Living in Concert

My post last week about my first concert experiences got me thinking about how big going to a concert was in my young adulthood.  I have to admit; I've been thoroughly spoiled.  Working in record stores and for a record retailer’s home office put a ton of tickets in my hands, most often for free.  I took advantage of that perk every chance I got.

Back in the early 90s, I went through my memory banks and ticket stub collection and wrote down every concert I could recall.  That list eventually became the spreadsheet upon which I’m going to base a couple of posts.

Between 1979 and 2008 (when I saw my last show), I've seen 103 concerts.  Sometimes my definition of a “concert” is a little loose.  I didn't count when an act would come to our record company office and play a few songs and then have lunch.  But I do count an artist playing a short set at an off-site record release party.

Statistical Analysis (because that really gets a blog post rolling…)

To further break it down, I saw 24 concerts while I lived in Toledo (just getting started in the record store), 38 shows when I lived in Cleveland, (only 2 of which I actually paid to attend), 33 in Albany NY (2 years in stores, 3 years in the home office, and 2 out of the business), and a mere 8 concerts since I've been in Baltimore.

1994 was my busiest year, with 11 concerts.  After that, I saw 10 in both 1987 and 1993, and 9 in 1985, 88, and 89. 

Deets

I’m going to do is list the shows I saw, with the dates, venue and anything noteworthy I remember about it.  Opening acts will be listed when they’re worth mentioning.  You’ll see a lot of what’s considered “Classic Rock,” but at the time, it was just Regular Rock, and I lived and breathed that shit.

7/21/79 – Toledo Speedway Jam (Blue Oyster Cult, The Outlaws, Molly Hatchet, Eddie Money ($8.00)

9/28/80 – Elton John, Centennial Hall, University of Toledo, “21 at 33” tour. ($10.00)

Covered these two in that earlier post.

11/15/81 – Rodney Dangerfield, Centennial Hall ($11.00). Rodney was my first comedy show.  The venue was having sound problems that made him hard to hear.  Someone yelled for him not to talk so fast.  Rodney was like, [Adjusting tie…] “30 years I’m working on this act, and this guy wants me to slow down…”

12/11/81 – J. Geils Band, Toledo Sports Arena, “Freeze Frame” tour.  I went with my buddy Brill, and my future roommate “Diane,” from my Summer of Bow-Chikka-Wow-Wow post. At the time, I had no idea those two would be dating in a couple years, and then that I’d take a turn as well.  J. Geils was at their peak at the time.  I was hoping they’d play “Whammer Jammer,” which is a wicked boogie-woogie instrumental featuring their incredible harmonica player.  His name is “Magic Dick,” which totally wins the Best Rock Star Name award.  When they broke into it, I remember Diane nudging me, going “Here it is!”  Dude freakin’ tore it up!

Magic Dick, in his prime.   Dude was Bad. Ass.       (Source)

5/1/82 – Charlie Daniels Band, Ohio State Fairgrounds, “Windows” tour.  ($9.00)  I went all the way to Columbus to see these guys.  Bruce, my brother-from-another-mother, lived there, so I bunked with him.  Go figure, one month later (6/7), they played the Toledo Sports Arena, so I went to see them again, with a bunch from our “Barn” crowd.

11/17/82 – Billy Squier/Nazareth, Toledo Sports Arena, “Emotions in Motion” tour.  The Sports Arena was a “general admission” venue, (meaning you could sit or stand where ever you wanted), so I remember being lined up outside the arena long before they started letting people in, and hearing the band doing the sound check.  I noticed it was really weird hearing a song without the vocals, as the band played “Everybody Wants You.”

3/22/83 – Stray Cats/Bus Boys, Anderson Arena, BGSU, “Built for Speed” tour.  Stray Cats had just debuted their first album and were a big hit with “Rock This Town,” and “Stray Cat Strut.”  The Bus Boys were the group that plays in that R&B bar Eddie Murphy goes to in the movie “48 Hours.”  I liked both groups and they were playing right there on campus while I was a student.  Had to go.  That was the show to which I took Fiancé #1, we had floor seats and she refused to stand up while everyone else was.  I didn't take her to any more shows that weren't her idea.

6/23/83 – Scorpions/Bon Jovi, Toledo Sports Arena, “Love at First Sting” tour.  This was my first time with backstage passes.  I wrote all about it here.

9/2/83 – ZZ Top/Axe, Toledo Sports Arena, Eliminator tour. ($10.50)  They’d just broken out on MTV and this was a huge show.  They played on a stage that appeared to be the dashboard of their “Eliminator” car from the videos, right down to the giant ZZ Top keychain dangling from the ignition.  This was the first of four times I saw them.

11/11/83 – Black Sabbath/Quiet Riot, Joe Louis Arena, Detroit, “Born Again” tour.  We were “comped” on the tickets… my first time.  We also had backstage passes.  My work-buddy Kenny “the Viking” and I drove up to Detroit to see them.  I didn't care as much about Sabbath as I did seeing Quiet Riot.  This occasion went down in local lore over the story of how I “insulted” Sabbath’s drummer.

1/16/84 – Blue Oyster Cult/Aldo Nova/Dokken, Toledo Sports Arena, “Revolution by Night” tour. ($9.00)  I missed BOC at the Speedway Jam, and I was not disappointed with their show on this night.  They were still traveling with the big “Godzilla” monster, which leaned out from behind the backstage curtains, looked around the arena and roared, and occasionally shot laser beams out of his eyes.  It was cool as hell.  Also quite cool was Aldo Nova, who totally played his ass off.  I became a big fan.

             I can’t believe I couldn't find a single picture of BOC onstage with Godzilla.  So this will have to do.    (Source)

2/1/84 – Billy Joel, Centennial Hall, Toledo, “Innocent Man” tour. ($13.50)  This was the only other show I took fiancé #1 to, because he was her favorite.  She behaved this time out.  I thought it was cool that Billy Joel ended his show by saying “Goodnight Toledo, and don’t take any shit from anyone.”  I thought we were special, until I eventually saw that he says that after every show.  (Well, not the Toledo part…)

July 1984 – Donny Iris, unknown venue in Toledo, “The High and the Mighty” tour.  Saw Pittsburgh’s own “Dawnny Ires” with my brother at some little club whose name I can’t remember.  We got a great table right up close to the stage.  Dude has unbelievable pipes.  That summer, I mentioned this show to my Uncle Ange, and he said he used to room with Donny Iris, when they both went to Slippery Rock.  Small freakin’ world.

10/14/84 – Sammy Hagar/Krokus, Toledo Sports Arena, “VOA” tour.  I went to see Krokus, but came out a huge Sammy Hagar fan.  The guy could really tear it up.  This is when he was had that hit, “I Can’t Drive 55.”

2/22/85 – Bachman-Turner Overdrive/Rare Earth, Masonic Auditorium, Toledo. ($10.00)  I couldn't believe how good BTO sounded for a bunch of old fat guys.  Their vocals were spot-freakin-on.  I wrote about that show here.

4/9/85 – Bruce Springsteen, Pontiac Silverdome, “Born in the USA” tour. ($75.00)  This was a big one.  Bruce was HUGE at that time, having just conquered the world with the “Born in the USA” album, which spawned something like 7 #1 singles.  Notice the price of this ticket, as opposed to all the others I listed (which were ridiculously cheap by today’s standards).  My buddy Rik fell into this pair of tickets, which included the bus ride up to Pontiac, Michigan, so it was really a righteous deal. 

What a show… Bruce played for over three and a half hours.  This was probably the largest crowd I've ever been a part of, because not only were all the seats full in this big-ass dome, most of the football field was covered with people as well.  When Bruce broke into some oldies during an encore, he asked everyone to put their arms in the air.  When they did, it looked like an unbroken field of giant pink tentacles, from the top of one side, down across the field, to the other.

4/12/85 – Donny Iris/Grizzly Band, Anderson Arena, BGSU, “No Muss No Fuss” tour.  Donny played my college, so I had to go.  The bonus was I was good friends with two of the three dudes in The Grizzly Band.  Fuckers should have set me up with backstage passes, so I could talk to Donny Iris about Uncle Ange.

4/26/85 – Molly Hatchet/Blackfoot, Toledo Sports Arena, “No Guts, No Glory” tour.  (Comped)  I went to see Blackfoot and it ended up one of the great nights of my life, as I got hang out and drink beer with the drummer, as well as meet the rest of the band.  I wrote all about it here.  It’s a cryin’ shame Blackfoot broke up when they did, they could really rock it.

To be continued…

Spitting Image

Pinky and I were watching an Orioles game this weekend, when she noticed how often baseball players spit.  (She didn't like it… at all.)  As she was pointing out the giant wad in slugger Chris Davis’s cheek, and wondering why anyone would do that, I dropped the bomb.

“Did you know that I used to chew tobacco?”

Yep, it’s true.  Now I haven’t done it in more than 30 years, but there was a time when I did it regularly.

Now, how does a nice suburban boy end up with a chaw in his jaw?  Road trip to Georgia, that’s how.

On spring break during after my freshman year in college, Rik and I flew down to visit our buddy Billy G in Valdosta, Georgia.  Now, Bill was a New Jersey boy, so we weren't picking up any local “flavor” from him.  But the kid that lived next door?  Dude was redneck through and through.  While we were down there, chillin’ by the pool and drinking beer, the guy got us to try some of his chewing tobacco. 

First off, let me mention that there are two basic kinds of chew.  One is “dip” style; it’s the kind that comes in the round little cans that leave a telltale ring on the user’s back pocket.  The tobacco looks like coffee grounds and the idea is to take a pinch or two and put in inside your lower lip.  They also have a “Rough Cut” in which the grains are longer, for greater ease of removal.

Skoal “Rough Cut”   (Source)

The other kind is “loose-leaf,” which looks kind of like spinach leaves.  That’s the stuff that gets packed into your cheek, in a giant wad.  With both kinds, the idea is to suck out the flavor, then spit, either on the ground or in a spit cup.  You don’t dare swallow the juice, or heaven forbid, the tobacco, or you’ll be visiting Hurl City right quick.

The neighbor started us out with some Skoal, which is a dip.  What no one ever told me about chewing tobacco was the enormous rush you get while doing it.  What’s happening is that you’re absorbing the nicotine right through the lining of your gums.  They never mentioned that on the TV commercials.

The Skoal had a nice wintergreen taste, and was pretty accessible to beginners.  “Copenhagen” is a stronger dip, that tastes more like shoe polish.  I wasn’t crazy about that stuff.  Bill’s neighbor told us that some good ol’ boys down there soaked their Copenhagen in Jack Daniels before dipping.  I think that explains why they talk so slowly down south.

Anyway, while the head rush was nice, Skoal could be kind of a problem.  The grains tended to escape from the main mass in the lip, and wander around the mouth, usually lodging right there in the front of your grill.  Then we wonder why all the chicks are gone…

Loose-leaf was a lot easier to deal with.  Once you pack it into your cheek, it stays put.  While I may have felt like The Marlboro Man, I looked more like Marlon Brando in “The Godfather.”

So it was kind of funny… This was my first trip away from home on my own.  When I left, my folks were worried that I’d come back with some kind of illicit drug habit.  When I came home chewing tobacco, I think they’d have preferred me hooked on smack.

The first thing I did was take a beer can from my beer can collection (an Iron City “Steelers” can) and cut the top off, to use as my spit cup.  Obviously, I didn't chew in the house, but The Barn wasn't off-limits.  I think everyone out in The Barn gave it a try at least once, even the girls.

I moved off the dip pretty quickly; it was just too messy, and I wasn't down with having green shit in my teeth.  I soon found a couple brands of loose-leaf that I liked: Workhorse and Beechnut Wintergreen.

There was no cancer warning, back in my day, because we were real men.

I probably chewed tobacco fairly regularly for a year or two, before the novelty wore off.  Plus, I was pretty certain it was poon repellent.  No one in Northern Ohio was particularly impressed by the rugged manliness reflected in the habit.

I think the reason I took to it was that it was different.  I don’t think I ever saw anyone in our area chewing tobacco, and I was all for being unique.  I was very involved with the idea of going against the grain and doing one’s own thing. 

After I got tired of the chew, another friend started smoking a pipe.  Not realizing that a 22-year old kid smoking a pipe looks utterly ridiculous, I dove in with both feet anyway.  Regardless of how I looked, it made me feel older, as I then went out trolling for babes with daddy issues.

What I loved about the pipe was that it smelled so damned good.  And there were a myriad of flavors you could get.  But the down side was the inevitable case of morning-after ass-mouth.  The smoke could really roach out your tongue.

I didn't stick with the pipe any longer than I did the chew.  It was basically just something else that I thought was unique.  And as a compulsive “fiddler,” it gave me something to fiddle around with when I was hanging out with my buds.  I still have the pipes now, but I haven’t used them in probably 25 years.

Like I said, I haven’t partaken in either of these two vices in ages, but I still know how.  And all this time, I’ve been dying for a situation to come up when someone is chewing tobacco and making some kind of remark about how not everyone can handle it, so I could grab it from him, take a chew and be all, “Ain’t no thang…”

Of course, then I’d be, “Hey, where did all the women go?”

That's Absurd

If you've been visiting for a while, you must know my love for absurdity.  I live for those rare moments of inspiration where I get an idea in my head and it just spirals out of control, turning into something deliciously goofy.

Sadly, that didn't happen to me today.  But as I was scratching around for something to write about tonight, I recalled a favorite bit of goofy writing I came up with long before I ever had a blog.

It was 2001 and I was a single dude living here in Baltimore.  I was about two years into the online chatroom scene, and had “met” a number of people with whom I became good friends, despite never actually meeting in person.  There was one lovely lady up in Connecticut, with whom I corresponded for quite some time.  (What, you think I was chatting up dudes?)

We emailed regularly for about 8 years, without ever meeting.  During that time, we dealt with her divorce, buying her own house, and eventually establishing a relationship with a new guy. 

In one long email on the Friday after Thanksgiving, out of nowhere, she dropped this bomb…

“I need sex!!!... OMG... did I just say that???   LOL.... just kidding... no, not really... yeah yeah... I am... Just wanted to see what your eyes would do... So... what did they do?? Describe your reaction to that phrase... LMAO... I think you first were shcocked... OMG... did you see how I just spelled that???  Freudian slip????  OMG... LMAO... I'm not even correcting it... That's too funny...”

I was highly amused, because we never talked about sex.  This was very much unlike her.  So I worked up this high-quality response, which still cracks me up.

“Lets see, what should I talk about?  Oh, I know, I'll start by apologizing for not writing last night.  You see, I couldn't write because MY EYES popped out of my head, and rolled under my computer desk.  Took me hours to find them, what with not being able to see, and all.  I'd be under there looking, and then remember why they popped out, which would cause me throw my head back in shock and amazement, and in turn,  klunk it on the bottom of the desk. 

Eventually, I'd regain consciousness, but it would be tough to tell, because I couldn't see from my eyes being out.  Anyway, after seemingly hours of feeling around, repeated klunking and waking up, I managed to find my eyes again and put them back in.  Of course, I had to wash'em off first...you know what it's like when you get dust on your eye.

Y'know, you'd think that if you held an eye up and pointed it at something, that you'd still be able to see, but it doesn't work that way. 

   (Source)

Go figure. But still, any further writing for the day was out.  I've always heard that computers are hard on your eyes.  I guess it's true.

Anyway, after gathering my wits and faculties about me, I only have one thing to say:

Southwest Airlines, 5 to 8 flights a day between Baltimore and Hartford, $124 or less.

It's so nice to hear when someone has a problem that I can easily help with and make better.  Always willing to help, I am....  Always at your service....  snicker...”

If I had been making more money at the time, I totally would have popped for the ticket.  I was hoping she’d “Wanna get away,” but no such luck.  I thought it was pretty selfless of me to try and solve her problem.  She probably couldn't take me seriously any more, after that “eyeball” riff.

It’s tough being both a comic and a gentleman, sometimes.

My First Concert

As you may remember, last year I was supposed to take my nephew, Daniel, to a Van Halen concert.  I had tickets in hand when the show was first postponed and then cancelled.  It would have been Daniel’s first “real” concert.  (Not including when a band plays after a ballgame.)

I was really hoping I could be a part of the boy’s first concert, which is a huge Rite of Passage.  I was thinking about that today, when my thoughts turned to my own first concert experiences.  And yes, that’s plural, because I kind of had Concert 1A and 1B.  Let me explain…

Concert 1A

When I was in high school, a lot of my classmates went to concerts but I never did.  They seemed so mysterious and fraught with peril; I was extremely hesitant to go to one myself.  Besides that, I had didn’t really have anyone close enough to attend with, like someone who had been to one before.  Lastly, I was a musical neophyte, in that I didn’t really know that much about rock music.  I was a sort of musical lightweight at the time, so there wasn’t anyone I was particularly eager to go see.

I got my concert cherry broken the summer after we graduated.  This was the Summer of The Barn, aka, the best times of my young life.  By this time, I had 4 solid buddies and place for us all to hang out.  When they announced the Toledo Speedway Jam, my buddy Billy G decided we should go.

The Speedway Jam was a big outdoor rock festival, featuring multiple bands.  In 1979, the show featured, Eddie Money, Molly Hatchet, The Outlaws, and Blue Oyster Cult, as well as a couple other lesser opening bands.  They played a daylong show on the concrete infield of the Toledo Motor Speedway.

A couple years later, that lineup would have been right in my wheelhouse, but at the time, Eddie Money was the only one knew.  I thought Molly Hatchet might have been a girl.  I knew the song “Godzilla” by BOC, but that was it.

Nevertheless, Rik and I decided to go along with Bill and see the show, and it all would have been fine if we just showed up that morning and went to the show.  But Billy had a better idea: he wanted to go the night before and party all night in the parking lot.  Being teenaged boys, we thought that was a great idea.

Two hours into our time in the parking lot, we began wondering what the hell we were thinking.  There was absolutely nothing to do.  We hadn’t brought chairs, blankets, or anything that would offer comfort or distraction.  Sleeping was nearly impossible.  Aside from three dudes trying to get comfortable in a freakin’ Chevy Vega, all the hooting and hollering from the rest of the drunks kept us wide-awake. 

There was one chick that kept shouting “Rock ‘n Rooooolll… Rock ‘n Roooollll…” All. Fucking.  Night.  Long.  It got so that when this big fight broke out between some guy and girl, I was totally hoping it was the Rock ‘n Roll girl, so that maybe she’d storm off and shut the hell up.  But no such luck.

Next morning, we made a bleary-eyed shuffle into the Speedway to go stake out a spot.  Yeah, real comfy, sitting on a concrete slab for a couple of hours.  But it was a beautiful day, without a cloud in the sky.  At first.  You know, there’s a thin line between “a beautiful day,” and “the burning, oppressive sun beating down on your tired, hung-over self.”  We also learned that our omission of “ice” left all our leftover beer undrinkable. 

Eventually the bands started to play, and that’s when the nice civilized sitting-on-the-ground atmosphere morphed into a pushing, surging, sweat-infested crowd, intent on reaching the front of the stage by shoving through anything planted between Point A and Point B.

The shows were OK.  The openers went on too long (for me), I knew a couple of Eddie Money songs, and Molly Hatchet turned out to be a shaggy Southern Rock group.  (One of the guitarists sported a t-shirt that said, “Give Me Head.”  Subtle.)

About six hours into the “fun,” as Hatchet faded into The Outlaws (of whom I had also never heard), we were thirsty, over-heated, sunburned, and I had a cracking headache.  We decided that the elements had gotten the better of us and decided to bail.  We never did see Blue Oyster Cult.

On the way home, we stopped at a 7-11 for some drinks.  I got a couple bottles of Grape Crush and let me tell you this… that first one was the best drink I ever had in my life.  I think I knocked it almost all the way back, like they do in commercials.  When I got home, I took an actual bath… probably the last bath I’ve ever taken… and nursed the second Grape Crush.  I was absolutely spent.

Like I said, it was a shame I saw that show when (and how) I did.  In the coming years, I became a fan of all of those bands.  I saw Eddie Money a couple more times when he was playing with someone else I wanted to see… once opening for Cyndi Lauper once, and with Warren Zevon open for him.  I saw BOC with Dokken and Aldo Nova opening, when they were touring with the big Godzilla monster.  (‘Zilla or not, Aldo Nova almost smoked them off the stage.)  I saw Molly Hatchet play the Toledo Sports Arena, with Blackfoot opening… that was the night I met Blackfoot and spent the evening at the bar, drinking with their drummer.  I never did get to see the Outlaws though, so I missed the epic glory “Green Grass and High Tides,” live. 

Concert 1B

It figures that Billy was involved in my next concert experience.  It was over a year after the Speedway, and Bill was back from Georgia to visit, when Elton John tickets went on sale.

I used to like Elton John in the early/mid 70s, but I kind of drifted away as he got weirder and weirder.  But he was having a resurgence in 1980 and touring again on his new hit, “Little Jeannie.”  Meanwhile, the previous summer, Bill introduced me to the “Goodbye Yellowbrick Road” album.  Well, I knew the hits from that album, but there was so much more on it that I never knew.

We were hanging out up in his room, playing records, when I first heard “Funeral for a Friend.”  I fell in love with it immediately, with the long instrumental intro, which segued into “Love Lies Bleeding.”  (A few years later, I actually wrote a college paper on the imagery that the instrumental part brought out of me.) 

The next cut was “Candle in the Wind,” and that one nailed me right between the eyes.  Remember, at that time, it was just an album cut.  It never really got famous until the 80s, when the live version became a single.  But it made me totally reconsider Marilyn Monroe as the sad, tragic figure we now know.

So even though Bill wouldn’t be there for the show, he wanted to make sure our buddy Brill and I got to see him.  He also wanted us to go camp out at the record store, the night before the tickets went on sale.  With my hard-won experience the prior year, there was no way I was going to go sleep in the car again, so we settled on showing up at 6 in the morning.

When we rolled in, our presence moved a handful of other people to get out of their cars, and start the line.  We were probably 5^th or 6^th in line, not that it really mattered.  Remember that this was before Ticketmaster, and the various ticket outlets, usually record stores or head shops, were given a stack of physical tickets.  Your seats would be in whatever group the ticket outlet had been given.  Regardless, we got our seats, without issue, after only a couple of hours in line.

It was funny, too, that a couple of years later, I’d be working at that same record store, although they had, alas, stopped selling tickets.

This was the first “real” concert to me, because it had the traditional atmosphere.  You know… having seats, for one, but having the lights go down, with that insane atmosphere of anticipation.

Our seats were on the side of the stage, to the right (if you were looking at it.)  I was so excited about getting to see such a Legend; someone whose body of work I knew pretty well.  So when the lights went down, we noticed that we could see the steps that lead up to the stage.  There was a flurry of activity down there, and then we saw the band taking the stage, mostly from the waist down, due to the low-level lighting.  There were these skinny little spandex-wrapped bird legs hopping up the steps, followed by one set of stumpy spandex-wrapped legs below a big fat ass… we were like, “Gaaaah!  That’s Him!”

With the hall still dark, we heard the unmistakable opening to “Funeral for a Friend,” and I nearly lost my shit.  The man was opening with my favorite song, one that I wasn’t sure he’d even play at all.

As I (vaguely) recall, he played all of his hits in what was a thoroughly enjoyable show.  In fact, I had such a good time; I went to over 100 more concerts, either with friends, or alone.  Sometimes, a boy’s just gotta “Rock ‘n Rooooollll.”

So, how was your first concert?

Director’s DVD Commentary: Of course I still have the ticket stubs.  I knew I had them; the trick was finding them in this cigar box, which not only has all my concert ticket stubs, but my sporting event stubs as well.  The things I do for you…

I keep telling myself that one day, I’ll put all of these into some kind of album.  But this is me, not holding my breath.

Welcome to Bawlmer, Hon

Most cities have that one thing embedded in their culture that makes them unique, whether it’s something geographical, architectural, or just being the way they are.  Here in Baltimore, it’s the “Hons.”

Hons are female throwbacks to the 1950s and 60s.  If you've ever seen the movie (or play) Hairspray, you've seen them.  Characteristics include beehive hairdos, cat’s-eye glasses, garish makeup, feather boas, big jewelry and lots and lots of leopard-print clothing.  They are also seen in mumus and housecoats.

I don’t know if there’s an analogous male “Hon,” but if there is, it’s probably a dude in a dirty white wife-beater, plaid Bermuda shorts, beat up Orioles hat, black socks and sandals, holding a Natty Boh.

I’m not sure how they came to be called “Hons;” I assume it was due to something that’s frequently said, like, “Welcome to Baltimore, Hon,” That’s usually pronounced, “Welkum ta Bawlmer, Hawn.”

Every year, in a Baltimore neighborhood called Hampden, they put on the HonFest.  This is a weekend street-fair with food and music that celebrates all things “Hon,” including the Baltimore’s Best Hon contest.  That’s where we went today.

Hampden is the hive of Hon-dom, featuring the Hon Café, as seen on that show where Chef Gordon Ramsay comes in and yells at everyone until they do things right.  But it’s a quirky neighborhood in general, as evidenced by this sign I saw at a local hardware store.

Wouldn't it be better just to fix the screen?

They also have a permanent nod to the Flying Spaghetti Monster, which makes the place A-OK with me.

They have a couple of stages set up.  The one we passed had the local School of Rock group playing. 

No sign of Jack Black though.  But regardless, these kids could rock.

Right off the bat, we were surrounded by Hons.

I’m not sure if the leopard print on the right is a gal or a dude.

These two just left the Café Hon.

We jumped into their table at the Café Hon bar (called Hon Bar, of course).  We wanted to go somewhere we could sit down.  Our table was right up in the window, so I was able to grab a couple more pictures through the window.

A Photojournalist Hon

This is not how I pictured a Hon Dude.  Apparently, HonFest is where Bawlmer comes to get their freak on, too.

After lunch, we went to the main stage to scope out the Baltimore’s Best Hon Contest talent portion.  We weren't disappointed.

We had Guitar Hon:

There was a Singing Hon:

There was Hula Hon:

Then came Clarinet Hon:

We didn't stay around long enough for any winners to be picked.  It was starting to get a little warm and our retinas were burning from the sights, so we raced home to seek the coolness of the A/C. 

So tell me, what does your town do to get its fix of “kitsch?”

Say Uncle

We had some big doin’s this weekend.  My parents, my sister and her husband were in town for my nephew Daniel’s 8^th grade graduation on Tuesday.  There were two Penguins playoff games during that time, so when we weren't out eating someplace, we had a couple of opportunities to concentrate our Penguin Mojo powers.

With the Penguins losing both games, we realized our Penguins Mojo is better off diffused.

Each night, I came home from our get-together feeling really good.  We all had so much fun hanging out together.  And I know I always have a blast when I get to hang out with my nephews.  Unclehood suits me.  I hope I’m doing a good job.  The boys always seem happy to see me, or at least not terribly annoyed.

When I was lying in bed Tuesday night, I began thinking about the relationships I had with MY uncles when I was that age.  What occurred to me was that I pretty much hit the Uncle Jackpot.  My uncles were unbelievable, with each having his own special gifts.

Uncle Joe – My mom’s brother.  Uncle Joe was the wild card.  All we ever did when he was around was laugh.  Much like my Grandpa, he had jokes and stories that made us snort our ice cream dozens of times.  He had a kind of enthusiasm for life that lit up everything around him, and always had fun stuff for us to do and places to go; in his sports car if we were lucky.  He used to say, “Ya gotta have the best toys, or it’s just not worth playing.”  

Hanging with Uncle Joe was like life at 78 rpm.

Uncle Gordon – My mom’s brother-in-law.  Uncle Gordon is the smartest guy in any room he walks into.  A psychology professor, he was building his own computers back in the 70s.  And he’s British, with a deep, rumbling voice, which automatically makes him sound brilliant to Americans.  He could make Larry the Cable Guy’s material sound like a NASA schematic. 

He was also very kind, and generous with his time.  He taught my brother and I how to play chess, when we were kids.  And like my dad, he never let us win, ever.  But he would give us odds.  I remember we’d play and he’d get me all boxed into a corner, with no hope for escape, and then offer to turn the board around and play my men.  I’d jump at the chance, sure I could finally win a game, but then in no time, he’d have me all boxed in again.  (I was not exactly a prodigy, so in retrospect, it probably wasn't THAT hard of a feat.  I but I was still pretty impressed.)

Uncle Ange – My dad’s brother-in-law.  Uncle Ange was an immense, broad-shouldered giant of a man who looked like an extra from The Sopranos.  But he was really just a big teddy bear; always so happy and easy-going with everyone and full of love for his family.  He’d play ball with us, or talk Pittsburgh sports, an always make sure we had enough to eat and drink.

Ange: Did you get enough spaghetti?  How about another sausage?  Here, have a cookie.  Hey, your wine glass is empty, pass it over and I’ll fill it up…

Bluz: I’m good, Uncle Ange, I gotta stay clear for my 5^th grade spelling test tomorrow.

So as I was considering all this Tuesday night, I realized that I have some really big shoes to fill with this Uncle business, because mine were larger than life.  But I think I’m on the right track.  Whether I realized it or not, I've been taking some of the qualities my uncles had and repackaging them for my nephews.

Like Uncle Joe, I try to be a “fun” uncle and keep things happy and loose with a lot of joshing and teasing and stories about their father’s youthful exploits.  (Age-appropriately, of course.)  I try to get them Christmas and birthday presents that I might have liked at their age.  (Pittsburgh jerseys and video games, not socks or sweaters!)  In fact, along with the cash I tucked into Daniel’s Graduation Day card, I left specific instructions that it must be spent frivolously, or else I’d be most displeased.

(I love that I get to use big words with the boy.  Although come to think of it, he probably knew what “frivolous” meant when he was 6.)

Like Uncle Gordon, I try to teach them some things.  I may not be an expert at chess, but I know my 80s rock music, like nobody’s business.  Daniel and I can talk music, movies and sports for hours.  I try to teach him what’s good and what’s crap, and how to deconstruct a song, instrument by instrument.  And more than just talk, I try to listen.  He knows I understand the trials and tribulations of being the older brother.  (“Whatever happens, it’s your fault.”)

Like Uncle Ange, they know they I’m always on their side and will be there for them.  I make sure they know I love them and always will.  Since the day they could walk, they walk their ass over to me when I come in the door, for the distribution of hugs.  I don’t see that changing, I don’t care how old they get.  I tell (Daniel’s 7-year old brother) Sammy all the time, “No matter how big you get, your Uncle Bluz still needs hugs.”

I’m not perfect at all this, not by a long shot.  I still swear too much, even though I’ve cut way down, and I toss out the occasional inappropriate joke or reference.  Maybe it’s all just part of the role… to be the jester, the rascally bachelor uncle.  (In fact, if I don’t start laying off the pizza and beer, soon I won’t be Uncle Bluz, I’ll be “Uncle Buck.”) 

Maybe I’d completely bomb in the role if they were different kids, but these two make it so easy on me.  Both are happy and thoughtful, whip-smart and adept at making conversation.  Hell, Daniel can make conversation with a rocking chair.  The boy can talk the ears off a brass monkey.  Poor Sam can’t get a word in edgewise, sometimes, but he’ll come into his own before too long.  With a seven-year age gap, Daniel will be off doing teenager things and Sam will finally be able to get in more than a sentence or two. 

All in all, I made out pretty damned well in the “nephew” department.

I hope one day they’ll look back at the time spent with their uncle just as fondly as I do with mine

Strange Bedfellows Abound

Yesterday, the Supreme Court ruled on an issue that was based right here in Maryland.  They upheld the right of law enforcement to take DNA samples from arrestees, for use in past or current cases.

Writing for the majority, Justice Kennedy likened the process to taking a suspect’s picture or fingerprints.

When this issue first arose in local news, I decided I was for it, and I still am.  The technology has improved, and at this point in time, DNA is just a more accurate form of fingerprinting, which no one even blinks at any more.

The funny thing is that my opinion puts me on the opposite side from where I usually reside.  Justices Ginsburg, Sotomayor, and Kagan were on the dissenting side, agreeing with the ACLU.  I almost always agree with their take on any issue.  But also dissenting was Justice Scalia, with whom I never agree.

What’s even weirder is that I don’t think Justice Thomas has ever decided differently than Scalia.  If they went together this time, it would have tipped the decision the other way.  I bet THAT ruffled some feathers between the two camps.

Anyway, I figure if a DNA sample can link someone to a past but very serious crime, like rape or murder, then have at it.  I’m OK with taking a bad guy off the street.  It’s a non-invasive process, unlike a blood sample.  If you don’t want to be caught up in a DNA case, don’t rape or murder anyone.  You want my DNA?  Fine… I didn’t do shit.

Well, maybe that ONE time, but shhhhhh…  That pumpkin was just going to go to waste anyway.

***

I’m going with a rare “short” post today.  Later this evening, my nephew Daniel will be graduating from 8^th grade.  Yes, another graduation, and he hasn’t even hit high school yet.  Now that I think about it, I should have had a ceremony when I graduated from a 38 to a 40 waist size.

I kid, I kid… I’m always happy for a chance to hang out with my nephews, recently graduated or otherwise.

I swear, this kid just came home from the hospital in a blanket.  Now he’s talking to me with bass in his voice.  Where the hell does the time go?      

The National(s) Pastime

As mentioned in my very late post on Thursday, Sitcom Kelly and I went to see the Orioles play the Washington Nationals that night.  So stay tuned for a post that has almost nothing to do with baseball.  When I hang out with Sitcom Kelly, I never know what’s in store.

First off, I have to thank my blog sister Misty for hooking me up with tickets.  It seems we’re going to have quite the symbiotic relationship this summer.  She bought a nice ticket package in January, but family events are likely to conspire to keep them from going.  As a most opportunistic ticket buyer, I’m like the little bird that picks the fleas off the rhino’s back.  (Not that I’m comparing Misty to a rhino or anything!)  Suffice to say, this probably won’t be the only time this season that I get my hands on some primo seats, courtesy of Misty’s Laws.

On my way to Camden Yards, I passed a very nice fountain (which is finally in working order).  Now, here’s a question:

How do you make this picture really pop?

The answer will come at the end of the post.

I met up with Sitcom Kelly at our usual pre-game haunt, a bar called The Bullpen.  Not long after we sat down, one of their people came over and said, “Since you guys are here so often, I’d like to give you this card…”

He went on to say that it would be good for “2-for $5.00” on our usual beers.  (This year they raised the price to “2-for $6.00.”  Either way, it’s way cheaper than ballpark prices.)

I was thrilled, and told him he made my day.  But then we began wondering if we should really be proud of being recognized as frequent drunks.  But I figure, for 50 cents off every beer, I can live with the indignity.

This time out, I still got my giant bratwurst from the vendors out front, but passed on the cheeseburger, so I had sufficient room to help Sitcom Kelly with her cheese pizza.  (From which she picks off most of the cheese.  Don’t ask.) 

This is another symbiotic relationship I have.  I like loads of cheese.  She only likes a little.  So when we share a pizza (or nachos), we don’t have that awkward thing where no one wants to take the cheesiest piece, even though we really want it.

At this place, there always seems to be that one slice of pizza with a big, circular cheese void in it.  Obviously, it’s the perfect piece for Sitcom Kelly, but we were trying to figure out how that happens.  It’s not like they just “missed” putting any cheese there.  We figure it has to come from the crust bubbling up.

The real question is “What happens to the cheese?”  I figure it just kind of slides off to the sides of the bubble.  Sitcom Kelly hypothesized that the bubble bursts, thus throwing off a shower of cheese shrapnel.

We never did reach a conclusion, because we spent the rest of the time laughing at the phrase “cheese shrapnel.”  I decided it would make a good name for a death metal band from Wisconsin.

Sitcom Kelly also killed me with a recent story about how she was in a public restroom with her sister, and thought she was taking the longest pee in history.  But then she realized that it was actually a very brisk leak in the toilet plumbing.  It’s funny how you can’t always tell when you’re done peeing.  (You know, when you’re sitting down.)  I can see how the sound effects can throw you off.

You know, as I get older, I begin to think someone should invent a bathroom light switch soundtrack, so that when you flip it on, the sound of a rushing river or waterfall comes on.  That would really help things along…  But I digress…

We eventually got to the game and our seats were brilliant… first row in the left field club section… one section down from where we sat last time.

The arrow shows where we sat last time.  You can see the TV camera in front, as well.  (The cameraman rolled it right at the first pitch.)

Our view.  The crowd filled in a little later.

I still had to fight with that glass barrier.  When I sat back, I had to look through it to see the batter.  That bugs me.  But it also shows how far I had to go to complain about anything.  I guess my streak of ballgame tribulations is over.  It was hot, but not too hot.  It didn’t rain.  The Orioles won, although in a 2-0 pitcher’s duel, as opposed to the 9-7 home run festival they had the night before.  But still, it was a win for my ballgame experiences.

We had one other funny thing happen.  Sitcom Kelly is just starting to date a new guy.  In fact, he was at the same game, and had asked her to go with him, but she was already committed to go with me.  (Sorry about the CB, dude.)

Anyway, he was sitting in the bowl below us, a couple of sections to the left.  So it wasn't too long before Sitcom Kelly spotted him.  So I leaned over the rail and using my zoomable regular camera, I got his picture.  Then on my camera screen, I zoomed in until we had a very clear picture of the guy.  She then took a cellphone picture of my camera screen, and emailed to him with the caption, “I seeeee you.”  It totally looked like a satellite surveillance photo.

In all fairness, I won’t single the guy out.  But it was hilarious.

As he started feverishly looking around the park, the dude was probably wondering what the hell he was getting himself into. 

The game was over quickly, and we were out by 9:30.  On my way back to the subway, I discovered the answer to my earlier question…

How do you make that fountain picture really pop?

Answer: Take it at night.

Holy Beltway!

This doesn't have anything to do with anything else in this post, but I feel I need to share it ASAP.

I was heading to my brother’s house, where my parents are visiting from Florida, and as I merged onto the Baltimore Beltway, who’s in the right lane beside me but Batman.

Really, I mean, Batman, riding in the fucking Batmobile, from the TV show.  I nearly shit my shorts.  I immediately regretted not having my camera with me, but then realized I had my iPad (for tweeting the Penguins game), so I managed to squeeze off a shot or two, without ending up in the Gotham City Hospital.

The license plate says 4BATMAN.

I could see that the driver had the suit on… or at least the headpiece.  You can see the ears sticking up.  Cars were pulling up beside him to stare, and he was waving out the window.  I tried to catch up again, but too many people were lingering.  He eventually got off at the I-795 exit.

I looked it up this morning and it seems that there’s a local guy who tricked out a Lamborghini to make it look like the old TV-series Batmobile.  He acquired it last August and now he takes it around and visits kids in hospitals.

Now I’m waiting for someone to buy a Jokermobile, so the two can do battle for the soul of Charm City.