Elvis's Birthday Fight Club

If the rest of 2011's weekends are as good as the first two, I'm a very lucky girl indeed. Last night, David, two friends, and I went to Elvis's Birthday Fight Club. Yesterday would've been Elvis Presley's 76th birthday, and some geniuses got the idea that nothing would better celebrate the King's birth (no, not that King! That was Dec. 25) than fighting and "hot ta-tas," as the evening's hostess explained.

They had two shows planned, both of which quickly sold out, but we were lucky enough to get tickets for a hastily-added show. We went out in the freezing cold to get these, then had to go back home for a while before heading out again. We waited 20 minutes in the freezing cold to get in, and it was totally worth it. We were treated to an hour of fake boxing, complete with punch and whammy sound effects. They pitted Abe Lincoln v. The Washington Monument. Abe was kicking some ass, but when he stopped to catch his breath, the Monument opened a panel on his front, pulled out a gun, and shot President Lincoln! His dying words were, "Every time I go to the theater!"

We also enjoyed a round between Sarah "Mama Grizzly" Palin and a really fugly "she-male," which is their term, not mine. I'm still trying to get the image out of my mind, but you can see his/her backside in my photo stream. Another winning bout matched Colonel Sanders against a giant chicken! It looked like the Colonel was going to be victorious over a chicken yet again, until he stopped and said, "In my day, we used to keep the white and dark meat separate ...," which was met with a resounding cry of boos from the audience. At that point, the chicken put the KFC bucket over the Colonel's head, tied the Karate Kid-style headband around his chickeny brow, and did the famous crow karate kick made famous by Ralph Macchio in the final scene of the competition in "The Karate Kid." This was complete with that cheesy song, "you're the best around, nothing's gonna ever keep you down," just one example of the care that went into selecting great music for this. Another example was the two burlesque dancers mock-fighting to Twisted Sister's "We're Not Gonna Take It."

The picture above is from the fight between Mr. Roboto and The Washington Monument. It was comforting to hear the mega geeks behind us loudly singing the chorus to Styx's "Mr. Roboto." Mr. Roboto later was defeated by the chicken after she laid eggs and pelted the robot with them, thus ruining his delicate electronics.

At this point you're probably thinking, "Ok, sounds like a good fight club, but what about the hot ta-tas promised?" Don't worry, we were treated to excellent burlesque between the rounds by Reverend Valentine and L'il Dutch. I've seen L'il Dutch dance before and I've enjoyed her both times. Her best number was a striptease done to "Viva Las Vegas." She had fuzzy dice attached to the back of her thong, and her pasties were roulette wheels. She had a cute poker chip hat as an accessory. Rev. Valentine did a good striptease to "Jailhouse Rock," complete with a ball and chain attached to her ankle. My friend Shoshana and I found it oddly comforting that L'il Dutch, though beautiful, has a little meat on her bones, and it cracks me up that she says on her Web site that she is a lifetime member of Weight Watchers.

The only thing that could've made this night better (besides doing fake blow in the bathroom with my fake Elvis TCB (Taking Care of Business in a flash) cash) would've been kicking ass at Elvis trivia. Oh yeah, I did that! The hostess asked if anyone knew a lot about Elvis and all four of my companions started loudly pointing and saying, "Oh, she does! Pick her!" I was completely unprepared for this, and thus was wearing brown Uggs with a heather gray cashmere sweater. Oh well! It was me vs. a punk daring to call himself "Elvis Aron." Announcer "Elvis" stood between fake Elvis and me, and we fake-punched his arms with boxing gloves to ring in to answer a question. We battled it out over Elvis-related trivia in front of an audience of 100-120 people. I beat the punk solidly, and received a trophy: a banana-shaped dish in honor of Elvis' love of fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches. By the way, you haven't lived if you haven't eaten one; you laugh and judge it now, but make one, and you'll be an instant convert. Must be cooked in lard or butter for the full effect (that includes you, vegans), best summed up as "cardiac bypass on a plate."

I went into last night feeling pretty crummy from a cold-virus thingy, and I've undoubtedly prolonged my illness from the late night, hooting and hollering, and being so jazzed I couldn't fall asleep until 12:30 a.m. It was completely worth it, and it made me grateful to live in the city where we could access something so fun at the drop of a hat. In a strange way, events like that also solidify David's and my partnership with each other, because how many couples share that bawdy, gross, adolescent sense of humor? How many women are like, "Hey, honey, want to see burlesque and a fight club Saturday night?" Bonding over this type of shared humor is fun, and usually ends up with David giving me some kind of warm-fuzzy complement like, "The fact that we're doing this is just one more reason that you're the perfect woman for me." Aww... everyone wins!

A Long Weekend Of Good Art

I heard about the band Gogol Bordello for the first time on NPR's On Point radio show, my favorite podcast. Host Tom Ashbrook was interviewing GB's singer, Eugene Hutz, and asked him to describe the world-famous GB concerts. Hutz's response: "It's like a great, cosmic orgasm." I knew I had to hear this band. The group is best described as gypsy punk, but they are a group of eight people from all over the world, and their collective cultural heritages seem to come out in the music. Besides their great sound, what really captivates me about GB is their catchy, yet profound, lyrics. This first struck me when I heard "Zina-Marina," a catchy-as-hell little ditty that happens to be about ... sex trafficking. Hutz told Ashbrook that the song was inspired by a trip back to his native country, Ukraine, when he noticed that all the beautiful women were gone. He asked someone about it, who said that they are recruited as overseas "models" and are sold into sex trafficking.

In a similar vain of catchy, but pointed, songwriting, Hutz sings in "Break the Spell," a song about prejudice against the Roma, "You love our music, but you hate our guts. I know you still want me to ride the back of the bus." Ouch!

A great GB classic is "American Wedding,"(video link here), which manages to capture the boring nature of most American weddings. This is where attending mostly Orthodox Jewish weddings has spoiled me: they make most other American weddings, including other Jewish-but-not-Orthodox weddings, seem lovely but ... boring (no offense meant if you had one!) Thus, "American Wedding" cracks me up.

Anyway, back to their show: it was as close to a cosmic orgasm as I could imagine -- I have never seen a band more masterfully work their crowd. The fans, and GB, were loving it, and they played a good mix of old favorites and lots of stuff from the new album. It was a great time, and even though my feet were killing me from standing for 4.5 hours (the club is standing-room only), it was really worth it. In the coolest move ever, after the encore, one of the band members announced that they would meet fans at the after party at the bar across the street from the club! How cool! If I had the stamina, I would've gone.

Kudos to the 9:30 Club for having free Wi-Fi so I could play my Scrabble games against David and my sister in between the acts. One of those opening acts, Man Man, was the most hilarious performances I have ever seen. These guys, whom David points out have not one, but two, xylophones, had their faces painted and all started off wearing white shorts that look ridiculous on grown men. The singer ended up wearing a bunch of different outfits, including a flasher-style trench coat, and a beaded ladies' tunic. Man Man's act was so bizarre and funny to me, I literally had tears of laughter streaming down my face. As for their music, I can't improve upon David's description: "Imagine if Frank Zappa hired Devo to play klezmer music, and added Tony Clifton as a frontman."

Our second great arts experience of New Year's weekend was seeing the Shakespeare Theatre Company's production of Candide. It had gotten rave reviews from media in D.C., but it really upped the ante to see it when my mom -- who lives in Memphis, TN, -- said she had heard it was incredible. In a moment of serendipity, the day after that conversation with my mom, I got a Goldstar notice that they had $30 tickets for Candide over the weekend. I never read "Candide," so I had no idea what to expect, but I really enjoyed the show. The subject matter at hand is whether the doctrine of Optimism -- whether everything that happens is for the best and furthers God's plan -- is viable or true (Voltaire's answer, and mine, is a resonant "no.") Interestingly, I have a devout Mormon friend who believes this, that everything that happens is part of God's plan. This has come up with her in several discussions, and I always have a universes colliding moment, because that is so not my worldview, or that of my faith. Anyway, back to the play: it managed to be amusing, cheeky, provocative, and entertaining for a full three hours. The acting, music, and sets were really awesome, and I felt privileged to have seen it. I was pleased that the male and female leads were both in the Broadway show "Rock of Ages," which of course you knew about since you read my blog post about when I met Dee Snider.

We had a tiring weekend, since both the concert and musical meant that we couldn't go to bed until past 12:30 a.m., but we really enjoyed ourselves and got to experience two very different kinds of great art.

One of the things that occurred to me when we saw the play was how awesome Washington theater has gotten in the past decade. I don't recall D.C. being a great theater town when I moved here in 1994; the Kennedy Center was the most prolific professional theater around. Now there are tons of great theater companies doing all kinds of quality theater, and what limits my theater going is money, not lack of desirable options. There is such a variety and glut of good choices, David and I have resisted subscribing to any one theater, preferring to not be locked into one company and being able to pick and choose. My dream would be some kind of collective theater subscription, where a bunch of theaters pooled subscriptions and I could pay for a package of shows at different places.

Quick Update & Abstinent Cranberry Relish

Hi. Sorry I haven't posted in such a long time; I've been busy and my arms have been sore, so I've had to be choosy about how to spend their limited capital. Some great things have happened, like my disability status was approved by the Social Security Administration. That whole ordeal is worth a blog post in itself.

So, I need to post something short, so I want to share my abstinent cranberry relish recipe. By "abstinent," I don't mean a cranberry relish that is saving itself for marriage; I mean abstaining from compulsive eating, which for me means not eating foods with added sugar. Cranberry sauce is tough to make without sugar, but I've tweaked a recipe that turns out really well. I'm happy to share it; it's really tasty with turkey or even on yogurt.

Abstinent Cranberry Relish


1 bag of fresh cranberries (can substitute frozen)
1 sweet, red apple peeled, cored, and diced
1/2 can crushed pineapple in natural juice
1 small, very ripe banana, mashed
Optional: sweetener (sometimes, depending on the natural sweetness of the berries, I need to add some Truvia)

Cook the cranberries on the stove in a saucepan in 2 cups of water for about 10-15 minutes. Add apple and cook for 10 more minutes. Remove from heat and add 1/2 can of crushed pineapple and mashed banana. Sweeten if desired. Enjoy!

Creativity

I was listening to the Nov. 7 Tranquility Du Jour podcast about creativity and the importance of creative expression in one's life. It really resonated with me, especially after my flight out to Phoenix two weeks ago. I sat next to a woman who was knitting a baby bonnet, who was kind enough to let me do some stitches. I had to give up knitting when my Lyme Disease (LD) struck, because my disability mostly manifests in my arms. I had very limited arm capacity, and it was more critical for me to save my arm strength for necessities instead of spending them knitting. It broke my heart, but I basically packed up that part of my life in a bag, stuck it in a closet, and tried to forget about it. I wasn't a good knitter, but I really enjoyed it and it relieved stress. Knitting those few stitches on the airplane really reminded me of how much I missed it.

As I've chronicled on this blog, my LD journey has been arduous and painful. At my worst, I was taking narcotics every six hours and it barely took the edge off my pain. I couldn't write, push a grocery cart, cut a vegetable, or even wash my own hair. But as painful as that was physically, it wasn't as awful as the heartache of not being able to express myself. I lost my ability to write, knit, and cook/entertain -- my three primary creative outlets. So in addition to losing my arms, my job, and my social life, I lost my voice. I felt powerless to create and share my experiences with others. It is part of what made 2007-2009 the darkest years of my life. Yes, I tried voice-activated software, but it really sucks unless you pay $2,000 for the software designed for quadriplegics. Example: I told the program to "scroll down," and instead it typed "scrotum." It takes many hours to train the voice-activated software to your voice and way of speaking, and it is so sensitive (it is based on software developed by the CIA), if you are tired, in pain, or otherwise off your game, it will impact you training the software. I was all three.

The podcast I heard reminded me how nurturing and important creativity is to my spirit, and that I need to make time for it the same way I prioritize taking care of my body, my 12-step program, and my marriage -- my top priorities at this stage in my life. Writing is my primary outlet for creativity, but -- you'll notice if you look at how often I post -- I fit it in around the edges. I'm also very wordy, so posting takes a very long time. I need to schedule 15 minutes a day to write, so I'll have my creative outlet and get a lot more writing done. I have tons of things to say! I am thrilled that I am starting to knit again -- I'm working on a scarf and I'm hoping to re-learn the things I've forgotten and pick up more advanced skills. I hope to chill out about it this time around and enjoy the journey instead of worrying about how to make the perfect X.

I encourage you to think about your creative expression and how you can build more of that into your life. We think of creativity as projects you have to take on, like scrapbooking; if that's your thing, go for it, but there are as many creative outlets as there are people. Music, decorating, making home-made cards and cooking are a few that come to mind. I like to make seasonal centerpieces for the dining room table, and arrange a little autumn tableau on our front stoop with gourds and other seasonal items. My husband teases me for this and finds it a little odd, but I think it's a nice creative activity that frankly doesn't take a real investment of time or money.

My recent thoughts about creativity came at the same time I'm learning another lesson from another area of my life I'm working on: the importance of play. When we're kids, it's natural, but we forget the importance of play as adults. It keeps our minds and souls young, and if anything, it probably becomes more important as we age and take on the burdens of adulthood. Play is also critical for a healthy sex life, but that is easily forgotten as our society becomes more and more obsessed with the state of the body. The connection, of course, is that many creative outlets also allow us opportunities to play. Enjoy!

What I Learned From Grandma

My husband David's grandmother, Maurine Brannigan, died last Friday. I felt closer to her than to my own grandparents as an adult, and I'm devastated. Death can be a great teacher, and naturally leads us to reflect on how the deceased lived his or her life. I don't have to think real hard about what Grandma taught me; the lesson is obvious.

For lack of a better term, I came from what I will call a "limited" family. There always seemed to be drama and strife among different branches of our very small clan. I had an extremely insular, stingy view of family. So what an eye-opening experience meeting David's family was! First of all, there are a lot of them. They are loud, but loyal and united. Above all, they are extremely inclusive. The most dramatic example of this the Brannigan's relationship to the adoptive parents of one of David's first cousins. The cousin, Jon, was given up for adoption as an infant and raised by a local family. His biological parents ended up marrying and having two other children. When Jon turned 18, he got back in touch with his biological family. There are many ways this could go, right, most of which is the stuff of talk shows, therapy, and advice columns, right? In the most stunning display of peace and generosity, the Brannigans have bonded tightly with Jon's adoptive parents. They are at every wedding, holiday, and other family celebration. At Jon's wedding, both his biological and adoptive parents were represented in the wedding party.

The Brannigans also easily adopt "strays"; people who don't have any family nearby who are absorbed as naturally as any blood relative. They, too, are invited to every single family gathering. I experienced this open generosity first-hand as an outsider. From the first time I met Grandma and the rest of the family, I felt totally welcome and accepted. This is all the more remarkable to me when I reflect on what a friggin' mess I was back then; angry, self-centered, judgmental, and wearing all of that for the world to see on my 250-pound body.  I feel like they accepted me even when I could not accept myself.

I see this welcoming family culture as Maurine's doing and family legacy. She was the matriarch of the family and set this open-hearted culture. I and many others are the lucky beneficiaries. Very importantly, my exposure to Maurine and the family she led truly changed me and helped me expand my own definition of family for the better. This was not a easy or quick transition; there was no come-to-Jesus moment. In fact, I was initially very overwhelmed and puzzled by the Brannigans' acceptance, openness, and love. I was baffled at how they could have normative relations with Jon's adoptive family. It just seemed, well, wrong. I can only shrug now and see how what I was exposed to in my own family, and what I thought was normal, was comfortable and fit into my little, tiny box labeled "Family: The Way Things Are." I am so grateful that Grandma showed me a more selfless, loving, and inclusive definition of family. It's one that David and I have tried hard to replicate in our own lives, viewing certain friends as "family-by-choice." They are closer than regular friends and no less important to us than blood kin.

I've found myself over the last few days surprised by my grief at Grandma's death, especially in light of the fact that she was not my blood relative. Then I quickly remember that that is exactly the lesson she taught me: blood is thicker than water, but love is thicker than blood.

Health Care Chills

I just got health care chills, and as a veteran consumer of health care, I don't GET health care chills. Nothing was shocking, until today.

I am in Phoenix, AZ to go to my father's first appointment with his oncologist. He was recently diagnosed with multiple myeloma (MM), a cancer of the plasma cells. Plasma cells are blood cells that make antibodies called immunoglobulin. I am a firm believer that you need lots of people paying attention to health care matters. I take advocates with me to important appointments and think everyone else should too. If you disagree, maybe this will change your mind. Too many cooks can spoil the broth, but not enough cooks can also be devastating. The doc we saw today will not be my dad's main doctor, but he was who was available for us to have a consultation before my dad is scheduled to begin chemotherapy next week. Let me say from the outset that this is no slacker practice; it's definitely a top oncology practice in the area.

For this instance, I had read up on MM to brush up for this consultation, and had read from two excellent sources that if a patient uses certain chemotherapy drugs, it rules out the option of the patient getting a bone marrow or stem cell transplant later. One of my questions for the doc today was, "Is my dad a candidate for a marrow or stem cell transplant?" I got a very non-committal, "We'll figure that out later as we see how things go" kind of response. I told the doctor, "I read in the book your office gave us and on the Mayo Clinic Web site that use of certain drugs rules out this option. Are you planning to use one of those drugs?" The doctor looked at the chemo order and said, "You're right. We are planning to use that drug and it would rule out the transplant option. Clearly we need to figure this out before we begin treatment." The doctor said he would consult with my dad's oncologist and their practice head and get back to him. He added, "If that delays therapy a week or two, it's worth it." We said goodbye and my dad and his wife said that they were really grateful that I was there and had brought that up.

I went to the bathroom, shaking. It is the most dramatic example I have of the need for patients to be their own advocates. Gone are the days where you can assume that doctors have your back and all you need to do is listen and trust. Sorry, hon, you need to take a crash course and become a bit of a doctor yourself, or you can be totally screwed. It is harrowing to think that if I hadn't read the info I had and challenged the doctor on it, my father could have had one dose of a drug next week that would completely rule out his options for treatment forever. Doctors are too stretched to give every patient the best care they can; I happen to think it's an effect of our insurance-driven health care system: docs have to see 35-50 patients a day just to earn enough to pay their bills and draw a decent salary. No doctor can keep great tabs on that many people a day; it would be super-human.

Another dramatic example of the need to be your own advocate from my own health care saga, is that I had to ask my doctor for IV antibiotics for my Lyme Disease. I had read that people with my degree of infection rarely, if ever, get well from just oral antibiotics alone. My doctor was about to discharge me from his care with just four weeks of oral doxycycline therapy, when I said, "I've heard from many sources that people with neurological damage from Lyme need the IV antibiotics, too. Is that right?" He said, "Oh, you want to try that? Sure." I saw a dramatic improvement after the IV treatments; until I had them I could not wash my own hair because I couldn't lift my hands to my head. I had and still have a long road to go in my healing, but there's no way I'd be where I am without those four weeks of IV Rocephin.

I am superbly grateful that I have the wherewithal to be this kind of advocate for myself and my loved ones, and that I have people in my life, like my husband, who do the same for me. I shudder to think about the people who don't have the resources, intelligence, or communications skills to do the same. It's scary to think that your entire quality of life -- or your life itself -- can hinge on the extent to which you do so effectively.

My Celebrity Encounter

I recently got back from a whirl-wind trip to New York City, where I pushed myself entirely too hard, but had a great time. I love theater, especially musicals, so was glad to buy deeply discounted tickets for two shows through BroadwayBox. The first was Rock of Ages, a show with a weak plot that basically is an excuse to string together every hair metal and arena rock anthem from the '80s. Nothing could be more my cup of tea, so I was super-excited to see this show. Luck was on my side that night; I bought really cheap seats in the back, but the box office informed me that they were upgrading me to 8th row center. Whoo-hoo! My next lucky break was when I noticed the guys next to me were holding LED "lighters" to wave during the ballads. They were handing them out of the door, but I was oblivious to that. I got out of my seat to track one down, but the theater employee told me that they had run out. Oh well! I walked away, but the employee ran after me -- she had found a "lighter" on the floor.

I sat down to read my program, and saw Dee Snider listed in the cast. For the uninformed, Dee Snider is the awesome, awesome singer for 80s hair legends Twisted Sister. He is also the host of the hair metal radio show "House of Hair," and was one of the artist leading the fight against Tipper Gore's Parents Music Resource Center (PMRC). My mom still teases me for having a hand-made "I hate the PMRC" sign on my bedroom door for much of my adolescence. Interestingly, Dee and Alice Cooper are heavy metal's family values guys, having been married and staying faithful to one woman for many years. That led to Dee Snider recently taking a great snap at Al and Tipper Gore when they announced their separation. So, back to me: when I see that Dee Snider is in this show's cast, I lose it; seriously, I get so excited that tears are leaking out of my eyes. This led me to text my sister and my husband the following message: "I am 8 rows away from Dee Snider. Give me one good reason I shouldn't shout, 'I love you, Dee!'" My sister replied, "Because I'd have to disown you as my sister ;)."

The plot for Rock of Ages is feeble, but I enjoyed it anyway. How can you not like a show that turns REO Speedwagon's "Can't Fight This Feeling Anymore" into a gay love anthem? I have to say that the audience sucked; they were not into it, and the show is meant to be a big old sing-along. On the plus side, Dee Snider looks amazing.

I have always wanted to hang out after concerts to meet stars, and the various people I attended with, usually rationalists like parents or husbands, always nixed my plans. Finding myself alone in NY with no one to nix my plans, I decided to try to make a go of meeting Dee. I sniffed around outside until I found the stage door exit, and watched various actors leave, including the lead, Joey Taranto (what a cutie!). I asked some of them to sign my program. A group of people were hanging around, prompting the security guard to ask who they were waiting for. I appointed myself the spokesperson of the group and said, "Dee." The guard replied, "You know, he's really new to the cast, and he has family in town and he's showing them around. He'll be at least an hour." This was met by a massive groan, and all but about six people left. "That's ok, I have nothing better to do," I lied. After the crowd dispersed, the guard looked at me and said, "You are a true fan. I was screwing with those people. Dee won't be an hour. If they were real fans, they would've stayed." Yeah!

Ten minutes later I was rewarded with Dee Snider. I said, "Dee, I have been a fan of yours for decades. I read your book when I was a kid, and it helped me." Yes, he wrote "Dee Snider's Teenage Survival Guide," and I am probably one of 50 people in the country who has read it. In fact, note that the first review of it on Amazon says that it was "published in one of the Russian teen magazines." At the news that I read his book, Dee gave a warm, huge laugh and said, "YOU DID?! That's awesome!" before taking me in his arms. He was really sweet, genuine, and kind, and it was a huge rush for me to meet him. Yes, he signed my program, but no, I don't have a photo, but that's ok. When I was hanging around the stage door, I was slightly nervous that I'd meet Dee and that he'd be an asshole; I specifically thought of the line from "Limelight," a Rush song : "I can't pretend this stranger is a long-awaited friend." So, I was relieved by Dee's friendliness.

In a tangentially related closing, I just became full of gratitude for my parents and their senses of humor. Between me buying books like Dee's survival guide and "The Satanic Bible", the anti-PMRC sticker on my door, and the six-foot posters of Motley Crue, Poison, and other guys who looked like chicks literally covering my wallpaper, I give my parents a lot of credit for tolerating that stuff and not laughing when I could hear them. I can't imagine what they were thinking, but I'm grateful because I really think I might have attempted suicide if not for the outlet I found in music. Junior high through high school was the worst time in my life, and rock music made it bearable.