So, why does everybody get so freaking stupid over St. Patrick's Day?

It's not like we all need another excuse to drink. Christ, I never need an excuse, I just need a bottle. And, maybe, a glass. Maybe not.

I mean, really. Cubans who, all year long, vie to out-Cubanisimo each other, show up on March 17 wearing green and "Kiss Me, I'm Irish" buttons.

People who don't know the difference between single malt and chocolate malt wear shamrocks and call out for over-cooked cabbage.

Where were these people earlier this week when it was Purim? Nobody offered me a cookie. Nobody wore costumes to work. Nobody got shit-faced drunk in public, even though that is a tradition of Purim, just as much as it is of St. Paddy's day.

Me? I just grouse and complain and quote Christopher Moltisanti: "Hell is an Irish bar where it's always St. Patrick's Day."*

*With apologies to RJ and MJ, who make wonderful Irish food, and throw great St. Patrick's Day parties, and I'd gladly go to another one. But then, RJ refuses to dye food green, and that, as we all know, is a Very Good Thing.

How many times must we review the rules, people?

Here's a clue: If, even though I have my i-pod at full volume, I can hear every single word of your inane conversation, you are definitely talking too loud. Christ, woman, the nut case who was talking to himself on the other side of me got up and moved because you annoyed him!

Two bodies cannot occupy the same physical space simultaneously. This means, in real life, that you cannot shove your fat ass onto the train while someone is trying to exit through the same door. Let me put it in images you might relate to:
When Larry, Moe and Curly all try to get through the door at the same time, what happens? Right. Moe slaps the shit out of the other two until they move and he can get through the door. Do you want me to get all Moe on your ass, and slap you?

Teenage boys: Nobody, and I mean NOBODY wants to see your skanky underwear hanging out over the tops of your too-big, baggy shorts. (Which, by the way, make you look like you are wearing a skirt. Do you even realize that?) If you have to keep them on by holding your dick all day, well, what's the freaking point. You aren't going to listen to me. You don't listen to each other.

Another thing I'd like to say to teenage boys, particularly the gaggle of them on this morning's train: talking about "raping" your friend's 12-year-old sister is not amusing to me or any of the other adults in the train. I bet the twelve year old sister wouldn't be entertained by this, either. Nor would any of your mothers. Assuming you still have mothers who give a shit about you. Judging by the way you look and act in public, I'd have to guess no.

Next time, I'm going to pants you, and damn the consequences.

I'm walking out to the train last night, and there, crossing Biscayne Boulevard, heading my way, is a guy in a NEHRU suit.

A beige Nehru suit. With tan shoes. Tan shoes with those big, ugly square toes. He's sporting a haircut very much like Johnny Depp in "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory".

Rounding out his ensemble were a pair of euro-trash glasses.

The scary thing was that the guy was absolutely rocking the whole look. If I hadn't been having an unnecessary and unnecessarily loud conversation on my cell phone? I would have gotten a photo for you.

Apple accepted it, and the Pandemonium Midnight Uploading is now live on i-tunes. You can subscribe to it by going to the music store, clicking on podcasts, then do a search for pandemonium. Up she comes. The Pandemonium Midnight Uploading. For some reason (probably my code, again) the artwork doesn't show in the listings, but it will display correctly when you download and play the track.

This is for my family. I know you are out there, reading this blog, even if you never comment. You know who you are. Yeah. I'm talking to you.

The rest of you guys, just skip this one, OK?
I went to visit my mom the other day and she managed to make a whole sentence. Now, while this may sound good to you, it was a heartbreaker to me. What she said was:

"I'm afraid to look at you because I don't know if you're really here."

On the one hand, I'm tempted to think that was a prime example of a million monkeys with typewriters, eventually banging out something that makes sense. On the other hand, it makes a little too much sense for a million monkeys.

The real question, of course, is who did she think she was seeing?

Anyway, the RLA took some photos of us together. I love this one. You can imagine that she's aware of me in this.



In other family-related news, an astute reader sent me a copy of a letter published in the Stuart News, advocating tearing down the old Stuart Department Store to build a parking garage for downtown.

Here's the letter I wrote in response:

My grandfather, Oscar Kanarek, built the Stuart Department Store in 1954, replacing his earlier building (originally Kitching's store). It was built across the street from the railway station (gone, just like passenger service on the FEC railroad). For thirty years, the pink building was a landmark in downtown Stuart (closed with the opening of the Treasure Coast Mall). Many of the other businesses of my childhood are gone too: The Seahorse Drugs, The Pink Pony restaurant, Gay's Jewelers.

I know that my family no longer owns the building, nor do we have rights to the collective memories of the town. However, as a resident of Miami, I now watch as, daily, the historic buildings of this city are bulldozed to make way for bigger, larger, more. One hopes for more sensitivity to history in Stuart.

The Stuart Department Store was a beautiful example of what architectural historians call MiMo, or Miami Modern. It was a particular style, derived from Art Deco, and very much of its time (Mid-Century) and place. The low, horizontal concrete eyebrow was both ornamental and useful in keeping the windows shaded from the tropical sun. The original interiors had organically shaped ceiling areas, wonderful daisy-shaped flourescent lights, terrazo foors. The original exterior had both strong verticals and wide expanses of glass, both elements of MiMo. And, it was pink.

I promised myself that I'd learn how to podcast.

Did I succeed?
Well. Yes. Yes, I did. I just submitted the first episode of the Pandemonium Midnight Uploading to i-tunes. I subscribed, and it found the podcast, populated all the fields correctly (i.e.: the author, the description, the artwork) and opened and played.

Sigh.

I am soooo the Geek Goddess. Sometimes I scare myself. I ate cold pizza for breakfast and sat down in front of the Powerbook and corrected code. I am so hott.

Anyway.

The Pandemonium Midnight Uploading could also have been called Pandemonium Reigns Again. Back in the 80s and up to the mid 90s, the Pandemonium Midnight Uprising was a comedy show that aired on WLRN, Miami's National Public Radio affiliate.

Those were heady days, people. We (RJ was a Pande, too) were just a bunch of people (too old, really, to still be called kids) who got together once a week to record a radio show. Sometimes we went on live, and it was a blast. Other times we did improv, and there were moments of comedic genius. At still other times, there were moments that sank like lead-weighted rocks.

We had no monetary support from anyone. We wrote most every skit ourselves. We did our own production, and post-production.

Sometimes we appeared live. Sometimes the various sub-groups would perform folk music, or musical satire, or comedy or do a stand-up routine.

We had a wonderful time, and true to this day, amused ourselves greatly. But all wonderful times end, eventually. One and then another of us moved away, dropped out, divorced. Gary died. The tapes were lost.

Not too long ago, I found my personal collection of cassettes of shows that I'd taped off the radio. MJ ported them all to CDs, and I've converted them to mp3s and mp4s, and as of an hour ago, launched the Pandemonium Midnight Uploading, a podcast on i-tunes.

That I could write that code, and do the editing required to get these shows broken apart and put back into little bites, would have gotten Gary very hot.

These are for you, Mr. Willson.