Did ya miss me???

Americans are such a bunch of phonies.

Americans will run you over and kill you for the last cabbage patch doll. They will nearly drive you off the road and throw you the finger when you beep your horn. They will shoot you dead in a mad rage because you took a parking spot. They will beat their children in the back of SUVs and throttle them into brain damage. Or forget about them in the back of their cars. They will sue you because you made the coffee too hot. They'll blow their snow into your driveway because their dog pissed on your lawn. They'll flatten your tires because you broke up with them. They'll have affairs on their spouses and beat up faggots for being faggots.

But when a huge tragedy hits the world, such as the Tsunami, or 9/11, or the OKC bombing, suddenly Americans are loving and generous and compassionate. They'll send their old clothes to the Red Cross, write huge checks, feel this overwhelming need to get on a plane and go to the location to "help in any way". Suddenly they're magnanamous.

Charity begins at home, people. And when I say "home", I mean in your heart, in your character, in your everyday actions. Not just when the shit hits the fan.

They say that character is what you do when no one is looking.

By request...my Christmas story from last year.

I know it's a little late for this, but what the fuck. Oh, and it's not true.

* * * * * *


Never send a bitter lesbian out shopping by herself during the peak of Christmas rush...

Well, it all started when I was out serving papers in the area of a certain mall, so I said I may as well pick up that one item I need. So I went to the BIGGEST mall in two counties. The particular item I was looking for today is a kitchen accessory. I suppose those of you who shop regularly at malls like normal people already know this, but the damn kitchen accessories in EVERY department store are in the utmost remote section of the store, regardless of which entrance you come in.

As I said, I was looking in department stores, which I suppose you also know are those "anchor" stores, which mean they are at the VERY ENDS of each tentacle of said mall, and of course, I had to go to every last store to find what I was looking for.

So I had walked the ENTIRE mall, and by now my blood sugar was dropping, and I'm remembering how I hate this Christmas pressure obligation bullshit called holiday "giving" and I'm watching people glide along the mall like zombies which, except for the Goth couple I saw, they're not supposed to look like. So I suppose it was all that combined that made me lose it at last.

I was walking by the Santa area with all these pasty-faced parents saying "how cute..." when I saw this little boy tugging on Santa's beard and saying "gimme this and gimme that and I want I want!!!!" and he's yelling at Santa and calling him names and throwing a tantrum and nobody's saying anything. And I'm looking at Santa and he's looking at me helplessly. And they're all snapping pictures.

So I go up to the kid and I say, "Hey! Shut your mouth you little ingrate and be glad for what you have! And show Santa some respect! He's SANTA!" Then I turn to the mother and say to her "And you should be ashamed of yourself letting your child act like that and not disciplining him!" And the mother tells me "Go To Hell!" And I say, "I'm already going to hell because I'm a big dyke and I'll be you and your kid's guide down there!!" And someone yells "Security!" and the kid is cowering behind his mother now and Santa is giving me the ol' thumbs up like "Thank you!"

I see the dudes in the gray uniforms getting closer but I feel like I haven't finished my mission, because they're all still standing there waiting for me to go away so they can continue torturing Santa, as if I'M the crazy one, so as the guys are clasping the handcuffs on me I yell "Santa's not real! And the sooner you all realize that the sooner you can all be prepared for the bitter realities of life that await you! And underneath Santa's pasted-on beard and pillow-stuffed red suit, he's wearing ladies underwear!"

Well, that did the trick, because it was that last part that made all the parents look sideways at Santa and pack up their kids and leave the Santa area and go home. And I'm thinking, darn, now that they're all leaving I could be shopping in less crowded conditions, but I'm going to jail now, how's that for irony? An hour later I'm sitting in the Ontario County Jail contemplating whether I should call an attorney or a shrink, when who but Santa should appear. With bail money.

And he looks at me with his twinkling eyes and his little red cherry nose as we're leaving the jailhouse and he says "That's the first time anyone has done anything for me. It's always been take, take, take, until today. Thank you." And we go to Pickering's Pub and he buys me a few cold ones. Of course the topic turns to women, and I promised to keep our conversation private, but suffice to say, turns out that Mrs. Claus is one hot tamale in the boudoir. Who knew.

We finish our beers and with a wave of his hand, he's gone and I'm suddenly sitting in the food court shoveling down a Tom Wahl's burger and fries, with my kitchen item all wrapped up in a Bon-Ton's bag.

Now that's a Christmas story!

Little Pit Band of Horrors.

I dedicate this post to my buddy Alan, in fond memory of that hideous production of West Side Story we did almost two years ago, where the music director was sooooooooooo bad, we were drinking between acts until finally we resorted to drinking in the pit.

Well I'm doing Little Shop of Horrors right now with that theater company whose actors are all developmentally disabled. I'm sure I've ranted about this idiot music director (MD) before. Nice guy, but I have just a few issues with him:

1) I don't know how a guy can graduate from the Eastman School of Music and not be able to count to 4.
2) The band spends a whole lot of time sitting around doing nothing during tech week. These are 4-5 hours rehearsal for which we do not get paid.
3) His rehearsal thought process is not spent on figuring out how to make the band sound good, but on how else he can get himself on stage.
4) He always spells my name wrong in the program.


All that aside, the band isn't wearing concert blacks for this show, we're supposed to look like bums from Skid Row, the setting of the show. So we all look like slobs and it's hysterical. The other guitar player has been working on these shows on the tech side for years, so he gets all the free beer he wants. He goes up to the bar and brings me back two glasses at a time, and we slam 'em down while we're playing the show. Of course, I needed a prop to go with my costume and I thought my flask would suffice nicely, but in true method fashion I decided it should be filled...with a little brandy. Theatre veritas and all...

When Alan and I were doing WSS we had to sneak that beer in and drink it on the sly. Here nobody cares. Drink on. It appears that music is a hazard to my health and sobriety these days.

I must say I haven't enjoyed doing this production. I've been frustrated with the whole thing, at least from the musical standpoint. I've always loved working with this theater company and watching these people work against all odds to get up on stage. I've watched as the director threw sudden changes at them that I've seen "normal" actors freak out over, yet they say okay and execute it perfectly first shot. But I'm about at my wits end with this MD, and there's no learning in it for me. I didn't even get the score in advance. I got it first night of tech week. Luckily I played the show about 7 years ago and it's not hard, so I can sight read it. But still.

So I'm trying to decide should this be my attitude on it? Maybe I need to change my perspective? Maybe I should just suck it up and take the attitude that I'm here so these actors can work with the band all week, so they can hear what it sounds like; that this is a special situation and I shouldn't expect from this company what I should expect from professional theater groups. Still I get so frustrated because most of the wasted time could be avoided if the MD and the director did their homework and were better prepared for the rehearsals, because most of the wasted time is because they're still blocking scenes or figuring out the score.

What to do? Should I do it again next year, or is it time to move on? And when I say "move on", that means moving on to nothing. Not like I have any other opportunities knocking at my door. And this gig pays.

Hel-looo... YOU have the power...

Everyone has pissed and moaned all year about those bums in Albany, the red tape, the political games, the back room deals, the ass-kissing to Sheldon Silver, the inability to pass a budget on time, blah blah blah.

So what do all you morons do? Go right ahead and vote the same assholes into office again. It's your own fucking fault. You have no right to bitch about it now.

Grandma's Eulogy.

On Sunday, the day after Grandma died, we didn't know who was going to do the Eulogy. That night I went to bed and couldn't sleep. While I was lying in the silent darkness, this whole thing came flooding into my head. For hours. So I wrote it down, asked my family if I could do it and they said yes. A little background: Every years since the 50's my Grandma has made Christmas cookies for the whole family and her friends. They're famous. We literally bake 5000-7000 cookies each year to pass out, because everyone loves and wants them.

So here is my tribute to my beloved and achingly-missed Grandma. I hope you will participate in the favor I ask in the last paragraph.
******

Millie, Millie, Millie. Fun-loving, big-hearted, wild and crazy, sassy, bawdy Millie. You probably called her Millie, but some of us called her mom, a few more of us called her grandma, and most of us called her Aunt Millie. And as Matriarch of this family she leaves a big void and a large legacy.

How can you sum up 86 years in 5 minutes? She was so many things to so many people. She loved to bowl, she was involved with the Boy Scouts Troop 228, where she was den mother, though I'm sure people thought more of her as den "queen" mother. She was an excellent seamstress, a strong labor union advocate. And I know many of you learned the hard way that she was an amazing card player! She could have put Las Vegas out of business! And pity the poor fool if you were her partner and your Euchre skills weren't up to par. I remember once playing cards with her and I threw a card and she yelled at me "What are you throwing that card for? Don't you know they have both bowers?!"

Regardless of the seemingly infinite aspects of who she was, I think today we can all agree that Grandma will forever be best known as the best Christmas Cookie Baker to ever walk God's green Earth. And before I continue I would like to assure you all that the cookie baking tradition has been passed down two generations. My mom, Aunt Marie, my sister Lynn and Aunt Tracy have been making the cookies with Grandma for years, so you can all relax in knowing that the tradition continues, even though most of you probably already have Grandma's cookie recipes.

Perhaps you've made some of grandma's cookies yourself. But I know that when the Cugidares come out of the oven and you put it in your mouth you say "Wow this is really delicious, but it's not quite like Aunt Millie's. I don't know what she does but I can't duplicate it". And that's because Grandma had a secret ingredient that wasn't on the recipe card. It was her own unique secret ingredient, and today I'm going to reveal to you what it was.

Grandma's secret ingredient was Love.

Grandma poured her whole heart into every single cookie she made. It was one of her greatest joys when someone called her and said "Millie, can I have a plate of your Christmas cookies this year?" "Of course sweetheart!" she'd say. "What kind do you want?" And even though making these cookies are time and labor intensive, she looked forward to doing it every year because she knew the cookies were going to bring joy to you all. And when you came to get your cookies and she'd see your faces light up with joy, that was her greatest joy, because Grandma derived joy not by getting, but by giving. And it was just a simple plate of cookies. But Grandma knew it wasn't "just a plate of cookies". It was a plate of love that would bring joy to you and each of your families and subsequently to her.

And every time you ate one of Grandma's cookies you were filled with her love, which is why you couldn't put the plate down! You'd take the whole plate and just keep popping them into your mouth and you couldn't stop, because Grandma's love was delicious and infectious and irresistible.

Now there may be some people here today who never got to eat Grandma's cookies, but I can guarantee that you had received some kindness from her at some point in your life. Maybe it was your birthday and she gave you a card stuffed with money. Maybe you were sick and she called you to send her love and her prayers. Or maybe she took you in when everyone else cast you out. Maybe you were just going through a hard time in life and you just dropped in to talk and play cards, and as she filled your coffee cup, she filled your emotional cup.

When I look out at everyone here today I see a plate of cookies. Each of you is one of Grandma's cookies, because just as Grandma filled each and every cookie she made with love, so has she filled each and every one of us with love.

So today I'd like to ask you for a favor. I'd like for all of us to continue spinning Grandma's web of joy and love, so here's what I'd like for you to do:

Some time this October (because that's when she'd start baking the Christmas cookies) bake some cookies. Whatever kind you want, pick your best recipe. And it doesn't have to be a lot, just a couple of dozen. While you're baking them, think of Grandma, and pour your heart into the making of those cookies. Then put them on a pretty plate, wrap them in colorful cellophane, put a big old red bow on it, and give it someone outside the family. Give them to your neighbor, or your paper girl, or your mail carrier or hairdresser. And when you give that person that plate of cookies and you see the joy light up their face and they say "Thank you!" say to them "Don't thank me. Thank Millie".

I'll Be Seeing You...

Rest in peace, dearest Grandma. I'll miss you so much.

Watch out heaven, a wild woman is coming your way!

Quote of the Day

Kelly: These Victoria Secret models make me think of you.
Me: I don't look like those girls in the Victoria Secret catalogue.
Kelly: Parts of you do!

Today's Spam Update

Here are the stats on the emails I've received using Spam Arrest since May:

Messages processed: 60273
Message forwarded: 1865
Spam Percentage : 96.91%

Well, if Dolly Parton can do it, so can I.

I just got a job today. A regular-like kind of job. As in, the rat race. A bona fide full-time, 9-5, M-F corporate gig. No evenings, no weekends, no overtime. I guess this is where I accept my shortcomings as a musician and my failure to become a big huge star. I'll join the ranks of the hundreds of crappy musicians I've played with who worked a regular gig and did music on the side. Don't bother to make comments telling me otherwise. The truth is the truth. I'm willing to accept it now. I guess God had other plans.

Oh well. The money will be a good consolation prize. Getting out of debt is a nice idea, as is a new car. As is getting my own pad. I don't even own furniture. Not even a bed. I own a dresser, a tacky entertainment center, a desk and an office chair. That's it. The rest of my possessions are instruments and gear. And a whole lot of CDs (which make great christmas presents...).

Apparently I'm angry

Because last night in my dreams I basically told the entire world to fuck off.

Quote of the Day...

...From my dear friend, Tom, who knows how to make a girl who has to give up her dream to get a regular job so she's not a leech on society feel good:

"Good luck with finding an office in which to imprison your freesoaring spirit and to benumb your remarkable talents for the seeming satisfaction of a regular paycheck and benefits."

Some people have NO sense of humor...

I was at the pharmacy filling two prescriptions yesterday, and because I've never used either drug the pharmacist felt I should be counseled on them. Fine. I like information.

Well, this 20-ish, towheaded geek of a girl with scholarly looking glasses came to talk to me about my drugs. The first drug was Ambien (because we all know I'm a total insomniac). So before she even started talking I quipped "Talk slow, I haven't slept in a week!", thinking she'd get the joke. She just started a little and said "OH! Okay", then she talked really slow.

Then she mentioned it wasn't a good idea to drink too much alcohol with this drug, and I said, "That's okay. I do all my drinking in the morning!" causing her to look at me with a VERY serious expression, wondering if I should be taking this drug since I obviously have problems with addiction. Even poking her arm and saying "I'm just kidding with ya" didn't make her smile!

Well, we go on to the next drug. It's a one time pill and my doctor said if the problem persists 4 days after taking the first pill, then take the 2nd one on the fourth day. The instructions said "take one pill then take 2nd pill after four days." Easy enough. Well, Miss Pharmacist said "Your doctor wants you to take the first pill, then take the 2nd pill 4 hours later." I asked "Four hours?". She said yes, your doctor said 4 hours later. I showed her the label and said "It says Four Days later." She grabbed the prescription, looked at the label and said , I swear to god,

"Wow! I'm glad I caught that!"

HAHAHAHAHA! What a maroon!

No Chat

Sorry, folks. I know I got you all geared up for this chat, but I have to cancel it for tonight. Too busy, have to leave town tomorrow early, too exhausted, etc. etc.

I'll let you know when I reschedule.

Was that actually some good music I heard???

You all need to head over to Bob Schneider's website and listen to his song Come With Me Tonight. It's the best frickin' song I've heard in a damn long time. His website is really cool, too. Skip his rambling on the splash page. Just click the "menu" link on the right and his song will automatically load.

Who's coming to my chat tomorrow night at 9:00 p.m.?

Lemmiwinks has some seriously good Karma

So hours later I'm sitting in my living room working at the table when Farris, my other kitty, goes flying by into the kitchen. I knew he had a sight on the chipmunk. Sure enough, he's flailing about the kitchen, chairs are flying, there is much ruckus, and he snags the chipmunk, who put up a great fight.

Farris heads to the basement with it and I follow. I open the door that goes outside, and find Farris sitting in the middle of the floor with that wild look in his eye. I take hold of the chipmunk with my right hand, and gently put my finger in the side of Farris's mouth to open it. Well, he AIN'T letting go! I had to use all my strenghth to pry his mouth open to release that rodent. Finally he lets go and I take it outside. Lemminwinks flys out of my hand as soon as I'm outside and off he went. I assume he's packing his belongings and looking for a house without animals.

But really, to be caught by two cats in one day and STILL survive, well, I'm just saying that chipmunk must have done some good shit in his past life.

There's a chipmunk in my bedroom.

Now, before you all conjure up urban legends involving Richard Gere, let it be known that my cat was running around outside while I was practicing, when she appeared in my bedroom with this critter that looked dead. She put it down and off he scrambled. She and I chased the fucker around my room for awhile but I have SOMUCHCRAP in the room, that it has too many places to hide.

So it's still up there. Been there a few hours. I only hope I get to it before Puddy does.

The "L" on my forehead gets bigger every day.

My piece of shit car broke down. Thank God Cheryl's hubby Skyler knows how to fix the things, and we've spent two days on it. The part we need is no longer available, so we have to invent a jerry-rigging sort of thing. It still isn't done. You breathe on the goddamn car and something falls off of it. Can I afford a new one? No. Can you say "LOSER"? Can you say "Let's blow the 30K cash from my savings, add 15K debt to it, and chase a stupid pipe dream"? Can you say "Live with mommy for awhile longer"? Can you say "Can't get hired for a frickin' job because I have never worked in an office setting, even though I have a billion skills"? Can you say "I have 24 dollars in my pocket which has to get me to Cleveland this weekend for a $200.00 gig"? Can you say "drive to your gig in a borrowed car"?

Fucking loser.

Roy Rogers, Porn Star.

In yet another fit of insomnia, last night I found myself watching a Roy Rogers western (I only have basic cable...).

I know Roy was an icon of his time, and Trigger truly is a beautiful horse, but what a BAD movie! Cheesy characters, bad plotline, wretched acting and dialogue. It seems the whole point of the movie was simply to give Roy a platform to sing. Which got me thinking. That's basically what porn is: Cheesy characters, bad plotline, wretched acting and dialogue, only to provide a platform for sex.

So then, was Roy the John Holmes of Westerns, or was Gene Autry?

I'm a Bush-loving Lesbian.

Now I know all you liberal pals of mine are gonna git yer knickers in a twist when you read this, but I'm coming out of the closet. I'm not gonna hide anymore. Gonna just tell you. I am here to admit to you all today that I think Laura Bush is a babe. I'm not kidding, I think she is beautiful. She has a beautiful smile which lights up her whole face. Forget the conservative hair-do and suit, just take a good look at her face the next time she's on TV.

I hate both candidates, as candidates, I mean. I don't want to vote for either, so I may just have to make a decision based on their wives. I mean, Laura is graceful and ladylike, and when she spoke at the convention, she spoke of all the wonderful traits her husband has (as she sees them). When Tereza Heinz Kerry spoke at the convention she spoke about herself. Like who fucking cares. And she showed off: big deal she speaks however many languages. Don't get me wrong, I like her "shove it" attitude in general, but as a first lady I don't think it'll go over well when she visits the UAE and tells some towelhead to fuck off when he says she has to wear a head wrap. And what's with the "merci merci merci"? Doesn't she know we hate the fucking French for turncoating on us? Sissy neurotic cigarette-smoking faggots. But I digress. Don't you all get worried, I ain't voting for Bush. But I ain't voting for Kerry, either. I'll go to the polls to vote for all the other offices and sit that one out.

And while I'm on the topic of Bush-loving lesbians, MY GAYDAR WENT FULL KILTER when Jenna Bush was speaking at the convention. Hello? Don't you think???



LOOK at her, with her sporty earth-tone top and casual attire, her wide face, her raspy voice. Even the way she clapped was butchy. Well, whatever. She'll come out of the closet when donkeys fly. Who knows, she probably has secret tea parties with Mary Cheney and Candace Gingrich for all we know. They have the engraved toaster oven all set for her whenever she's ready to accept it. Pretty soon there will be a support group for lesbian relatives of right-wing conservatives, there are so many of them these days.

Anyway, I don't care what you say. Laura Bush is a hottie.

Waiting for my miracle to come

So here I sit staring at the TV
watching ordinary people who just won the lottery
Holding a check it takes four of them to carry
They are blinking at the flahsbulbs I wonder why it isnt me
I always wished I'd find a pearl in one of these oyster shells
But that shit only happ[ens to somebody else
Everything is easier for some
I'm still waiting for my miracle to come

Why do some people get their faces slapped
While others have the aces fall into their lap?
Everything is easier for some
I'm still waiting for my miracle to come

Waiting for my miracle' cuz anything is possible
Everything is cyclical and my turn could be comin' round
Could be any minute now the sun is peeking through that cloud
I'm gonna catch my ray of sun
I'm waiting for my miracle to come

excerpted from "Miracle" © Cathy Richardson

How do I make you understand this?

I came out of the womb wanting to be a musician. And yes, I may be a musician today, but to what extent? Playing coffeehouse gigs for $36.00? A few really good gigs? Playing community theater at $25.00 a show? Is this success? I may be a musician, but should I not judge my level or ability of musicianship on my success, or lack thereof?

Over the years I've met a lot of guys who were stock brokers, salesmen, teachers, etc., and they all had a great collection of guitars, upwards of 30 or more guitars. They always liked playing, but took jobs where they could make a great living. They weren't players: they were hobbyists who could afford a lot of really expensive guitars. For the record, the more guitars a guy owns, the worse a player he is.

But me, I'll be holding down a day job soon. Full time, bennies, whatever. Maybe a legal assistant, a sales person, bookkeeper, I don't know. And the difference between me and the guys who own a lot of guitars is this: They were stock brokers with an expensive hobby. They couldn't play. They never were players. Me? I'll be a player who couldn't and didn't make it. It's one thing to wish one could have been a player. It's another to be a player, and not be able to make it.

Quote of the Day

"Homosexuality is God's way of ensuring that the truly gifted aren't burdened with children."

Sam Austin, composer and lyricist

Dragonfly Medicine

So I get in my car today and I hear this wicked fluttering sound. I turn and see a dragonfly fluttering at my passenger window. Then it comes around to the windshield and heads toward me. So I roll down my window and put my hand to the right of it, and attempt to gently guide it to the window.

While I'm kind of pushing it gently along, it decides to alight itself on my finger, instead of head out the window. And there it sat, on my index finger. For a very long time. I moved my finger around and stuck it out the window, and twisted it around and back and forth, but it was quite content to stay there. For a very long time.

The dragonfly has been showing itself to me a lot lately, and I always say, "Damn I wish I can remember what the dragonfly symbolizes in native american animal medicine." But I never remember, which is why it flies into my realm on a regular basis. I clearly need reminding.

So now I'm going to bed, but before I do, I'm going to dig out my animal medicine cards, and for the umpteenth time, I'm going to read what the dragonfly is trying to tell me. Maybe I'll remember this time.

Quote of the day

"You're a good woman, Leah. You deserve me!"

---Kelly

Here she is!



So here's the story.

A week after Tigger died everyone was telling Kelly "you gotta get another cat", and she was all like, no I don't! And she was talking to me about it, saying it would be a long time before she felt ready, but when the time was right she wanted another tabby with similar markings to Tigger, and it had to be a rescue, and it had to be a kitten.

Well, the VERY NEXT DAY, doesn't the other vet at her clinic come waltzing in with a mommy tabby kitty and her two tabby babies who apparently were dumped in the woods behind his house? So he brings them in to clean them up, check them for FIV, leukemia, worms, mites, blah blah blah, and says they'll hang on to them until they can adopt them out. So it all works out that the little girl pictured here has seemingly been designated by the universe to belong to Kelly. Her name is Louise. Doncha just wanna love her up?

So Much To Say

But who has the fucking time? I have to tell you about our trip to Niagara On The Lake, post the photo of the beautiful flowers Kelly sent me on our anniversary, post pictures of Kelly's new kitty and the wild story of how this kitty came to her out of the blue in need of rescuing, and tell you about messages received from the "other side", namely from Tigger.

I also have to update my website, send out my monthly newsletter, clean this pigsty house of mine and whatnot. But instead I'm packing to leave yet again for a gig in Ohio. Leaving in an hour. So see ya.

Off to Niagara-on-the-Lake

Because Kelly and I are celebrating a year together, already!

Prayer For Tigger

We call upon God, the Angels and our Spirit Guides to honor the passing of the spirit that is Tigger. We thank Tigger for his time here on the Earth Plane and for his service to us. We thank him for his healing abilities,  his wisdom, and for his companionship. We especially thank him for his service and companionship to Kelly, for taking care of her and helping her through some of her most difficult challenges. We are honored to have known him while on the Earth Plane, and now ask the Angels and Spirit Guides to take him to the Spirit Plane where his spirit shall continue its journey. We forever hold a place for him in our hearts.

To the light. We shall miss you.

Quote of forever.

Kelly: I can tell you're going to be a handful.

Me: Tonight?

Kelly: In a lifetime.

My Hero

"You know the way I feel about contemporary music. To me it's just "ic" as opposed to music, because the muse is absent".

-Joni Mitchell

Updated Spam Count

Using Spam Arrest since May 5. Stats as of July 5:

Messages Processed 19172
Messages Forwarded 962

# of spam emails captured: 18210

Clarification

I guess I didn't make it clear that when I sing at this piano bar tonight and tomorrow, I have to sing COVER songs. Not mine. Songs that drunk people want to hear. And the pianists I've played with are so fucking bad it's insulting. But nobody in the audience knows or cares, as long as we sing Jesse's Girl and Margaritaville.

By demand...

Alright, already! Jebus!

The Outmusic Award was won by Michael Holland. For the record, he beat Rufus Wainright, who is currently on tour with Sting. There was no second place. You're either the winner or a loser. Other people who did not win who should have (other than myself) include Cathy Richardson, an indie big-shot who will blow you away, and Namoli Brennet, who is a great songwriter, and writes beatiful music.

Toronto was fun. As usual, the biggest freakshow going. There were a million people there. I sold four CDs. At least they paid me, even if it was in that play money of theirs. But I did have a good time, and Kelly was there, too. She came up with three of her friends, and they all had a gay old time. I had two shows, so I was kind of busy.

This weekend I get to humiliate myself again playing at Keys Piano Bar. It really is lowering myself, I must say. But it's 300 bucks, and as I said, I now have to be a whore, because I have to retire in 20 years. Whoever heard of whoring without humiliation? (Except for Clinton, of course...)

Quote of the Day:


"They're ALL bitches in the end."

Mary Simon, after I commented that "...she was nice at the beginning but wasn't by the time we'd split up."

Fuck This

It's June frickin 21st, the Summer Solstice, and I'm still wearing flannel pajamas to bed and putting my heat on at night. The sun has shone like twice this year, we've had one hot day and I'm fucking sick of it. I hate this weather, I hate this city, I hate this tax-raping state, and I hate my life.

Spam Count

Here are the statistics for the month I've been using this spam blocking service:

Messages Processed 13502
Messages Forwarded 796

That's right. Of 13,502 emails sent to my email address in ONE MONTH, 6% of them have been legit. The rest? Spam. Shit. Crap. A waste of cyberspace.

And hours of time saved for me and space saved on my server. All for 30 bucks a year. Worth the money in frustration-prevention alone.

The Outmusic Awards

I didn't win.

But you can all go to this site and vote to get my CD to #1 on the chart...

Birthday Bash!

'Twas Kelly's birthday on Monday, so I spoiled her rotten!

I whisked her away to my friend's cabin in the Finger Lakes for the weekend. Hank came with us. He's a Pisces dog so as soon as he saw the lake, in he went. Swam and fetched and waded and barely came out! We'd forgotten to get some wood on the way in. There was wood there, but they were big pieces. Good ol' Kelly just grabs an axe and a sledge hammer and starts ripping the logs apart. Very sexy. Had a hard time starting the fire because it had been raining and the logs were wet, but somehow it worked. Kelly cooked the steaks over the fire. YUM! Boy, were they good. Made some s'mores and did all that kind of campfirey stuff.

The weather was nicer the next day so we headed for the boat, but it wouldn't start. Grabbed a battery booster, but the boat stalled as soon as we disconnected it. Alternator, I'm guessing. We were all loaded up, too: fishing poles, beer, munchies, Hank. Well, we couldn't go anywhere, so we just fished from the boat. Caught a bunch of Sunfish and Perch which we let go, of course.

We let Hank out of the boat and he was bored. He wanted us to throw the ball into the water so he could fetch it, but we were ignoring him. So he kept picking up the ball and dropping it. Eventually it would roll of the dock and into the water, and he's make a mad dash for it. It was hysterical because he totally entertained himself.

We were only there overnight, and headed back home Sunday night. On Monday we went for a really nice motorcycle ride, me riding bitch. I had a nice romatic dinner planned for us later at a restaurant on the river. But Kelly didn't know that I'd invited a bunch of her friends! She had no clue about it until we parked and she recognized one of her friend's cars. Dang! Anyway, she was still surprised to see how many people were there. We had a great dinner and the company was awesome and she got nice presents. Kelly said it was the best birthday ever.

Aren't we a lovely couple?



Okay, guess how old.

I don't know.

I'm taking one of those insipid online tests and I've just been presented this question:

"Which of these emotions do you relate to more? Anger or Sadness?"

I have no idea how to answer this accurately.

Well, I picked one, finished the test (which is "Which Country Are You?), and well...

You're Ethiopia!

You were just getting back to a normal cycle of eating when a group of people came up to you and said that you were too different than they were, so you could no longer visit the beach. You'll probably miss the beach, and you're still kind of hungry, but ironically you cook for lots of rich people in other places who think your food is excellent, but won't let you eat it yourself.


And on a related note, I was thumbing through an Entertainment book the other day looking at the restaurant coupons, and found a restaurant that touted itself as "Authentic Ethiopian Cuisine". What the fuck is that? Twigs and a dried-up earthworm on a dirty leaf, which I will later use for toilet paper?

Crotch Rot and other maladies...

WARNING: This posting is not for people easily scheeved, nor is it for genito-phobics or those suffering from the Vagina Dentata syndrome. Nor is it for most of you gentle readers who possess more class and dignity than I, as it is disgusting and highly personal. Change blog channels now.

But I'm a walking scourge.

A couple of weeks ago I had what looked like a few flea bites on my left leg. The next day there were more and they itched mercilessly. I mentioned it to Kelly and she, being a vet, said that the fleas weren't out yet, it was still too cold. So she took a look. We counted 30 of them, and she basically said "I've seen this on dogs. It's staphoblahblah dermasomething pyra." So I said "Woof!"

Basically, she said it was a staph infection of the skin. They looked like bites except they had little pustules. Disgusting. So she gave me some special soap that they use on the dogs - same medicine as they use on humans in a dog bottle, so what the fuck. It's free, right? And it wasn't getting better, so she brought me home some antibiotics.

Well, all you girls out there know what happens when a girl takes antibiotics. And even though I purposely took 500mg of acidopholus a day just for that very reason, apparently is wasn't enough. Because I got a raging yeast infection. And for those who don't know, they burn and itch like a motherfucker.

(Medical sidebar: the body has normal flora in it, mostly in the digestive tract, but women have this normal flora in their naughty bits as well, and when you take antibiotics they kill this flora along with the nasty bugs. The absence of this flora allows the proliferation of yeast, which thrives in dark, warm, moist areas. Ew.)

So I went to the store and bought the effing Vagistat cream that you shoot up your twat and it's supposed to kill the yeasties. FYI, what goes up must come down. It goes in slimy, but comes out slimy and yeasty. Ew. And it still takes time to stop burning and itching. Which normally for me may take a day or two.

But then I got my period. And you CANNOT use tampons with a yeast infection. I needn't say more there. Girls dig my rap, boys will have to use their imaginations.

So now it's a week later, and while my staph infection is gone, I'm not sure I'm out of the woods on the yeast thing. I'm still a bit uncomfortable down there. And I haven't had sex in 10 days because that would be downright tortuous. But then again, so is NOT having sex. So I still have my period, I've got to do the Vagistat cream thing AGAIN, then fucking douche in a few days! And I won't EVEN tell you what happened when I put Vagisil on my clit, because it was the most disgusting, gross, hideous, evil thing ever.

Can someone please tell me why my twat is on strike????

And NOW, I got a fucking sore throat! I tell ya, I'm a walking plague.

Personally I think all my chakras have shut down. Those were the last two to go.

And so, may I have a collective EW. Thank you very much.

I'm a little tipsy.

Went to see Kilbrannan today at Milestones. No doubt the most fun you'll ever have seeing a band. So much good times, and great musicianship. And they know how to give the audience a good time. God, I love them. The bass player in the band produced Hard Road, and my first (out of print) recording, as well. And the electric guitarist in the band played the solo in "Why Do You Care" from Hard Road. And I played banjo on their CD, "Bedlam Boys", on the song "Henry's Head".'

Anyhoo, it's all about the booze when you see Kilbrannan. Lot's of good drinking songs. Don't ever miss them when they come to your area. I left in a truly wonderful mood, and how often does that happen?

masturbate to dialated teen rectum denver movies

I swear to god, that's what the title of the e-mail said. Note, this was an e-mail that my SPAM BLOCKER intercepted, but I was going through some of the unverified e-mails today because I knew I had a CD order coming. (That's the beauty of this program - you can look through the intercepted e-mails and directly authorize an e-mail yourself if you don't want to wait for the sender to do it. But there I go, selling again.)

Which raises the question: What is a denver movie? I know John Denver did "Oh, God" I&II, and maybe some misty pansy movie about the rockies or something, but who'd masturbate to those? Or have I missed the entendre altogether?

Which brings me to my next point. JENNA JAMESON was in Rochester in November and I missed her!!!! She was at the House of Guitars, of all places. I saw an article there on it, and in said article she was being touted as an "actress/model". Hmmmm...I guess "porn star" is too limiting a description. Well, I'm pissed, because I would have gone. Probably woulda been the only broad there, too.

Why was she at the House of Guitars, you ask?? Apparently, she's the pinup girl for Jackson Guitars. I'm guessing the porn industry for a huge star like Jenna isn't as glamorous as I'd expect, because the fact is that Jackson guitars are total CRAP, best used for kindling in your fireplace on those cold Northeastern nights. And they're cheap as shit, so I'm wondering how they're affording a megastar like Jenna, unless of course, she comes dirt cheap (no pun intended).

I'm a whore.

Two whore moments:

1) Note the Spam Arrest banner above of which I am now an affiliate. I've been using this service for a couple of months and it rocks. Saved my sanity. In two months it has processed over 4000 emails to my music biz account, and only 400 of them have been valid, non-spam emails. How much time has that saved me???

Wanna see it work? Send an e-mail to leah@leahzicari.com. It's so simple, and it's cheap. And if you like it and want to use it, please go through the link above, and I'll get a nice little kickback. Don't make me have to go on welfare.

2) Playboy.com and The Suicide Girls are collaborating on a tour together. They're having an "America's Best Unsigned Bands" contest and it doesn't cost money to apply. So I did. Me. Former radical feminist who used to picket anything porn/objectification of women related. I sent them "Kiss That Boy" and a slutty picture of me in a sequin miniskirt, even though I can't fit into that skirt anymore, and I'm waaaaaaay past the age of the Suicide/Playboy girls demo.

Whatever. I'm a 'ho. Call me Chemika.

On a clear day you can see forever.


Americans are always accused of having an arrogance. It's not arrogance. It's the inherent nature of our history that we can go anywhere, say anything, and move about freely without reprisal, without being thrown in a jail, without fear of a tyrannical government, etc. Still there are times when each of us has to make a sound decision for our own survival, where we decide that even though we have the complete freedom to go somewhere or do something, perhaps it's still not a good idea.

For example, a woman is not going to walk alone in a bad neighborhood. A black man is not going to show up to a Klan meeting. A prissy gay boy isn't going to hang out at an Aryan bar to ogle the muscular, tattoed men. If my name was Irizarry, a name of Basque origin, I don't think I'd be traveling to Spain any time soon. That said, if your last name was "Berg", would you even go to the Middle East in the first place at a time like this?

Perhaps Nick Berg will not have died in vain. Maybe the stupid media will finally get off this bullshit about the abuse of arab prisoners, let the DOD handle it and move on to important stories. Maybe Americans will finally see the kind of sick fucks these Islamic militants are, the kind of people we're fighting. Maybe they'll get the concept of true abuse and barbarism. Hurray for Joe Lieberman who said "I'm certain that no Arab official will apologize for this act." Maybe the American people will stop being a bunch of politically correct crybabies and stop insisting that Bush and the military deal with terrorists like a bunch of feminists at a Collective meeting. Maybe, in fact, Bush will actually fight the goddamn war, get rid of these psychotic terrorists, then get the fuck out of Iraq.

It's all in the production....

Ya see? How many times have I said "A performer lives or dies by their sound system." Same thing with the production values of their CD. Good songs may not get their due if they don't sound good. It's image, baby. In this case, auditory image.

In the last week:

1) I've been selected to showcase at the Milennium Music Conference in Harrisburg, PA.

2) I've been selected to showcase at the Atlantis Music Conference in Atlanta, GA.

3) Atlantis also selected one of my songs to put on their conference compilation CD.

4) I've been booked to play two different shows at Toronto Pride.

5) I've been booked to play at the gay picnic in Rochester.

6) "Pretty On Thursday" is a finalist in the Outmusic Awards under the "Outstanding Songwriter" category.

7) Pretty On Thursday is #2 on the Outvoice chart. (Go vote here!)

8) I just got an email from someone who said that Rachel Sage was going on about what a great player I was. I didn't even know Rachel Sage would even know my name!

Yay me!

Kelly's quote of today...

"That John Kerry. Apparently he got one purple heart for a hangnail, one for a stubbed toe, and the other for... a yeast infection or something..."

Quote of the Day:

(In Wegman's Grocery Store)

"It smells like pussy in here! No, wait. Nevermind. I think I'm smelling my own upper lip."
---Kelly

Is this God's plan?

Here's an updated photo of the black eye, the next day, in all it's purple glory. As you can see, I've worn a shirt and selected a background to set off the lovely violet tones:



Everyone take a really good look at it, because this black eye is a metaphor for my pathetic music career. Needless to say NYC was a horrible experience. I was invited to play for this ongoing event, a series that showcases GLBT performers. When you play a show in NYC you're supposed to bring a certain number of people to the venue. I told the guy who asked me to play that I have no audience in NYC, and couldn't guarantee that anybody would come to see me. He said, that's okay, it doesn't matter. Just come we'd love to have you. So I did.

Well, nobody came to see me except the 2 friends who housed me. So I was told that since I didn't bring anyone in, I don't get any money from the door. And there ya have it. And I sold one CD. And I'm not gonna rant too much about this part, because you can look back two posts ago and see that I expected nothing else. So that's what I got. Well, I expected to lose money, but I did think I would get a little something at the door, and that I'd sell a few more CDs. But whatever, no rant here.

Here's what I will rant about. The first two acts were so abominable, so horrific, so bad, that using the term "mediocre" would be overstating it. The first group was so bad and hostile that when they were done I was literally sick to my stomach. The second act was so boring and white he made Pat Boone look like Elvis. Then it was my turn, but by then the audience that was there had already left, because these two groups had set the standard for the evening. On top of that, even though I was a performer, I had to pay full price for a beer, which was 6 bucks for a warm, skunky Corona.

So when I was talking to the dude who invited me to perform, and he was apologizing about not being able to give me any money, he said "Well, I hope you at least got something out of it." I looked at him, and in a split second thought, I said, "Yes, as a matter of fact I did."

Here's what I got out of it:

1) I will never again play in NYC. Not without a guarantee.
2) I will never again play on bills with bad performers.
3) I will never again play a free gig, unless I'm opening for some big huge act, or the experience is too fabulous an opportunity to pass up.
4) I'm changing my approach to this whole thing. I'm going to start thinking big.

So, fuck those fucking fuckers. I can't do this anymore. I too frickin' old, broke, and tired.

And now the bright side, because all you bitches out there keep asking me to find the bright side to every miserable experience I have:

1) I got to see my friends.

2) I got to go to the Cold Stone Creamery, an amazing ice cream parlor, the details of which will be posted at Tasted Like Ice Cream in a few days.

3) I got to see, for free, one of the most innovative and unique theater shows ever, De La Guarda. It would take me pages to describe this show, so check out their equally amazing website. I'll just say this: Most of the action takes place with the cast members wearing harnesses and flying through the air on riggings. There's also alot of water pouring down, and other stuff like confetti and balloons. That's why they call it "Theater That Falls From The Sky". And there are no seats. Everyone stands on a floor, like the floor of a rock concert, and all the action takes place overhead. It's amazing. Probably even more amazing if you're tripping on acid. Which I wasn't.

Let it shiner, let it shiner, let it shiner!!!

I fancy myself well-rounded: a little femme, a little butch. One day I'll fix my mom's dryer, the next day I'll be hemming Kelly's jeans. I own power tools, a complete set of metric and standard tools of all sorts, and a sewing machine. I can fix a motorcyle or car if I have to. I've even changed a tire. In heels.

So chalk it up to lack of coordination, common sense not to get out of my own way, or a car too ghetto for my own good. Because I was trying to unlock the passenger car door today. It's all frozen or rusted up, and the lock is stuck. So I grabbed a vice grip, latched onto the lock and pulled with aaaaall my might. The grips gave way and flew back smack dab into my face.

And now I look like this:




cut on the nose, shiner, cut in eyebrow

See ya.

Off to NYC. For a another money-losing gig adventure. Yay me.

Jesus Christ, Superstar.

Well, I did JCSS the first two weekends of April, and I hardly had a rant about it. What can I say, it's community theater, so should I expect anything decent? The band was good, that's all that mattered, even if the sound sucked so hard we sounded like karaoke-in-a-can.

But the funny thing that happened was one day, before the show while I was tuning, some actor walked by and he said "Nee!". And the girl he was with said "Huh?" And he repeats "Nee!". And she was so clueless, she said "I don't know what you mean."

So I said (still tuning) "We are no longer the Knights Who Say 'Nee'. We are now the Knights Who Say 'Icky-icky-icky gamoopowm zowie!'" And he turned around and pointed both fingers at me with his jaw dropped and he said "I never met a chick who could recite The Holy Grail!!!!" And then he said the funniest thing, which was quote of the day:

"But you play electric guitar. That takes the chick right out of you!"

I took it as a great compliment.

The Banjo Story

(as promised)

Well, I've been wanting a new banjo. Because mine isn't that great. Served me well at the time, but as I've gotten better and have been using it professionally more often, I've really wanted one with a better tone. Saw this really nice yet affordable one at the House of Guitars. And me being "in" with them, I was quoted a not-to-be-passed-up price for it. But of course I had to wait until I had some extra cash, which I'd have after those two cherry college gigs I did in March.

So then I got really busy, but was absolutely going to get it on a certain Saturday when I had some time. I had to be in Buffalo the night before for a rehearsal but I was getting all geared up for it. So Saturday comes around and I had to go teach my banjo student first, then I was going to take the old banjo right to the H.O.G. and trade her in. So I go to my student's and we get started. Grab my banjo out of the case and notice a little card in there from Kelly. How sweet! Slipping me little love notes where I least expect it. But I can't be opening that card in front of a 13 year-old girl, so I just put it back in the case and we get started.

I grab her banjo book and look over what she's worked on for the past week, and I strum my banjo and it is wickedly out of tune. WTF, I think, happy to be getting rid of it today. So I start tuning it, and the tuning peg doesn't feel right. So I look at said banjo and it looks different. I stop and I look at the banjo. For like 30 seconds. And finally I say to my student "Katie, my banjo says 'Fender' at the top. I have an 'Encore'". And she says "It looks just like mine!"

And so it did! It wasn't my banjo at all! It was the new banjo I wanted! And it had taken me like FIVE FRICKIN' GENIUS MINUTES before I realized I was holding a totally different banjo! And then I went over (as cool as I could) to the case and grabbed that card from Kelly, and on the back it said "No Strings Attached!" HAHAHAHAHA! And there was this really sweet note from her giving me the banjo.

When I was in Buffalo the night before she went over to my house and took my old banjo, brought it to the H.O.G. herself, and bought me the new banjo. She slipped in the card, returned to my house with the new banjo, and I was none the wiser until I finally figured out what happened.

ISN'T THAT THE MOST ROMANTIC THING YOU EVER DID HEAR OF?????

Catching up...

Okay, here's the archiving of Farris's 8th birthday, combined with the celebration of Hank's 10th birthday (Kelly's dog..)

First I set up the birthday table on their kitty condo. But Puddy was more intersted in it at first:



Then Farris saw the goodies, and said "Hey! Those are mine!"



As always I gave him his favorite treat: Kozyshack Chocolate Pudding.



Along with the pudding he got treats and a catnip toy, which Puddy immediately took possession of, but Farris didn't care, because he was more interested in the pudding.

A couple weeks later was Hank's big day, so many Pisces animals everywhere...Kelly put a biscuit in his kong toy and filled it with Peanut Butter. Yummy!!



Aren't they cute??

I am here.

Really. Well, not HERE, but in Buffalo, doing Jesus Christ Superstar. And being way too effing busy to blog, even though I have a gazillion stories to tell, such as the banjo story, and the celebration of Farris's birthday. I'll get to it soon, I swear! But now, I have to go to bed, even though it's only 11:30, but I have to get up early, and we all know how I hate that.

Still, there are some fun stories, and some possibly very good news that I won't even discuss until it's an actuality, and not just mere possibility.

Anyone want to give me a mini-van?

I'm a computer goddess

So it all started with my NEW digital camera. My old one took a crapper but had a 4 year Best Buy warranty on it - hello new camera! I installed the new software for it...and goodbye operating system. Windows ME, whaddya expect. It was only a matter of time. I'm surprised it lasted 4 years before I had any problems with it.

Called Dell and for sure the tech dude made it all worse. So I decided to take matters into my own hands, and not follow the advice of some dude halfway around the world. At least his English was good.

Went to the store and bought a new Hard Drive since mine is only 20GB and only had about 4GB left. Got me a big ol' 120GB. Scared of me, ain't ya? Installed it - didn't work. The BIOS didn't recognize it. Decided to change the bus cable that came with it and put the old one back in - sure enough - bad cable. Then we were up and running. My mom got a new computer in June so I grabbed her reinstallation disc of Windows XP and loaded it up. Saved meself 200 buckos there!

Spent all day Wednesday loading up all my software and updating the drivers to all my peripherals and hardware. Everything I have was for ME, XP wasn't around yet. Then I spent all day Thursday retrieving all the old files off my old hard drive. I piggybacked my old hard drive to the new one (The Master/Slave configuration, for you S&M types) and spent all day transferring data and setting up a new directory structure. By far my biggest moment of triumph was being able to retrieve my address book and old e-mails. It took forever to figure out where they were stored in the first place, then how to actually import them. They don't function like data files.

I still have a bunch of programs to install, but they aren't as crucial. The biggest issue I had was being able to retrieve my inventory spreadsheet because my sales taxes are due! I spent a good 4 hours working on those yesterday, and they're ready to go. Always happy to toss money at the NYS government. They spend it so wisely, taking care of bums and trash (and I don't mean garbage) in New York City. What does Western New York need? We're used to living by the skin of our teeth.

I know this was a boring post, but I had to log it. I've been dreaming about hard drives and software and computer stuff for the last two days. Making me crazy!

Cheesy diners and American Chopper

So last night's concert went really well. Whew! Except for that little cocaine remark I made...but that's another story.

Today I left Ithaca to head to Buffalo, and I wanted to find a little diner to have breakfast. Ya think Ithaca would be swarming with them, but not so. Ithaca is filled with politically correct health conscious eateries, or ethnic cuisine. I just wanted greasy spoon fare.

Along route 96 there are many nickle-and-dime little towns so I thought I'd find one along the way. I had to go about 4 towns north before I found a diner that didn't have a "bud light" neon sign in the window. And there it was in a town so dinky I could throw a snowball end to end. So small, I didn't even get the name. But Carolyn's Diner looked promisingly cheesy.

You walk in the door and there's a long hallway, and then a separate door to enter the diner. Strange design - it looked like a box within a box. The hallway was "under construction", meaning it was just drywall and 2X4 studs, no paint, no flooring, an old water heater against the wall, and crap everywhere. I went into the diner itself and it was about as big as your living room. All the locals are there, no one under 60 except the waitress and cook, and they all take a quick look at me because I clearly don't look like them, if you get my drift.

The waitress asks what I'd like to drink. "Large OJ, please". She brings it to me and asks "Do you want breakfast?" Avoiding my natural tendency to say "what the fuck, d'ya think I came her for the ambience?", I simply said "Yes, please." "What would you like?" she asks. Again, fighting the urge to be condescending, I said "A menu."

Not that I needed one. You can have eggs, homefries, toast, and pancakes. Oh, and two omelette styles. I could have just put in my order without looking at the menu. So I put my order in, and I ask for hot chocolate. "Whipped cream?" she asks. "No, thank you", I reply.

She brings me my hot chocolate. With whipped cream. Ahhhh....how comforting. This was the diner I was looking for. The kind of diner where the waitress doesn't listen, doesn't bring you the basic amenities like a glass of water or ketchup. The kind of place where the cook has only 7 teeth in her head, looks like life has ridden her too hard, her boyfriend probably beats her, and has two illegitimate children with different last names. The kind of diner where you have to wipe the silverware before you use it, and you have to check the rim of the glass for lipstick. The kind where you hope you don't get food poisoning or hepatitis when you leave, but a full breakfast only costs $3.45 plus tip.

I was wearing my Orange County Choppers T-shirt. The logo is on the back and "orange county" is on the top half, and "choppers" is on the bottom half, so when I'm sitting in the chair, you only see "Orange County". The cook brings me my food and says "Are you from Orange County? I saw your t-shirt." "No", I said. "It's a TV show on the Discovery Channel." Blank stare. "It's a TV show about motorcycles." "Well, ya lern somthin' new every day", she says. "I bet Butch knows about that show."

I swear to God she said "Butch". Her woman-beating boyfriend's name is Butch.


About 5 minutes later another woman comes over to me. "I see you're wearing an Orange County shirt! I'm from there! Are you?" So I have to explain the shirt all over again to her, that it's a TV show. "OOooh", she says. "Are you in television?"

At that moment I'd been given a glimpse of their perception - what type of people they're used to seeing in that town, and that I clearly must not look like that. I'm wearing jeans and a t-shirt, but I have a nice long coat on, and my hair is highlighted and flat-ironed. I'm clearly mediterranean looking. While I've always thought of myself as one step away from white trash, I must not look like it. At least to them I look like I could be on TV. Strange. I'm pretty sure that if I was in the television business, I wouldn't be eating at this disgusting diner, as much as I loved it. The eggs were cooked just right, the potatoes had the right greasiness, and the english muffin was perfectly cooked. Even the little jam packs they give you weren't all dried out and congealed.

And so far, no food poisoning.

I hope I don't suck.

I have a gig at Cornell U. tonight. A full show by myself, and I don't have to tell you that's it's been a loooooooooooong time since I did a full 2-hour solo show. And have I practiced? Are you mad? With all these summonses I'm buried in? I think not. Work work work work. All work and no practice makes Bitter a bad folksinger.

Anyway, I'm outta here for the weekend. Two gigs. And for once, really good money. 'Bout frickin' time. Er...that's my way of saying, "Gee thanks, universe, for validating my passion with abundance because I really deserve it!"

It's a small world, after all...

One of the women who works in Kelly's clinic happens to live with a guy I went to Grammar school with. He wasn't in my class, but his sister Brenda was. Brenda was this really pretty girl who always acted snooty, even though she lived in the same white trash neighborhood as the rest of us. We always knew Brenda would use what she had to get what she wanted, namely using her beauty to snag a filthy rich husband. She brings her snooty dog to the clinic wearing a mink coat, and I wonder what the poodle thinks when she's wearing it: "Mon dieu! Eef I don't behave, madame weel make ze muff out uf me!" But really, I digress.

This same woman who works in the clinic also happens to be BEST FRIENDS with another woman I went to grammar school with. Her brother Jack and I were in the same class. The irony of it all is that Jack was the boy I supposedly had a crush on in 6th grade. I distinctly remember all the girls naming the boys they had crushes on, then they looked at me. I'm all like a deer in the headlights! I couldn't very well say that my heart was set on Mary Ellen Varrenti, could I? It was Catholic school, for god's sake! It was 1975!!! So I was quick on my feet and picked Jack, because nobody liked him or had dibs on him, and he sat at my table anyway. He was convenient. Of course, all the girls said "eeewww" because Jack was considered gross.

So then I had to pretend that I had a crush on him, and the girls would pressure me to talk to him, or go somewhere with him, or just do all that obnoxious, annoying girl stuff you're supposed to do to snare a guy, and Jack just avoided me, thank god. I decided the best course of action was to pick a girl to whom I could confide and ask advice about how to get Jack to like me, so they'd think I was at least trying. The girl I picked? Mary Ellen Varrenti, of course!

I didn't have to pee in anyone's baptismal jacuzzi

Had a great weekend with Mary Simon. We love her. Met her mom and family. All very nice. The gig went well - kind of weird though. I only did 5-6 songs, but everyone sat there with their arms crossed and not moving a muscle. I figured, well they're younger people, and my music style appeals to an older crowd, so whatever, that's okay. They'll perk up for Mary.

So Mary gets up with her band and rocks the house (or the church as it were) and they all....sat there with their arms crossed not moving a muscle. Hmmm...

But she sold 30 CDs! Whoa! Me? I sold 3.

I didn't sing Kiss That Boy or Tasted Like Ice Cream, as I thought they might stone me, then stone Mary for associating with me, but I must say, people were very nice.

It's strange at times, being both a Christian AND a lesbian, because I have to be closeted to each about the other. If I tell gay people I'm a Christian, they blow a gasket, and if I tell Christian people I'm gay, they freak out. Sometimes. I'm speaking in generalities though, because I've met many Christians (like Mary, and the guy who produced my CD, and his wife, and the guys who played on my CD, and...) who are devout Christians but don't care that I'm gay. They understand that even if they have a moral issue with it, my life actions are between me and God, and not me and some jerk waving a bible in my face. Anyway, I have a unique perspective on God and Jesus and what it means to be Christian, and I'm into all that metaphysical shit, too. But I digress. Some day I'll post my god manifesto.

Mary and I had an interesting conversation about the night, because here I was nervous about singing "out" songs to a Christian audience, and she's nervous about singing Christian songs to a bar crowd. Go figure.

The next morning Mary and I went to her church, where she does the music for the contemporary service, and they had a guest preacher there who just blew me away. Not only did he present an inspiring message, he was an amazing speaker. After, we went to East Side Mario's for lunch and good canadian beer, then off I went.

Did I mention we love Mary?

Too Busy To Blog

I have been so frickin' busy. Not even listening to the radio or TV, so I don't even have a rant, which is okay because truth be told I haven't been as aggravated. But that's not the point of my post today.

The point is just to say I'm going to Toronto. No, not to get married. Because God knows I can't do that here. But I digress. I'm doing a gig with Mary Simon. She's doing her CD release even though she has a sore throat.

The gig is in a church. We'll see if the walls come crashing down when this "abomination" crosses the threshold of his house. Even though I am a Christian.

I'm sure the Border Patrol will be a more formidable foe than any homophobic Christian!

Peace, peeps!

Happy Saturday

Here is my Anti-Valentine's Day Hiaku, © 2003 by Bitter.

High Coup

Dumb hetero girls
Pussywhip their nice boyfriends
On Valentine's Day

Buy them some flowers
Or they'll hold it against you
The rest of the year

What if he's decent
Two-four-seven, three-six-five?
It doesn't matter

Get used to it, boys
This is the way it will be
The rest of your lives.
_____________________________

That being said, there's one reason to celebrate St. Valentine, the Roman priest.

Emperor Claudius believed that he was having trouble getting men to go to war because they did not want to leave their lovers and families. He also believed a married man made a bad soldier, since they perhaps would not fight to the death. For this he banned marriages. St. Valentine, believing this an unjust law, secretly married people. For this he was arrested, jailed, and executed.

St. Valentine should be the patron saint of gay people everywhere, who are unjustly prevented from marrying. We can relate to this history.

And as a second thought, remember when black people we not allowed to marry white people? Just a reminder.

I have nothing to say.

Just checking in. In a fit of Virgo Moon hysterica (last week) I've been really busy rearranging my office and am now wading through piles and piles of crap that have been sitting here... well, piling up waiting for my attention. Which I gave it. Which of course means I haven't had sex all week because I've been here instead of...there. Not that you care.

See what happens when I actually plan a task and stick to it? I don't read the paper or see the news or any of those other things that cause me to erupt like a whitehead on a teenager's face. Those teeny little details of life in America that make me so totally mental because I lack tolerance for just about everything stupid and annoying, which much in America is. No media, no rant. Which is fine. I've been a little tired lately anyway, and have enjoyed the feeling of not having my stomach in a knot.

I remind myself of HotHead Paisan, the Homocidal Lesbian Terrorist, who is so burnt out by the media's constant bombardment of images reminding her of everyday injustice in the world that she occasionally loses it, packs her guns and grenades, and with her sidekick cat "Chicken" in tow, they go on a rampage and make things right with the world again. Ah. My heroine. I miss Hothead, as they are no longer making that comic 'zine. But I have everyone of them. Perhaps it's time to read them again.

So let that be a lesson to me. Turn off the TV and perhaps two things will happen: 1) I will catch up on work and maybe even book a tour, and 2) I may even become nice.

Thoughts on the Grammies

-No, we didn't win in the polka category.
-Kudos to Patti Labelle for dropping Janet Jackson's name during the segment from which Janet was dis-invited.
-I can NOT believe Justin Timberlake won best male performance in the pop category. His mother looks like a putana and I'm pretty sure he's sleeping with her.
-I had to laugh when Latifah, introducing Christina Aguilera, said "Sometimes it's not about the spectacle", then Christina appears onstage with a full choir, full orchestra, and stage smoke. She gave a great performance though. But she should have been arrested for crimes against fashion for that hideous dress she was wearing when she accepted her award.
-Beyonce is my new hero. What an amazing, unique and beautiful performance she gave, and she's classy to boot, not like all these other tramps and harlots.
-What an insult to Chick Corea and Arturo Sandoval to be matched with the Foo Fighters and Justin, respectively and be made to play down to their levels. I mean, asking Chick Corea to play over G, Em, and D chords? He could fart those changes.
-Yay to Sarah McLachlan and Alison Krauss together.
-I would have LOVED to see the diva hissy fit Celine Dion (a/k/a the anti-christ) threw about the sound problems after her performance.
-I loved the whole segment Samuel L. Jackson did as the preacher of funk, with Earth Wind and Fire.
-Yoko Ono needs to eat something. And she needs to drop the accent, she's been in this country for 40 years already. And she needs to be bitch-slapped, on general principle.
-Madonna. I still can't figure out why I like her. Whatever.
-I have no idea what happened after 11:00, as I stopped watching after that, because I had to go home and I was pretty drunk by then, having consumed many shots of rum and a couple of beers, because it's the only way I can get through this obnoxious parade of no-talents winning awards for excellence they don't possess, while talented artists rot in coffeehouses.
-No, we didn't win in the polka category.

I'm not a TV lesbian, but I play one in real life...

I know I'm a lesbo, but please shoot me real dead if ever:

1) I become a golfer.
2) I can name the current top-seeded female tennis player.
3) I hang a Georgia O'Keefe print on my wall.
4) Or for that matter one of those insipid Anne Geddes baby photos.
5) I vote for Hillary Clinton.
6) I go camping for fun.
7) Or for that matter I think Michigan is a great idea for a vacation.
8) I think Cris Williamson is the end-all, be-all of "women's music".
9) I think that the L-Word is great television.
10) Or for that matter I arrange my schedule to watch any of these obnoxious "gay" shows whereby every extreme stereotype is paraded into American living rooms, even though I've spent my whole life fighting to convince America that they are only stereotypes and do not accurately portray the gay community as a whole, and even though real life gay people who exhibit these stereotypes have been oppressed, bashed and murdered because of them.

I rest my frickin' case.

Janet Jackson has been "dis-invited" to the Grammy Awards this Sunday, but Justin Timberlake's performance will go on.

Fuck those fucking misogynist fuckers

Men have been looking at girlie magazines since they were 12. They go to tittie bars and pay stupid amounts of money to watch a bimbo dance and stick dollars in her g-string. They pay for sex. They go to porn shops and go into video arcades and adult movies, all for a glimpse of female skin. This is no secret to anyone in the universe who has two brain cells to rub together.

And now eveyone's gonna implode because they saw a speck of a half-covered tit for a jillionth of a second.

And let me just say this: "Costume malfunction" my fat ass. "Accident" my left ovary. Why was she wearing the pastie then?

That being said, I'm here to say that Janet Jackson is a chickenshit wimp. Because if she wasn't, she'd be having a press conference to say, "Look, assholes. Kid Rock was singing about cocaine and crack and methodone. Nelly grabbed his prick the entire time he was on stage. One of the advertisers was a pharmaceutical company hawking an impotency pill that specifically mentioned "erections". And y'all are gonna single me out as inappropriate? Nobody minds that my male dancers had their nipples to the wind. My nipple was covered. Why is the male breast viewable in public and not the female breast? Because we have overly sexualized views about what exactly the female breast represents and what it's purpose is. It is archaic and we need to start changing our perverted thinking about women's bodies."

Not one of those half-time acts was appropriate for a "family-viewing" audience. So why is she being singled out?

Do I have to spell it out for you?

Because she's a W-O-M-A-N.

Do you really need a rodent to tell you when spring is coming?

Now, really, people. Who among us anxiously awaits the silly goings-on in Pennsylvania, pacing the frozen floor like a father in the maternity waiting room, wondering if the stupid ground hog saw his shadow or not? Whether that pampered creature saw it is irrelevant, if in fact ground hogs are even AFRAID of shadows. And how do we know he actually sees it? Does a pea-brained burrowing animal even know what a shadow is?

Just go look at your frickin' calendar and count the weeks between now and the Spring Equinox. Oh, look at that, just about six weeks away, isn't it?

Don't those morons in Pennsylvania have anything more exciting to do down there than play with what should be roadkill anyway?

One ground hog stew, coming up!

Whew!

Well, it's over! Two CD release concerts out of the way. What a relief! And they went so well, too. The Buffalo show had about 125 people and we rocked! My pals were there and they were screaming and whooping and hollering. Made almost 600 bucks at the door plus CD sales. Of course, that's gross - had to pay the expenses, split it with Mary, then pay the band, which left me....40 bucks! Woo hoo!

Then the Rochester shows went really well, too. Lost money there at the door, but made a good chunk on CD sales. And MY BAND ROCKED SO HARD!!! They were awesome. It's the best I ever heard my drummer play. After the Rochester show we had to tear down the entire system - I brought my own sound system, plus all our gear, and by the time I got home, I was so fucking tired I was stupid. Dropped a few things off at home, then Kelly put me in her car and brought me to her house. Turns out when I left my house I had left the water faucet running in the bathroom, and my mom found it when she got home. Told you, stupid tired. No damage done.

I slept until noon on Saturday, then went home for awhile. Went back to Kelly's later on to watch a movie which I fell asleep during, because I was still so tired. But by Sunday I was a new woman. Relaxed, rested, and not a bitter feeling in sight. Because for a brief moment in time, my dreams had come true: I was playing with a great band to large, appreciative audiences and making money doing it. I was feeling the love.

More, please!

Bipolar Blog

Okay, peeps! The time has arrived! Three concerts in two days. We're talking CD Release Party, baby! Got some damn good press in Buffalo and Rochester. Check it out:

From City News:

Leah Zicari is simply amazing. Not in a high-wire thrill-jockey kind of way, but in her simplicity and beauty. Her voice is clear and soft, and she really knows her way around the guitar neck.

There are a million people with guitars and something to say. But most of us wallow in mediocrity. Most of us aren't lucky enough to be as self-aware as Zicari, to live in wide-eyed wonder. Zicari successfully attacks love, loss, and redemption. But it's when she sings of the sweetness of a crush that she truly strikes a chord. "When you grabbed me and sealed me with that awesome kiss/that tasted like ice cream/and it seemed like high school/and I couldn't feel anything/except your lips as we kissed/and they tasted like ice cream," she sings on "Tasted Like Ice Cream". Remember when kisses still felt like that?

--- Frank De Blase

And check out these links:

Best of WNY
Best of WNY Music

And we got coverage in the Buffalo News Gusto section last Friday, The Artvoice last Thursday, and supposedly the Democrat & Chronicle tomorrow. Then the March or April issue of Buffalo Spree.

Now I have to back it all up. Can't suck. Must rock. We'll see what the hell happens.

Has anybody seen my soul?

I had it here......uhhh... Hm. Somewhere.

Did you ever have an important piece of paper in your hand and two minutes later you realize it's not in your hand anymore. And since you have no recollection of putting it down you have no idea where to look. So you look everywhere and you just can't find it. It's kind of like that.

Description: Gives off a blazing yellow light, emits lots of warmth. Filled with optimistic hopes and dreams. Last seen wearing Faith, Love, and Compassion. Goes by the name of "Happy". Deeply missed by heartbroken owner.

Reward.

I have to accept what?

I'm told the key to happiness is accepting where you are in life. And who you are. Accept what? A mediocre life? A life of bitter disappointments and failures? Accept that I haven't written a hit song, or got the big record deal, that the most people I've ever drawn in an audience is 65? That I'll never be a sideman to a great performer or teach the next Segovia? Accept that I won't do great research, invent something important, save people's lives, save animals lives, solve a famous crime, write a bestselling novel, try a precedent-setting case? Accept that if it wasn't for my mother I'd be living on the street? Accept that the only success I ever really had was as a process server? Woo hoo. I'm sure that was God's great plan for me.

Accept that in another couple of years I'll make a really great receptionist somewhere.

Yeah, that'll be an easy pill to swallow.

The Great American Circle Jerk

At least that's what I think about State of the Fill-in-the-blank speeches.

Some forked-tongued politician is wearing a dark suit and a red tie and he gets up and talks about how swell things are in the city/state/country, pulling on his prick the whole time trying to sway everyone into believing that his way of jerking off is the better way, and all the members of the party he belongs to jerks themselves off in agreement.

In the meantime, the frustrated opposing party waits for the subsequent rebuttal to which THEY can jerk off, because they believe that the way THEY jerk off is better, and besides, why should the ruling party get to have all the fun?

Certainly it is nothing to pre-empt "24" for, dammit.

I must be losing my edge.

Because except for Tuesday's rant on my HMO, it has been a rant-free week. What gives?

Sure, I have PLENTY to say about Bush's latest pandering political move on immigration, but really, why bother? When the supposed "Anti-Terrorism" President opens up the borders to a country that won't even take care of it's own people, and will gladly throw them out like yesterday's trash to become the USA's problem, just because he (mistakenly) thinks it will wrest Hispanic votes away from the Dems, what's my bitching going to matter? If Dubya Dumbass can't see the writing on the wall, well, who am I to give him a magnifying glass?

I'll just write a letter to him anyway. And send a general bitch to my Congressassholes and Senabores.

Like I said, losing my edge.

But maybe I'm not losing my edge?

Because I did just go on the rampage against a company in Washington State that pissed me off.

The short story is I purchases a service on an internet website and what they delivered is not at all what they said I was getting. When I called them to request a refund of my $14.95 the customer service rep, in a nutshell, insulted me, accused me of committing fraud, and hung up on me!

After disputing the charge with my credit card company and getting my money back, I then made up documentation detailing each page of my transaction (copied right from the website) and a complete explanation proving how the website was unclear and made it look like I was getting what they promised, but did not deliver. I made a couple of copies and sent one to The Better Business Beareau of Washington State. I also filed a formal complaint with the Washington State Attorney General's Office (with my documentation attached). I then copied the Attorney General's complaint with my documentation and sent one to EACH of the company's officers and members of the board of directors.

1) NEVER accuse me of any wrongdoing or illegality.
2) NEVER insult my intelligence.
3) NEVER hang up on me.
4) NEVER fuck with me. Because I know people. And if I don't know people, I know the right avenues to take to fuck you back. Hard.

Great News for Whom???

I got my Health Insurance Newsletter the other day and on the front page it exclaims:

GREAT NEWS!!! $0 copays effective Jan. 1!

So I read the fine print, as this cynic always does: $0 co-pays for Pediatric Visits, Generic Contraceptives, and Materinity Inpatient care.

Do we see the common thread here?

OH, COMMUNITY BLUE! THANK YOU SO MUCH! Once again I get to pay for heterosexual people and other people's children!! Wow. What great news, indeed!!

Look, I ain't got nuthin' against people having children, I'm just sick of paying for them, that's all. I never had children by choice, yet everyday I spend money on them. My taxes pay for public schools, WIC, DCF, Child Support Enforcement, Head Start, etc. etc., and now this. If people want to have children, by all means, but pay for them yourselves. Instead my premiums, which just went up 22% last month, are going to pay for benefits that I will never need. About the only thing I don't mind paying for here is the Contraceptives: It's cheaper to pay for that than the inevitable ensuing child. But still - I should pay for contraceptives that I'll never use, nor have ever needed?

I want someone to pay for my cat bills now.

One of the best birthdays ever.

Wow, what a great day! And so romantical.

Well, it all started early in the morning. And by early I mean 10:00 a.m. Because I am a nightowl and insomniac and musician, so don't question it. All of a sudden I'm waking up because Kelly was crawlin' in my bed to say "Happy Birthday" and give me a smooch. She had to leave soon for an appointment, so when I walked her out, there was a huge vase of roses, all arranged with baby's breath and all the usual flowery stuff. Very beautiful.

Well I had a few things to do, so I met up with Kelly at 2:00. As soon as I got there she said "Happy Birthday!", and in fact, said it to me all day long. She poured some champagne and gave me presents: Jewel's 2nd CD, Spirit, and a CD player/receiver for my car to replace my broken radio.

Skipping ahead a bit, because you all don't get to know EVERYTHING, we went tubing! As in careening head first on a slippery object gliding over icey snow hoping you stop in time before you hit the trees and die on the same day you were born. Hank the cool dog came with us. We went back to Kelly's and hopped in the hot tub for awhile. AAHHHHH!

Then I went home to get properly dressed for dinner. We went to this fancy-schmancy Italian restaurant, complete with a toupeed dude playing loungey piano music. Very swanky. Here's my fancy-schmancy dinner: Pork Balsamico:

Followed by dessert, which was, of course, chocolate cake. The biggest piece ya ever did see:

Wouldn't YOU like a taste of this cake???

Then we went to a club where my buddy Mary Simon was supposed to be playing, but she never made it into town because of the snow. So we had a beer and left. Kelly dropped me off and tucked me in, and gave me my last gift, which I ain't telling you what it was, because it's very personal, getcher minds outta the gutter, because it was something she said that put a few big chinks in the armor of this aching, steely heart of mine.

Special Birthday Preparations!

1) Shower ...check.
2) Shave...paying special attention to the pubes that grow from the bikini line to the MCL...check
3) Bleach mustache...check
4) Tweeze eyebrows...ouch....check.
5) Tweeze beard...ouch!!...check.
6) Tweeze tits ... OUCH!!.... check.
7) Shave toes. Ew....check.
8) Check bush for alien crop circles...check.
9) Eradicate alien crops circles and trim bush...check.
10) Clip toenails...check.


Sing it with me now!! "If you think I'm sexy and you really need me....I'm too sexy for this car, too sexy for this shirt, too sexy for this blog..."

Stupid blogger can't tell time.

Because even though my settings are for the EAST COAST, blogger still posted that last one on west coast time, making it look like I don't even know my own birthdate.

A Special Birthday Rant

Not that this rant is any more special than any of them, it's just that it is now officially my birthday, and that is very special!

Now on to the rant du jour:

Taking a page from the Bill Clinton playbook - who taught us that if you look into the camera, cry and say I'm sorry, then all will be forgiven - is Pete Rose. But I think Bill Clinton may have learned that from Jimmy Swaggert. But I digress. Hard to tell one adulterous liar from another....

How transparent is Pete's sudden confession? For 15 years he's been lying through his teeth, even though the evidence against him was STAGGERING, and he was found guilty in a court of law for TAX EVASION because he didn't declare all that money he won on bets.

But now, less than one year before he is completely ineligible for the Hall of Fame (players are ineligible after they've been retired 20 years), and on the EVE of the Hall of Fame voting, he comes clean. As if. To quote a certain person who claims not to like the spotlight, even though she has THREE PLANETS IN LEO IN THE 10TH HOUSE, "He's such a pompous, egotistical, self- righteous asshole. He's not sorry for anything, he's just sorry he got caught."

Amen, sister.

[Aside: Perhaps it's that Saturn in Capricorn in the third house that makes her not want to be quoted in a public forum...]

Back to our regularly scheduled rant...

And can we say "BOOK DEAL"? He's gonna make a fortune on this book, so he HAD to admit it, or nobody would buy the book. Who'd buy it knowing he was just gonna keep telling the same lie?

Pete: "I can't suddenly say I've been lying all this time. I have to stick to my story."
Publisher: "Your book and life are boring. You have to create controversy so people will buy the book. They don't have to LIKE it. They just have to PAY for it."

What a fucking jerk. Let's hope the commissioner has some balls and sticks to the lifetime ban, if for no other reason but to punish him for being so obvious in his attempt to manipulate the system and his fans, knowing that public pressure is a strong force. But what does Bud Selig have to worry about? He's not up for re-election to any office. Who cares if baseball fans get pissed at him? They'll still buy their tickets and he'll still have a job.

The Bitch Is Back!

I must be feeling better, because I'm ranting again. I feel another rant coming on soon, but today I'll just talk about My Clueless Mother, god bless her. For the benefit of new readers, I moved in with my mom a few years back when my partner of eight years had herself a little ol' affair on me.

Recently good ol' mom says to me, "You spend alot of time at Kelly's and she never comes here. How come?" Stating the obvious I said, "Well, Kelly lives alone and I live with you." "Oh, Leah, I don't mind if your friends come over. It won't bother me." Did she really say that? Does she really not get it? "Well, it's more private over there, mom." And I swear she said this: "What do you need privacy for?"

My poor clueless mother.

So today she says, "What are you doing on Thursday?" (In case y'all forgot, Thursday's my birthday...) "Kelly's taking me out for my birthday. Dinner, theater, Monty's..." Mama says "Well, that's the evening, what about during the day?" So I says "I'm spending the whole day with her, mom." And I swear she asked this: "What are you going to be doing during the day?"

Jebus, do I have to spell it out for her?

I'M GETTING MY BIRTHDAY FUCK, MOM!!!!

Please save us from ourselves!!

Once again, thanks to MORONS, the government has stepped in to protect us from ourselves. I'm speaking of the ban on Ephedra. Now, I ain't no doctor or nuthin', and I don't take diet drugs (obviously), and I don't have heart problems (yet), but even I know that ephedra is bad for your heart. Assuming one knows how to READ and reads the NEWSPAPER once in awhile, how can someone NOT know that Ephedra can be bad for your heart?

Shouldn't this kind of thing be regulated by, oh say...medical people? Why can't the FDA decide to control this drug, then make the use of it between YOU and YOUR DOCTOR, even if your doctor says "This is a horrible drug, don't ever use it, nobody should ever use it, it should be banned".

But why, prithee, is it now banned? It is blamed for something like 150-ish deaths (according to a news story I heard the other day). Fewer than die in plane crashes each year. Fewer than those who got SARS, fewer than those who have ever died from the FLU. So why are we hysterical about it now?

Because some sports-dude shmuck croaked from it. Not your grandmother or your daughter or your cousin. Not even your anorexic sister, who reads Cosmo and Young Miss and hates how she looks. Nope. Hail the almighty, deified sports icon and hero, the second coming of the good lord Jesus himself, who's a man's man and plays a manly, all-american sport like baseball, even if he is a half-wit who popped a drug without learning about it first (or ignored the dangers). Suddenly we should all give a shit, because your government leaders do now.

Where were the government leaders when Joe Schmoe was dying? Taking really nice kickbacks and campaign contributions from the companies who manufacture Ephedra, that's where. Busy passing laws that say we can't hold a cell phone while driving (even though we can talk into it or talk to a passenger). Busy telling us we can't smoke in our own homes. Making sure we're wearing our seat belts and motorcycle helmets. Because we're stupid and we don't know any better.

Not only is big brother watching you, he's holding your hand.