An ugly admission

I'm prejudiced. I don't know if I'm a full-fledged bigot, but I'm definitely prejudiced. I often wonder how it's possible for people to instantly dislike me just because I'm dark-haired, dark-skinned, and swarthy. They should get to know me, THEN dislike me. At least that way, they'll have a legitimate reason! The truth is, I'm just as superficial when it comes to passing judgment on a group of people. Without so much as knowing even the slightest detail about the following individuals, I already hate their guts:

Redneck 'tards:

The South lost. The Confederacy is dead. The slaves have been freed.
Deal with it, you inbred hillbillies.

Stoner 'tards:
Desperate for your pot fix? Move to fucking Amsterdam.

Hippie 'tards:
Growing up and actually getting a job are GOOD things, people.
So are shampoo and soap. Ugh.

Guido 'tards:
And speaking of growing up...
Come on, I don't even have a snarky comment here.

Slutty 'tards:
Might as well just wear a sign that says,
"I'll fuck you. You don't even have to buy me a drink first."

Bra-burning 'tards:
"Sexism is a handicap," according to one of the signs.
So's being a whiny twat.
Check out the orange sign in the background...
I wonder if that guy got out of there alive!

Huntin' 'tards:
Absolutely sickening. Guys like these should be locked in a cage, naked and unarmed, to do battle with their "prey" on equal terms.
They're not even going to eat their kill, for crying out loud!
They're just killing for the fun. Cocksuckers.

Boston / New England 'tards:
Why does the entire sports universe loathe you?
It's because you're a bunch of douche-bags.

Spring Classical: the good, the bad, and the ugly

The Bella Terra Mafia and I hit the season's last concert at the Naples Philharmonic on Friday night, for a performance of Tchaikovsky's polonnaise from "Eugene Onegin," Tchaikovsky's Piano Concerto, and Dvorák's "New World" Symphony. The performance was a mixed bag, as always, hence the mini-tribute to one of my all-time favourite Westerns.

The Good: Pianist Joyce Yang, a twenty-two year old Korean waif, who tackled Tchaikovsky's demanding concerto with remarkable aplomb. Although the tempo tended to be rushed at times, unnecessarily raising the concerto's severe degree of difficulty, she never once botched the notation, and she attacked the loud tutti passages with more than enough ferocity to not get drowned out by the orchestra. She was also kind enough to pose for a few photos after the performance.


The Bad: The Philharmonic's brass section. Gotta give them points for being consistent, as they continue to earn their "bane of my existence" status by consistently sucking. I counted at least seven botched duck snorts, one of them so unfortunate that I thought for a second someone had farted. At least the Cor Anglais did a nice job during the second movement of the New World Symphony.

The Ugly: The crowd. Halted the piano concerto by idiotically applauding at the end of the first movement, and were up to their usual tricks of waiting until the performance started before noisily rooting through purses for tissue, glasses, candy, whatev, talking during the music, blowing their noses, snoring, and, in what was a first even for my jaded arse, audibly humming the lovely first theme of the piano concerto's second movement. No matter, I'm still thankful these ignorant dolts contribute heavily to the Philharmonic. Considering how small our little town is, having a pretty good orchestra with enough caché to present a full season's worth of performances and lure excellent soloists is a privilege.

Recommended performances: Dvorák's "New World" Symphony is a very popular work, so there are many excellent recordings of this masterpiece, including top-notch versions by Leonard Bernstein and the New York Philharmonic, George Szell and the Cleveland Orchestra, and the grossly underrated performance by Rafael Kubelik and the Berlin Philharmonic... but none of these can touch Christoph von Dohnányi and the Cleveland Orchestra's fiery rendition. I actually had the privilege of seeing Chrissy VD and the Clevelanders perform this at Severance Hall, and I still haven't caught my breath from the exhilaration.

Tchaikovsky's Piano Concerto is also a staple of the classical repertoire, so, again, many outstanding versions of it are available. Some of my faves include Emil Gilels with the New York Philharmonic, conducted by Zubin Mehta, Artur Rubinstein with the Boston Symphony Orchestra, conducted by Erich Leinsdorf, and Sviatoslav Richter with the Vienna Philharmonic, conducted by Herbert von Karajan. Perhaps the best recording, but definitely the most famous, is Van Cliburn's towering performance, accompanied by the RCA Victor Symphony Orchestra, conducted by Kiril Kondrashin. Be that as it may, Richter's rendition of Tchaikovsky's piano concerto is particularly noteworthy because it inspired one of the best-ever Monty Python skits:

Ode to DeShawn Stevenson

In iambic pentameter:

DeShawn, DeShawn, you're such a piece of crap,
I wish you'd learn to shut your fucking trap.
Your hand-in-front-of-face routine is gay,
Your beard looks like a shit-stained pile of hay.

You tried to cheap-shot James into a fight,
But King LeBron was way too smart to bite.
You went all crazy hoisting myriad bricks,
Should stick to your day job sucking pig dicks.

The ugly stick came down hard on your Wizards,
Butler, Blatch and Antawn look like dead lizards.
Your dirty-tactics-loving, whiny coach,
Reminds me of garbage-dwelling roach.

Your pal Arenas tried to be the hero,
Instead he showed the world why he's a zero.
Playing the Cavs was tops amongst his wishes,
And now he'll soon be home, doing the dishes.

Your idiot fans continued what you started,
They showed themselves to be downright retarded.
Another first-round exit you'll enjoy,
Lots of free time to brokeback Soulja Boy.

Anna G's shotgun weddin'

After weeks of obsessing about music, cakes, venues, permits, music, speeches, and the weather, Anna G's shotgun weddin' went off without a hitch. It had gotten to the point where even I was religiously checking weather.com to see whether the forecast for Fort Myers Beach called for rain... but then again, that's what little sinners get for not getting married in the house of God! Ah, but I kid. The biggest weddin' etiquette gaffe actually came courtesy of yours truly, and was a byproduct of procrastination. I waited until the last minute to get the weddin' present, and it turned out to be too large for the kind folks at Bed, Bath & Beyond to wrap... so a cute little Spanish cashier and I kind of fashioned a huge satin bow, slapped it on the present, and that was that.

A few images from the shotgun weddin':

Anna G & Mike were kind enough to set up transportation from Crust Bistro, the reception venue, to Fort Myers Beach, the weddin' venue. It's painfully obvious that the bride & groom know their friends well, because the buses were properly equipped for the crowd.

The best part of the busing journey: the school bus drivers actually put on the STOP sign & flashers so we could all cross the street. Sweetness...

An admirably relaxed Mike awaits Anna G.

Anna G & her father make their way to the altar.

The weddin' ceremony.

Mr. & Mrs. Smith's triumphant exit.

Best-named store EVER, directly across the street from Crust Bistro.

Anna G and Mike's first dance, to some cheesy Sinatra number. Should have gone with this.

And so, congrats to my best gal Anna G and her hubby Mike. May you both always be happy, and God bless.

Piggsburgh: the cradle of misogyny

After yet another home playoff defeat in which the sore-loser Piggsburgh Steelers insisted they were the better team, a wag much cleverer than myself wrote that denial must be one of the Three Rivers. That philosophy was in display this past week, when the Steelers took a tough stance against fringe WR Cedrick Wilson, all the while conveniently playing the "to err is human, to forgive divine" card on star LB James Harrison. Both players face domestic abuse and battery charges. Wilson sucker-punched an ex-girlfriend who had threatened to shoot him, and Harrison slapped an ex-girlfriend so hard that he sent her glasses flying and left an imprint of his hand on her face that was still visible hours later. Harrison, who has previously undergone various bouts of anger and violence counseling, has team owner Dan Rooney's unconditional support. Wilson, on the other hand, was sent packing without so much as a fare-thee-well. So why was Harrison forgiven, if not for the obvious reason that the Steelers don't give a shit about contemptible behaviour (Harrison not only hit a woman, he hit a woman with glasses!) so long as the players produce on the field? Fasten your moral ambiguity seatbelts, for here comes Dan Rooney's explanation of the shenanigans.

"What Jimmy Harrison was doing and how the incident occurred, what he was trying to do was really well worth it," Rooney told reporters about Harrison's intent. "He was doing something that was good, wanted to take his son to get baptized where he lived and things like that. She said she didn't want to do it." In other words, she had it coming... right, Danny boy? But after Wilson performed his equally disgusting act of domestic abuse, Rooney uttered an even more befuddling jewel of doublespeak: "To clarify the comments made earlier regarding the conduct of our players, in no way do we condone domestic violence of any kind," read his statement. "Each incident must be considered on a case-by-case basis. In the situation with James Harrison, he contacted us immediately after his incident and has taken responsibility for his actions. In today's decision with Cedrick Wilson, we determined the situation was severe enough to warrant the player being released immediately. We trust that today's roster move will indicate our intentions and send a message that we will not tolerate this type of conduct."

Rooney's obviously taking advantage of the fact that the average IQ of Steelers fans is a negative integer, because even though his "Harrison's heart was in the right place" drivel is being rightfully excoriated throughout the nation, the denizens of Piggsburgh continue to defend their misogynistic prophet. The basic message here is that glorified taxi-squad Steeler scabs better not do anything to sully the "glorious" Steeler code of ethics. Important starters, on the other hand, have carte blanche to do as they please. Rooney, in fact, is already hard at work fabricating pathetic excuses in case any more of his employees decide to enact their own peculiar version of noblesse oblige:

Quarterback Ben Roethlisberger: "Benny Rottenburger's a biker, and they're kind of a rough-and-tumble breed. His heart was in the right place."

Wide Receiver / Cheshire Cat impersonator Hines Ward: "Hiney's half Korean, you know, and his defense, in Asian cultures, women rank below dogs, cats, rats, and even cockroaches on the respect scale. So it's an international thing. Let's not be xenophobic here."

Running Back Najeh "The Dump Truck" Davenport: "Well, at least Naj didn't dump a five-pound load of Mars bars in her laundry basket afterwards."

Special teams ace Allen Rossum: "She wasn't really hurt by Allen. I think she was just playing Rossum."

Linebacker James Farrior: "Look, this is all a letters thing. JF could stand for Justifiable Force. Plus, if you change the "F" in Farrior for a "W," it becomes Warrior. Not only that, you go from Failure to Winning... and that's what the Steelers are all about."

Safety Troy Polamalu: "He wasn't trying to hurt anyone. He was just trying to wave his long, luxurious hair out of his God-like Polynesian visage, and he misjudged his prodigious reach. It could have happened to anyone."

Defensive Tackle Casey Hampton: "Casey could not possibly have been at the bat in this instance. The man's so fat, he can barely lift his jiggly arms. He may have tried to eat her, but he wouldn't physically abuse her."

Punter Daniel Sepulveda: "Sepultura's the punter! How hard could he have hit her? Come on, people..."

Coach Mike Tomlin: "There are only so many times a man can take being confused with Omar Epps. Coach Malik, I mean, Coach Tomlin is a good man, but everyone, even Coach Juice, I mean, coach Tomlin, has a breaking point."

Ah, deluded Piggsburgh Steeler fans... Keep waving your little yellow arse-wipes while conveniently draping yourselves in the shallow comfort of abject denial. The rest of us know your organization for what it really is: a den of whiny, cowardly hypocrisy.

Happy Easter!

On this, the most important and sacred of all Christian holidays, I want to wish everyone, regardless of creed or lack thereof, a very happy Easter weekend. Spend some time with loved ones, donate to a charity, volunteer your time to help those less fortunate... take the time to make this wretched world a better place than we found it. No action is too small, and no good deed is insignificant.

If I take the wings of the morning,

and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea;
Even there shall thy hand lead me,
and thy right hand shall hold me.

Psalms 139:9-10

Leap day

Oh, how I wish I'd been born some five months and change earlier... I could have been a Leapling! Chalk it up to my weird, numbers-loving dorkiness, but Leap Days are pretty much my faves, so much so that I convinced the first ex-fiancée to push her preferred wedding date of January 29 (apparently, that had been her parents' wedding anniversary -- like I gave a shit!) back a month so we could get married on Leap Day. Hard to believe sixteen years have already passed since my first narrow escape! But why use this once-every-four-years bonus day to reminisce about my failed engagements? Better to commemorate the greatest Leapling I know of: the late, great Gioacchino Rossini, who would have celebrated his 54th birthday today.

Even those whose only exposure to classical music comes from the occasional movie or TV show soundtrack are familiar with Rossini's music. The famous "Figaro, Figaro" aria? From Rossini's most popular opera, "Il Barbiere Di Siviglia." The fanfare music of The Lone Ranger? From Rossini's "Guillaume Tell" overture. The incongruously chippy music during the gang fight scene in "A Clockwork Orange"? From Rossini's "La Gazza Ladra" overture. Rossini's music is characterized by very upbeat, catchy melodies, and extremely clever orchestration. Rossini almost single-handedly popularized the conspicuous but always tasteful use of every conceivable orchestral bell & whistle to score his exhilarating overtures. That, along with his penchant for not-so-subtle dynamic increases, earned him the wonderful nickname, "Monsieur Crescendo."


A quirky man with an even quirkier sense of humour, Rossini enjoyed a friendly rivalry with Giacomo Meyerbeer, a fellow opera composer who also resided in Paris. There are many a wonderful anecdote depicting the various pranks and practical jokes Rossini played on Meyerbeer, but my favourite Rossini/Meyerbeer story took place during Meyerbeer's funeral. Rossini, of course, was in attendance to honour his friend. Meyerbeer's nephew, who fancied himself a composer, wrote a funeral march for the occasion. Once the funeral ended, the unfortunate nephew sought out Rossini to ask him how he'd liked the composition. The maestro's reply: "It's perfectly competent. But I wonder if it wouldn't have been more delightful if you had died and your uncle had written the march."

That rather wicked sense of humour permeates pretty much all of Rossini's music. The lovely overture to his long-forgotten opera "Il Signor Bruschino," for example, actually calls for the second violinists to tap on their music stand with their bows! The effect is hilarious but also oddly enjoyable, and rather than distract or detract from the music, actually complements it. Such was the genius of the birthday boy, Monsieur Crescendo.