The Gang’s (Almost) All Here

When I was growing up in the wilds of Northern Virginia, I ran with kind of a hip crowd. My friends were Betty, Veronica, Reggie, Archie, and a guy we called Jughead. We were mostly good kids; sure we got into a little trouble at Pop’s Chok’lit Shoppe from time to time, but just for goofing. We even got to know some rocker chicks, Josie and the Pussycats!

OK, so maybe that wasn’t my crowd. But it totally could have been. And when I was reading my Archie comics I felt immersed in that world. We’ve all grown up, but the idyllic characters of our youth should be frozen in time; forever young.

Well now my bubble has been burst, because, Archie is soon to be dead. Yep. Dead. And not just dead, but violently taken out; gory blood and guts and all. What the hell kind of thing is this to drop on us? Is nothing sacred?

Courtesy of Archie Comics, Inc.

Courtesy of Archie Comics, Inc.

Conveniently enough, Archie is getting killed off in a series about the future. That way they can still milk years and years out of his character before throwing in the towel for real. Or they might take their cue from daytime TV and decide that the whole thing was a dream sequence.

Regardless, I couldn’t help but start thinking about the whereabouts of my other beloved childhood comic book and cartoon characters. Of course, we’ve all heard the sad news about Richie Rich. Lost it all when the economy tanked in 2008. He was forced to move in to Cadbury’s tiny flat in a seedy neighborhood in London.

The Jetsons? It took a little googling, but it turns out that Elroy is a CPA. George and Jane are retired and enjoying life in Assisted Space Living. Rosie, sadly, rusted away. Don’t ask about daughter Judy. We don’t like to talk about it.

In other news, I discovered that Fat Albert had lap band surgery and launched his own line of exercise equipment; a fitness mogul as it were. Mushmouth has been working with a speech therapist and his elocution is now perfect. Dennis the Menace finally married Margaret, straightened up, and flew right.

Rocky and Bullwinkle are thrilled that thanks to groups like the ACLU and HRC, they are allowed to legally marry. Boris and Natasha were too busy in Crimea to try and disrupt the wedding.

Kimba the White Lion is spending her twilight years in a wildlife refuge in Africa. Casper, always a friendly ghost back in his day, has become rather ornery in his old age. He was caught recently skulking around scaring small children. It’s sad, really. And Scooby Doo, well, let’s just say he’s living on a farm in upstate New York, where he can run free with Deputy Dawg and Underdog.

There are so many others I couldn’t possibly list them all here; you’ll have to research your own gang independently. Check Facebook…

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Feeling Antsy About Spring

I know that everyone else in the northern hemisphere is happily welcoming spring, but not me. I like winter. I like the cold, and the snow, and the short days…I know, I know…I’m weird. One of the harbingers of spring in our house is the marching of the ants. They come every year. Little tiny black ants, in great number. Given our kitties and Captain Environ-Mental’s concern for the environment, we do not use chemicals to strike back. In fact we don’t use anything inside the house at all; The Captain has some kind of organic crap that he sprays outside all along the perimeter of the house, and it works…eventually.

Until that stuff kicks in, I have to share my living space with hordes of ants. They used to come to the kitchen, despite the fact that we’re careful about crumbs; I mean there are two big bowls of dry cat food out at all times and ants seem to have an affinity for cat chow. But for some reason the ants now turn up in my bathroom, upstairs. They seem to be traveling along the plumbing lines, but I don’t like to think about all that. All I know is that when I go into my bathroom there are little ants in and around the sink. I do what any sane, incredibly cruel person would do and wash them down the drain.

I have what I think is a very fair rule: I don’t go outside into insects’ territory, and I ask that they do not come inside to my space. The problem is that I feel really badly about killing all these guys. I know they’re just ants and everything, but I get caught up in my wild imagination. I mean, what if the ant’s family is sitting at home (presumably somewhere in my plumbing) watching it get later and later and worrying that their loved one isn’t home?

Then sooner or later I start thinking about Revenge of the Ants. One day a giant ant is going to come lumbering up the hallway seeking revenge. “You have killed my people, er, uh, species…and now I’ve come for you!” And then I’m the one washed down some giant drain, or worse. Look, just because as far as we know it’s never happened before doesn’t mean that it might not happen one day.


You might be thinking, what about all those cats? Why aren’t they dealing with the ant situation? The answer is that they are lazy, worthless, or both. They will sit right there on the counter and look at the damn things in the sink; sometimes they give a little half-hearted swat of the paw but mostly they yawn and go back to bed. My bed. While I’m in the bathroom killing ants and wondering about cosmic retribution.

Dreaming of catching bugs, but not actually catching any

Dreaming of catching bugs, but not actually catching any

Yeah, don't feel much like moving right now

Yeah, don’t feel much like moving right now

Of course, if there is an imaginary bug, that’s different. In the Cat Dimension any flicker of a shadow turns into a bug, always at the very top of a wall or on the ceiling, meaning they will literally try to climb the walls to get to a microscopic bug that isn’t even there.

Is that a spot on  the ceiling? Do I need to chase it?

Is that a spot on the ceiling? Do I need to chase it?

The bottom line is that I am dealing with extraordinarily lazy cats, industrious ants, and an overactive imagination. It is a bad combination.

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A Pound Sign By Any Other Name

Remember when Prince decided to change his name to some unpronounceable symbol? And then he was “The Artist Formerly Known as Prince” and now I guess he’s Prince again? Same thing with John Mellencamp. John Cougar. John Cougar Mellencamp. Not to mention Puff Daddy, P. Diddy, Puff Daddy (and all apologies if I missed an iteration in there).

So I get it; things change, you just have to roll with it. But I do want to know when we started calling a pound sign a hashtag.  I mean I know how hashtags are used on Twitter; I’ve even come up with a few of my own, #cancerhumor kind of thing. But we used to call it a pound sign. Automated phone trees would tell you to press 0 and the pound key to reach the operator. If anyone had said press the hashtag key, we probably would have been confused. Does anyone know the precise moment when everyone in the world agreed that a pound sign is now called a hashtag? And why is hashtag cooler than pound sign?

Twitter is also changing everyone’s name. I can’t be Just Jill anymore, I have to be @jillfoerhirsch. And even though hashtag and @ are Twitter conventions, I notice people using it on Facebook as well. As in a status of: Hanging with @lucy and @ethel to watch @ricky and @fred at #pingpongmatch, #splainin, #spanglish.

I’m trying to keep up with the times here, but I’m starting to feel a little bit like @andyrooney. @olddeadguy #restinpeace #unibrow #earhairtoo #nowonderhewascranky.


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The Poison Pen Chronicles

Look, I understand that everyone has their own taste, and that my writing and/or sense of humor does not appeal to everyone. Really uptight, boring people for example; they don’t get it. But when I saw the first bad review of my book on Amazon, well, logic went out the window. Someone just told me my baby is ugly! Is that nice? Nope. Not nice. And it’s not that I’m obsessing over it either, it’s just that I feel like venting a bit.

So here’s the first part of the review that hacked me off: She’s not as funny as she thinks she is.

But I am! I am exactly as funny as I think I am! I crack myself up all the time, and I have a very sophisticated sense of humor. Very. Sophisticated. So now the reviewer has opened up a wound, but then she pours salt on it by saying: Her husband seems like a doll though. WTF? My husband is a doll but that’s not even the point. I don’t want this be-atch talking about, writing about or thinking about my man.

And if you think I’m bitter about this review, you should just hear my mom! She is downright bloodthirsty. It is imperative that I prove that I am as funny as I frackin’ think I am. So we’ve come up with an idea for a little caper that will right this egregious wrong.

We’re just going to track this woman down; not stalking mind you, just tracking. And then my mom is going to hold her down while I throw one-liners until she cracks up. Is that a crime? Sure, technically it might be holding her against her will, but let’s not split hairs. Once she’s laughing and enjoying herself, it will all be bygones! Of course, if she gets all whiny and calls the police, I can just imagine the conversation…

Please describe the incident:

I was walking down the street minding my own business, and a woman came up to me and asked me if I was missing my funny bone. I thought I might have dropped it somewhere so I looked down, and the next thing you know another woman came up from behind and pinned me down.

Yes, and then what happened?

Well this is the weird part; the first woman whipped out a microphone, put a cocktail in my hand, and started doing stand-up comedy. I don’t know what was in the drink but I figured no point wasting a perfectly good cocktail. And with each sip the woman got funnier! I couldn’t help it Officer. I giggled.

So you were drinking on the night in question?

Just like two vodka tonics. Three tops. I mean there was a two drink minimum and I might have had one after that just to stay loose.

And you found your alleged “attacker” amusing?

Uh, kind of I guess, but I was still being held against my will. I tried to catch her off guard and heckled her, but she had a comeback for everything I threw out there! She’s good…

I see. So would you say she was exactly as funny as she thinks she is? Or even funnier?

Gee I don’t know…hey do you want to take pictures of my injuries? That old lady has some very sharp jewelry that dug right into my wrists as she was holding my hands behind my back.

Let’s not get carried away ma’am. You can’t get worked up over every single comedy related injury that comes your way.

Now, describe the weather conditions on the night in question

Who the hell knows? I was being attacked by some crazy woman and her mother! It could have been raining men for all I know.

So it was raining men?

I don’t know, maybe!

Are you sure it wasn’t raining cats and dogs?

Pretty sure.

Umm hmm. And about your funny bone. Did you ever locate it?

No. I still seem to be completely humorless and annoying.

Well there’s something we agree on. That’s all for now. We’ll be in touch if we ever catch these “perpetrators” you describe.

But you didn’t even take down their description! This is NOT funny.

Oh, but it is funny. You wouldn’t know because didn’t you just yourself admit that you are missing your funny bone?

This is ridiculous! I want justice!

Well it sounds to me as if poetic justice has been served. Lap it up and move on. And ma’am?


We’ve asked Amazon to block you from writing any more book reviews. Strictly for your own protection.

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Aubrey Turning 26? OMG! Whatever.

Wow, it’s hard for me to believe that another year has flown by since I posted last year’s birthday message to my niece Aubrey. All I can say is that she continues to be a joy; smart, beautiful, kind, talented…the whole package. So here’s last year’s message…with a couple of edits. Happy Birthday Aubrey!

Happy Birthday Aubrey!

Today is the anniversary of when I first became an Aunt.  I held Aubrey when she was just a few hours old. Her skin was still translucent; she was warm and snuggly and tiny and smelled good and I’d never loved anyone so much in my life. My brother Barry, the newly minted Uncle, was no less impressed.  Later in the day when he and I looked at her through the window in the nursery, in the middle of a sea of other babies (yep, they still did that then) he commented on how she was the most alert, a fine kicker and clearly the most beautiful.  I could swear I saw a tear come down his face but I’m sure he just had something in his eye.

That was 25 years ago today; I cannot imagine how a quarter of a century could go by so quickly, but the years seem to fly by faster and faster.

I never could have imagined how much Aubrey would change my world, just like her brothers who came after her.  Of course with her curly red hair, quick wit and hilarious self-deprecating humor she reminds me vaguely of someone I know.  Only so much better.

When Aubrey was little, I taught her how to put her hands on her hips and roll her eyes, and as if that wasn’t enough, I showed her air “quotes” and instructed her on how to use them when she was talking to her Daddy.  She took to it like a duck to water.  I delivered her back to her parents and by the time I got home my message light was blinking like crazy.  I remember CJ’s voice sputtering out of control “What did you do to my daughter? She’s just like you! You turned her into you!” as if that was a bad thing.  It was a proud moment for me.

Since she was very small Aubrey has always been in the middle of a gaggle of giggling girls (say that fast three times!)  She and her friend Samantha spent the weekend with us at the very height of the Spice Girls short-lived fame.  I am not exaggerating when I tell you that by Sunday afternoon Dan and I both knew the words to all the songs on the CD, considering the girls had been playing it all weekend.

In fairness, Aubrey’s always been a good sport too. When we took her to Paris and Amsterdam for her Bat Mitzvah, she was already morphing into a pouty teenager.  Her one word answer to everything was “what-ev-er.”  At the airport we presented her with a big cardboard sign that said WHATEVER.  The pictures are priceless.  Aubrey in front of the Eiffel Tower, WHATEVER.  Aubrey in front of the Louvre, WHATEVER.  You get the idea. She went along with it, and the pictures were on display at her Bat Mitzvah.  I’d love to post some of those pictures, but I love Aubrey more-and she’ll kill me.

UPDATE: I decided this year, at 26, that Aubrey couldn’t possibly kill her doddering old Aunt Jill for posting a photo. Of course, she’d probably be happiest if I shared this one:


Sleeping on the train from Paris to Amsterdam, unaware of our antics until we had the pictures developed (Yes, remember those days? Film!). Well, that would be Aubrey’s choice, but hello! This is my blog! I would love to share the whole album of adorable pics, but I will control myself and just post one more, of Aubrey and Uncle/Cousin Dan at the entrance to the Louvre:


As much as I enjoyed Aubrey as a child, what a pleasure it’s been to see her grow into an amazing young woman.  She is smart, funny, beautiful and very accomplished.  Not that I like to brag or anything, but she did earn her undergraduate degree summa cum laude and just completed her master’s degree at NYU.  Aubrey is the first person in our family to graduate college with honors (the rest of us made it through, but we aren’t too b-r-i-t-e), and maybe we got a little out of control at her graduation, but hey, things happen.

Aubrey’s passion is teaching autistic children, and she has an amazing natural gift for her chosen profession.  She is making the world better every day, and I could not be prouder.  It is my joy and my privilege to be her Aunt.

I think I’ve earned the right to continue to call her my little sweet pea.  Happy Happy Birthday Sweet Pea!!

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My Life And Times: Awkward Moment #4,687

So many awkward moments in my life…so little time. I was recently getting a routine chest x-ray, and of course because I’m me it turned into a whole thing. First of all, the protocol at the hospital is to ask you to confirm your date of birth. When I did that, the very nice Chinese technician got very excited. He told me 1964 is an extremely lucky Chinese year, and I must be a very lucky and special person! You know, it’s hard to get enthusiastic about that when I’m in the basement of a hospital with an x-ray technician, but he was so sincere that I feigned excitement.


We spent some quality time together while he took lots of different shots, and then he told me what a good patient I am. Honestly, I get that a lot, because I’m an overachiever, always eager to impress. Then, in a complete lapse of protocol, he came over and asked if it would be OK if we prayed together. Again, in the spirit of going along to get along, I said sure. He took my hands in his and closed his eyes and presumably prayed while I contemplated what I was going to fix for dinner. Just as I had decided on carry-out, the answer to my prayers, he pronounced us done.

So I went tooling back out to the hallway and in a complete Twilight Zone moment ran smack into the former managing partner of one of my former firms. It took me a minute to realize who it was because it was so out of context, and, we were both wearing hospital gowns. He asked me how I was, and what I was doing there and I said I was probably there for the same reason he was. So we had a little laugh and then, well there’s no way around this…he hugged me. I mean in any other circumstance it would have been very sweet, but, umm, did I mention that we were both wearing hospital gowns?

Just then the technician came out to grab him, and he turned to him and said, “I hope you took good care of her; she’s a very nice person.” Which was also sweet, except I had just bonded with the technician who I guess now felt he knew me pretty well, so he said “Well of course she’s a very nice person! Don’t you think I know that?” And then he played the trump card: “She was born in a very lucky year.”

I took that as my opportunity to exit, stage left. “So good to see you! Both of you I mean! Great, great, great to see you both.”

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This, That And The Other Thing

Sometimes I have loose bits of odds and ends that don’t quite add up to a whole blog post, but are still interesting enough to share. Well, I think they are anyway. So I offer for your consideration a number of unrelated tales and observations.

  1. I suppose I need to issue a formal retraction, and apology, for accusing the cats of stealing our car key. Unless the cats stole it and deposited it in Dan’s pocket, where he found it, we apparently should not have rushed to judgment.
  2. One of my doctors recently asked me, apropos of nothing, if I thought Jamie Lee Curtis was a hermaphrodite. Discuss among yourselves.
  3. When did America become illiterate? Given current technology shouldn’t blatant spelling errors be obsolete? I guess you always have to account for the Dumb Human operating the technology. Seen on TV recently on a news crawl: “Persuant to an arrest warrent” I mean, just to type that to include it in this blog I have to change it back because auto-correct catches it!
  4. I was recently at a social event and met a nice young man who had all the potential in the world to be my latest gay boyfriend. Coincidentally, everywhere I went all evening I seemed to be behind him. He gave me that “Is she stalking me?” look, and I decided the best defense is a good offense, so I accused him of reverse stalking; anticipating where I was headed next and then getting there moments before me. Yep, reverse stalking. You have to admit it was a clever ploy; made him giggle and caught him off guard!
  5. I thought my family was so clever with our “She went to New York” euphemism for dying, but I saw RuPaul interviewed recently (obviously I’m a fan!) and when his mother passed away he referred to it as “She went to Paris.” Why would I go to NY when I could go to Paris? Just as I suspected, my family is trying to short change me!! At least now I know to have my passport with me at all times.
  6. A reporter of indeterminate age made note of all the “flash cubes” going off in the Olympic stadium. Uh, when’s the last time you bought a box of flash cubes? [NOTE: for readers under the age of 40, please ask your parents about this. Or your grandparents.]

Finally, just for fun: I came across this meme a while back, and given my twisted sense of humor I really love it. Enjoy!


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Breathe Deep: Inhale The Irony

As most of you have now heard about, endlessly, when I was diagnosed with cancer I immediately developed the experience into a fun, if not lucrative, comedy routine and book. And why not? I mean, cancer is an obvious choice for humor especially since it was breast cancer and I could say boobs over and over again. Har har.

But then about a year ago I was once again diagnosed with a life-altering disease and while I was certainly jovial about it (as anyone of course would be), I haven’t really harvested much comedy material from it. In an ironic turn of events, after surviving cancer, stylishly, I might add, I now have something called pulmonary arterial hypertension (PAH). It’s a treatable but incurable kind of a deal, so unlike cancer I will never really get rid of it. And, uh, it’s supposed to be progressive which I guess means I am in for even more good times in the future.

Say what you will about the state of health care in this country, but I feel extremely fortunate to have health insurance that covers the $10K/month in medications that I need to be on forever. And I guess it’s time for me to start leveraging this whole health situation for everyone’s amusement as well, so here goes a rather long post about my health journey over the last 11 months.

Where to begin? Well, let’s start with the symptoms. At first I just couldn’t breathe, and then I kind of couldn’t walk more than 10 steps without resting and panting. Hmm, I thought, what’s up with this? I mean as we recently discussed, I am hardly a specimen of physical fitness, but I should be able to walk across a hotel lobby without resting. Twice.

Eventually it occurred to me that it might be wise to go to the doctor. I mean on the off chance that not being able to breathe or walk was a health concern. Of course, because this is such a rare disease, and screening for it involves an invasive procedure, it is the very last, and I mean very last, thing to be considered as a possible diagnosis. So I went through about two months of bizarre scans and tests and a whole new cadre of doctors until every other possible cause was eliminated. Perhaps it’s immodest of me to say that I have singlehandedly driven up the cost of health care in America; I don’t like to brag.

At any rate, last May they finally decided to do this right heart catheter thing to check out the whole PAH situation. Oh the rollicking good times! First of all, they do it in the OR but you are wide awake. Bright lights, freezing cold, and a cast of thousands. And if you think a hospital gown is not a good look for me, well, let’s just say that completely removing it is none too attractive either. And because I’m such a lucky girl, I had a team of very nice looking male nurses that day. Talk about a rough day at the office…for everyone!

So now I’m naked in an OR with a doctor I have never met before, who I have been told is the best of the best at this whole affair. His bedside manner unfortunately left much to be desired. For example, on three separate occasions he offered me valium, and each of the three times I enthusiastically accepted the offer, but then he muttered something about me being fine without it and withdrew his offer all together. OK, fine, I can roll with it.

But now we’re in the thick of it (no pain, I couldn’t feel a thing except embarrassed about my lack of cover) and the doctor gets really excited and starts telling everyone about my wedge number. I don’t know what a wedge number is, but apparently mine was extraordinarily high, or maybe extraordinarily low; it was the opposite end of wherever it is supposed to be. I know I’m prone to whining, but when I’m lounging around in an OR, with a catheter in my heart, what I specifically don’t want to hear is “Wow! I’ve never seen anything this bad!”

I kind of raised my hand and reminded the doctor that I was awake, and sans the valium he had originally promised me. I told him that while I was delighted to be of such academic interest to him, I thought it might be nice if he would pipe the frack down. Then I realized that being a smart ass with the man who has a wire connected to my heart might not be the best idea, so I smiled and laughed it off.

So that’s how we found out what was wrong with me, but no one knows why. When doctors don’t know the root cause of something they call it idiopathic, or as I like to say, Idiot-Pathic. As to the meds, while I am fortunate that they are covered by insurance, they come from a central pharmacy which means I basically have to call and beg for them every month. They call it speaking with a PAH specialist; I call it groveling. But eventually they check off all the little boxes on their sheet and cough up the pills.

The bottom line is that I still have my mojo, and ain’t nobody taking that away from me! But, I have to do things a little differently these days. So for example I still go out to hear music once a month or so with my friends, but dancing is off limits (some observers of my “dancing” might actually be relieved to hear that). I can get through an airport or train station, as I did recently with trips to Chicago and NYC, but it takes me longer, with stops to rest.

Why am I sharing my whole sob story now? Because some of my friends know, and some don’t, and sometimes I have to explain why I’m doing or not doing certain things and I want to be clear that it’s not because I’ve lost my joie de vivre! Au contraire! It’s just the new, slightly different me (who apparently thinks she can speak French). And sometimes there’s stuff I want to blog about, but it in some way involves my breathing situation, and no one would know what the hell I’m talking about. But most importantly, it’s because it’s my blog and I can whine if I want to! So there.

I know you’re all wondering what you can do to help. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: a sparkly, expensive gift certainly makes a girl feel better at a time like this. So yeah. Do that.

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How To Become Fit Without Really Trying: Laziness 101

As I have probably made abundantly clear by now, I am somewhat of a sloth. Exercise? Not so much. But the fact is that a girl can only sit on her butt for so long before it’s time to get the old blood flowing. OK, well, this girl could probably sit around forever doing nothing, and never feel a real desire to exercise, but, well, it’s got to be done.

I think I have a number of viable options for a new routine. One thing I’m considering is a strict regimen of laughing my ass off. If I watch and read nothing but hilariously funny stuff, surely I will chuckle off the flab? Maybe the effect would be even greater if I was watching someone else exercise. Hence, one option for a new routine: Laughing at Richard Simmons Sweatin’ to the Oldies!


Of course, I could also approach this the same way I would a business problem, which leads me to one obvious conclusion: outsourcing. I will hire someone to exercise for me! Possibly someone offshore who won’t bother me with a lot of chatter when I’m trying to watch TV. In fact, as long as I’m outsourcing, I might as well hire them to eat right as well. That way, when my body atrophies they will have already been compensated to give me a full body transplant.

Another option might be simply buying larger clothes. How often did I hear my HR persona explaining to people that perception is reality? That being the case, I should be able to cut inches off my waist just by buying a new pair of jeans that are two sizes too large! I can also ask my doctor to switch the results of my physical with those of a 25 year old aerobics instructor.

Maybe I should look to the east for a more Zen approach. A new mantra…I am physically fit. My body is a temple. Deep cleansing breaths. Method acting? Be the fitness. Become the fitness. Visualize a physically fit body and soul. Embrace the freakin’ fitness.

I’m going to go watch Jane Fonda aerobics with a laugh track, as I become one with the fitness. I’ll let you know how it all works out. Hmm, “works out” sounds like exercise too…

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The 80s: Through The Looking Glass


You know I love reality TV, but sometimes reality is even better than reality TV. I recently went to see an 80s tribute band, The Legwarmers, with some of my girlfriends. Let’s start with a few facts:

  • Approximately 90% of the crowd had not yet been born in the 80s
  • EVERYONE except for our group was dressed up in “80s garb”, most of which none of us ever, ever wore in the 80s or any other decade
  • Nothing makes you look more like an ass than wearing acid-wash jeans with a neon green shirt while “smoking” an e-cigarette
  • You can watch 16 Candles without sound and really not miss a thing, especially Molly Ringwald’s pout

So yeah, there’s all that. One guy was dressed in a Super Mario Brothers costume, clearly a better idea for Halloween than a night on the town in March. And while I’m thrilled that Virginia finally banned smoking in almost all indoor places, the e-cigarettes are pretentious, obnoxious, and annoying. That is not my opinion, by the way; that is a fact.

Now, enter on the scene two young-ish couples. One of the couples begin making out and soon look like they really, really need to get a room before the rest of us get any more nauseous. But wait, the kissy-face guy goes off for a drink or restroom or condom or something and now Ms. Kissy-Face is getting mighty friendly with the gentleman who was recently part of the other couple. There is a lot of touching, hair flicking, giggling and other antics. So we’re wondering, what happens when Mr. K-F returns?

Well, at first everyone seems fine. But then Mr. K-F, in a blatant attempt to make Ms. K-F jealous, perches on the arm of my friend’s seat and introduces himself. His name? Oh, you’re going to love this. His name is of course, Fernando. I shouldn’t admit this but despite the fact that I was really enjoying the band, I was kind of hoping they would keep it down a bit so I could hear the load of crap that our new friend Fernando was piling on my girlfriend. Anyway, that’s how it went all night; Mr. and Ms. K-F making out and then Mr. K-F would vanish and Emergency Back-Up Kissy-Face would step right in. Hey, I don’t judge…I just point, stare, laugh, and make fun of them in a stage whisper.

And as if all that wasn’t riveting enough, a fight broke out! But not just any fight; a girl fight. And not just any girl fight; a girl fight between two girls wearing Madonna get-ups. We’re talking fingerless gloves, mini-skirts and leggings, bare midriffs, the whole nine yards.


The bottom line is that security came rather quickly and cleared out both girls and all their friends, leaving a nice open spot and finally a cool breeze in the hot and crowded venue.

But wait! There’s more! When I was finally able to divert my attention back down to the stage, I noticed there was suddenly another female singer. Odd, and she was about a foot shorter than the microphone. Yep, I got all distracted wondering 1) why did this singer just now join them, when they’re well into their 2nd set and 2) why the hell didn’t someone adjust her microphone? As it was she was jumping up and down maniacally in what I thought was a valiant effort. But that’s when security rushed the stage and dragged the “singer” off into the sunset. Apparently that was a very impromptu “performance” by a rabid fan.

So The Legwarmers put on a great show. And so did the audience. I guess it was a little bit like watching the news with other news crawling along the top and bottom of the screen. It was a lot to keep up with, but really great reality TV without the TV. See? I get out once in a while, but the scenery really doesn’t change much…

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