Running from the Weather

Yesterday, bad weather was at my heels.  I narrowly escaped Pittsburgh before the rain and ice and snow... and when I got to my layover in Tampa, the line of storms was about to hit as well.  It was 80 degrees when I got here yesterday, and not a cloud in the sky.  After a pretty bumpy ride, I got to the hotel and unpacked and ran to the store to get a few things and some pop and water for the fridge in my room.  I have a pretty modest room, although it does have a balcony that overlooks the pool area.  They have a decent little gym here (not that I'll be going in there... duh... vacation).  Last night, I watched some TV then went out for a drink and was home, in bed watching TV at around 10:30.  I woke up at 4 a.m., but was able to sleep until 8:30.  Today, I'll just be tooling around a bit.  It's only going to be 65 degrees here today and supposed to drop down to 32 degrees tonight... but it's perfectly sunny.  I'm sure everyone that lives here will be in their parka coats today like it's the frozen tundra.  Even down into the 30's here doesn't feel the same as back home.  Perhaps tomorrow I will hit a beach.

Yuck (except for my area)

I feel so bad about this

Time To Migrate With The Birds

This has definitely been one of the most non-hectic weeks leading up to a trip for me.  After doing a small load of laundry and casually packing my bag while some mindless drivel was on the TV, I was in bed at 10 p.m. and probably passed out shortly thereafter.  I woke up at 4 a.m., and usually getting only a few hours sleep, if that, before a trip, I feel pretty refreshed.  From opening my eyes, showering and pulling out of the driveway, on my way to the Marriott to park my car and take their shuttle, and at the airport in well under an hour.  I always check my bags at the curb because it takes 3 minutes and there's never anyone there.  Then I walk past all the people who don't do that and stand in the lines at the counter (wtf?).  There was a long line at security, but it went fast.  Even with doing my spread-eagle x-ray scan (I was hoping to be frisked since it's been a while since I've been touched in my hoo-hoo region inappropriately), I was enjoying a nice, greasy Sbarro breakfasty something-or-other an hour and a half before my flight leaves.

My ex, John, used to get up  20 minutes before a flight and literally break speed records to get to the airport.  I'll never forget the time that we were flying out and he put the suitcase down at the trunk to put some things in the car and then proceeded to back up over it and drag it 20 feet before I got him to stop, thinking it was a small child.  His bag, forever scarred from being dragged, and me forever reminding him the importance of being early and not rushing for the rest of our relationship.  I've always been the kind of person that would rather be early to the airport than to be running to the gate.  You never know what's going to go wrong and I like to be preparted.  Of course, there's always the chance of your bags being shipped somewhere else, like Timbuktu.  I've always wanted to visit there anyway.  It's been a destination of interest of mine since I was little, since my mother always talked of shipping me off to this exotic land.  Something tells me that my having an interesting adventure there wasn't as prominent a reason to her as getting me out of her hair.

I have coffee, a fresh Entertainment Weekly magazine, I made a sissy and I'm at the gate.  There's a supposed snow storm about to hit Pittsburgh in a few hours that I'll miss.  It's to be 78 degrees in Florida.  All is good.

I'm Trippin'

I leave early tomorrow for my trip.  I'll be doing a small load of laundry and packing today mostly, then getting to bed pretty early since I have to be up around 4:30 a.m.  I'm a little anxious going with my brother fresh out of rehab and all the commotion that it brings... plus, I've caught my Dad doing (or not doing) a few things lately, like leaving his space heater on and not turning the stove off.  If my brother doesn't steal everything I own, my Dad will surely burn the house down.

It's difficult to understand the mind of the addict unless you've been in that situation... or on a 'trip'.  Last night for a few hours, I was browsing the internet in search of a support group for families.  Nar-Anon seems to be the only thing out there, or a stolen version of it... where they utilize the 12 steps.  When I was dealing with Narcotics Anonymous with an ex, I did some research into the program and the results are not that impressive.  Something like a 1 or 2% success rate beyond a few months period.  In my analyzation, it occured to me that they never suggest that you get to the root of the problem, either through self-reflection or therapy... and that, to me, seems to be the question that needs to be answered first:  Why did you put that crap in your body to begin with?  What was going on... or what were you feeling?  Instead, all this mumbo-jumbo about surrendering to a higher power, etc. only shifts the attention and responsibility away from the addict.  They're basically told to not hang out with anyone from your former life... and I think that facing the people that you hurt should be the first thing you do.  Taking responsibility is paramount.

I had a frank talk with my Dad this morning, laying the ground rules for him while I'm away.  I also tried to explain to him how he needs to take responsibility for his part in enabling my brother, and how every little thing that he does only derails my brother's success.  Many websites said the same thing;  the easier that you make the experience for the addict, the less they will think twice about doing it next time.  The rationalization that goes on in weighing the high they will get and the self-destruction they will cause determines success or failure.  And I've said it a million times, until he is living under a bridge will he ever wise up, appreciate anything and learn to do for himself.

When I get back, I may try to find a therapist that I can take my Dad to just to reiterate all of this and to give him a chance to talk it out in his own head.  I need to reprogram him to understand that while he thinks he's just doing a good deed and helping, he's not.  I don't like the 12-step programs for their low success rate and their cult-like connection to religion, even though they say it's not.   So far, I haven't been successful in finding anything that I feel comfortable with... maybe I'll have to start my own group.

Love Love Love This...

I've never really been an avid fan, but this is fantastic... from her latest movie, Burlesque... I only wish I could post the live version, because she looks stunning singing this.  Pittsburgh's own, Christina Aguilera... this song is sappy, sassy and saucy.

A Change Is A Coming

Is happiness something you'll ever find?  Is it a state of being that is constant?  Does it change 5 minutes later when you want something else that you think will make you happy?  Are you really able to sift through the stuff in your mind to tell the difference?  Is your mind playing tricks on you?  What if you think you're happy but you're really not... and maybe you're not challenging yourself enough?  Do you feel that you deserve to be happy?

I've been on a journey of sorts over the last couple of years through this blog to 'find myself', through some workshops and through some life changes.  I'm trying to be honest with myself in finding out who I really am, spiritually, mentally, sexually... I may not have thought it in the past, but I owe it to myself to explore it, since it could change the rest of my life.  More so than spiritually, mentally and sexually, I seek peace with those around me and with myself.  When others dream or fantasize about the life they want surrounded by friends, a family, their family, I fantasize about finding a quiet place where I can go off by myself, like a desert.  Maybe move to a small town where no one knows me.  I find that, especially as I get older, I can't handle the upheaval around me, but to be fair, I need to start with the upheaval inside me.  Looking out into the world and blaming or pointing doesn't do you any good unless you are truly standing in a place where you've looked at yourself completely, first.  Knowing yourself is one thing; being something better is another.

I like who I am.  I like my set of values and morals.  I like my sense of spontaneity and adventure.  I like my thirst for knowledge and questioning.  I like my satire and sarcasm.  At some point though, you have to look at how you being you gets you through the day and how it effects your life.  My values have held me back in experiencing things.  My adventurous side counteracts my stability.  My knowledge quest is slowly driving me crazy.  And my outlook may be a direct cause of my outcome.  This all may or may not be... but I owe it to myself to find out.  "Your own worst enemy" is a theme that rings loudly in my life.  What could my life have been if I didn't constantly derail it?

When I was younger, I was chasing the corporate dream to climb the ladder to success.  That is no longer a part of me or, rather, my definition of success is no longer a part.  With less than I had then, making less than I made then, having a lesser title than I had then... I have more now than I did then.  I'm happy about that, and it's been a step in the right direction.  Am I striving for a long robe, shaved head and a fistful of daisies to hand out at the airport?  No.

I'm not big on receiving gifts, but my friend Robin gave me a yoga book, CD and mat to get me started.  My friend Michael lent me his books on Buddhism.  I'll be taking them to Florida to look at.  To give or share insight is perhaps one of the most beautiful gifts because not only does it mean that the person took the time to understand who you are, but cares enough about where you're going and wants to help in the journey.  Those gifts are invaluable.  Someone can lead you to the fork in the road, but they can't make you choose which direction.  It's up to you.

YUM !! (Flawless)

... thump (Here We Go Again)

I've been wrapping up some loose ends over the last couple of days before I leave for my trip.  I've experienced quite a peaceful calm lately being able to tie up some loose ends, taking in the crisp winter air and light snow and looking forward to the warmth and sunshine of Florida on Sunday.  I've coined a phrase in the past;  "find security in insecurity", for when you reach that state of mind, you will be able to handle anything that comes your way.  To that end, calmness is an environment I become very uncomfortable within.  'Waiting for the other shoe to drop', unfortunately, is a byproduct of that calm, possibly in conjunction with my realistic or logical thinking process (I won't go as far as to say pessimistic because when I do think pessimistically, it usually materializes as I suspected it would, which then makes it realistic again).

Despite my own personal progress of my 'To Do' list and internal thought processes, I am saddled with my family's lack thereof.  With one call today from my brother, who has been released from rehab, everything is turned upside down already.  Sanity, money, schedule, quiet and peace are all compromised in a split second.  Blood pressures shoot up, tempers flare and voices magnify... just when you let your guard down.  Everything becomes an argument and a negotiation and trust goes out the window;  trust in my brother and in my Dad.  Because no matter how many times I explain it to my Dad, he never gets it.  He doesn't understand that every single thing that he does for my brother only hurts him, by him not learning to do for himself, still, after 45 years.

Sadly, until my brother is living under a bridge and he's cold, wet, broke, hungry and dirty will he ever stop and think how good he's had it and what he needs to do to get himself out of his predicament.  He's a 45 year old infant, and my Dad is still holding his two hands over his head, not allowing him to walk by himself, holding him up.  With bouts in and out of jail 4 or 5 times and in rehab about the same, he has still never learned because my Dad is always there to keep him from hitting bottom.  Unfortunately, he has screwed over every person that has ever invested time or money into him including employers and friends, so he has no one to fall back on.  And while my Dad keeps telling my brother that he's done and he's not doing anything for him, he always gives in and does it, then doesn't understand why my brother doesn't listen when he says he's not doing it any more.  My brother knows that all he has to do is bug my Dad enough (calling 15 times in a row in ten minutes) and he'll do it.  My Dad doesn't get the message that he sends to my brother is "no matter what I say, I'll do the opposite anyway".  I have moved my Dad out of the only home he has known, taken all his money so he can't get to it and feed $10 at a time onto his ATM card, changed his phone numbers twice and moved him in with me and still, my brother gets to him.  You would think that my brother would have some sort of remorse for ruining someones life, especially a parent, but he could care less.

The rehab place found him a job down the highway from here.  He of course thinks that my Dad is going to take him back and forth.  Sadly for every taxpayer, he is eligible for every free service including schooling, food stamps and welfare money, free bus passes and free food from the food bank, but is too lazy to utilize the services because they are an inconvenience or it's beneath him to ride a bus.  And as long as my Dad carts him around, why should he?  I paid for his apartment last month and he went into rehab on the 12th, so I'm not sure if his roommates will let him come back there or not. 

Although I know that technically it doesn't concern me, it technically does.  With me leaving in two days, my peaceful vacation is shot because all I will be thinking about is if my Dad is letting him sleep in our house... and if he's stealing anything... or what he's up to or has my Dad dropped over dead yet from all of this.  My Dad is the weak link in the fortress that I've built, and although I've protected my Dad's money, it's my peace and quiet and sense of stability that I want to protect... which is what may push me to move out come the end of our lease year in May.  I'm going to have a frank conversation with my Dad and possibly try some therapy with someone experienced in the devastation that an addict causes to those around them.  My Dad may want to live like this and/or thrive in this environment but I don't.

For those of you that have dealt with this in your life, you know how devastating it is to deal with both as an external conflict and what it does to you internally...the nasty, bitter person that it makes you... full of rage and hate, and that it never will end until they're gone.  For those of you who haven't, you have no idea.

The Most Wonderful Time...

Good Eats

If you've ever been to an Italian house at the holidays, then you know that they pull every single thing out of the fridge when you stop by including the butter and Asti-Spumanti.  Although my Mom rarely cooked, we did have some store-bought stuff on-hand for the occasional visitor (and I was able to bang out a pretty great chocolate cake in my Easy-Bake Oven).  Black olives, pepperoni, stinky cheese (that my Mom hated that my Dad bought and they fought about it every year) and my Dad's famous homemade Pizelles were the staples.  We usually had spaghetti for Christmas dinner, but the occasional ham snuck it's way in.  A day or so before, my Dad would make his famous Smelts which stunk up the whole house (another recurring fight of theirs).  One of the things that my Dad did especially for me was get me a box of Torrone Italian nougat candy... the kind that comes in the little boxes with the pictures of Italian ladies that I was sure were our relatives.  No one else ate them but me.  He also had cherry vodka that he'd put in ginger ale and he'd always put a maraschino cherry or five in it for me.  Technically a jacked up Shirley Temple, I'm sure that this contributed to my need today to always put a cherry in my drink (and my gayness).  I'm pretty sure that all the formaldehyde that they put in the cherries is what, to this day, gives my skin the tautness of an 8 year old Swedish schoolgirl.  Mom and Dad would have their yearly Whiskey Sours and some Dago red wine that my Dad had laying around for just such an occasion.

Entertaining

When we were growing up, our house was the place to congregate.  In Pittsburgh, a lot of people (my Aunt, still) live in their basements and it's the epicenter for all that's stirring.  We'd have 50+ people down there and while my Mom was living, you could eat off the floor.  Her baking oven was down there (as opposed to her oven-for-show upstairs), not that she used either.  We always knew that if there was something baking, it was either for a bake sale at her women's club or a wedding was near.  My Aunt would always come over around noon, which was always my favorite part of visiting, even though we never left the house to visit.  My cousin, Donna, would stay over our house (because my Aunt had too many children and it was too crowded there?) so it was like my Mom having the daughter that she always wanted and me having a sister.  TWO sisters, for my brother, technically, I guess.  It wouldn't be Christmas if my Mom didn't put us up on a table in our long-johns or some outfit to sing a song and dance a jig.  Yea, folks... no clue as to how I turned out gay (making me a go-go boy at 4).

Decorating

My Dad was always in charge of putting up the tree, which was always artificial.  Once silver aluminum with large pink balls and a rotating color-wheel that made it change colors, we eventually upgraded to a green one.  I remember the ends of the limbs were all color-coded with the stalk, and somehow, my Dad always fucked it up anyway.  My Mom took over with the colored lights (since only she could space them correctly) and the gold tinsel... and sometimes, we were allowed to put on a bulb or two and the mix-n-match ornaments.  The tree rested on an uncovered piece of plywood surrounded by a faux-brick skirt that my Dad stapled a train track to with a train going round and round, the air thick with the smell of burning transformer that made it go (sometimes, if you banged on it).  I had my own 3 foot tree that I put up that had ornaments that I collected or hand-made and, while I was living in Philadelphia and was storing it at my parents, my brother sold it lock, stock and barrel for crack cocaine.  Christmas eve, my brother and I would crawl in the same bed and my Mom would read "The Night Before Christmas" to us.  Then my brother wouldn't get out of my bed and go sleep on his own... and yet, I'm the gay one.

One year, we went to some store and were allowed to pick out our own signature Christmas music box.  My brother chose a statuette of the We Three Kings story fame (that played that tune, as well).  All clad in turbans and robes, the one in the middle was bejeweled on his head with what appeared to be a genuine sapphire, and I tried for years to pry that out of there to make a ring or maybe a bangle bracelet out of it, but with no such luck.  Mine was a white organ that lit up with two naked little angel boys (ass up) perched upon either side of the top corners and it played Silent Night.  To this day, if nothing else, I pull that thing out as my only decoration, despite the glue that holds it together turning a shade much like amber, one of the angels is missing a leg and Silent Night sounds more like a fight between two alley cats, all warbly and shrieking. 

Out of a full-size Kleenex box, I made a very comfortable bed for my Ken doll, which I always put under the tree to keep an eye on things (and to keep things looking fabulous).  I always dressed him in his red velvet reading jacket with the black velvet collar which, looking back now, must have been uncomfortable for him, albeit stylish. Sometimes my G.I. Joe would keep him company (if G.I. Joe's girlfriend was out of town)... they always had this butch/preppy thing going on that I didn't quite understand at the time, but now I get it... COMPLETELY.

Gifts

Our stockings, a good 3 feet long, hung on the front door and with all the stuff in it, had to be reinforced with lugnuts so it would hold the weight.  Socks, underwear and always filled with candy... and my favorite was the box shaped like a book that was lined with rolls of Lifesavers... and the Tootsie Roll cylinder bank.  We were allowed to open one present Christmas Eve, but it was usually the one that my brother got for me and vice-versa.  With the hesitation of Wile E. Coyote in front of a crate marked "ACME", I often suspected something to blow up or cut me or both.  I was always a shy kid and hated opening presents, so I usually took them into my room to open.  Every year at school, they would have Santa's Workshop and we would get probably $5.00 to buy gifts for our family.  We''d go into a big room where they had all this crap made in China laid out and I'd usually get some combination screwdriver situation for my Dad and some fine bric-a-brac piece or plate for my Mom.  I knew it was good china because it was stamped "China" on the bottom... the mark of the really good stuff.  Christmas morning, I'd always be the first one up and we'd open presents while our dog, Lucky, played in and ate the wrapping paper.  Years later, we feel it was most certainly the lead in the colored paper that did him in.  One year, after he walked around with an 'inspected by" sticker on his nose with a number on it, my Dad played the number in the lottery and actually won... true story.  After a flurry of unwrapping, I'd usually spend the rest of the day playing with the boxes that the gifts came in after I chose a most swanky new outfit to wear to greet the day's guests.

I think that we, as a people, like things that we are comfortable with and tend to buck change.  And although we may bitch about our pathetically-perceived history, it makes us who we are... it's a part of us and it's totally ours.

Still, Still, Still

Another one of my favorites...

Tradition

I suppose I could look up and post the Webster's Dictionary definition of 'tradition', but for the purpose of this post, I think that the Urban Dictionary's spin on it is more apropos;

Tradition:

1.  The reason for doing things which have no apparent reason.
2.  Basically doing whatever other people do or have done before you instead of thinking for yourself.
3.  A thing that people pass down generations when they can't come up with ideas of their own.

Growing up in a family with a traditionally strong background (Italian and Catholic), you would think that we'd be knee-deep in a firm foundation of tradition and belief, but that was rarely the case.  We never went to church except when my Mom got herself a new dress and there wasn't a wedding coming up any time soon for her to show it off... or my Dad would try to do the Feast of the Seven Fishes but would only do 2 or 3 since my Mom didn't want the house all stank from fish.  Laziness would seem to be the culprit, but more often than not, it was that my Mom wasn't having any of anyone else controlling the show but her, including a Dago country of people or the Pope.  Yes, the show was called Dorothy's Life and you were fortunate to have a walk-on recurring role, at best, and probably non-speaking at that.  And don't look for your name when the credits roll... or maybe you were lumped in with 'Extras'.

By definition (at least in the Urban Dictionary), traditions didn't have to make sense and were somewhat cult-like.  There was usually a reason why you did them, although rarely did anyone know that reason, but it usually came down to someone else bigger (in stature or strength) putting their foot down and choosing for everyone else and then it became 'law'.  Spending time with my friend Matthew at camp in his trailer, I have experienced many a situation that made no apparent sense to me, but that's how his Grandma Agatha did it, so far be it for me to offer a better solution than what was chosen for him by someone who would never be there to see it or oppose if it wasn't done her way.  A good example of that is having to wear the sweater that your Aunt Agnes made for you 14 years ago, just because.  And it's God-awful ugly.  So if Grandma Agatha stood on her head and spit nickels at noon every other Sunday, by golly, put a fresh piece of gum in to get the saliva going, cause that's exactly what you'll be doing at that time.  Other traditions are formed out of necessity; having ham instead of turkey because the turkey was too big to fit in the microwave.  Whatever the reason, you do them and you don't ask questions, if you're smart.

We didn't do anything in my family that you'd sit down and write on a 5 x 7 index card and send into the Ladies Home Journal or Reader's Digest to win a prize in a contest, but we did do things year after year, with some of them still being followed without my Mom around cracking the whip.  Some things never change... traditions.

Next weeks post:  Specific traditions... stay tuned.

Snow Falling On Cedars

The title of this post comes from a movie and, although I like the movie, I really just like the title.  It suggests a simple, quiet, magical place without the hustle and bustle of our lives.  It's been snowing off and on over the weekend, but nothing has stuck to the ground.  We're supposed to be getting some snow in a blowing storm off Lake Erie today into tomorrow and may get 3-8 inches, which will be the first accumulation of the year.

I remember when I was a kid, I had a paper route and there would be times where I would be delivering papers around 4 or 5 p.m. after school and it would be dark and the big flakes would be falling.  I'd stop on my way and just listen to the snow fall.  I don't think there's anything more peaceful, except maybe sitting on the beach, listening to the waves.  I leave for Florida on Sunday.  With not too much going on this week for me, it will be a nice transistion from the snow to the beach... one of the few times where I didn't have a stressful pre-vacation week.  Perfect timing.  The point is that we rarely stop for one minute to appreciate the little things... the beautiful things. Allow yourself a minute or two to watch the video.

One of my favorite poems is by Robert Frost:

Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening (first two verses)

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.


My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

Another Really Funny One...

Pretty Funny

Doormats That Would Make You Think Twice About Knocking

It's Hard Being So Cosmopolitan

After living in Philadelphia for 12 years, I miss the feel of a big city sometimes.  To shop the downtown stores... sit at a sidewalk cafe and have lunch with a friend or meander into a corner coffee shop and watch the passersby over a venti hazelnut latte.  The ideal that if you lived in a certain area (say, a beachy town) that you'd be doing that certain thing known for the area (like laying on the beach everyday) doesn't really manifest itself with our busy lives.  In reality, we usually take for granted our immediate area and don't take advantage of all that it has to offer.  Today was one of those days where I bucked the system and got out there, soaked up the local color and felt like a little girl in a big city, albeit Pittsburgh.

This morning, Robin, Robert and I met and headed to the Strip District downtown.  As I have stated before, it's historically the place where produce and goods were brought into the city as a distribution point as well as an origin for foods of many nationalities.  After a wonderful breakfast, we doddled through the streets, oogling the goodies offered, most with their wares right on the sidewalk (and I'm not talking about the fruits and nuts walking around).  Everyone had their holiday spreads out, with fresh coffees and breads and cookies and pastries, where we picked up some delicious treasures.  They recently set aside some warehouse space for local purveyors to display their things as well, all under one roof, called the Pittsburgh Open Market.  It's crazy that we go to Walmart to buy anything when there's fresh, fantastic choices nearby. 

After we left there, we hopped a few blocks over to where they had the tree set up around the ice skating rink at PPG (Pittsburgh Plate Glass) Place, a multi-building complex made to look like glass castles.  There were people buzzing all around... ice skating, taking in some musical players and stopping by the Winter Garden, where a display of Santa's from all over the world was presented.

We wrapped the day up with the latest installment of Harry Potter.  Now, I'm not big on swords and sorcerers and all that fantasy crap...  I don't go for that sort of thing, but somehow I always end up seeing those three 40-somethings parading around like they're only 14 over and over.  And the lot that watches these kinds of movies are a little bizarre... and chew popcorn like cows, but fortunately, I didn't care much about the movie so it didn't bother me.  Regardless, about 4 minutes into it, I'm lost, with all the bumbledids and goggledorfs and the like... I can't keep anyone straight.  About 9 minutes into it, and I just wish that someone would pull out a magic wand bigger than Harry Potter's and zap the shit out of him, once and for all (although I have seen his weenus in print... and I guess we'll have a few more sequels until someone can pull that off).  Plus, it's so confusing for me when my mind wanders and I fantasize about his hairy 'potter', especially when they have him parading around half naked several times throughout....  Am I getting juiced up by the 14 year old that he is supposed to be or the grown up that he is?  It shouldn't be this difficult.  Fortunately, the fantastic scenery of the exotic places that they transport themselves to when fleeing from someone bad makes it spectacular to see.  Funny that they don't transport themselves into the dogfood aisle of the Moordoor Walmart... I've seen people wander in those departments, never to be seen again.

Poor Hilary

A Story at Christmas

Tonight, I attended the showing of A Christmas Story... a play (based from the 1970's cult classic of the same name) put on at the Liberty Theater at the Lincoln Park School for the Performing Arts.  It just so happens that Julie's son, Dan, was the lead, playing Ralphie.  He was a natural... in fact, I think that he did such a great job because his personality is so much like Ralphie's.  It turns out that I knew someone else in the cast as well from years and years ago.  The play was literally word-for-word.  The only scene they didn't do was dinner at the Chinese restaurant.  Fa ra ra ra ra, ra ra ra ra.

What's really funny is that Dan had his picture up on billboards around the city and suburbs.  He also had mugs and T-shirts for sale with his face on them as well.  That must be surreal.  Anyway, it was a great night out!

It's Nano Your Business What I'm Listening To...

It's been flurrying all day long but really isn't sticking to the ground.  The roads got icy, especially the bridges, and it's still coming down.  The cold air feels good.  I was out running errands and such and took in the movie Burlesque with my friend Michael.  What a great movie.  I don't own one piece of music from Christine Aguilera and I'm questioning that now... what a fantastic voice she has, with all it's power... plus great to look at and a good actor as well.  Cher, for her age and all that she's had done, looks no older than when I used to sit with my Mom and watch Sonny and Cher back in the early 70's.  Bravo to her plastic surgeon.  She sang a few songs as well and didn't miss a beat.

About a burlesque theater in Los Angeles where the girls dress skimpy and lip-sync to songs while dancing around the stage in elaborate costumes, the theater finds itself in trouble coming down to the wire on a balloon mortgage payment coming due.  The theaters star just isn't bringing the crowd in any more.  Enter Ali Rose (Aguilera) who moves from Iowa for the bright lights of L.A. and happens into the bar, decides she wants to dance there and pushes for a job.  Reluctantly, Cher gives her a chance and on a night where the sound system goes awry is when she really gets the opportunity to showcase her voice.  The rest, they say, is history.  Full of bubbly sexy songs, a love triangle and a powerplay or two, and you have the most enjoyable movie that I've seen in a long time.  It's a must-see.

Having bought the CD already, this is the swan-song sung by Cher which, with her several retirements throughout the years, is true-to-life... You Haven't Seen The Last Of Me Yet:

First Snow of the Season