One of these videos is from last summer.  The other is what I found on my computer screen when I got up this morning.





My kids are so weird.

First off, I wish they'd separate writing and poetry.  They aren't the same.  I'm not one much for poetry.  Blargh.  Sappy nonsense.

I mopped the kitchen floor this morning.  The contractor finally finished it -- 6" white tiles laid offset like bricks.  Now, when its clean it actually LOOKS clean.  *swoon*  Its still damp but the hot coffee is on the other side of the kitchen so I had to dig out some clean socks so I could go refill without leaving size 11 bare footprints across the floor.

I'm listening to Gary Pfaff really loudly.  He's my newest musical crush.  Actually, this is my second go-round on crushing on him, this time stronger than the last.  I saw him at the Loft last fall and was impressed but then moved on.  I saw him again Saturday night and now I'm flat smitten.  In fact, maybe a tad more than Eureka Gold, which makes me regret not getting on the ball and finishing that article when it was fresh.  Dammit.

I'm so ADHD.  I have all this writing rolling around in my head and I can't seem to focus to get it all out.  Maybe if I snuck some of Will's adderol? 

Gary writes music for grownups.  And by grownups, I mean people like me -- thirtysomethings with lives and families and real responsibilities -- able to put on our grownup suits when necessary but yet not quite willing to own adulthood -- the ones that blast Offspring in our minivans (tho we got rid of the minivan -- yechk!) and think its funny when small children sing 'Give it to me baby! Uh huh!  Uh huh!'.  His songs are a mix of power ballads and high-energy booty-shaking country-blues grooves.  I was so sore from dancing on Sunday.  I might be getting too old for the marathon drinking and dancing and hiking and biking weekends, but I'm not ready to give them up. 

Anyway, back to subject.  Gary has this high energy blend of music, but that isn't the real draw.  Or at least not the only real draw.  I dig his writing.  He seems to be coming from the same place where I live.  Some people write what they think a perfect pop song ought to be and their lyrics smack of falsehood.  For instance, I really do love the Los Lonely Boys' first album (man those guys can play!) but you can tell that whomever is writing for them hasn't ever really been in love and doesn't know what real relationships are like.  Some people tell other people's stories in a way that allows you to get inside that character's head.  Marshall Ruffin does that -- he is quite the bard but I have never heard him sing anything that allows me inside HIS head or gives me a picture of HIS life.  Other folks write about themselves, their lives, their feelings, their relationships, and it shows.  John Mayer, Ben Taylor, Sonia Leigh, Ben Deignan, Jason Mraz -- when you listen, really listen, to their music, you know they are telling you the things in their hearts.  It may not be your experience, but you know that these words are very real to them.

Gary writes about his life in a way that makes me think he and I have the same marriage, the same life (to an extent, of course).  I would guess from his writing that he and his wife are both stubborn, prideful, temper-tantrumatic, passionate, flawed individuals who are madly in love and committed to their relationship and their kids.  And it would seem that at least Gary likes to cut loose and raise hell when he gets the chance.  I know what that feels like!

I got a chance to hang out with him and the band between sets on Saturday.  We had a long conversation.  I feel like we are friends, but I know we aren't that familiar.  I'm not sure if he's like that with all fans or just the self-proclaimed music journalists who talk like they really get music.

I was going somewhere with this, but I forgot.  I think I need more coffee and will come back to it later.

Ok -- more work in progress.

Gary's studio stuff is definitely top notch, but his true strength is performance.  On stage, he and his band seem like super-human area rock gods.  The dude is 6'3" anyway, and that's without his signature cowboy boots.  Harry looked like a midget standing next to him when we were outside talking.  They seem to draw energy out of the crowd and create the feeling of being at one huge party. 

My favorite song in their live repatoir is a dirty, gritty, rockin' blues tune called 'Mississippi Streets'.  Like I said, the studio version is nice but the live version is nothing short of an experience all in and of itself.  First off, he's got the audience all stomping and clapping just as hard and loud as they can and all that resonates against the hardwood floors of the Loft and makes the whole place shake.  Secondly, there's the trick he does with the beer bottle.  He picks it up, slams down whatever is left in the bottle, flips it upside down, and then uses it for a slide on the neck of his guitar -- all in one fluid motion.  It's friggin amazing.  Totally Rock Star.

As I write I am watching a combined 200 pounds of sleeping dog.  All is quiet in the Frickinheiney house.  Cheyenne and Moneypenny are sleeping on the floor and Angus is taking up half of the couch.  I wish my camera weren't broken.  I'd love to share a picture.

Angus is a lovely dog.  He is huge but sweet and gentle.  He does well on a leash, sits, lays, stays, takes treats pretty.  He has a few quirks though.  He has terrible separation/crate anxiety.  He freaks out every time I leave him -- particularly if I leave him in the crate, but considering a few of his other quirks, that's the way it has to be right now. 

He likes to stand on things -- things like end tables, dining room table (imagine walking into the room and seeing a giant pitt-mastiff standing on your dining room table!), coffee table, dining room chairs.  Last night Harry was too busy to come eat that brilliant dinner that I made for him with the rest of the family.  His plate was sitting at the table as I got up to put my empty plate in the sink.  I walked back by the table and Angus was sitting in my chair, across the table from the untouched plate of food, looking longingly, but not making a move towards it.  He was, however, making a wetspot on the seat cushion with his steady stream of drool.
 
His other quirk is, I suspect, the fault of his previous owner.  Angus is the most gentle dog I've ever seen, with one caveat -- he turns into an aggressive (playfully) MONSTER when he jumps on my bed.  He even bites!  (Or more correctly, he 'mouths' us with an appropriate amount of mouth-pressure -- he doesn't hurt us.)  But regardless of whether or not his mouthing hurts, I don't like it!  I'm a tad annoyed at the irresponsible poop that owned him before for allowing that sort of play! 

Today we go to the trainer at PetSmart for an evaluation and I will talk with her about these quirks and how to remedy them. 

Tonight for dinner we are having a chile rellenos casserole and then I am headed downtown for the Rivertown Showdown -- a weekly competition series for local songwriters.  Most of the contestants are uh....how do I put this nicely...washed up aging folkie wannabes who really need to hang on to their dayjobs for dear life and/or get dayjobs if they don't have them already.  But within this pile of severe mediocrity (is that an oxymoron? severe mediocrity?) one occasionally finds a rare gem.  Last week -- or was it week before last? -- there was a blues-guitar playing gospel singing lady who blew my mind.  Who knows what I will find tonight. 

I am brewing an article in my head about three artists who competed in the last series.  They didn't win, but they shoulda.  I will post it as it comes along.  You won't comment on it though.  You never do.  Ya big buncha poops!

Speaking of poops, I'm gonna go eat a yogurt.  That's all for now.

I just made the bestest chicken of my life.  Really.  The best.  I can't imagine any fried concoction ever being more satisfying on the greasy-salty chickeny goodness scale -- and it weighs in at about half the fat (each wrapped cutlet having about 7 g fat) of a boneless, skinless fried chicken cutlet and about a third the fat of a KFC original chicken breast. 

Check this out:

2-pound pkg frozen chicken breast cutlets
4-oz pkg mild bleu cheese crumbles
12 oz pkg bacon
+/- 2 T each finely chopped Italian parsley and chives
Salt and pepper

Blot each cutlet dry and pound thin with a rolling pin or wine bottle (or something) between layers of plastic wrap.

Sprinkle each cutlet with about 1/2 oz (approx an eighth of the package) bleu cheese crumbles, a teaspoon or so of herbs, and salt and pepper.

Roll cutlet starting at short side and wrap with one piece of bacon.

Place cutlets in pan with plenty of space between.  (In a 9x11 pan, you can put four on one side and four on the other and have room o'plenty.)

Bake about 40 minutes in 425 degree oven.

Yummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.

I served this with oven roast asparagus and oven roast garlic fingerling potatoes.  Both of those items are ridiculously simple and bake at the same temp.  The taters take just a few minutes less time than the chicken so that frees up an oven rack for the asparagus and by the time it is done, your chicken should be too.

And even my kids snarfed this one down!  Bleu cheese and all.

My free 30 day trial of Word expired and now I can't open a new document·  Dammit!  I'm either going to have to find someone to pirate it from or give some of my (meaning Harry's) hard earned money to Microsoft.  That burns my butt!  Now I have to hammer out my new stuff here on Myspace.  Guess that means I will be blogging regularly again.

I'm working on a piece with short profiles of four bands from Nashville that have played here recently, including the Coal Men, tho I have already written and published a full cd review on them.  Here's what I have so far --

(BTW -- Ben Deignan LOVED the review I wrote about him.  He was pretty tickled that mine was the first full review of his debut cd and said he was going to frame the article.  We went to his cd release party at Hard Rock in Atlanta and he introduced me to his agent and parents.  How cool is that shit?)

Yesterday was a good day.  After school, Sam and I went up to the no-kill shelter here in town to look at dogs.  We both felt an immediate attraction to a 2 year old pit-mastiff-moose mix -- 100 pounds and still looking slightly undernourished, gorgeous brindle boy with a head the size of a dinner plate.  He is truly a gentle giant.  He knows sit and lay and shake.  He takes treats nicely, drops toys on command, allows me to put hands over his eyes and hold his mouth closed, and while very friendly does not seem to be a jumper.  He seems sooooooo affectionate and sweet.

Over dinner, we excitedly reported our findings to the rest of the family who all responded with appropriate enthusiasm.  We went to bed last night with plans to take the whole family out this evening, including our neurotic basset-Jack Russell, Miss Moneypenny, to meet the beast and see how we all got along.

Upon waking this morning, I discovered that the local pit rescue had FINALLY responded to my adoption application.  The adult male I was originally interested in is no longer available, but would I be interested in a 5-month-old brindle male?  (Pictures attached.)  The little boy's face looks SO much like my Linus!  It brought all the maternal longing right back and I admit that I shed tears.





I mulled it over all day, forwarded the email with attached photos to Harry, and discussed the options with the children.  Then we went to the shelter to do meet-and-greet with the monster.  The children are smitten.  Moneypenny is unimpressed but doesn't seem too bothered.  (We were a tad afraid she'd get aggressive and end up being a snack for the powerful thing, but when MP showed one small sign of aggression, Big Pussy turned his head and backed down.) 

The kids, Will especially as he is the one that let Linus out that awful night, are afraid of owning another puppy just yet -- they are scared a pup similar to Linus would suffer a similar fate.  Also, Will argued, that this adorable puppy would easily find a new home and someone to love him like we loved Linus.  He pointed out (smart kid this one) that older, bigger dogs aren't as cute as puppies and have a harder time finding forever homes.  Harry agreed and I got overruled.

Tomorrow I go back to finish the paper work and pay the adoption fee and Big Dog (most likely Angus) is ours.  We will pick him up Monday as Harry and I are headed out to Atlanta on Saturday for an overnight trip.  (Going to the Ben Deignan CD Release Party at Hard Rock Cafe.  Can't wait!  Got my Sexy Black Dress all ready.)  I should be happy!  Right?

I just finished a nice long email to the pit rescue sadly declining their offer of gorgeous pup, but asking them to keep us in mind for the future as we fully intend to get a pit pup someday when time seems more suiting.  Sending that email was maybe me letting go of a chance to pick back up where I left off with Linus.  I don't think a day has gone by since the accident that I haven't gotten all misty eyed at least once.  I just don't see myself loving this new dog as much as Linus.  Not anywhere near even.  So I'm sad.

But still kinda happy.

When Dog arrives home, I will post pictures.  He is a beautiful monster.

This may perhaps be a bit over the top, but I'm going to risk personal embarrassment and submit it for publishing anyway.

PS -- I don't know why it posted like lines of poetry, but I kind of like the way that looks for a blog.  Oh well.

....................

Ben Deignan

Ladies, let me be bluntly honest with you.  Ben Deignan is not Mr. Sensitive.  Ben Deignan does not want to be your BFF.  Ben Deignan does not want to settle down, grow
old together, or watch your grandchildren frolic in the yard.  If his self-titled debut album is any
indication, Ben Deignan wants to make you walk funny in the morning.  (You know, from all the dancing, because this
is a family newspaper.)  This
just-released disk is a hormone-fueled collection of songs about love, loss,
lust, and cheating – generally with him rather than on him – laid down over rhythms
that will slide down your spine like some kind of super-funky-groovy epidural
and make your hips take on a life of their own, and perhaps inspire a girl to grab
the nearest dance partner and move against him/her/it in ways that are
downright shameless.

This talented young man recently played The Loft with his
band, Suburban Soul and never have I found a genre to be so succinctly
described by the name of a band!  These white
kids throw a contemporary spin on the classic R&B and soul vibe.  They remind me of Jamiroquai with some of
that Georgia sweet tea thrown in for seasoning. 
When performing live they do a healthy mix of originals and covers, the
likes of Stevie Wonder, Marvin Gaye, Rhianna, the Police, Kanye West, and even
Michael Jackson.  His performances embody
the feel of a really rockin’ disco party.  
He exudes intense energy from the stage and incorporates just enough
loungy cheesiness to the lyrics he is moaning out to the audience in a husky
bedroom voice that you know he is having as much fun up there as you are from your
spot down on the dance floor. 

Listening to the disk at home (over and over and over and
over) brings that same vibe right into my living room.  A few days ago while listening to the track ‘Sexy
Black Dress’, a gritty,  blues-guitar
driven lament over an ex-girlfriend flaunting her new lover in front of him
just for spite, I found myself shakin’ my booty while cooking.  Lines like ‘You’ve got a lot of nerve to
think that I’m just gonna sit back – but  it’s hard to look you in the eye when you body
looks like that.‘ had me desperately wanting to make sure those onions that I
was chopping knew just exactly what they were missing out on when I left them
for a new man!

A slower offering, ‘Touch’ – a samba-like offering featuring
classical style guitar and latin-flavored percussion – almost weeps with
emotion.  The feel on this song almost
reminds me of early Sade.  It’s beyond me
how the subject of this song, upon hearing his breathy, angst-and-desire filled
crooning, can keep herself from running right back into his arms, leaving a
trail of clothing behind her.  I can
barely keep from twisting my hands in my own hair when I listen to it!

In order to keep from embarrassing myself with further
hormone-fueled confessions, I will refrain from describing other songs such as ‘Shut
Up’, in which he asks the object of his desire if she thinks about him when she
is in the arms of her new man, or ‘He Don’t Have To Know’, where he attempts to
justify an illicit relationship with someone else’s woman.   Instead I will let you know that all of these tasty
musical delights can be found on iTunes and that The Man himself will be
hosting a cd release party at The Loft on February 6^th.  You’d best believe this white girl will be
there, down front and making a dancing fool of myself.

Awful news. Linus slipped out the front door while my son was coming in and ran into the road and got hit by a car. He died moments later in my arms while I stroked him and told him what a good puppy he was. It tears up the heart to think that you’ve given so much to a puppy that you’ve rescued from the brink of death only to have him die, but I know that he died happy. He loved us and we loved him.