Notes on being a badass rockstar

Hello, Friends.

The space between my stories has been filled with summer fun, many headlines, new challenges, overdue victories and just enough defeat for the sake of balance.

Sanford & Sons

Really, Mark Sanford? You get on live TV, confess to adultery, claim that your Argentinian mistress is your soulmate, quote Bible passages to try and justify it all, then say you're going to try to reconnect with your wife?

If I was your wife, and you publicly (or even privately) humiliated me like that, the only thing that I'd be interested in connecting would be my foot with your ass. Lucky for you, I never would've married a republican from South Carolina.

Ed Mctheman, Queen of Posters and the King of Pop

That was a whole lot of death.

I was really sad when Ed McMahon died. It seemed like he was always on TV when I was a kid because of Star Search and Publisher's Clearing House commercials. I have so many great memories of watching what was the best talent show ever (before American Idol came along). My grandparents always watched with me too. It was a big family event.

Most people thought the entertainment news the day that Michael Jackson died was going to be that Farrah Fawcett died. Even Wolf Blitzer was prepared to give her 10 minutes of roundtable talk, remembering her famous feathered haircut, big smile and best-selling poster that made the Charlie's Angel star so popular.

Sadly, I could only seem to recall that I once saw her in a bad TV movie about a homicidal Texas mom. During the trial in that particular primetime gem, a cassette was entered as evidence and played for the jury. The song was Duran Duran's "Hungry Like a Wolf." That seemed to redeem the viewing experience for me.

So I was going to relay that story on Blitzer's message board (not really), but that all changed when reports broke that Michael Jackson had a heart attack.

The next couple of hours were a media mess. Some news organizations said it was just a heart attack, others said he was dead. His music played in a loop on several radio stations, and Blitzer showed many of his videos.

I was only half-shocked. It would be hard to imagine an 80-year-old King of Pop, and I know that has been pointed out many times since he died.

My first three thoughts were these:

1. What will the Duker do? The Duker, a.k.a. Hossain, was a kid I went to college with who danced, impressively, to MJ at every school function where music was played--whether it was an end-of-semester formal or a Rec Center event featuring free cheese cubes.

2. I wonder if those "I (heart) Michael Jackson" pencils are still at my mom's house. What person my age doesn't remember the Thriller album and the subsequent videos? Every year after its debut, I've always looked forward to that Thriller video being on during Halloween. I was in labor with Cienna (born at 1:41 a.m. on Nov. 1) and watching that video. Because I'm badass. Or crazy. Or the MILF of Pop. Let's go with badass.

3. How much MJ stuff did I have? I had the replica gloves. I thought I was cool when I moonwalked. Or tried to. "P.Y.T" and "Billie Jean" were among my favorites, according to an old sticker book.

I generally ignored all of his bizarre, as I do most celebrity sleaze. I've always been more interested in the music.

I'll be relieved after the memorial tomorrow. I'm hoping that signals a return to form for my cherished news programs. (Dear Anderson Cooper: THIS MEANS YOU! Love you!) I'd really like to know more about the captured American soldier in Afghanistan and our efforts there. The hot mess that is North Korea. And when the layoffs will stop. If ever.

No Shame for Steve

This was an actual conversation I had this weekend:

Me: Hey, I just got an alert that Steve McNair was shot. Turn on ESPN. Was he shot in the ass? It's always so much more interesting to me when athletes are shot in the ass.
Larry: Nope. He's dead.
Me: Ooooh.

Eat n' Rock

I've been playing a lot of air instruments lately. More than usual. This can all be blamed on Cienna's new, pink and black, guitar--yet another in a series of wonderful gifts from Nana. Thanks, Mom. I'm now doing the experimental band thing I never did in high school.

And Cienna loves this guitar in a serious way:

"Mom, I think I want to play my guitar every morning after breakfast because I like to rock out after I eat."

The ones that look like butterflies

From the summer of 2001 when I learned what it meant to press up for my forefathers with my best friends--while befriending yinzers on boats and buses, and realizing I'd always find a way to love everyone without giving up my independence-- to days ago while I watched fireworks with my arms wrapped about my daughter, I noticed that I've grown to love the Fourth of July as though it's summer's Christmas. (And we all know how I do Christmas: Properly!)

I tend to feel inspired every July by our country's history, by my own history, and this year I was both inspired and renewed. There's a good reason for that, but for now let's just chalk it up to the pleasure that comes from communicating with truly good people.

Fireworks help too. I think we're all a little inspired by bursts of magic in the darkness, a light show like no other that forces us all to look up for a while, shifting our lazier gazes from downward or what's in front of us to the sky and all that can be. And as I watched green and purple, and red, white and blue, fall over me like willow trees and reflect in my daughter's eyes, I declared silently to myself that I am still so hopeful. And I do have faith.

And, Cienna, she would've watched all night.

"Mom, you wanna know what my favorite one was? The one that sparkled real big and then fell down like butterflies."