Everything is more fun when you accessorize

Gianni, tonight:

"I'm going to do my homework in high heels."

White Girlz in the 'Hood

Public Enemy played on Thursday night in Boulder. I just had to go, for two reasons. First of all, I have deep love for Public Enemy, they are the hip-hop of my youth. They were old skool bad ass motherfuckers. Like me. Even though the closest I get to the streets is when I pick up a gum wrapper and recycle it.

The other reason I just had to see this is that Public Enemy playing the Boulder Theater, in Boulder, is like PE playing at a Wonder Bread factory. Or Darien, Connecticut in a snowstorm. It's JUST THAT WHITE HERE. I really needed to see if the audience would consist of other old white people like me, or if Boulder would get a sudden infusion of African-Americans for the evening.

So my friend Hollie and I made a plan to go, and Rick had weeks of fun making jokes about Public-Enemy-in-Boulder songs, like Fight the Power (of constipation with Metamucil) and Fuck tha Police (for ticketing my car before I had a chance to feed the meter.) Ah, the hilarity.

What was it like? Very white and thirtysomething. And: fucking amazing. God, that was the best show I've seen in years. They are as good as they have ever been. Ever. To see Public Enemy in a small venue like that...Chuck D was a master. The deejay and the band kicked ass.

Even Flavor Flav, that freakshow, reminded us why anyone would pay attention to him in the first place. And then reminded us of why we would ignore him again, as he went on a long wank about Flavor of Love, his other "projects," and then tried to play all of the instruments onstage. Until he got to the guitar player, who basically said, "Don't touch my instrument, you fucking train wreck" and shut him down. And with that, thank god, the Flavor Flav Filibuster ended and we all got back to shakin' it.

Don't let this man speak. Or touch your musical instruments.

The night fucking rocked. I'm so used to going to shows where everyone stands around at a comfortable distance and sways a little and politely claps and says, "my what a nice and critically acclaimed band this is." On Thursday, I stood next to the stage, bumped fists with Chuck D, nearly went deaf and danced my ass of for two hours nonstop. As it should be.

Beats Dark Star Orchestra recreating Ithaca '77 any day. Which is what you usually get at the Boulder Theater. What a difference a week makes.

Why. WHY??????

Okay. Someone please explain this one to me. While walking through the parking lot at work last week, I saw the strangest fucking thing. There, on a big SUV, I saw this:

Is it me, or does it seem like a CR-V should perhaps have a smaller pair?

Now, I have seen some stupid shit on cars. I'm from Indiana, for fuck's sake. Lame god/abortion/hippie/redneck bumperstickers. Those suction-cupped stuffed animals. Baby on Board. Calvin peeing on someone's NASCAR number, or Osama Bin Laden. Not personal automobile statements that I would make, but certainly someone's expression.

But I cannot for the life of me figure out what would possess someone to hang a giant nutsack from their trailer hitch. I didn't even know that this accessory existed until last week.

WHAT is motivation? Can someone shed some light on this for me?

There are actually websites devoted to nothing but bumpernuts. (you must click on this link, if only to see the animated squirrel with the big swingin' testicles.) What a learning experience. (For example, I learned that Blue Balls are for MARRIED MEN! Ahahahah! Geddit?)

I cannot decide whether I'm totally appalled by this phenomenon, or if I want to buy them as holiday gifts for everyone I know. I guess you'll find out in December.

UPDATE: Mister Tony Ruffo is enjoying his shiny new set of balls and can't wait to put them on his mini-van. Happy holidays, Tony!

File under: Things you never want to hear ANYONE say to your daughter, especially your son

"Hey Tea, want to ride the sausage wagon?"

Any excuse to post a photo of the Wienermobile...

It's not how it sounds. I swear.

Up with Purple!

Hey, you guys are a real baseball team after all!

Rockies win the pennant! Wooo!

Actually, I know next to nothing about the Rockies. I haven't been here long enough for them to be my boys. But I couldn't be happier for them. It almost makes up for the Giants sucking so much this year. Almost.

It's very cool. But you know what's not cool? Deciding which kids get to go out for recess first based on how well they answer questions about the Rockies. A certain disgruntled young man told me that this was how it went down at school today.

I'm sure THESE kids got to go out to recess first.

Excuse me! Way to screw the new kid whose dad hates baseball!

How about next time we ask who won the last five years of the Tour de France? Or who the governor of California is? Or which train you take to get from the Haight to the Zoo?

Play fair, people.

Pot? Kettle? Black?

From the AP yesterday:

MOSCOW--The Russian government under Vladimir Putin has amassed so much central authority that the power-grab may undermine Moscow's commitment to democracy,Secretary of State Condoleeza Rice said Saturday.

"In any country, if you don't have countervailing institutions, the power of any one president is problematic for democratic development," Rice told reporters after meeting with human-rights activists.

And then she fell into a big pit of irony.

Rick is faster than Tyler Hamilton*

*When Tyler Hamilton is barely moving.

Rick shared the road with a genuine bike celebrity today. He was riding up Lefthand Canyon today when two guys blazed past him like he was going backwards. Now, Rick is no racer, but he is no slouch, either. He's been passed by racers, but according to him he has never been so totally dusted by two other riders on the road. He was: impressed.

A few minutes later, he saw the guys creeping along up ahead, which would indicate that they were recovering from the ass-kicking interval they just completed. He rode up alongside them and chitchatted about this and that--probably about how much totally faster they were than him (Or probably something more intelligent than that. I'm sure Rick played it cool.)

A few more minutes later, sure enough, one of the guys came racing by Rick. (Oh--for those unfamiliar with Lefthand Canyon? It's uphill. For like 7 miles. Not a wicked steep hill, but a hill. Most people do not sprint up.) And then he slowed down again and Rick caught up and started yakking with him. He thought, wow this guy looks familiar. Does he shop at Whole Foods, too?

It wasn't until the guy was long gone and Rick was on his way back to town that he realized: D'oh. That was Tyler Hamilton. Tour de France stage-claiming, Olympic gold medal winning--and, sadly, at one point, blood doping--Tyler Hamilton. Hope he's clean now, and wonder what he's training for?

For Rick, seeing Tyler Hamilton is way cooler than seeing, say, Justin Timberlake. Or Michael Jordan. Or Lance. Well, especially Lance. He called me right away to tell me that he passed Tyler. TWICE. (and, yeah, got smoked a few times, too, but who's counting?)

I'm so happy for him, and glad that at least one of us had a good day. I, on the other hand, did something completely dumbassed at work. So stupid. So incredibly self-destructive that even Britney Spears would look at it and say, "DUDE. That was really retarded. What were you thinking?"

But everyone makes mistakes. And tomorrow is another day. I'm sure Tyler would back me up on that.

Gore wins! Again!

If only he'd been our president. Oh, wait! He was!

Give it up for Al Gore, winner of the 2007 Nobel Peace Prize! Congratulations, Al. You da man. An Oscar, an Emmy, and one of the world's most prestigious honors in one year. I'm pretty sure that's a first. We salute you from our new energy-efficient house.

Of course this news gives Rick a fat injection of hope. He wants Gore in the race. For months he's been combing Google news alerts for some sign that Gore might step into the fray. Now he's ecstatic. Al, if you run, Rick will personally stash Ralph Nader in the trunk of a car until November 5, 2008. Promise.

Remember when Bush won the the Nobel Peace Prize? Ahahahah. Hahaha.

Al better keep his prize in a guarded safe deposit box or they'll steal that too.

Farewell to the 415

We got new cell phones this weekend. For me this is the equivalent of being 9 and waking up to a buttload of presents on Christmas morning. We've both been messing with our phones like complete geeks and interrupting our kids and the dog every five minutes to tell them about some exciting new feature (they care. really.)

But this particular phone migration is a tad bittersweet, too. In bravely venturing into a new cellular frontier, we are giving up our 415 area code. 415 has been good to us, and, please, it's one of the cool area codes. I used to read stories in the Styles section of the Times about people who had to move to Seattle or Omaha or Outer Mongolia and clung to their 212 or 917, even in the face of insane rates and roaming charges. And I, like you, thought: Losers. It's a fucking phone. Get over it.

But that's when I thought we'd grow old and die in the 415. Now that we're in Boulder, I sort of get it. Our phones were one of our last ties to our old home. And, yes, a piece of our identities, however lame that is.

There is a flip side, though. We've been here three months and people still have to call us long distance. Our address is still a PO box. But that all changes this week. We've got the new phones, and tomorrow we close on our new house, which will give us an actual physical address. We are no longer itinerant. And we're proud to be 303.

I mean that. I wouldn't be caught dead in 720.

Now THIS is a Fundraiser.

I remember when I was in school. I had to sell all kinds of crap to raise money. Candles, magazine subscriptions, chocolate bars, cookies, wrapping paper, god, the list goes on. At least twice a year we'd have an all-school or all-band or all-something assembly where some joker from Herff-Jones or wherever would try to fire us up about being pimped out door-to-door to pay for new soccer balls or some such bullshit.

I swore, Scarlett O'Hara-style, with God as my witness, that when I had kids their main responsibility as young salesbots would be to ask me for the biggest check possible. One that would get them out of bugging the neighbors to buy vanilla-scented candles with tigers airbrushed on them. And I'm sticking to it.

But I have been pleasantly surprised by Gianni's school. In fact, at the PTA meeting, the fundraiser stood up and actually said, "Our goal is to never have our kids sell one effin' roll of ugly-ass wrapping paper." (I paraphrase.) And they are also sticking to it.

In fact, tonight I went to probably the coolest school fundraiser I've ever attended. Cooler than a silent auction. Even cooler than an all-school carnival. Tonight we went down to the Boulder Theater to see flipcrash in concert.

What is flipcrash? These guys.

They're a three-man (boy?) band from Casey Middle School, and they rock. Tonight they were raising money for Whittier and Casey. The schools got to keep the door, the profit from shirts and dinner, and I'm guessing at least some of the bar. (Yes. Bar. Grownups welcome.)

I don't know what I was expecting, maybe something like my friend Dave Aronoff's band, The Intestinal Waterslide. Who did a mean cover of "Yuk Mouth" from ABC Saturday Morning TV. As high-school students. (As seen here, watch at your own risk. ) Shockingly, one of those guys was and is a real musician--Jake Smith is an actual talented guitarist with a few acclaimed bands, most recently The Mysteries of Life.

But in 1987, The Intestinal Waterslide was just a group of future infectious disease doctors being complete dorks onstage. And Jake Smith.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yes. flipcrash? Three Jake Smiths. Except they're, like, TWELVE. They're as good as any high school band I remember seeing. They're better than most ADULTS I know. These guys can not only actually play their instruments, at least one of them is a good--and fearless--singer. They write their own songs. "Yuk Mouth" was not heard once.

They started out slow and sounding a little KFOG and I was worried. even to raise money for my kid's school, I don't want to be put through two hours of Big Head Todd, Junior.

But as the night wore on kicked more and more ass. They ended the night with a cover of "Smells Like Teen Spirit." The last time I heard that song played live, Kurt Cobain was singing it. And none of these guys were born. D'oh! But they did it justice. Their parents must be proud.

It was a good night for all. My kids didn't have to sell candles. Whittier and Casey raised a bunch of money. And those three guys probably have all the eighth-grade girl action they can handle, and then some. Everyone wins.

Things I Learned in September

Because this past month has been nothing short of absolutely freaking nuts, I've had very little time to visit. To run down everything that's happened would take up everyone else's blogging bandwidth, and that ain't right. Instead, here is a list of things I have learned in the Big Fucking Opportunity for Growth that was September 2007:

1. I am not always right. Who knew.
2. Sometimes even when you are right, it's not worth fighting about.
   
3. It would take a lot more than $70,000 for me to totally screw you over.
   
4. Other people's standards are not quite so high.
5. Never buy a house from an uptight bald guy getting a divorce.
6. It's always worthwhile to contact an attorney.
7. Even if I have a really, really good case, I still probably won't sue you. Especially over a stinkin' house.
8. On the other hand, my mother knows a disturbing amount about litigation. I would advise not fucking with her.
9. As far as real estate goes, we are either brilliant, or complete fools. In ten years, we'll find out which one.
10. My threshold for living in dilapidated housing is a lot lower than it was a few decades ago.
11. I can still party like I did when I was 20.
12. Unfortunately, for the next week, I recover like I'm 40. (And I'm only 38.)
13. Honesty--still the best policy.
14. My husband is a children's birthday party-planning SUPERGENIUS.
    
15. I need to blog more than twice a month, if only so I can write without using any helping verbs. In other words, I need to help enable myself to show up here more .
16. I need a vacation. A big one.
    

May October be filled with lots of home-cooked meals, channel surfing, and sleep.