Brilliant. And, sadly, true. Even sadder? I knew this man when he was still the president of the Florida Young Democrats, before he determined that electability in the Cuban Diaspora was dependent on being a Republican, and switched parties. So much for convictions.

I’m trying not to obsess about my brother, Biggus Dickus’ latest actions, but I am obsessing. Answer me this: why did he send a letter to the owner of the home in which we have our mother complaining that she never sends him reports about Mummy? And why did he tell me that he was sending such a letter, but neglect to mention part B, which is that there is a “very dear friend of the family” (of whom I have never, ever heard) who often has business in Miami and will be coming to see Mummy from time to time, to give Biggus Dickus reports on her, and that he wants this person to be granted every courtesy the owner would grant a family member. And why, if he is concerned about Mummy or her confines, does he not A) ask me, who sees Mummy almost every week, or B) get his ass down here and see her for himself? Why would he hide this visitor from me; why wouldn’t he ask me to meet with her and take her to see Mummy.

Who is this third person? What business is it of hers? Why didn’t he tell me? Why isn’t she contacting me? Why doesn’t he call me to find out about Mummy? And really, and come on, what is there to say about a 90 year old woman with end-stage Alzheimer’s? She gets 3 home-cooked meals a day, which she eats with assistance. She gets a bath every day, and her hair shampooed. She has regular bowel movements and her diapers changed promptly. She naps. She talks. She still has hallucinations, we think. Her blind eye is still blind. She still can’t walk without assistance. She still doesn’t remember anything nor is she aware of much. She’s otherwise healthy as an ox.

Does Biggus Dickus think I’m lying about this? Does he not want to talk to me because I sound a tad judgemental about his inability to see his mother in this condition? Dude. Not only are you a professional mental health specialist, you are a 60-year old man. Sack up, ho. Buy yourself some powder milk biscuits and get the strength to do the things which need to be done: i.e.: see your mother. Does he think I’m stealing money? That I’m not taking good care of her? That I don’t actually visit her regularly?

What the fuck is wrong with him? What band of wolves dropped him at my parents door because he was too antisocial and irredeemable to be part of the pack? At what point did he forfeit his humanity? His soul? What am I supposed to do?

Before the show, I was tewtally jacked up in antici—pation. The RLA was concerned for me on two counts. The first, he said, was that I was coming perilously close to knee-sucking behavior. The second, he said, was that I was setting myself up for disappointment if the show wasn’t all I was hoping for. Don’t worry, I said. I’m too old to rush the stage, and I refused to go into the open pit. As for the show not being as good as I hope? All the on-line chatter agrees: this tour is a throw back to the 70s and 80s when the band played four-hour sets with no intermission. The set lists are amazing. If he plays any of half a dozen songs I haven’t heard in years, I’ll be happy.

At work, one of my coworkers offered up the same advice. Don’t get your hopes up too high, the man is how old now? 58? It might not be all that. You could be in for a big let down.

And I almost was. I got to the on-call window with well over an hour to spare, and waited patiently as person and person ahead of me had problems with their tickets that took time to resolve. I got to the window, and presented my ID. There were no tickets in my name. I told them the name of The Coolest Person in the World’s Husband. No tickets. I told them the name of The Coolest Person in the World. No tickets. A line Nazi barged up from several people behind me in line to yell at and berate the window worker, sneering that it was an 8 dollar an hour job and she was incapable of doing it. He was an unmitigated ass, and demanded I get out of the line. I stepped aside to let the other people get their tickets. The ticket lady asked how I had gotten my tickets. I told her through the production company, a roadie by the name of Lyle. What is his last name? I have no idea. I only know his e-mail addy, which I got from the Coolest Person in the World’s Husband. I had left my phone in the car, and couldn’t call either TCPITW or her husband. Another asshole charged the window to complain about his seats. He was promised good seats, and these were too far to the side. He wasn’t going to sit there. They could just give him good seats or take these back, because he’s too important in his own head to sit with the riffraff in a side seat. I tuned him out. I don’t know how that was resolved.

There was one of the famous Men in Black, the Springsteen crew, standing next to the line. I asked him if he knew who Lyle is. I told him the names of TCPITW and her husband. He didn’t know them. Then, some random guy came out of the crowd and asked me if I was a friend of TCPITWH. Yes. And you? Haven’t seen them in years, he said. I knew all of the Claire Brothers’ crew back in the day. The Man in Black picked up some tickets from the window and left. And then, out of the blue, and a mere 45 minutes after I got to the window,  the ticket lady came back and said that my tickets had all been straightened out. She handed me two tickets and my credit card and my driver’s license. Enjoy the show.

Into the arena, but not before another Line Nazi yelled at me for mistaking a line for a line when it wasn’t an official, I’ve been standing in this line for an hour line. I wandered further off. I ended up standing next to a guy who was here for his 30th show. We discussed our mates, who weren’t hard core fans like us. She was in for her first show, and I told the RLA that he would FINALLY see a Springsteen show. What have I been going to for 15 years, he asked? NOT a REAL show, my new acquaintance and I told him. A real show is three hours long, at least. He tells stories. He has a good time. The band feeds off the energy in the crowd and the crowd feeds off the energy of the band. It is a religious experience. Yeah, yeah, yeah, said the RLA, I’ve heard THAT one before.

Our seats were maybe ten rows up, to the side, but front of the stage. In fact, the extensions that Bruce ran along were right in front of us. The show started late. The crowd was a mix of aging rockers like me, older folks (no, really. There was an 83 year old abuela going up the stairs in front of us) and kids. Little kids. Babies, even, and even in the pit at the front of the stage. Finally, 15 minutes late, the lights went out and the band took the stage. Four mics were set up, which meant no Pati (and who cares anyway). This is the E-Street Band as it should be. (I can accept Suze). Danny has been replaced by the guy from the Seeger Sessions band.

The show opened with a video tribute to Danny, as Bruce sang Blood Brothers from a dark stage. And. Then. The earth shook. Here’s the set list: read it and weep. I sure as hell wept. And danced. And laughed. And felt a joy that goes beyond anything. The band was at the top of its game. Bruce was calling audibles, changing the list at whim. He was taking signs from the audience, holding them up and showing the band. Were they already in his set list, and he was just changing the order? Or was he taking requests. From the way the crew was scrambling to change his guitars, I think it was the latter, requests. At the end of the evening, the RLA acknowledged that yes, he had finally seen a Springsteen show and it was good.

Blood Brothers

Promised Land

I Wanna Be With You

Radio Nowhere

Out in the Street (first audible)

This Hard Land (sign)

Gypsy Biker (and Little Steven works it)

Bruce takes a moment to tell a story about Danny and CB radios.

Growing Up (request)

Candy’s Room

Prove it All Night

She’s The One (Oh. My. God. Miz Shoes can die happy, right then)

Bruce takes a moment to discourse on the last 8 years, and launches into the political, pointy portion of the show

Living In the Future

Mary’s Place (sign)

Girls In Their Summer Clothes

Devil’s Arcade

The Rising

Last To Die

Long Walk Home (Stevie takes a vocal solo and Miz Shoes goes weak at the knees. She may or may not have screamed “I LOVE YOU STEVIE”)

Badland (and Stevie and Bruce trade some fierce licks)

the band leaves the stage, and a sea of flickering cell phone screens light the arena. Encore number one.

Thunder Road (a sign says THUNDER RD, I’m 21 today)

Born to Run

ROSALITA

10th Avenue Freeze Out (with a guest horn player. He’s either the charter pilot or a commercial pilot, but he’s flown the band and tonight he’s got on his uniform and he’s playing with Clarence)

American Land (complete with karaoke on the jumbotron)

the band leaves the stage, but the crowd won’t hear of it. Chants. Clapping. Second Encore.

KITTY’S BACK, all 15 minutes of it, with each member of the band soloing

And that, my friends, is 25 songs, and three hours of non-stop rock and roll. THAT, my dear readers, is a Springsteen show.

Disappointed? I think not. Elevated? Revived? Liberated? Yep. High mass at the church of rock and roll.

Thesaurus: liberation: noun

The state of not being in confinement or servitude: emancipation, freedom, liberty, freeing

Friday night, I’m going to another Springsteen show. I have tried to figure out how many times I’ve seen him live, and I can’t. 1975 at the Jai Alai fronton in Miami, broadcast live from the Bottom Line in 76?, 1977 or 78 at the Paladium in New York City, then again in Miami at the Orange Bowl on the Born in the USA tour, and the River Tour… usually going to both nights of a two-night stand. At the Meadowlands and at the Garden. At the Miami Arena, the American Airlines arena and at the BankAtlantic Center. I’ve seen the original E-Street Band, I’ve seen the band with Nils, without Little Steven. I’ve seen the other band, and Bruce alone with an acoustic guitar, and I’ve seen the band back together, as it should be: with both Nils and Little Steven. I’ve rushed the stage during encores, been seated in the front row from the beginning, been up in the nosebleed seats, been behind the stage and backstage. I’ve received a pick from the hand of Little Steven (but he’ll always be Miami Steve to me), and a harmonica from a member of the sound crew. I’ve clutched the sweaty knee of my rock and roll god during 10th Avenue Freezeout. I’ve shot pictures from the balcony (back in the day, when you could bring a camera into a show) and danced on the arms of my seat without taking a single frame.

I have been in the presence of something and even when the show was as lackluster as a Springsteen show can be, which is not very, it is always very good. I have seen the giant show lights, swinging from the rafters at Madison Square Garden, when the whole building shook during “Rosalita” as the capacity crowd clapped and stomped their feet and danced in the aisles.

But always, I leave the show with my soul elevated and pure…liberated, if you will.

A couple of dozen years ago, a friend of mine from college owned a bookstore. He always had a knack for leading me to some really great books and underappreciated authors, so when he handed me a copy of Flashman and told me to have a go at it, I took it home and dove right in. And Oh. My. God. There was nothing like it for excellent reading and rollicking fun. The Flashman Chronicles purported to be the story of one Harry Flashman, who was tossed out of Rugby School for drinking in the great Victorian novel/memoir Tom Brown’s School Days. Meticulously researched and brilliantly written, the Flashman books told the saga of the Victorian era of colonialism. Unapologetically non-PC, they are profane and funny. Bodices are ripped, bosoms heave, men are men and villains are real people whose tales can be confirmed on Wikipedia or other, more old-fashioned sources.

I have read and reread every one of the Flashman novels; there are twelve, and alas, there will be no more. The author, George MacDonald Faser, passed away of cancer in January. I just heard about it yesterday, when I had the great good pleasure of meeting Ms. Otter for a late lunch of Cuban food, as she passed from Key West to Palm Beach. Ms. Otter and I may have been separated at birth, since our tastes in film and books are pretty much identical.

Here’s to Sir Faser, and Sir Flashman. May they meet in the afterlife and continue to swap tales of derring-do.

Ciao, bellas. We are in Rome. And before we go any further, let me give you, directly lifted from Wikipedia, the etymology of the word “ciao”, which, you will see, is more closely related to the hamsters’ relationship to Tyra than we suspected:

The word derives from the Venetian phrase s-ciào vostro or s-ciào su literally meaning “I am your slave”. This greeting is analogous to the Latin Servus which is still used in a large section of Central/Eastern Europe. The expression was not a literal statement of fact, of course, but rather a perfunctory promise of good will among friends (along the lines “if you ever need my help, count on me”). Indeed, to this day the greeting ciao is used in Italy only among peers, family members, and close friends, being considered too informal to use with superiors or strangers.

You see? They are her servants, non? Well, I digress. We are in Roma, which we know because we keep seeing the Coliseum and the Spanish Steps. Sooner or later Miz Shoes will be reduced to singing “When I Paint My Masterpiece” or at least those lyrics dealing with the Spanish Steps. In fact, I’m singing it in my head even now.

So. We are in Rome, in a bus or something, and the girls are all excited to be abroad. Whitney has never been to Rome. Anya has never been abroad. So much for teh intarweb theories about her being from Eastern Europe. Lauren doesn’t fit in. They reach some destination or another on one of the hills overlooking the city, and Anya promptly face-plants upon exiting the bus. The other girls don’t help her up, and she doesn’t seem to break anything and even exhibits good humor over the incident. Where’s the drama in that? Whitney then yammers on about how no plus-size girl has gotten this far in the competition before. While I like her, for the most part, and feel she takes some fine pictures, the girl needs to tone down the ego. Although, in all fairness, there have been some very plus-sized egos taking home the prize (ahem, JASLENE). Fatima interviews how, after being in the bottom two and almost not getting her letters of transit, she is tewtally ready to kick out the jams, muthafuckers.

Katarzyna interviews about the new digs. Huh. She speaks. She gets airtime. What are the editors trying to do to me? She says, in her completely non-accented and all-Amurikin way, that the new home is “off the chain”. And in all fairness, while that may not have been the phrase I would have chosen, it is. There is sculpture. There is a swimming pool in the living room. There are bunk beds. There is a garden. It is fabu.

The next day, Fatima wakes up sick. Dominique-inique-inique takes this as a classic opening to kick the competition when down and proceeds to opine how Fatima doesn’t have what it takes and she sucks and like that. Anya listens for a second or two, then hates on the haters and takes Fatima some chicken. Aww. Sweet. I’d ask for a food taster, first, though. You know, just in case Dominique-inique-inique had a hand in the preparation. In any event, Fatima doesn’t want the chicken, she wants sympathy because she’s come so far, against such odds, and it isn’t fair that she’s sick now and she doesn’t want to go home. Wahwahwah. Eat the chicken, bitch.

The next morning, Lauren is clomping around in her size 10 Chuck Taylors and making an early morning racket. The other girls (and Dominique-inique-inique) don’t like this at all. Whitney confessionalizes that she thinks that Lauren is over the competition. The Tyra mail (which is, thankfully, back in print) features a picture of Tyra’s face superimposed onto the Mona Lisa (Oh, no, she din’t) and says something about rolling. The girls and Dominique-inique-inique head off to meet someone or another who is the head of Gai Matiollo’s design team. They all get a Segway for a rolling tour of Roma. There is some minor hilarity as they fail to master the Segway. Katarzyna, in particular has a hard time and keeps rolling backwards. Lauren keeps falling off. Good times. They finally manage to all stay on, and head off around the city, as our Random Designer Guy points out random, yet utterly magnifico Roman women, trying to impart some style sense to our poor hamsters. At the Spanish Steps (great. now I’ve got that damn song running in my head again) they hop off their Segways (why not Vespas? Aren’t Vespas like, the official vehicle of Rome? Even though Random Designer Guy’s Segway had shiny red rims, it’s no Roman Holiday. STYLE, people!) hop off their Segways and head off to meet Gai. Their challenge today will be to emulate the effortless chic of the average Roman woman. Good luck with that. Fortunately, the girls and Dominique-inique-inique are helped by Gai’s people and not left to flounder around helpless and clueless.

Gai comes out to do the judging and the hamsters do a short up and back on an imaginary cat walk. Fatima, he says is elegant. She is also coughing, just so everyone knows she sick. A-hem, a-hem. Good lord that woman has a collar bone looks like somebody stuck a couple of wooden hangers under her skin. Eat the chicken, Fatima. Dominique-inique-inique is natural, but not fresh. No. You think? Honey, the expiration date on that thing was last century. Katarzyna is beautiful. Anya is blonde, skinny, young and fresh. (He likes her, non?) Whitney is so American. She can go far with her beautiful face. Lauren, says Gai, with delicacy, is very tall and has some great legs. (Too bad she’s still working out how to use them for walking.) Gai says that the winner of the challenge will get one of his red-carpet gowns for her next red-carpet event. As much as he would like to give one to each, there can be only one winner, and that winner is Anya. Whitney’s head explodes.

Back in ça Tyra, there is Tyra Lisa mail announcing something in Italian. Katarzyna is able to translate this into “easy, breezy, Cover Girl” and from there, extrapolate that the next challenge will be the Cover Girl commercial, in Italian. She’s the brains of this operation, Katarzyna is. Lauren melts down in a series of crap, crap, craps and says that this is the moment she’s been dreading. The moment when they try to make her beautiful and white bread, because that just isn’t her. Which of course, begs the question what the fuck are you doing here then, competing for a Cover Girl contract if you don’t like it and don’t want it? Miz Shoes rolls her eyes at this so hard that her left may now be her right. In any event, after a good night’s sleep, we see Lauren snoring like pig, getting woken up for the day’s events. I love Lauren. I do. And the fact that she snores has made it true love. She confessionalizes that she would very much like to run away now, but seeing as how she’s sort of stuck in the middle of Rome, can’t. Dammit, Beavis, she’ll just do her best and hope.

At the shoot, Brent Poer is telling the girls to memorize their lines, and Mr. Jay is giving Lauren shit because he sees how this is going to go down for her. Piersandro Buzzanca is their director for the shoot. He walks them through, showing them where to hit their marks and when to deliver their lines. He advises them to play with attitude. Anya tells us that this is going to be vewy hawd, because they have to walk AND apply lipstick! Oh NOES! Scary! Hard! They will each get thirty minutes to try to do this. And we’re off.

Anya is up first, looking like a cheap Gwen Steffani knock-off. Mr. Jay says she looks lost. She gives it her all, then says to the crew: “Grat-zee-yah!” She is then advised that would be Spanish, not Italian, and not particularly good Spanish, either. NEXT! Katarzyna speaks many languages and is able to fake the Italian pretty well. Her delivery, though, is flat at best.

Dominique-inique-inique tells us that

s

he is gonna be the Cover Girl, so

s

he is just gonna have FUN! with this shoot. If

s

he doesn’t know it,

s

he’ll just make it up. And so

s

he does. It is frightening.

S

he is all over the place, and all over awful. Lauren is petrified. She can’t move. She’s so awkward and uncomfortable that Mr. Jay says she’s hard to watch. Fatima is losing her voice, she says, A-hem A-hem, little cough, but she’ll soldier on. Her face is purple compared to the rest of her. I can’t believe how bad the make up is on this shoot. Sutan needs to get her eyes checked for color matching. Our director thinks that Fatima is “a goddess. Her Italian is the best.” Meh. Since they all sucked, this is faint praise, as far as I’m concerned. Big Whitney comes out and just goes so over the top that even Miz Shoes, who is a fan of Big Whitney, wants to slap the smug and the smirk and the fake right off her face. Mr. Jay HATES her and tells her that she’s so fake it’s coming off as bitchy. This makes Miz Shoes very sad.

Back to ça Tyra, where the girls are reliving the day. Lauren says that she sucked so hard she could be going home. Big Whitney says that she gave energy, but in a bad way. And she looks so cute and acts so sweet right there. Why can’t you bring that to the judging panel, huh? Speaking of which, there we are. In the judging room. Tyra explains to the girls and Dominique-inique-inique that in Italian, high fashion is translated to alta moda, and that the biggest fashion show in all of Italy is held on the Spanish Steps. (Fine. But you made me do this. “Oh, the streets of Rome are filled with rubble, Ancient footprints are everywhere. You can almost think that you’re seein’ double On a cold, dark night on the Spanish Stairs. Got to hurry on back to my hotel room, Where I’ve got me a date with Botticelli’s niece. She promised that she’d be right there with me When I paint my masterpiece..” There. Are you happy now?) Tyra informs us that she has walked in that show FOUR times. PHHHHBBBT.

Our guest judge today is Piersandro Buzzanca, the commercial director. Let’s see the best takes, shall we? Fatima and her purple face are icky, and she’s kinda sleazy/sexy. Not to mention those collar bones. Put a flag on the end of those things, before you take someone’s eye out. Whitney is just ghastly. Paulina says that she was fake from beginning to end and that she (Paulina) particularly hates the finger to the cheek and the breathy laugh. Tyra says that she was over the top, but that she (Tyra) liked it.  Anya, according to Miss Jay, is horrible, too. Tyra says that her commercial is just pure D-dookie. The director says, well, yeah, but she LOOKS like a model. Dominique-inique-inique is so unbelievably horrendous that Miss Jay is practically pissing herself from laughing. Trya is horrified by it, and Paulina scared. Piersandro tries to be nice by saying, well, she brought energy to the set?

Lauren is pathetic, and prompts a Hell to the No from Miss Jay. Nigel is disgusted and tells Lauren that she just threw it away and didn’t even try. Paulina is completely disappointed and says that she was afraid that this is what Lauren would do, and she did. Piersandro says that Lauren was terrified on the set. Katarzya starts by instructing Tyra on how to correctly (after 10 weeks) pronounce her name. The judges note that she’s actually talking. Katarzyna says that yes, after last week when they told her that her personality was disappearing, she thought “Oh, no you din’t” and Tyra promptly teaches her how to say that correctly. She is critiqued with a bringing the boring back to sexy and Tyra thanks her, mispronouncing her name again. Katarzyna tries again to get Trya to say her name correctly and Tyra just gives her a finger wiggle and says “you’re dismissed.” Yah. Don’t push it Kat.

The judges deliberate. None of the girls or Dominique-inique-inique could do a commercial to save their life, so starting with low expectations, Fatima looked beautiful (but purple). Whitney is a big old Fakey McFakersons. Anya looks like a model, but, as Nigel astutely points out, you can’t understand a word she says in English or faux-Italian. Lauren produces the best still photos but completely melted down on set. Katarzya did well on set. Dominique-inique-inique is so not a Cover Girl. Miss Jay says that she thinks Dominique-inique-inique is a brother, and Paulina agrees whole heartedly. All the judges agree that he makes them howl with laughter, and not for the right reasons. SO. Tyra hands out the photos in this order:

Fatima, Katarzyna, Anya, Dominique-inique-inique (you were a mess, but you had fun and didn’t give up). Whitney and Lauren stand side by side, and Miz Shoes calls bullshit. Dominique-inique-inique clearly should have gone home, but is too much fun for the judges to toy with and the audience to hate, so he got to stay. That means that Lauren or Whitney has to be sacrificed tonight. Whitney takes gorgeous pix, but everyone thinks she’s phoney. Even Miss America doesn’t want Miss America anymore, says Tyra. Lauren on the other hand, couldn’t hide her real self if they handed her a tarpaulin and told her to stand under it. She takes amazing pictures, too, but gave up at the commercial shoot. Who should stay, and who should go? (Miz Shoes already answered that, Tyra. Dominique-inique-inique should be given the ticket back to palookaville, thanks and both these beauties should stay). So home goes Lauren, much to Miz Shoes sorrow, and Big Whitney gets to stick around for the redemption arc (a la Eva the Diva) and probably the win.

Next week? Martial arts and a fight in the Colliseum. Will Dominique-inique-inique be fed to the lions? One can only hope.