spending the day in church.  I’m not sure what their excuse was.  Margaret tried to plead her case to them but of course they just kept up with their speechifying.  I tried to tell her that these people weren’t interested in listening to anyone; they were only interested in doing the talking.

Most of the time, stadiums have multiple entrances all around the venue.  For the Super Bowl, there was only one, although there might have been another on the opposite side.  That’s what made the lines so long… that and the giant security station.  They had a large tented area were everyone had to pass through an airport-like security check.  They checked our bags, did a pat down and we walked through the big metal detectors.

Once through that, it was home free.  We skipped on up to the entrance, eager for our first sip of Super Bowl atmosphere.  But first I had to stop and stare at little Linda Cohn, sportscaster with ESPN, as she interviewed people in the crowd.  I would have stayed longer and was hoping to get a picture but the rest of my crew was steadily steaming ahead.

It was weird seeing all the Lions signage inside Ford Field.  You just don’t mentally link the Lions with the idea of the Super Bowl.  But the venue was indeed very nice.

My parents, showing off their tickets, on the concourse behind the corner of the end zone.

We were stunned to find how good our seats were… 2^nd row of the 2^nd deck.  And in the row in front of us, it was nothing but press photographers.  This was great, because they never stand up, they just sit there with their one-legged camera stands and long lenses.  (What do you call a tripod with one foot?  A monopod?  I suppose "I-pod" is already taken.)

This was our vantage point. You can see our analogous position across the way... 2nd row of that middle tier.

At least this was my vantage point.  Ed and Margaret sat a couple rows behind my parents, Bob and me.

The players all ran out from the corner at our lower right.  The towels were really flying, but it’s hard to tell from the shot.

This looks more like what we saw.  I believe this shot is from the Post Gazette.

I couldn’t get over the ratio of Steeler fans to Seahawk fans.  It’s like they weren’t even there.  I’d put the ration at 85/15.  Steeler fans owned the place.  This became evident during the introductions of the past Super Bowl MVPs.  When Franco ran out as the MVP of Super Bowl IX, waving a terrible towel, the place just went crazy.  And you should have heard the boos for Tom Brady when he went out.  You could see him laughing about it.

Pre-game entertainment was stellar.  Stevie Wonder played a rocking medley of his hits, then Aaron Neville and Aretha Franklin blew out the National Anthem.  That’s when it really hit me that I was actually at the Super Bowl.  I wished like hell my friend Brill could have seen this day.  I couldn’t help but tear up, just a bit.

But then the player introductions began and there were yells to yell and towels to wave.  I’ll never forget Jerome Bettis charging alone onto the field, whooping and hollering, then turning around and going, “Where the hell is everybody?”  We couldn't see it but Joey Porter was holding everyone back.  It was a classy move to give the Bus his spotlight in his hometown.

The game had an under whelming start.  The Seahawks seemed to move up and down the field at will, firing short pass after short pass.  The Steelers went 3 and out time after time and couldn't seem to get out of their own way.

The Steelers, starting at their own 20, for the umpteenth time.

We went to halftime, up 7-0, owing to a short run from Ben.  Whether he crossed the goal line is still debated.  The Seahawks have been whining about it ever since.  As far as I’m concerned, photos I’ve seen online remove all doubt.  He didn’t make it by more than an eyelash, but he made it.

The halftime show was great… It was the Rolling Stones!  We were in the same building as Mick and Keef!  Just breathing the same air as Keith Richards will add at least 3 years to your life.  

The 2^nd half began with a bang, as Willie Parker ripped off a 75-yard run right into our end zone.  The place just went berserk.  I will never forget the sight of Fast Willie churning down the field, with no one else even close to him.  There was exactly zero suspense about that play.  He got past the line and was just gone! 

After that, the Steelers just started putting the game away, while the Seahawks blew play after play.  They were called for penalties and dropped several key passes.  Looked like a serious case of the yips, to me.

The Steelers administered the coup de grace with the Antwaan Randle El pass to Hines.  That play went away from us but was on our side of the field.  You could see Hines streaking wide open and we just prayed that the pass would end up somewhere near him.  It was a true thing of beauty.

Bob, my parents and moi, realizing that the Steelers were going to win Super Bowl XL.

On the Seahawks last possession, they worked very hard to remove any suspense.  Their 2-minute drill was atrocious as they pissed away a great deal of time.  When the clock ran out, I barely realized it.  But then there is was.  The Pittsburgh Steelers were Super Bowl Champions, finally attaining that legendary “One for the Thumb.”

Bedlam on the field, as the trophy presentation stage is set up at midfield.

When I was a teenager, Super Bowl championships seemed to be my birthright.  Next thing you know, 26 years had rolled by and my perspective had changed.  Only then did I begin to understand what my dad had gone through with the Steelers, prior to 1972.  Nothing makes victory sweeter than the endless years of failed seasons.

We stayed for a while, just soaking in the winning vibe.  We saw the trophy accepted and handed around.  We saw the Bus retire after a long, fabulous career.  We cheered when Hines Ward was named MVP.

This shot was specially framed to include the final score.

But eventually we had to get the hell out of Dodge, so we high-tailed it to our outlying parking lot and actually got out to the freeway in pretty good time.  We got back to my buddy John’s house about 1:00 am, to find that he was still up and waiting for us with some Gentlemen Jack.

We toasted all around, to a great season, to a satisfying victory, to good family and friends and to the joy of being a Pittsburgh Steelers fan.

The ticket to my dreams.