It was already published at my favorite music site, but I shall reprint here, because it was just. that. COOL.

Before the utterly gobsmacked throngs started filing out of the bar to mob him, and before he had a chance to absorb what just happened onstage, Brian David Blush sat on the hood of a stranger’s silver Toyota, massaging his forehead as if it would make the night’s events sink in faster.

He was a bit embarrassed, too, or a lot to hear him tell it. Just three and a half hours earlier, Blush wasn’t even sure he’d be allowed in to see his former Refreshments bandmates — Roger Clyne and Paul “P.H.” Naffah, the head and neck of Roger Clyne and the Peacemakers – play at the roadside restaurant just outside Elkhart, Indiana. So to have joined Clyne, Naffah and bassist Nick Scropos on well-loved tune “Nada” from their 1996 breakthrough record, Fizzy Fuzzy Big & Buzzy, was an event for which he was completely unprepared.

“Whatever you say, tell ‘em I was terrible,” Blush said, rather morosely assessing his first time onstage with Clyne since it all went wrong between them.

This was originally supposed to be a combined review of Clyne and the Peacemakers’ July 2nd performance at both the 30th Annual American Music Festival at FitzGerald’s in Berwyn, Illinois, and the band’s subsequent performance at Mr. G’s in Osceola, Indiana on July 27th.  Anyone who’s ever seen an RCPM show knows how solid and fun they are, even (especially?) as Clyne tosses back shot after shot of tequila. Well, the band didn’t disappoint either time. Particularly heartening was hearing lead guitarist Jim Dalton come into his own, since 2009 was his first year with the band and he was a bit tentative and stiff with the music. But for Refreshments/RCPM fans, hearing three of the original Refreshments reunited for a short, impromptu jam session in front of the lucky 120 who came to the show is, as Veep Joe Biden might say, “a big f’in deal.”

The backstory’s been told a million times: After Fizzy Fuzzy propelled the Refreshments toward epic stardom, their second album tanked, the band lost its record deal and Blush dove headfirst into his already debilitating heroin and pill habit. He got kicked out of the band, and then he sold the Refreshments’ entire catalog – which includes the theme of long-running show King of the Hill — for $2,500 out of desperation. Bad feelings, naturally, ensued; Blush overdosed, then spent time in jail and went through rehab before landing in jail again and finally getting himself off the junk. He now resides in the South Bend area and plays in various bands.<

Which leads the story to July 27th: Blush’s buddy and bandmate, Mike Vance, heard RCPM was playing Mr. G’s and asked Blush if he wanted to go. It’s not that he didn’t, but after more than a decade of anger and resentment, he didn’t know how his presence would be received. Thanks to the Indiana Department of Motor Vehicles, he almost didn’t get to find out; now that Indiana mails residents their licenses and other IDs, Blush didn’t have his new license yet, and the bouncer didn’t accept the photocopy the DMV provided.

Defeated, Blush started walking away when he saw Naffah outside the RCPM tour bus. He walked up, and the unexpected happened: Naffah met him with open arms, and the guys took care of his entry issues as only good friends would.

“They snuck me in through the back door,” Blush said.

Blush sat on the left side of the stage, donning shades and smiling the whole time, even firing up a lighter every so often in homage to his favorite songs. Being comfortable in RCPM’s air space was all he needed, really, but then Clyne came out for the encore and called on Blush to accompany him on “Nada.”

He was overwhelmed from start to long after finish. While neither a perfect version of the introspective song or the final encore, no one dared take away from his elation at playing with old friends.

“Roger Clyne and P.H. Naffah, I came up with them. We were lucky enough to catch a break (all those years ago),” he said. “This has to be the greatest moment of my life so far, and I just came here tonight to say ‘Hello.’

“They affected the course of my life, and I will die being a Peacemakers fan.”

The other guys – Clyne, Naffah and in his own way Scropos – also came away healed. Scropos wasn’t in the Refreshments during the troubles, but he knew enough about it to know there was “weird blood.”

“I thought it was really neat,” the bassist said. “Everyone’s really humbled by the experience, and I’m happy for the guys.”

When told that Blush called his own performance “terrible,” Naffah smiled while remembering how self-deprecating his old friend is. He also admitted to being a bit apprehensive at the thought of sharing a stage with him again and was glad it all happened as an impromptu jam, lest everyone be all twitchy about it.

“I haven’t talked to him in years, and nobody knew where he was – the last I heard, he was in Detroit,” Naffah said. “We needed this, though. I wish the guy the best and will jam with him anytime.”

As for Clyne, perhaps the most hurt by Blush’s actions way back when, he was a bit overwhelmed with the moment himself.

“This was the building of a bridge I burned a long time ago,” Clyne said. “Forgiveness is a good thing, and I hope Brian got as much peace out of it as I did.”

Awesome, awesome AWESOME!

Know what else is awesome? Two words: TOOL. ACADEMY. Earlier I fell asleep to “Celebrity Rehab House of Allegedly Sober People” and woke up to this bit of magnificence. People, you must watch it. I know Girlie will fight me to the end on adding it to the Crap TV lineup, but I don’t care. This is spectacular television, and I’ll endure it myself if I must.

One other thing: I’m now coming to you from my new Christmas laptop, of which I seem to finally have fully operational. Remind me to tell you what a nightmare it was trying to get it there. I will say this, though: Vista is an asspain, fer real.

I tried to resist it. I really did. Lord knows I didn’t want to succumb to the charms because I know it’s so, SO bad, especially for someone like me. But now I’m stuck, and I’m not sure what to do.


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How the hell am I going to live without the data package on my new Blackberry!??(What’d YOU think I was talking about!??)

It’s not even that I love being attached to my e-mail or facebook everywhere I go (Shutup, I’m not even kidding about that!), because the e-mail it works with is my catchall e-mail, so I get duplicates of crap; and the one time I had a document I needed sent, I was home in front of my computer, and when I get my laptop, that’ll kind of negate the need, too. What I love love LOVE, though!?? This freakin’ calendar business. Par example, I just plugged in the assignments I just got for the rest of the week into Google Calendar, right? Well, when I go pick up my phone, the bitches will have already talked to each other, and not only will the assignments be on the phone, but a reminder will pop up! BOING! Yes, of COURSE I can sync them by USB easily, too, but ... but DUDE! I don’t even have to THINK about syncing with this setup! It’s just. so. TITS.

Problem is, is it tits enough to spend 30 bone extra a month during a time when my industry’s in the can. All signs point to “no,” but ... BUT, there’s a way to bypass the data package via the APN, so if someone (*cough*wad*cough*) will supervise me switching, I’d love them forever.

Last Saturday, we celebrated Curlie’s birthday at Frontera Grill, the “casual” Rick Bayless dining establishment. People. SO. GOOD. And talk about class, too: When JChoo (Girlie’s cousin) locked her keys in the car as we were giving it to the valet, the manager was all, “Hey, we got this. Can we get you a drink while you wait?” And they jimmied the lock free-of-charge as we dined! OutSTANDING! The margaritas were amazing, too—Curlie and I had the Yucateca, which was Patron, something citrus and a hint of habanero pepper, which was like, you took a sip and then it was all “Why, helLO there, habanero! How sneaky are you to show up in this drink so smoothly!” and Girlie had the Blue Agave, which was their version of the regular margarita, and if all regular margaritas were like that, I would so drink regular margaritas. (As of now, mine must have a minimum of two fruits before it passes my lips.) Food was really good, AND they even took Curlie’s cake and dressed each slice up with raspberry sauce and pomegranates. Highly recommend to ANYONE who likes Mexican fusion-type stuff.

Anyway, the holiday’s definitely shaping up to be better than last year, so if I don’t get a chance to wish it, Hairy Fishnuts to all you crazy cats. Hope it’s non-eventful and full of joy.

Last week, Poppy and I were talking about diet fads and somehow the ever-popular cabbage soup diet came up, so she decided she was going to make her own version. Her version, of course, was less diet, so much so that she needed my ginormous pasta pot in which to make it. Then, she invited me over for said soup one day last week. Maybe it was because the day was so dark and dreary, but Oh. My God. The soup. It was all I could think about all weekend until yesterday, when I called her and asked if I could come over for more, and she said, “Well, if you can be over in 10 minutes, you can have the whole pot; after eating three bowls the first day, I kinda wiped myself out on it.”

People, I’m telling you, I’ve had to keep the soup in the kitchen so I have to physically get up and take bites of it because if I didn’t, I would try to fit my head in the pot to eat it, it’s THAT GOOD. And it seems to only get better as the cabbage melds with the tomato base, because it’s all sour and ... (shudders). If this is what kimchi is like, yes please!

Is it wrong for a broad to want to engage coitally with a pot of soup?

to comPLETEly piss up my rope and all but ruin everything else: Last week, I went on eBay and found the exact Waterford champagne flutes I bought my sister 10 years ago for her wedding (they’d gotten smashed in a moving or some other incident), so I bought them for her anniversary coming up and sent the seller HER address along with my payment. Well, the seller asked three different times to resend the address, which I did, but then something told me to go look at the listing to make sure it got paid, etc. What did I find? The seller RELISTED THE FLUTES. Oh. It is SO. ON. NOW. MOTHERFUCKER. I comPLAINED on your stupid ass.

(ahem)

I know y’all have been waiting with bated breath to hear how my 20th went. No no, it’s all right. I mean, it’s huge stuff, so you don’t have to front. I gotcha. So, does Awesome.Freakin’.TASTIC tell you anything!?? Now, my feet are still swollen from standing all night despite wearing flats with no support in them whatsoever—good thing I didn’t wear the Manolos—but I’m Ok with that because it was such a good time. Ann hooked me up Friday with a super-hot outfit when we went shopping Friday afternoon and then blew out my hair Saturday while I had my car detailed; my fake eyelashes didn’t end up somewhere else on my face by the end of the night; and I saw and talked to all the people I wanted to talk to—even the ones I might never have talked to anywhere else.

There were, naturally, observations:

1) Either my weight gain or new hair color (dark, dark brown) threw people off or they like the rest of the world just don’t recognize me without my glasses, but I kept getting these glances like “Who IS that?” for about the first 1/2 hour;
2) While everyone talked with everyone else in the hallway where the open bars were, once we got inside the banquet room, it looked exactly like the lunchroom Senior year, with all the cliques congregating at their various tables. Not sure why I thought it would be different, and I guess I really didn’t, but it was still funny to see; and
3) Centennial Park is a just a spectacular place to hold an event, landfill and cancer-causing agents* be damned.

I also have to say that the women in my class look amazing for our “advanced” age. Guys are guys, but the broads looked HOT.

Last night Girlie and I trekked on up to Martyr’s in Chicago to catch this band called 27 Jennifers. Maybe you’ve heard of them:



This is ubergroovy bassist Andrew Livingston, who used to provide the bassline with his big ol’ cello before Homeland Security made it an asspain to travel with such an instrument. He’s a pretty popular musician, but perhaps you know his band leader:

I just might be inspired to fire up the ol’ iPod and get out and take a walk, like, RIGHT NOW.

Life is good, yo.

except for, oh, that Snelling and I took second place in deadline reporting at the state Society for Professional Journalists Awards last night for our work on the Chase Street crash.


Holla,
muthafukkas!

Yeah, I know, I didn’t say anything here when I found out a month ago that I was up for it because bragging kinda sucks (though it didn’t stop me from mass e-mailing my posse with the news, so clearly it doesn’t suck THAT much), but I figured I’d let y’all know when I found out for certain how I placed. And I’m thrilled, though not as thrilled as I would’ve been had we taken 1st. Why? Well, because as I’ve said a million times before, that story meant a lot to me, but also because the story that beat us out was by the competition, and I ALWAYS hate that, though I dig the writer who wrote it, so I’m cool that it was someone deserving and not, you know, someone who WASN’T (ahem).

Now, I just have to come up with the value of drinks y’all will be buying me for my win. Good thing it WASN’T first, because someone would be required to cough up a bottle of Veuve, and that ain’t cheap.

I just sent this to most of my Facebook homies:



Are people even allowed to Rickroll themselves? Whatever, I don’t care. Beaker is my homeboy.

But right now, I’m waiting for Girlie and Co. to pick me up for a night of drinking and merriment with Roger Clyne and the Peacemakers, so y’all will just have to wait (or figure it out if you’re in the NWI).

(A summary of the Bower-Mollin wedding)

So, the wedding to end all weddings, right? I don’t even know where to start other than to say it truly was a fantastic night, full of joy and love, great friends, designer couture and all the free booze you could handle (as long as the bartenders were at their posts—whut up with dat, Ben-ha-meen? Like, every time the band went on break, so did the barkeeps.) Ben wore the hell out of his ascot, suit and silverish pimp shoes, of course, but Ann?

How ‘bout I just show you:


Ok, she doesn’t have a head in this shot,
but you had to see the back of the gown first
to get just how gorgeous it was. (Standing
next to her is her son, Lathan, who cut quite
a dashing figure in his mini-tux.)

Not good enough? Then how ‘bout this:


This was taken after mucho drinkage,
and she STILL looks unbelievable.
I, on the other hand, had started wilting
at that point.

Lessee, what else? Oooo! Here’s a cool shot of the Hava Nagila that killed my feet and knees:


Ben’s momma and pop sang it.


My seester and I as she took a break from
all that shooting (and man, did she get some
awesome shots.) (And if you’re thinking we
don’t look that much alike, you’re correct. I
got all the Eastern European features, while she
got the pretty skin that tans.)


Thas righ, Reality TV sneetchez! That most certainly
IS Steven Rosengard of Project Runway Cycle 4.
That’s who designed Ann’s incredible dress and day-before
wedding ensemble, which was equally sharp. (The hot chick
is Girlie, who accompanied me.)


Joe Winters and me. Don’t he clean up nice?


After Girlie and I split the reception, our presence
was requested at a local benefit at the Hobar
American Legion, where we ran into this cat,
the infamous Randy Anderson ("Buck Daddy”
to his musical fans). Evidently Randy doesn’t
remember ever seeing me without my specs,
because he kept marveling at my eyes the whole time.

And so as not to give you the impression that the wedding was all about me even though I acted like it with all that prep and planning my outfit, here’s one of my favorite moments of the night:


Right after the three of them walked out to
the chorus of “Come Sail Away” by Styx, Ben
yanked Lathan up and swung him around.

My other favorite moment was in the video of the wedding: The moment the judge told Ben to kiss his bride, the sheer elation on their faces was proof enough that they’re going to be a couple for the ages. You don’t see love like that often, and it’s always so breathtaking to see.

And then I started doing a little jig at the bar.

Man, look at li’l ol’ prolific me these days. I’m kinda scaring myself with all this posting, but this bit of news is exciting because, well, it just is --


I just got off the phone with Mer. Yes, that Mer, she of the nightmare hookups, super-scary vaykays and mad brilliant repartee that never fails to crack my shit up. First time in, oh, four months, maybe? Something like that. It was fall, I know.


Anyway, she’s gotten her shit together (as much as it can be with Rebecca still hanging off her jock) and in August is moving to Tel Aviv for two years to teach. So THAT means SHE’LL BE COMING HERE FOR ONE LAST VISIT! Huzzah! Yes, I know last time was a disaster of epic proportions—one that I never care to experience ever again—but without all the collective baggage there was during that visit, I‘m going to tell myself that don’t think I need to worry about a repeat, and we can spend all our time laughing and having fun. (And trashing the crib, because we ALWAYS do a really good job of that.) AND since Israel’s one of those places I’ve always wanted to see, I now have something cool to save toward.

You know, it’s funny, because I honestly was just thinking about how much I missed her yesterday, but she beat me to the punch. I love when peace is made. Best feeling in the world.

What is NOT the best feeling, however, is whatever’s going on in my throat and head right now. I’m going to be PISSED if I’m getting the death flu, though it might explain why I’ve been so squirrelly and weird lately.

[PS I forgot to mention that she’s talking about coming in April over her spring break. It won’t be summertime where we can REALLY get into trouble, but start saving your pennies for bail regardless.]

Preliminary results from the colonoscopy: Two little baby polyps that the doctor said he would be surprised to find cancer in, a blood vessel that may or may not rupture but wouldn’t cause issues if it did and ...



a. whole. lot. of. nothing. else.



So what does Mother choose to focus on after he gives us the big news (and after I hug him for figuratively pulling me away from the shotgun)? “Now, what about this blood vessel!??” Of COURSE she does.

But no matter, because it seems like the Pimp is just about thawed out. If it’s not, at least I have my downstairs neighbor’s Camry in which to tool around, and I love me the Camry. As far as realistic dream cars go, that’s my car. Ima get me one one day.


[UPDATE: We have lift-off! After a few tries and few pumps of the gas pedal, the Pimp is back in action. The idle is a little kludgy, but I’m guessing that’s due to watery gas maybe. I have a bottle of Heet all ready to go—that is, if my gas door wasn’t frozen shut ...]

who would help a out a sister who’s STILL waiting for her fuel line to thaw by bringing over chips and salsa, among other things.

Girlie, you RULE!

Funny, but I don’t recall GERMS being on my birthday wishlist. I better not be coming down with a cold.

Speaking of birthday gifts, I was going to model CatRag’s gift, but my boyfriend insisted on doing it himself: Lookit. (Mother loved it, too, Cat!)