Connecticut is for F***ing, but what is Pennsylvania For?

I had a great time at the concert last weekend. The bill also included Life in a Blender (think Talking Heads lite) and Nellie McKay. All three acts featured enough humor in their music to keep me happy. The picture on the left is of course of Jesus H. Christ and the Four Hornsmen of The Apocalypse. It's the best I could do with my cell phone as flash photography wasn't allowed. The following day I sent a Facebook message to the lead singer to tell her how much I enjoyed the show and thank her for including me on her invitation list. She messaged back that she had planned to give me a shout out before beginning the song Vanity Surfin' (which mentions blogging) but got confused and forgot.

This weekend I'm in another state that may be worse than Connecticut. As soon as you cross the border from N.Y. you are immediately confronted by highway billboards advertising two things that are illegal in NY, but apparently perfectly acceptable here: fireworks and ...ahem...Asian massages. For a state so backwoods redneck that a friend of mine refers to it as Pennsyltucky, it seems odd that they are so liberal about happy endings massages. And honestly I didn't get what those Asian massage billboards were really advertising until a friend clued me in. And in case you're wondering, if I was going to get one of those massages I wouldn't be here writing about it. Ok, so in Pennsylvania it's ok to blow shit up and pay an alleged masseuse for a happy ending, but you can't go down to a convenience store or gas station and buy a six pack of beer? Yup, that's right. There is no beer at the convenience stores. I've got a fridge in my hotel room, but if I want to buy beer it must be in large quantities. The only way to buy beer for consumption at home it must be in large quantities from a beer warehouse. I'm not opposed to beer warehouses mind you, but I'm pretty sure I won't be drinking a case of beer over two nights. I'm terrified of what else I might find out is going on in this god forsaken state. Hopefully the villagers don't discover that I'm magically contacting the 'interweb' right through the air. They'd probably organize a mob with torches (or perhaps Roman candles) and pitchforks and storm my hotel room. If this is my last post ever you'll know that's what happened.

A Very Funny Band, A Very Funny Song

This may be the funniest song I've ever heard. If you're so inclined, it's even funnier to listen to than it is to read. They have two cd's out and are available on itunes. Here's their site if you want to read more about them.

The Band: Jesus H. Christ and The Four Hornsmen
The Song: Connecticut's For Fucking

We live in the dullest state
Package stores all close at eight
Malls are full of optometrists
And restaurants we hate
Swimming across Lake Quassapaug
Stealing makeup, catching frogs
Cutting our feet on broken bottles
As we wade in the Shepaug
It’s true for horses, cows and dogs…

Connecticut’s for fucking
That’s all there is to do.
I love to listen to classic rock
and have sex with you.

Doing hole shots at the mall
Writing Ozzy on a wall
Watch the corn get tall
There’s nothing else to do at all.

Goin’ where we always go
Doin’ what we always do
Waitin’ to turn into the people
We are bound to turn into.
What else do other people do?

Connecticut’s for fucking
It’s the Nutmeg state
If we can’t afford to buy antiques
then we just copulate

Connecticut’s for fucking
And Massachusetts too
I want to climb up the sleepy giant
and have sex with you.

Up in Fairfield
In Old Lyme
We’re just fucking all the time.
Out in Derby
Down in Kent
We’re all busy getting bent
In the Constitution State.

Connecticut’s for fucking
While we’re waiting to
Turn into the people
everyone here turns into.

Connecticut’s for fucking.
There’s nothing else to do.
I wanna listen to classic rock and have sex with you.

We all love to fuck in Connecticut.
We’re all getting fucked in Connecticut.
Let’s fuck!

Here's a little back story. I first posted this almost three years ago and then sent the link to their "Contact us" link on their site just so they knew they had some supporters out there. I got back a sarcastic e-mail. I responded with a kind of "geez, I'm just trying to give you guys a little extra free publicity." I assumed it was just some record company P.R. peon I was dealing with. Turns out it was the lead singer. Since then we have e-mailed occasionally and she gave me permission to reference their band in my novel. About two months ago I got a Facebook invitation to attend their concert in NYC this weekend, so that's where I'll be Saturday night. They are a very funny, and very nice band, so please if you are so inclined, visit their site or download this song or others from itunes. Trust me, if you listen to this song you'll laugh from start to finish.

Cemetery of the Heart

We all have a Cemetery of the Heart that we visit from time to time. It is a place that is unique and belongs to each of us alone. Sometimes we visit when it’s sunny and the birds are singing and at these times we are unaffected by the memories each marker represents, thankful that we are in a better place. Other times we visit our Cemetery of the Heart when the weather is cloudy, cold, and stormy, perhaps mourning the loss of those happy memories that warmed our hearts in days gone by.

We may walk down an aisle, a small, grassy path flanked on either side by those tiny markers that barely acknowledge a person’s passing, viewing the tombstones with varying levels of interest and angst. Some of the smaller stones, barely a marker really, may represent missed opportunities, brief connections with people which never came to fruition or doors we did not open when opportunity knocked. Most are relationships that perished in their infancy. We recognize the names on some of these stones and others we do not. Some are lovers, some are friends and some are strangers we may have met in passing.

In the next row over are tombstones of those loves which may have been ill-fated, but which still resonate poignantly in our memories. The path through this row of grave markers is slightly uphill, but we can still easily make the trek. The stones are tall and strong with the names and dates etched in them as they are forever etched in our hearts. Each one a small nick, or scratch, or crack in the surface of our hearts, which may have changed it ever so slightly, but which also gives our heart some of the strength and character which has brought us this far.

As we turn the corner of the gravel path there are only a few graves left to view. Up the long, steep hill at the far back of our Cemetery of the Heart are the monuments and mausoleums. It is inevitable. Once we enter our Cemetery of the Heart we are compelled to walk the entire path, even when it becomes steep and difficult. There is no way to go back and erase what we’ve carved on each tombstone. The monuments and mausoleums may be far fewer in number, but their size and importance dominates our view of the cemetery.

In some places we have erected enormous monuments to lost loves. Some of them stand so tall and broad that they block the sun, dooming the small flowers we have tried to plant since the monument was built. Some of us are so tired from pushing the heavy stones into place that we haven’t even tried to plant new flowers yet. We hope that in time some hardy plants will grow here naturally in the shade of these memories and with enough time perhaps they will grow tall enough to reach the sunlight with branches where birds will nest and sing again.

Next to our monuments we notice a mausoleum. Some of the crypts are labeled and we fondly pay homage to those who still hold a special place in our hearts, those we still wish to check in on from time to time to see that they are well. Finally, if we choose to look closely enough, we can see that the daylight from outside our mausoleum has crept through the doorway to reveal a few empty drawers at the back. At this realization we smile and leave the cemetery in peace, knowing that the storm will eventually pass.

Jon and Kate Plus Hate

"In the future everyone will be famous for 15 minutes."-Andy Warhol

In any bar, on any night, in any town in America, if a 40 year old, doughy, hair thinning, married guy walks in, what are the chances he walks out with a single, 23 year old school teacher and goes back to her place to get jiggy with it? Pretty slim usually....unless you're a reality t.v. star!

Aaaaaah...reality t.v.! How could we live without it? I was nearly a reality t.v. star once upon a time. "What's that you say Phil? We could have known you as someone besides the brilliant and funny blog writer you are?" That's right kids. Sit down and I'll tell you the story:

Many moons ago, about 6 months before the first season of Survivor, I came across a tiny ad in small print on page 2 of my local newspapers sports section. It seems some network was looking for people to volunteer to live on a deserted island for a month as part of some new game show. The winner would get a million dollars. I thought, "Hell, I can do that. I'm not afraid to eat bugs and sleep outside." I was serious. So I proposed the idea to Mrs. Phil. Her reaction was, "No way. You're not going away for a month and leaving me here with the kids." "But honey, it's for a million dollars!" "NO" That was the end of that discussion and the end of my shot at immediate fame and fortune. I have forever held a grudge against Survivor and have not watched a single episode.

Now it seems we have reality t.v. overkill, even without me being a part of it. There are shows about families, shows about fat people, short people, people cooking, people selling their houses, people looking for their houses, people having surgery, people building motorcycles, people sleeping, people having babies, getting married and just about anything else. I made up the one about people sleeping just to see if you're paying attention.

Survivor: Yeah, we get it already. A bunch of self-centered, arrogant, model-type a-holes bicker endlessly in a tropical location. Like E.R. I think this show has overstayed its welcome in our living rooms.

Big Brother: A bunch of self-centered, arrogant, model type, a-holes bicker endlessly in a house. If I wanted to watch a bunch of drunk, immature, 20 somethings stab each other in the back and make every little perceived slight into a volcano of petty drama I'd go back to college.

The Bachelor/Bachelorette: A bunch of self-centered, arrogant, model-type, a-holes bicker endlessly about who gets to marry a self-centered, arrogant model-type a-hole.

Would somebody out there just go back to writing sit-coms? All I want when I sit down at night is to empty my brain and fill it with 22 minutes of insipid one liners that require no thought at all to absorb. Maybe a sit-com about the life of a funny blogger would be good. The Phil Factor could be a very catchy title. Hollywood, are you listening?