Author: fifteenkey (Page 23 of 95)

Looking at this picture, it’s a wonder my brother Kevin isn’t really screwed up. Well, I mean more than he is now. What was my mother thinking dressing him “totally plaid?” And is that a freakin’ beret? Now look at me. Totally sweet threads! Navy blazer… Gray slacks… White shirt… Hankie… Stylin’, baby! Jeez… Kevin looks like a midget from “Cirque de Plaid.” Sadly, the kid on the right, Kevin Gatti, died in a fire shortly after we moved from East Boston to Wakefield. I remember hearing that as the house on Homer Street was being engulfed, Kevin appeared at a second floor window and was encouraged to jump. He disappeared back into the deadly cloud…

Anyway, this was a happier day, probably a Sunday before or after church at St. Mary’s off Bennington Street. I loved going to that big old church with my grandmother Lily… I don’t recall going with my parents. Maybe they weren’t into it. My mother developed a pretty strong faith later in her life. I guess faith can help you get through some tough stretches of life road. I know it’s helped her. Anyway, I went to the school there through second grade. I had a wicked crush on Sister Laura, but once we got to Wakefield, a mortgage payment replaced tuition and I was on a different path. One that brought me here.

So… here. I have no regrets about the journey and am quite happy where it’s currently winding. Oh, gotta go. I’m winding over to the 5:00 Mass. I hope to hear something interesting. Now where’s my plaid blazer?

Last night after cranking my heart rate at 155 for the last half of a 30 minute elliptical endurance, I arrived home to a healthy Megan prepared meal: tacos. [For the record, the 155 bpm is the 80% target for a 30 year old… Note to self: Don’t die.] After crunching down 2 with about 4 bites, a taco minus the crunchy corn home sounded less bad, so I tossed the ingredients into one of Maddy’s little plastic bowls… a fuchsia one. As I turned from the stove, I caught the little blond with my “Chapix,” or “Chap-Stick” for those of you who don’t speak Maddy-ese. “Give me that Chapix,” I said sternly. She’s now a serial “Chapix” thief having clipped 3 from me, so yeah, I was serious. Regardless, rather than cowering consensus from Miss Madison, the following negotiation took place:

“Papa, that’s my bowl.”
“Well, can I use it?”
“No.” (I sensed the sting was in play.)
“Can I use it if I let you use my Chapix?”
“Yes.”

She’s 28 months old… I used to joke about how negotiating with Megan was tougher than with any lawyer. I can now gleefully imagine future Blond-on-Blonde negotiations. I think that’s called Karma.

As much as I’d like to write my annual Valentine’s Day rant, uh… I’m busy, so you’ll have to be entertained with re-runs and viewer mail… Sorry.

Fifteenkey has received some Valentine’s Day feedback:

Jenny writes, “I think its a chance for people who have trouble normally expressing how they feel to let it out without feeling weird…some people are just not comfortable with expressing themselves romantically all of the time…so on one day a year they can be as mushy as they may feel all year…but not be open enough to communicate…”

For the record, I’m not crazy about that term, “mushy.”

Esmeralda joins in, “…at least the outcome is generally pretty positive with this valentine stuff: people expressing thoughts of caring to one another. It could be worse.”

Yes indeed, Esmeralda. It certainly could.

Strict copyright enforcement by the non-lingerie (as far as I know) football league prohibits my use of the proper term of tomorrow’s “big game” without the express, written consent of the… You get it, right? I can’t write “Super Bowl,” so you won’t see it here…

Anyway, I don’t want to generalize or be sexist in any way, but let’s face it, many of you ladies don’t have a clue about tomorrow’s game, so I’m here to help you engage your cave-men in their natural habitat and impress them with your football chops. And no, “football chops” are not something you serve after the nachos… Let’s get started, shall we?

First of all, the Indianapolis Colts used to be the Baltimore Colts and while the New Orleans Saints have always been from New Orleans, Archie Manning, their first big star, will be rooting for Baltimore… Uh, I mean Indy… Got it?

OK, so I want to give you some contextual nuggets to sprinkle into the testosterone and hot sauce fueled pigskin talk. Stuff you can say at just the right time to let the boys know you’re not just another pretty face… For example, early in the game when Indy gets a key defensive stop (whoa, this is going to be harder than I thought…). Re-do… Any time Indy’s defense (that’s when they don’t have the ball) stops the Saints on what appears (based on cavemen reaction) to be an exciting play, wait for the din to subside and say, ‘it’s amazing how the Colts “D” has played without Sanders.’ Bob Sanders is an outstanding safety (that’s a football position) who’s been out injured with “a knee” since early in the season. Trust me, the boys will be impressed.

This one is a little more sophisticated and is really a two parter… When the Colts have the ball, but are not successfully passing and Peyton (Archie’s kid) Manning appears frustrated, say “Wow, Marvin Harrison has been invisible today!” Now the guys will snicker and may try to ridicule you because in fact, Marvin Harrison, a long time Indy star receiver, is retired. When one of the he-men points that out, say “I guess you missed the irony of that, eh?”

Finally, here’s one you can serve with crackers or melted over nachos… When (and if) the Saints appear headed for a touchdown, try “I think the Saints are going to go marching in…”

Enjoy the game! Oh, and hon, can you get me another beer?

“Darkness.” That was my immediate response to a friend’s inquiry years ago regarding what Bruce record to start with. It was a no brainer really since I was living there in self-imposed exile. Bruce was a pretty pissed off dude after fighting with his label for nearly 3 years after “Born to Run” and that anger spewed out from the opening of “Badlands,” and the theme of “paying the price” for what you want in this life lives in every black groove of that vinyl right through to the title track. Two or three of these songs would make a career for a successful musician, but this guy exorcised quite a bit in 3 years and came up with ten.

Side one
1. “Badlands”
2. “Adam Raised a Cain”
3. “Something in the Night”
4. “Candy’s Room”
5. “Racing in the Street”

Side two
1. “The Promised Land”
2. “Factory”
3. “Streets of Fire”
4. “Prove It All Night”
5. “Darkness on the Edge of Town”

It took me a little longer than 3 years, and ironically during it, some musicians fought with my label (One was always Angry), but I managed to leave that behind, pay the price (we had debts…) and slowly crawl out of the darkness. Well, it wasn’t always dark, but friend Jeff did literally help me move back from the edge of town. Since then, a new dawn slowly emerged with a little help from my friends, culminating under a blazing desert sun and the bright heart of a dear friend.

I still embrace the dark, but everybody needs some light and I’m finding there’s still quite a bit of growing to do in it…

[Facebookers see blog for video…]

Driving to Tucson, Arizona was an annual August trek for Dillard and I back in the late 70’s. We had a medium-sized cassette tape case with a couple dozen rock assortments. One that got heavy, heavy airplay, especially on those long, hot, desolate and damn straight stretches was AC/DC’s “Highway to Hell.” The album was released in the States by Atlantic Records, but it should have come out on Epic, because that’s what it is.

On Amazon.com, rock critic David Cantwell writes, “What Highway to Hell has that Back in Black doesn’t is Bon Scott…” That’s it. Bon Scott. Bon had a voice like an arc welder and it cut through the heavy metal coming out of the guitars brothers Angus and Malcolm were grinding. The record is amazing, and it kicked off several years of rock enjoyment, including a stint as “Air Bon” with the Gonnella boys air guitaring the roof off the old Dooley’s club in Tucson.

Now I wrote about that night, but did not provide any photographic evidence of the performance. Well, tonight… I’m not going to either. I know some snapshots of that first show exist (I think “Angus” may have them), but what I do have are a couple publicity photos from our second show with body art care of Kraker’s sister Nancy. Since I’m very guilty of using “stuff” I’ve found on Facebook in Powerpoint presentations and other public medium, it is risky to “out” these photos, but let’s face it, there’s a certain “attention whore” aspect to blogging, so obviously I just don’t care, but I hope Dillard will comment and explain the “Rocky Horror” makeup that I clearly passed on…

We had a freakin’ blast rocking out and had no, none, nada, zippo inhibitions being up on stage looking like idiots “air” rocking. We were totally into it and the crowd reactions told us it worked. The music drove us… along with the attention thing. Primal music like this…

I believe the way to a woman’s heart is through her stomach, and the dinner menu I prepared was a perfectly designed express lane with equal parts of my guests 3 key C’s: Cosmos, Carbs and Chocolate. I opened impressively with a Caprese salad appetizer, with mozzarella balls speared on toothpicks with cherry tomatoes, basil, and a drizzle of extra virgin olive oil and balsamic vinegar. Good start, right? A small loaf of fresh French bread soaked up the glistening liquids remaining after the disappearing act on red and white orbs. A Chicken Mushroom Risotto was reducing its way toward completion, and “French Cosmopolitans” with fresh squeezed lime, Grey Goose, Grand Marnier and fresh Acai juice provided ample anti-oxidants and wider smiles. The rice concoction was good, not great, but risotto dishes are always experimental for me, so next time I’ll employ the lessons learned. Unfortunately a few more painful lessons still lay ahead…

After going three for three, a pretty good “night at the plate,” if you know what I’m saying, the dark chocolate fondue was going to be a home run… Touch ‘em all, pal! Well, um, as my guest noted, making desserts is very much about chemistry and when I missed one little detail, our chemistry cooled like liquid nitrogen. Oh, not really. She did scoff a few pieces of fresh fruit dipped in the clumpy, oily mess, but it was just gross. My mojo damaged by the limp dip, I panicked and made another round of cosmo’s before we got comfortable and searched for a movie. Since I couldn’t find “Crazy Heart” or “The Wrestler,” our search became less focused and I calculated that my Cosmo plied friend would quickly lose interest in “Spinal Tap,” leaving me as her only option…

About ten minutes into the classic rock mocumentary, I sensed my plan was working as she turned toward me and purred, “If you wanted to pick a movie I’d lose interest in, you succeeded.” “YES! That’s right, I’m the man!” I thought… Wanting to play it cool, I continued chuckling at the ridiculous lines of the film, and laughed out loud at Nigel Tufnel’s classic rock god line, “We’ve got Armadillos in our trousers. It’s really quite frightening.” It was at that point I was the one horrified as I discovered there actually was another option for my dinner date besides me, and that was a very sound sleep! Yep, she was resting quite beautifully and I didn’t have the heart to wake her, although there was a strong argument made by another participant in my self-conversation. Yeah, it was a classic angel/devil on each shoulder confrontation. While those two argued, I tried to focus on the movie, but it just wasn’t as funny anymore.

So, as a public service, I offer you guys out there the following tips for a successful romantic dinner. Actually, “go to a nice restaurant” may be the only tip you need, but if you’re going to try the culinary bad arts thing:

• Reading recipes before consuming cosmos is a good idea.
• When making a chocolate fondue, “remove from heat once the heavy cream reaches a boil…”
• Cosmopolitans kick ass, so if you do screw up the fondue, don’t panic and make more drinks. Serve ice water instead.
• Trying to “play it cool” will often result in you playing by yourself. When she turns on toward you, it’s time to turn Nigel off.

I caught that little gem as another episode of PBS’s “This Emotional Life” was winding down last night. It’s so true for many of us, but not always easy to engage depending on the cosmic plane we happen to exist at any given moment…

My cosmic plane at the moment resembles this groovy baby and any regular contributor or lurker of this space knows how I landed it… Arizona… Mayor of Anthem… People…

Speaking of emotion, I nearly experienced the splashy version last night after speaking with my Dad. It was the strangest and best phone call we’ve ever had and he made it. My usually stoic father was engaging, joking and happy. I asked if he had new meds… “No.” “Smoking pot?” “Well, I smoked some last week…” (followed by laughter) “You got a new blue-haired girlfriend?” (Dad laughing) “You son of a bitch…” It was so cool. The call lacked the usual update on sugar levels, water pills and cataracts, and instead focused on his experiences with friends… “Dickie Greene was raving about how I hit ‘em today!”

The old man was on a roll and peppered me with inquiries about my brothers, mother, Maddy, Megan, Kyle and Joyce… WTF? Who is this guy? Just for a day anyway, it seems this guy Dad is a happy human. Experiencing that moved my cosmic emotional plane into even more rarified airspace.

This really isn’t what President Obama had in mind to celebrate one year in office today, but if he’s searching for answers why Scott Brown won last night, he can find it in front of him when he’s shaving this morning.

“Are you bummed out and writing an angry political blog?” I didn’t read this text message until I awoke to a replay of Scott Brow’s victory speech around 4:30AM. No, my dear, I’m not angry.

In my heart, I knew this thing was over last week when that Suffolk poll came out, and I wrote about my own discontent with the timid stance of my President toward the banks who own us. I believe that’s the main issue here. According to an election day Rasmussen poll, approximately 20% of Democrats voted for Brown. They provided the margin of victory and their votes were not a referendum on health care, they were an expression of frustration that their President and his Democratic majority in Congress have not fought for them.

Most importantly though, Senator-Elect Brown won a majority of middle class voters. In my own very middle-class Fitchburg-Leominster area, the numbers were a crushing 59%/40% and 63%/36% respectively in favor of the winner. Those disaffected voters, in my opinion, would benefit from health care reform, but always seem to get screwed no matter what party is in power. They’ve had enough.

The Obama White House and national Democratic squawks are blaming the Coakley campaign and their candidate. She was weak and ran like she was entitled to the seat, but is there any doubt who would be the winner this morning if the “other” Joe Kennedy had run?
Firing back at their national critics, Coakley pollster Celinda Lake contends their campaign was “hampered by the failure of the White House and Congress to confront Wall Street.” I agree.

Ms Lake continued, “If Scott Brown wins tonight he’ll win because he became the change-oriented candidate. Voters are still voting for the change they voted for in 2008, but they want to see it. And right now they think they’ve got economic policies for Washington that are delivering more for banks than Main Street.”

I hope my president stops the bleeding of this little nick by leading and actually delivering the change he promised. If he doesn’t, the blue blood will really run in November.

I meant to post about the Joe Pernice show last week, but you know, life happens and I don’t have infinite hours to write this nonsense. I found myself having dinner with two of my favorite women in the world, one just released from Typhoid quarantine and the other a refugee flood victim. The pair seemed to be having a good time when suddenly both of them attempted to dump me simultaneously. After some guilt-inducing banter, Barb decided to stay for the show. (See us in the back corner?) I don’t think she was sorry.

Joe Pernice is a poet with a voice and a skill for arrangement that can make a song about napalming a village of little girls and bunny rabbits sound beautiful. (Note: Joe doesn’t have such a song.) I had forgotten about my Ray Neades post a few weeks ago when Joe mentioned Ray and played my highlight of the night, “Grudge Fuck” in his honor. Again, the title sounds pretty horrible, but it’s actually a beautiful song, albeit a “little stalkerish.”

One weird thing was a very loud request for a song off the Pernice Brothers 1998 debut “Overcome By Happiness.” Joe chuckled at the request and then launched into about 30 seconds of just nailing it, before suddenly stopping and saying, “That’s it. That’s all your getting.” I guess maybe the woman with a drink in her hand didn’t die in the garage this time.