Category Archives: rockin music

#Friday Reads (& a listen): Let it Breathe and my Hamilton Obsession

tawna fenske let it breathe
I’ll admit, part of me just wanted to salivate over this picture taken on a recent lovely summer afternoon. Hurricane Hermine is currently slinging buckets of sideways rain outside. I’d snapped this pic with solid intentions to share my love of the book. I’m slightly belated.

Let it Breathe by Tawna Fenske is a recommended read–hold onto your funny bone and your heart, because it’s a delightfully zany and romantic ride!

The details:
Forbidden fruit can be downright intoxicating.

Vineyard manager Reese Clark is determined to bring her family’s Oregon winery into the big leagues, and she knows building a new tasting room and event pavilion is her ticket there. Having her ex-husband’s best friend—and her secret college crush—turn up to head the construction project, however, doesn’t pair well with her plans. Between her nauseating lovebird parents; her motorcycle-riding, pot-growing grandfather; and her pet alpaca, fond of head-butting groins, Reese has more than enough chaotic characters in her life.

Back in college, Clay Henderson was more likely to be sprawled over a bar than building one. But even if the new clean-living Clay has matured as deliciously as an oak-aged chardonnay, he’s still off-limits. As Reese’s well-laid plans for the winery crumble like bad cork, Clay the newly sober gentleman is sweet enough to rescue Reese from a wardrobe malfunction and still spicy enough to play “I Never” with her. Can he overcome his past rep to offer her a love too heady to ignore?

Let it Breathe by Tawna Fenske
Paperback: 304 pages
Publisher: Montlake Romance
Released date: March 22, 2016


No audiobooks for me this week, as I am currently obsessed with Hamilton (Original Broadway Cast Recording).

I’d heard it was good, but holey sugar nuts, HOW COME NO ONE TOLD ME HOW GOOD?

Yes, I’m late to the party, but what else is new? When I watched the Tony Awards in June, I knew I had to get my hands on the CD. I haven’t listened to anything else since my copy arrived.

Few videos of the show exist, at least on the legal internet, (trust me, I’ve looked) but below is a recording of the Tony performance of Yorktown.

I’m in love with HAMILTON as a writer, as the story flows with wit and clever turns of phrase. It’s poetry set to music.

I’m in love with HAMILTON because it vibrantly brings history to life for a new generation (and us old folks).

I’m in love with HAMILTION because it proves that rap can be eloquent and erudite, and through with the nimble tongues of the ridiculously talented Broadway cast, every world can be beautify enunciated and understood.

I’m in love with the catchy melodies that I cannot stop singing. (In my head. You do not want to hear me try to rap with a French accent–I’ll leave that to the brilliant Layette.)

I’m in love with HAMILTION because even though the events took place 240-or-so years ago, it feels fresh. Today we’re still dealing with dirty politics; immigrant, women’s, and  minority rights; and the continuous fight for freedom. Our county is still evolving and trying to figure out who it wants to be.

Lin-Manuel Miranda is a bloody genius.


Alas, I searched for tickets in the oft chance we could take a family vacation to NYC next year. Cheapest seats found: $900 bucks a pop. Maybe not.

Oooh, but there’s a touring company! Closest stop: an eight hour drive to Atlanta.

Dear Hamilton Touring Production:

Please, PLEASE bring the show to Florida. We have many bright and shiny new performing arts centers that would love to host your production. We have beaches, theme parks, and outdoor activities galore, and I’m sure your cast and crew would appreciate some down time in the sunshine.

Please, I’m begging you. Give us some culture. We are desperate for entertainment that doesn’t involve sports, race cars, or theme park lines. And if you could keep the ticket prices less than that of a decent used car, I’d appreciate it.


Watch the video above. Then buy or borrow the full Broadway Cast Recording. Sit down with a decent pair of earbuds and two hours of quiet time to just listen. Be amaze-balls.

You’re welcome.




Grammar Lovers Rock On — Weird Al Yankovic’s hilarious spoof “Word Crimes” mocks “Blurred Lines”

Finally a song for all the grammar Nazis lovers, writers, and Strunk & White followers. Weird Al’s back with a hilarious spoof aiming to save the world from all those dat doan want 2 lern no grammer.

Weird Al Yankovik’s rewrite transforms Robin Thicke’s raunchy “Blurred Lines” into the clever “Word Crimes.” Now this is a song I can applaud—with absolutely no twerking involved.
(Who makes up these words?)




A Summer Show Initiation —The Kid’s First Dave Matthew’s Band Concert

For Dave Matthews Band fans, the summer tour is ritual. It doesn’t matter if the band released a new album recently. There are no glitzy effects or troupes of scantily clad backup dancers—there’s just a prolific jam band playing their hearts out for you, and if you love DMB, you savor every second of the spectacle.

I’ve been going to DMB summer tour shows—eating, drinking, and being merry—for more years than I care to admit (long before cell phone cameras were popular, thank god). I’ve married, matured, become a parent since—but I still cherish my one night of everlasting freedom dancing to Dave under the stars. 

While this summer pilgrimage to Tampa or West Palm Beach has been an annual event for the hubby and I for well over a decade, this time it was different. This time we were bringing the kid. I almost wish we’d planned an initiation ceremony (although tamer than, say, Rocky Horror “sacrificing of the virgins”).

All bets were off. The adventure was on.

Traffic screeched to a halt before we even made it to the highway for our two hour drive to the show. Red and blue lights flashed, and though our senses were on high in anticipation of a night of technicolor glory, these lights were of the wrong variety.

The little one piped up from the backseat. “Looks like an accident.”

Turns out it was—AND the remnants of a police chase following a shooting. As we sat in the stalled traffic, cops cuffed the alleged perp and shoved into the back of a squad car.

We hadn’t even left the “safety” of our suburb. This was going to be one heck of a night.

The skies opened up just past Disney. My fingers practically hot glued themselves to the steering wheel, but the kid relaxed in the back, playing something on his Kindle. Lucky duck.

Yes, he’s wearing his DAD’s shirt. ::sniff sniff::

An hour and a half later, the amphitheater appeared. Our plans to arrive early to beat the always wicked concert parking debacle mostly worked.  We pulled into a swampy parking spot, set up the bag chairs, and popped our respective PBR, cider, and juice box. It was tailgating time.

Tailgating like a rock star. (must. finish. Harry. Potter.)

Now, normally, the DMB concert is the one night a year Hubby and I act like drunken dancing fools. We join 20,000 fans grooving in the dark (and often stormy) night to a three-hour marathon of music, sharing in a moment of consummate oneness with the happy hoard of fellow faithful enveloping us.

But this time, we had to behave. Instead of going as a wild and winsome twenty-something (as I did sixteen shows ago) I was going as  . . . one of those parents . . .

Respectable. Sober. On my best behavior. ::chills going up my spine::  My how times change.

Change can be good.

The amped up festival atmosphere hit us as soon as we approached the main gate. By arriving early, we staked out a prime piece of real estate. With our dollar store shower curtain spread across the soggy grass, we picnicked as the opening band played. We may have skipped our usual vodka-soaked watermelon, but we had hoagies, an unencumbered view, and an excited kid.

Though the clouds hung heavy, threatening to turn our field seats into a mud pit, someone up there had sympathy for us, and the rains held off.  I had visions of my  9-year-old  sliding down the sloped seating area like it was a giant mud-drenched slip-and-slide. (I’d seen it done by drunk frat boys before. Unfortunately, concert venues provide no showers.)

The crowd sat tamely this year, a trend I’ve noticed during other concerts in recent years. (Last time we saw NIN everyone SAT the entire show. Un-freaking-believable.) Those around us thought kiddo was adorable and they acted slightly more decorous than usual (meaning no one spilled beer on the kid, elbowed him, or blew smoke his way). They praised us for introducing him to the joys of live music. Seeing a real band live is a completely different experience than just listening on your device of choice—each one of your senses becomes immersed in the music, lighting you up from within.

This show was amazing, as always. And while kiddo enjoyed himself . . .

He grew a little tired being up past his bed time. (Let’s hope this trend continues well into his college years.) Never imagined I’d be holding Goldfish instead of a beer at a DMB show.

But at least he stayed awake the whole time, unlike his first concert. We introduced him to Paul McCartney at the ripe old age of six. (Figured we’d train him young—and we hoped he’d think we were cool parents someday. A mom can dream.)

He passed out cold as Sir Paul performed some of the most momentous songs in rock history. Not even the fireworks during Live and Let Die roused him—but we did wake him so he could sing along to Hey Jude.

Though DMB didn’t play his favorite song Funny the Way It Is (which will always be his theme song to our Costa Rica vacation back when he was just five), he sang along to the songs he’s been raised on.

We all grow up someday. Though the hubby and I felt almost our ages this time, we made memories the kiddo will hopefully remember. And we loved every moment of it.

Have you ever taken your kid(s) to a concert? Do you go yourself? Or do you think I’m just plain crazy?

This Chick Still Doesn’t Get RUSH

I’ve tried. I swear to the Rock Gods, I’ve tried. It took twelve years of marriage for a guy to finally drag me to a Rush show. Every guy I’ve ever dated worshiped upon the power trio’s altar, owned all their albums, saw them in concert every time they toured. I just can’t get into their music.

Since I LOVE going to concerts—seeing musicians transform their passions into sound, feeling the music, the energy—I thought perhaps if I saw them play live I may understand the devotion they sir in their thousands millions of fans. Male fans.

Last weekend I journeyed to their show (through two hours of gridlock) with an open heart, an open mind, and a big ass beer in my hand.

After seeing them live I can officially declare I still don’t dig them.

You want proof Rush is a guy band?

This. This is AN EMPTY RESTROOM. AT A CONCERT. They do exist.
Yes, it’s the ladies room. The men’s line wrapped around the building.

I’ve waited upwards of a half hour for a chance at one of those usually nasty stalls. Dave Matthews Band, NIN, Jane’s Addiction—I’d spent enough time in line to learn the life stories of the women around me while we stood with our legs crossed trying to look cool and not do the dance.

There may have been ten girls at the show. Okay, maybe a fifty. Out of thousands of rabid fans. To the point I stopped in front of one and said, “Oh look, there IS another woman here.” She just half-smiled and looked at her watch like she was ready to go.

And if you ever need an ego boost, go to a Rush show. The other women wore old vintage holey T-shirts (like my hubby). They hadn’t updated their jeans (ripped, stonewashed, high-waisted, relaxed fit) or their hair (mullets. many of them.) since they started going to shows thirty years ago.

I saw no pairs or groups of women. They all came with their male counterparts. Yet I’ve never seen so many guys together on dates in my life. No, nothing romantic (a gay guy would NEVER be seen in public dressed so tastelessly). Bromance hung heavy in the air: male bonding at its finest. Their wives/significant others were smart enough to stay away.

So why don’t women get Rush? Since I was not “at one” with the music, I had plenty of time to reflect while I people-watched and sipped beer. Each member of the Canadian power trio does show mastery of their instruments. They wove complex harmonies—perhaps too complex? The songs (with the exception of a few hits like Tom Sawyer and Closer to the Heart) just don’t have enough melody. There’s nothing to hum or sing. Thousands of old guys playing air guitar and air drum solos—hells yeah—but the sound is just too tangled. Forget being something to dance to, there’s not even a steady enough drum beat to swing a hip to.

 The lyrics are intelligent tirades, some nearly poems (seriously: they quote literature, even Shakespeare) but they are utterly lacking in emotion. Yes, I’m generalizing, but most girls don’t dig songs about robots.

Okay, and for some women it may be a question of sex appeal:

I don’t know if this album cover is supposed to make them look sexy and brooding, like porn stars or Jedis.  But there are plenty of bands where the singers are not the slightest bit attractive (have you seen Marilyn Manson?) but they just exude . . . something. Rush’s music is utterly asexual. Once again: robots over romance.

To be fair, I skipped a hunk of the show. Some drunk-assed baby boomer MAN knocked my FULL 24-ounce beer all over me. Yes, he was apologetic. Yes, he bought me a new one then found another patch of grass to pollute. But I was still soaked. And pissed. Though the bathroom WAS empty, I still couldn’t shower the stink off, so I wandered and tweeted.

I returned home smelling like a frat house couch: an eau d’ stale beer, various smokes, and testosterone. At least Hubby had a EPIC time. ::sigh:: The things we do for love.

Have you ever been dragged to a concert you didn’t like?

mullet photo credit: SeymourSolo via photopin cc

concert photo credit: wvs via photopin cc

Dear Coldplay: a note from the little people

Dear Coldplay:

Tickets for the U.S. leg of your Mylo Xyloto tour officially went on sale Saturday.

Even though I am a massive fan, I didn’t buy any.

I don’t know if I’m more upset with me, or you.

My husband and I caught you last time you swung through Orlando on the Viva la Vida tour. The show was  amazing: a vibrant mix of older favorites flowing into new, and I fell freshly in love with several songs on the album for which I hadn’t shown the proper respect. We had such a fabulous time that we snatched up tickets for a second show a few months later, under the stars in Tampa. But that time, we bought a ticket for our son, as well.

My little guy was absolutely enthralled with the Viva La Vida album. Though he was familiar with the older songs, he knew the words to every track on the then new album, and had mastered the art of pounding the air drum to his favorites. Your show at the Tampa Amphitheater was to be his first venture into the entrancing and exhilarating world of live rock shows.  He was only six at the time. (He also had a  bit of a crush on Apple, and mentioned how we should arrange a playdate for the two of them before the show. We tried to explain that cool as that would be, it probably just wasn’t gonna happen.)

Then the show was cancelled.  He was devastated — we were pretty bummed as well, but, hey, we had caught the act a few months before. Though, I had been desperately looking forward to getting lost in the lush tunes while dancing under the stars. We had to promise (pinky swear, technically) to take our son to see you next time you toured.

And we fully intended to keep our promise.

We bought Mylo Xyloto the day it came out, and had it had been on vinyl, we would have worn some heavy grooves in it already. My kid and I worked on our wild and free dancing to Hurts Like Heaven,  Every Teardrop, and Charlie Brown nightly. We watched  as shows were announced in Europe, and waited for our chance to join in the reverie.

I understand you are a megaband now, a powerhouse quartet headlining massive festivals music across the globe. I realize you currently have a hit album and the band is riding on a wave of success. I get that life is a whirlwind for each of you at the moment, overflowing with fame, fortune, and a maybe little family time squeezed in where possible.

Source: via Dedra on Pinterest

But, dudes — the tickets went on sale one week before Christmas. For June shows. And they were far from inexpensive.  $70+ bucks a piece for nosebleed assigned seating. Well into the $100s for anything where we could actually watch you in person instead of the video screens. And that’s not touching the cash for parking, gas, beers, and merchandise.

Most of us little people have exhausted our measly budgets right now. December is rough; every bit of hard earned cash we could scrape up went into the form of bicycles and Barbies, or video games and coffee makers. If we were real lucky there might be and iPad or a new phone under the tree (the better to watch your videos on, of course). But most of us don’t have hundreds left in the kitty for concert tickets at the moment. For a show next summer.

So, as much as it breaks my heart, we won’t be buying tickets now. If you had put them on sale earlier, perhaps they could have been my Christmas gift to myself, or a few months later, they could have been a birthday or anniversary present.

Because as much as I come alive at a show, as much as I dream of dancing under the heavens to Every Teardrop is a Waterfall, as much as I want to watch my little guy’s eyes light up like technicolor stage lights as he hears the first notes of Viva la Vida, we are going to have to pass this time.

It’s just not in the stars…or the wallets…

But best of luck to you this tour.  Maybe by the time the show comes around, we will have saved enough to buy tickets. Or maybe we will take those hundreds of dollars and just buy a new flat screen television, a Coldplay Live DVD, and a couple of decent bottles of wine so we can rock out with you for more than one night only…


A Coldplay Fan & Her Little Family

Florence + Flowing Skirts + No Fights = Fab Night

{Not me}



After wasting an afternoon playing fatter, wrinkly Barbie doll attempting to find something hip yet age appropriate to wear to the Florence + the Machine concert (then embarrassing myself by posting my options online) I did what women usually do when suffering from a wardrobe crisis: I went shopping.  I kicked all the outfits back into the dark recesses of my over-stuffed closet.   I bought new dress. It was inexpensive. It was pretty.  I didn’t have to pick out accessories. It made me feel good.  Perfect.

The Hubby and I slogged through rush hour traffic in the rain and eventually made it to the tourist side of town. As we ran through Universal CityWalk we placated ourselves with dreams of a fabulous show and cold beer. Yes, I said beer.  Wine is for home appreciation, good food, the Opera, and upscale bars.  Beer is for concerts, NASCAR, and our English Pub.

Once inside the Hard Rock we slithered our way through the crowd to find the perfect best available floor space.   I needed a clear view of the stage.  I needed to have room to dance.  And I needed to have no assholes in my direct vicinity.

Hubby claims I am an asshole magnet at concerts.  There is almost always some jerk who feels it is necessary to completely invade my personal space, yell over the music to his asshat buddy or into his phone, spill beer down my back, and accidentally grope me repeatedly.  Though I am shy and timid in everyday life, don’t f@ck with me at a concert.  I simply will not put up with that sh$t.

Until very recently, I never though much about what I wore to shows.  Standard uniform was black tank (velvet, sparkly, or vintage rock band), jeans and big black boots. Beer + big black boots = bravery.  Get into my space and I would stomp you like fine grapes in a barrel.   If someone dared to get pushy I would bum a cigarette and use it as a prop; a few burns and they would scurry away.  Worked every time.

But now I wear heels or occasionally flip flops if it’s raining or an outdoor show. Stomping doesn’t work nearly as well.  No one can light anything in doors anymore (which is nice because I hated coming home smelling like an ashtray).  And I am with my Hubby who wants to be The Man standing up for his woman, but can’t really get involved. He’d be fired in a heartbeat if he was ever arrested for fighting.  So I am on the lookout to avoid assholes and trouble.  We stood five feet from security.  I felt like such a grown-up.

{not Me, buy MY hair}

I did get a couple of “nice hair” comments and stares on the way to the bar and bathroom.  Florence Welch, the lead chanteuse/siren, has my hair.  I’m older, therefore it was mine first.  I thank her everyday for making my I’m too lazy to straiten my waves in this humidity hairdo stylish.

The audience for Florence was mixed:  emo teens, hipster adults sporting glasses and flannels, and a profusion of women.  Many holding hands.  Many whom I first thought were flannel-shirted hipster guys (sorry).   Hubby surveyed the crowd and informed me point blank, “You are NOT allowed to get in a fight with a dyke tonight.”   Nothing against lesbians whatsoever; most of them could have chewed me up and spit me out without blinking a mascara-free eye. Would not have made a fun night.

An Amazon stood in front of us with a child about Kiddo’s size.  He was falling asleep at her feet.  I don’t mind kids at concerts (we took Kiddo to see Paul McCartney last year) but not when it’s a sold out, standing room only venue.  The poor thing was hugging his lovey and fighting to keep his eyes open.  I feared he would be mashed into rock show road-kill.

As the floor filled around us, a perky, pig-tailed and bejeweled 40-something bumped into me. When I whipped around she hugged me and shoved her ten-year-old between us, raving about how he just looovveed Florence + the Machine.

Our one night out and we were surrounded by kids. Not funny, Karma.

Once the the band took the stage everything around us was forgotten.  Florence Welch enchanted the crowds with her powerful pipes, haunting lyrics, and sheer Gucci-goes-goth get-up (see hot pants).  Her gauzy costume floated across the stage as she whirled and danced like an ethereal pagan goddess while belting out tunes such as The Dog Days Are Over, Rabbit Heart (Raise it Up), and Howl.  The band was tight; her vocals pounded through the venue and mesmerized the awe-struck audience.

Florence + the Machine is one of the few bands who truly sound great live.  Florence proved how the award-winning debut album Lungs earned its title: she has one hell of a set of them.  Beautiful.  Ethereal.  Utterly fabulous.

Hubby left with a huge crush on Florence Welch.  Which I suppose I can deal with; when we looked up the YouTube videos of the show Kiddo raved how she looks just like me.  Well, maybe if I was ten years younger, taller, thinner, had legs up to my armpits, and could carry a tune anywhere besides the shower.  It’s nice to dream…

If you haven’t listened to them, give them a try.


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What Does My Inner Rock Goddess Wear?

Do I want to look like a clubbing queen, a rock star, a fashionista, a SAHM, or an ethereal goddess? Thursday night the Kiddo is staying home and Hubby and I get to hit the Hard Rock to see a sold out Florence + the Machine concert.  We haven’t been out in ages.  And I am having a wardrobe crisis.

As a SAHM/blogger/writer I don’t get out much, but I like adore clothes.  My closets and drawers are overflowing, and yes, there are many items I have never worn.  Not the everyday boring stuff  like  yoga pants and tanks to wear to the gym and  errands after if (I don’t feel to bloated and lumpy in the clingy clothes), shorts and tanks, skirts and tanks, and almost always flip flops.

The day I wore a pencil skirt and red wedge sandals to the grocery store I was stared at as if I had grown a third breast and a tail.  It just isn’t done at 10:30 on a Tuesday morning around here.

So going out–and to a rock concert at that–makes for some major wardrobe decisions.   I’m going to drink beer and dance my ass off.  And I need to be able to stand for hours, so comfy shoes are essential.

Adding to the challenge is this week’s temperatures in the upper 90’s. Take a couple of thousand sweaty and drunk bodies dancing and bouncing  against each other on top of that and it’s going to be ridiculously hot.  No jeans, no pants, no sleeves allowed.  And prey it doesn’t rain.

Two hours wasted playing a racier grown-up version of dress-up and I still don’t know what the hell I’m wearing. 

Finding the perfect balance of hot but not slutty, hip but not like I raided my hypothetical teenage daugher’s closet is hard freakin work.

Do I show off lots of leg with black hot pants and a sleek black top?   Too short?  I spent twenty minutes staring at the back of my legs searching for cellulite.

Too black?

I find an irridescent emerald green top and belt it tigh around the waist. Damn, the Victoria’s Secret bombshell bra (aka boob job in a box) makes me feel like a stripper.  But the green sets of my red hair and makes my eyes glow–awesome.  An infuriating line of ruffles going down the center has got to go.  I spend a half hour cutting the huge ruffle off and try it back on.

But my parents are babysitting.  My Dad will pitch a fit if I walk out the door in heels and hot pants.  Next.

How about a sexy but classy black dress?  Hmmm, lots of cleavage and skims my sides just right, but it comes down just past my knees.  I feel too respectable.  And old.  Next.

Why don’t I go long?  I slide on a black halter maxi dress.  I feel mature.  {sigh}  But it could work.

Another black dress (why do I have so many?) discarded.  Clingy but neckline is too boring.

I try on a green halter top maxi dress with a patterend flowy skirt.  Hmm… I pin a flower in my hair.  I look pretty, not like a rock star.  Do I want to do pretty?  Will I dance on my skirt hem?

I find a vintage silk skirt covered with Warhol’s Cambell’s Soup cans.  Interesting.  Love this piece but I have never had any place to wear it–it’s dayglow colors just scream “stare at me.”  I try pulling it up to make it a strapless dress–nah, too blousy.  I pair it with a salmon strappy tank top–interesting.  Very comfortable.  Does nothing for my hair or eyes.

But the show is sold out.  We are going to be packed in there like oily tinned sardines.  No one will even be able to see my skirt.  So it’s all about the top and staying cool, right?

Tops…how about the Asian halter with a pencil skirt?  Or the black trapeze with the annoyingly flowy middle but interesting shoulder straps?  Ugh, it makes me look as if I am knocked-up with a beer in hand.

And why do I even care?  It’s not like I’m trying to pick up a date.  Hubby already thinks I’m a catch (and if he didn’t tough luck–he’s stuck with me).

Sometimes I hate being a woman.  These outfits all suck.  I’m too old and boring and it seems my smoking hot rock goddess jumped ship years ago. Maybe I’ll just shove it all back in the closet and wear shorts and flip flops.

What do you think?  Help a girlfriend out, please…..


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Wine Pairing Playlist for the Apocalypse

 The final countdown is ON.  I never imagined my last day on Earth would be spent at a soccer game.   If I had my way I would be listening to the following playlist while hosting a wine tasting of epic proportions.

One song, one bottle (or at least a taste of each).  No one will really care as 6 p.m. approaches.


It’s the End of the World as We Know It (And I Feel Fine)  by R.E. M. with Conundrum California White

Rapture by Blondie with Rapture Cabernet Sauvignon (duh)

Don’t Fear the Reaper by  Blue Oyster Cult with Ghostly White

Hallelujah by Jeff Buckley with Redemption Zin 

Cities in Dust by Siouxsie and the Banshees with Zombie Zin

Death Don’t Have No Mercy  by Grateful Dead  with Velvet Devil Merlot

Sympathy for the Devil by Rolling Stones with Sympathy For the Devil Icewine (a gimme)

Waiting For The End of The World by Elvis Costello with Cataclysm Cabernet Sauvignon

Until the End of the World by U2 with Temptation Zin

My Apocalypse by  Metallica with Return of the Living Red


The End by The Doors  with 7 Deadly Zins

Apocalypse Please by Muse with Plum Loco Sweet Plum & Cherry Wine

 When the World Ends by Dave Matthews Band with Pino Evil

 Here Comes The Flood by Peter Gabriel with Clean Slate Riesling

 Heaven is a Place On Earth by Belinda Carslile with Angel Juice Pinot Grigio

The End by The Beatles with Relax Riesling

and, well, since the end is coming anyway why the Hell not… 

Why Don’t We Get Drunk And Screw by Jimmy Buffett with some of my favorite Sin Zin

    Party on, Winos…

    Talk Dirty to Me

    Hubby and I were getting cranky one recent afternoon as we slogged through traffic to a destination we really didn’t want to reach anyway. To improve the mood I flipped the iPod to a playlist filled with some of our favorite upbeat anthems everyone must should love.  Within minutes the familiar riffs of  Kidd Rock’s All Summer Long swirled through the car.  Kiddo sat happily in his booster singing along:

    And we were trying different things
    MAKING LOVE out by the lake to our favorite song
    SIPPING WHISKEY OUT THE BOTTLE, not thinking ’bout tomorrow
    Singing Sweet home Alabama all summer long

    We couldn’t stop the big s#*! eating grins from spreading across our faces. Kiddo was chair dancing, playing his invisible drums, and working his rock star hair.  I cursed myself for not having the video camera.  It was awesome.

    When I relayed the story to some other Moms they were pseudo-outraged.  THEY only let their kids listen to Kid Bop or Radio Disney.  Kids should NOT be listening to vulgar songs like that.  We were corrupting him.  They basically let it be known my Kiddo would be hanging out under a bridge drunk, stoned, and slumming around by the time he was twelve because we let his brain rot to such music.


    Music always filled the air while I was growing up.  My parents raised me on 60’s and 70’s standards and classic rock.  In the 80’s I started developing my own tastes (with much trial and error) and now when I think back, there were some pretty dang raunchy songs I listened to in my youth.  And I had ABSOLUTELY NO IDEA what they meant.  I just liked them.

    A few childhood favorites: 

    Grease Soundtrack (favorite movie age 5–did you ever really listen to the lyrics of Greased Lightening? )

    Grease 2 Soundtrack  (I’m Gonna Score Tonight, Reproduction, Let’s Do It for Our Country–Perfect songs to sing at the playground.)

    Phyiscal–Olivia Newton John (It was about working out at a gym, not on a mattress, right?)

    Come on Eileen–Dexy’s Midnight Runners (Rediscovered high school when someone gave my date a rousing thumbs up as I danced along –oops.)

    Sugar Walls–Sheena Easton (I thought was singing about a house made of candy. Really.)

    Like a Virgin–Madonna (My mother was unthrilled when Santa left the tape under the tree, but I wasn’t really sure why it was SO bad.)

    Darling Nikki/Little Red Corvette–Prince  ( I’ve been married for 11+ years and those lyrics still make me blush.)

    Centerfold–The J Geils Band (Catchy tune, come on…)

    Secondhand News–Fleetwood Mac (Just lay me down in the tall grass and let me do my stuff…bowm bowm bowm bowm…)

    Sexual Healing/Let’s Get it On –Marvin Gaye (That voice, those words…yeah it seems pretty obvious…)

    She Bop–Cyndi Lauper (Some girls just want to have fun…lots of fun…all by themselves…)

    Whole Lotta Love &/or Hey Hey What Can I DO–Led Zepplin (Everyone needs a Backdoor Man screaming all of those ooohh oohhhhs)

    Lola –The Kinks (Nothing like kissing a drag queen.)

    Almost anything by the Rolling Stones (I can remember singing Mother’s Little Helper while I put my dolls away.  Nope, didn’t get it.)

    By the time the 80’s hair metal kicked in I had a tiny clue…well, not really…Talk Dirty to Me, You Shook Me All Night Long, Cherry Pie, Pour Some Sugar on Me…the list could keep going…

    I don’t think Kiddo will end up in juvie or rehab before he sprouts facial hair from listening to a little Greenday.  But I do draw line at Sex on Fire, Crazy B*tch, (thanks for listening to those Hubby, ahem) and many of today’s skanky rap anthems.  But you just can’t make me listen to Justin Bieber.

    Which lyrics from your youth made you blush when you realize what they were REALLY about?

    A Musical Education

    I have never allowed my Kiddo to listen to “children’s” music. I find the very existence of the genre detrimental to the development any type of true musical taste. We do not own a single Kidz-Bopped, Disneyfied, or Nick Jr-ized CD or mp3 in our entire collection. Barney makes my ears bleed. The Wiggles CD we were given somehow disappeared into the garbage before it could contaminate our player. Radio Disney does not exist in our world.

    I have pondered why people insist that their kids listen to choruses of prepubescent Brittany-wannabes do covers of songs like “Your Mother Should Know” or “Can’t Buy Me Love.” Are the Beatles original versions (from back in the day when when they were shiny and clean cut) going to harm their kids in some way? It’s bubble-gum pop at it’s finest without any of the over-produced junior glee club revamp.
    Most, if not all, moms I know only let their kids listen to this crap. And they will wonder why, in a few years, their kids will rebel and turn into one of the white-bread, gansta rapping minions. They never had a chance to listen to REAL music, to explore the vast options with their listening taste-buds.
    My Kiddo has had a pretty wide education: from classical to classic rock, old wave, new wave, modern rock, reggae, and a little heavy metal and jazz thrown in to balance things out. We have elected to skip the classes in hip-hop and country (with the exception of the Black Eyed Peas and the Dixie Chicks, but they don’t really count anyway) because, well, we are hoping those genres are just a passing blip in musical evolution. We also have omitted ANYONE who was on American Idol…just not going there.
    When the Kiddo turned four, his favorite song was “The Streetlight Song” a.k.a. “Long Road to Ruin” by the Foo Fighters. He would beg me to play it over and over again, pounding his little fists on the sides of his carseat to the drum beat, singing his little heart out. Who cares if he was singing the wrong words. He was very jealous when the hubby and I went to see the Foos in concert (which was an absolutely awesome show, but more on that perhaps another time). His tastes then progressed to Coldplay and he had the entire Viva la Vida album memorized two days after it was released. He was once again jealous when the Hubby and I saw them live.

    I began to notice a growing trend. Parents were bringing their kids to concerts, something that never happened when we were growing up. At the Greenday show, we were pleasantly amazed to find 8-year-olds with their hair punked out and sprayed green walking hand in hand with their parents. During the concert, Billie Joe pulled a kid on stage with him to sing along with the band–how cool would that be! Considering the price of a concert ticket was LESS than the cost of a babysitter, I realized live shows were becoming a family event.
    Last summer Coldplay was going to be making a return trip to sunny FLA, and since we didn’t have a (free) sitter available, we decided it might be the perfect time to introduce the Kiddo to the joys of live music. The tickets were bought and he was counting the days until the show…when it was canceled. Bummed was an understatement.
    The Hubby and I journeyed to several more shows, deciding that they were a bit inappropriate for a preschooler. Jane’s Addiction with Nine Inch Nails wasn’t exactly fitting, although it was much tamer than we ever imagined. Dave Matthews…nah…I was not ready to give up my freedom to dance (and drink) at that show to be on Mom Duty. We made promises that he would get to go to a concert with us one of these days.
    Now the perfect opportunity has been dangled in front of us. Sir Paul McCartney will be performing one of his four U.S. shows just a few hours away. Seeing him has been on my Concert Bucket List since…well, since I was 6. After glancing at Sir Paul’s recent set lists, we bit the bullet, pulled out the AMEX, and bought three lower bowl seats. I find it fitting that the Kiddo’s introduction to live music shall begin with musical royalty. He has always listened to the Beatles (and his favorite T-shirt now sports the Fab Four) but we have just a few days to shore up his musical education. There are probably a few Wings gaps that must be filled in as well.
    The iPod is loaded, the bags are almost packed, the anticipation is building…Miami and Sir Paul, here we come!