It's My 200th Post, And I'm Payin' it Forward

Well, I made it to the big 2-0-0. I didn't celebrate 100, but I think I'd like to do something a little bit special for 200.

But first there's backstory. If you've been hanging out here for a while, you know there's ALWAYS backstory... (stick around for this one, though - there's a payoff!)

Sometime in January, one of my friends posted the following note on Facebook:

The first five (5) people to respond to this post will get something made by me.
This offer does have some restrictions and limitations so please read carefully:

- I make no guarantees that you will like what I make.

- What I create will be just for you.

- It'll be done this year (2009).

- You have no clue what it's going to be. It will be something made in the real world and not something cyber. It may be a mixed CD. It may be a poem. I may draw or paint something. I might bake you something and mail it to you. It may involve yarn. Who knows? Not you, that's for sure!

- I reserve the right to do something extremely strange.

And in return, all you need to do is post this text into a note of your own and make 5 things for 5 others.


I was intrigued, especially because the friend who posted it is a gifted painter and I am - um - not. Hoping for a piece of original art for my home, I signed on. I posted the note again, as per the instructions, and five people quickly signed on.

I thought about making something generic that could be passed along to all of them, but then I remembered this line:

What I create will be just for you.

I decided to put a little more thought into it. I posted all of their names above my computer and I jotted little notes on them as I chatted with these folks. Slowly but surely I decided what to make. I'd like to share what I made for whom and why. Read to the end - there's a payoff!

Sara's Project

Sara strikes me as the sort of woman who is very simply elegant. She is also a woman who suffers frequent migraines and other severe headaches.

I remembered seeing a pattern for an eye mask in Handknit Holidays and I thought it just might fit the bill. I knit it using a 100% silk yarn that was an absolute pleasure to work with. I filled it with flax and lavender. Flax retains temperatures well, so it can be cooled off in the refrigerator or warmed up in the microwave, depending on what temperature would feel more soothing.

The combination of the weight, the darkness a mask provides, and the optional temperature control have eased many a headache for me and I hoped they'd do the same for Sara.

Relax!

Laura's Project

Laura is an avid reader. As many avid readers also like to dabble in writing (ask me how I know...) I thought Laura might be able to get some use out of this notebook cover. The pattern is based on one presented in 101 Designer One-Skein Wonders but I altered it a little. The yarn is a really scrumptious handspun that I bought at a festival a couple years ago. I just really love the idea of taking a simple notebook and making it look a little more sophisticated and special.

It could also be used to cover and protect a paperback book (or just hide the cover of a trashy novel!) when she's reading it, if she prefers.

Write on!

Andrea's Project

Andrea is a stay-at-home mom who is utterly devoted to her kids and her husband. This is a wonderful trait and she should be applauded for it! Unfortunately, sometimes when folks are too devoted to others they forget about themselves. Andrea has admitted that she never takes any time for herself - it is just not a priority. She has ALSO told me that she has a super-bitchin' soak tub that she has NEVER used.

So I decided to make soap holders for Andrea. His and hers, so she didn't have to feel guilty about an indulgence just for her. Shared bath time can be fun AND indulgent! (nudge, nudge, wink, wink)

I used a pattern from the book 101 Designer One-Skein Wonders and some high quality cotton yarn. As I was making the set I thought, "I wonder if I couldn't make some soap to go with these? Handmade soap could be quite indulgent while not promoting guilt - ya gotta bathe! Why not bathe with something luxurious that was made just for you?" Andrea's soap is a lovely softening goat's milk base with lavender and vanilla to enhance the relaxation properties and oatmeal for exfoliation.


Indulge!

Crystal's Project

Crystal loves entertaining. She loves to cook for friends and she loves to get her party on! I thought, since she gets pleasure out of preparing food and drink for her loved ones, maybe I could give her a little pleasure during the planning stages. I thought a reusable grocery bag might be just the ticket.

I have several patterns for reusable shopping bags, but my favorite is this one.

I like the drawstring feature, but if Crystal doesn't she can easily remove it. It allows the bag to be more compact, so she can throw it in her purse.


This way, I figure one friend - me! - will be with her while she shops - thus extending the joy of entertaining.

Party on!

Linda's Project

Linda was tough for me because she is a very crafty chick herself. There is nothing I can do that she cannot do, too. That made things a little tougher on my end. The project I chose is no exception.

Linda loves jewelry and she loves the ocean. I made this jewelry box using seashells and sand from the beach. I like the open weave of the top for storing earrings. I hope she can get some use out of this and that it will remind her of the beach when she's not near it. I've made one for myself, too, and that's what it does for me!

Surf's Up!

Cass's Project

Cass was not one of my 'first five', but she was the one who sent the project out in the first place, and I wanted to send her a little something in the same spirit to thank her.

Cass is a righteously cool little chickadee. I think of her always as an earth mother. Cass knows herself and wants her children to be free to know - and, more importantly - be - themselves as well.

Like many good earth mothers, Cass is into yoga. I'd made a bag for my own yoga mat years ago using a pattern from Inspired Cable Knits by Fiona Ellis. I love the cables that loosely represent the tree pose. They are so fun to work. I knew Cass would feel the joy I experienced making it when she used it.


I had intended to make it using organic soy yarn, but when I went to pick that out I found this gorgeous green recycled cotton. Recycling is good karma, no doubt. And everyone knows that redheads like Cass look good in green.

Namaste.

Matt's Project

Matt was also not one of the first five, but he used my posting to initiate a fair trade. Matt is an amazing artist as well as a kick-ass bass player and he promised me an original work of art in exchange for a black toque he could wear on stage.

Um? No brainer.

Matt lives in a state where it's warm a lot more often than it's cold, so I didn't want to use wool for his toque. I used, instead, a high quality cotton DK. This is one of my favorite yarns and I have made untold numbers of baby sweaters using it because it is so darn soft.

I used a pattern from the righteous Debbie Stoller's Son of Stitch 'N Bitch.

And then I made one for myself.

Rock on!

Sue's Project

Technically, Sue was not in the first five either. She posted a comment then deleted it, silly woman with an itchy finger on the delete button!!! But the comment went to my e-mail anyway, so I figured she was SORT OF in the first five...

Also, Sue is easy to gift!

Sue has confessed on separate occasions to a bag/purse obsession, an addiction to coffee, and a love of the color blue fueled by a love of the Nittany Lions. What better gift than a 'coffee clutch'? (I know! Groan! I crack myself up!)

The perfect size for your keys, your wallet, your phone, and a couple Starbucks gift cards!

The purse was crocheted from another Debbie Stoller book, Stitch 'N Bitch Crochet: The Happy Hooker using a durable nylon yarn. The embellishment is all me. I've made quite a few of these bags, and my signature "thang" is that I line them with old T-shirts. It's environmentally conscious and it gives a little funky cred to a simple clutch, I think. I know Sue is a very charitable gal, so, since I didn't have a Penn State T-shirt in my stash, I lined hers with an old 'Race for the Cure' T.


If she doesn't like the embellishment, it can easily be done away with. Mine is plain and I sometimes embellish it with 'flair' and sometimes with a pretty brooch. The sky is really the limit here.

Shop on!


Now I realize that this was a long post. If you managed to get this far, you deserve a reward. A PAYOFF if you will! So I've decided that, in honor of my 200th post, I'd like to make one of these items for one of you. Leave me a comment and tell me what you like. I'll draw one name from a hat and I will make that winner the item of their choice. I'll do what I can to work with you to make sure colors and such are what you would like them to be. In the spirit of things, I think it would be really swell if you decided to pay it forward... I won't force it as part of the agreement, but I sure do think it would be swell and I sure would like to hear about it if you do.

So. To recap.

Do you want:

Sara's Relaxation Mask?
Laura's Notebook Cover?
Andrea's Soap Holders?
Crystal's Shopping Bag?
Linda's Jewelry Box?
Cass's Yoga Mat Bag?
Matt's Toque?
Sue's Clutch?

Leave me a comment, and good luck! A winner will be drawn on Friday, August 14. Make sure I can reach you!

Dancing on Railroad Tracks

Today's Thursday trip down memory lane is a little different, as we are not going to trip back to my childhood or my teens, but to my mid-twenties. A shorter trip, but sadly not by much. I am visiting relatives this week (thus the sporadic commenting - sorry!) to attend a festival in their hometown and I couldn't help reminiscing about festivals past.

Musikfest is one of my favorite festivals. I love the music and the food and the handcrafts. I love the city, full of history and warmth. I don't hate the beer. But none of those are the reasons Musikfest retains 'favorite' status among the many festivals I attend each year.

I have dated many musicians and passed time with many more. I even married one. Gave birth to a couple. But the only time I ever served as a muse was based on an afternoon at Musikfest.

It was a bright, sunny weekday in August. The air was laden with the sense of summer coming to an end and the promise of fall. We were both teachers, so we had the summer off. We spent the day at the festival. We had a couple beers - enough to dull inhibitions, but not enough to make foolish mistakes. The perfect amount.

Definitely enough to dance.

We did a mean polka at the Festplatz.

We tapped our feet and moved to some folk music at the Volksplatz.

We danced our way back to the car, twirling and swaying on the railroad tracks, fingers touching but not grasping, together but independent. It was sublime.

When I saw him the next weekend, he said he had something he wanted me to hear. He sat down behind his baby grand and started playing the most lovely melody. Delicate, intricate, free-spirited. He paused.

"It's not done yet."

"It's really pretty. What is it?"

"I think I'm going to call it Tammy Dancing on Railroad Tracks."

My hands went to my throat in a gesture that would've seemed more natural coming from the belle that I am not.

In reality, I am clumsy and awkward and prone to saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. I am plain of countenance and, if I'm going to be VERY generous with myself, 'sturdy' of frame.

In my mind's eye, though... in my mind's eye I am graceful and delicate and poised. I pull off a fairy-like combination of earthy and ethereal. In my mind's eye.

Apparently that's how I translate in song, too.

The Damage Done

I debated writing this post, and once it was written I debated publishing it. But I think I needed to. Sorry to be a drag, today.

You guys know I like a nice cocktail now and then. It's not a big secret. But here's the thing: I'm a social drinker. If no-one will join me in a drink, I don't have one. I've always been that way. I'm not judging - I know a lot of people who enjoy a solitary libation from time to time and I don't think there's anything wrong with that. From time to time. But it ain't me. Drinking has never been a compulsion. I enjoy it. A lot. But I can take it or leave it.

Today a memorial service will be held for my cousin. I will not be attending, as I am currently visiting relatives from the other side of my family on the other side of the state. But I'm thinking about him and memorializing him myself the only way I know how. I hope I can do so with some degree of kindness. You see, for the second time in the course of a year, I find myself mourning the loss of someone way too young. Both were victims of the same killer, and that killer is kind of a nodding acquaintance of mine, too. I'm talking, of course, about alcohol.

My cousin was 45 years old. But he didn't live 45 years. I was thinking about that this morning when I thought about the people he's left behind. He didn't really leave anyone behind when he breathed his last breathe on Sunday. He left people behind, one at a time, years ago - when his addiction started to take over. He left his mother behind, only to return to her when everything else was lost. His wife, his children, his friends, his employability - when everyone else had finally had enough and turned their back on him, his mother took him in. He thanked her for her unconditional love by stealing from her to finance his habit.

It would be easy to hate him. He became something quite ugly and unrecognizable. There was nothing left in him of the playmate of my youth.

I don't hate him, though. I can't. None of this was him. It was his demon. The demon that licked at him for years - seducing him - making itself look playful and fun - before devouring him completely. It left a path of devastation in it's wake - a destroyed marriage, sons who wanted nothing more to do with their father, an able-bodied, educated man who couldn't find or hold a job. A man who didn't even care about any of that as long as he knew where his next bottle was coming from.

I don't mourn that man today, but I do mourn the man he might have been.

As wrong and contradictory as it may sound, I may mourn him over a glass of wine. If I can find someone to join me in one.

RIP, my cousin. May you find the peace in death that eluded you in the last years of life.

The Department of Youth

When, in the song 'Department of Youth', 61 year old Alice Cooper asked "Who has the power?" and 44 and 46 year old Tom and I pumped our fists and screamed, "WE DO!" the irony was probably not lost on anyone. Discussing it in the car on the way home, though, Tom and I agreed that if Alice still felt qualified to head up that particular department, we might indeed still have a little power after all.

It was the same sort of grin I get every time Roger Daltry sings "Hope I die before I get old." Glad he didn't. My g-g-g-g-generation indeed.

My generation was out in full force at the Alice concert Saturday night and so was yours. I feel confident typing that, because no matter what your generation is, it was represented. I had told you some months ago about going to the MSI concert with the girls and how our family held down both ends of the age spectrum. Not so at Alice. There were folks younger than our girls and folks older than us and everything in between. Grandparents were there with their grandchildren. The show my mother deemed far too inappropriate for me when I was fourteen has now been deemed, apparently, quite family friendly. There was a little girl right in front of me who appeared to be about seven or eight. At one point she got tired and curled up in her seat to rest. The proximity of the chairs led to her little head resting right on my knee. I don't think she was aware of that, but I sure was. And I thought it was very sweet.

Blue Oyster Cult was a fine choice for an opening act. Their band was tight. Their bass player was beyond tight. Who's playing bass for BOC these days, you ask? Well, only Rudy Sarzo, that's who. Rudy has played with Quiet Riot, Whitesnake and the venerable Ozzy Osbourne. He owns the stage like the rock star that he is. For those of you who enjoy swimming in the shallow end of the pool, he has the sort of wiry muscular build I usually (rightly or wrongly) associate with drummers. He's not what you might want to call a bad looking fellow... For those of you with more tender hearts, there was an ASL interpreter stationed off to the right side of the stage interpreting the concert. At one point Mr. Sarzo made his way over to that side of the stage and signed something directly to the folks with hearing impairments. I don't sign, so I don't know what he said, but I thought it was a sweet - um - gesture. For those of you who would rather judge a musician by his musicianship rather than his looks, sweetness, or stage presence - well, you would have been the least disappointed of all. He kicked. Ass. As the wife of a bass player and the mother of another, I tend to appreciate the bass solo more than some, but I think even those who use it as an excuse to head for the restroom would've enjoyed this. It was pretty amazing.

(a side note to the small handful of my college buddies who read this blog: When they played 'Godzilla', I tried very hard to keep my feet from touching the floor. I did. But the seats were small and my ass is large and it just didn't work out. But I did try. There was intent. And you were all remembered fondly. So that has to count for something. History shows again and again how nature points out the folly of men...)

Alice was everything I needed him to be, from his opening number ('School's Out') to his last encore (um, 'School's Out'. But with a costume change and different props - it really worked in a full circle sort of way). There was no between song banter, it was just song, song, song. When he needed to take a little break, the band played (they were pretty kickass in their own right! No divas in Alice's band, though - he OWNS that show!) All of the showmanship and theatrics were there. It was just the show I'd expected to see thirty-odd years ago. There were crazy costume changes and macabre props and almost non-stop camp.

This tour has been dubbed the 'Theater of Death' tour, with the subtitle "they keep killing him, but he keeps coming back". Alice himself was killed by guillotine, hangmans noose, poison hypodermic and iron maiden (excellent! execute him - bogus!). 'Cold Ethel' was thrown around the stage in a most cavalier fashion. 'Billion Dollar Babies' were presented and promptly beheaded (causing my children to giggle, "Memaw was right! He kills babies!"). And can I just say, that it is my sincere wish that if I ever need to be confined to a straight jacket, I would like for it to be purple and embellished and contain a hole so my hand can still hold the mike. Ya'll will see to that, right?

A personal highlight was singing 'No More Mr. Nice Guy' to Liv and having her sing it right back to me, despite the fact that she knew few if any of the actual words. It was a gist thing. It so totally rocked. My girls are total Alice fans. 'Welcome to My Nightmare'.

Tom and I agreed that we were left wanting for nothing. We had been totally entertained. If Mick still can't get no satisfaction, maybe he ought to check out an Alice show. Just sayin'.

Runnin' all Around My Brain (Alice Edition)

Here is some of the randomness that is runnin' all around my brain this fine Saturday morning:

ALICE!!! Tonight I finally get to see Alice Cooper. Regular readers may recall that I wanted Alice to be my first concert, but my mom put her foot down. She is no longer the boss of me. School's Out, baby. I may not be Eighteen, but I still like it. I am all atwitter. ALICE!!!

Check it out: The fine folks over at The Knights of Moleskine, Spirit & Ale have invited me to join their blog as a contributor. (Flattered? Um, yeah!) I've written a post about the festival we attended last night, so stop by and check it out.

Did I mention ALICE???

Oh No! There goes Tokyo!- Guess who's opening for Alice? (I mentioned that I'd be seeing Alice Cooper in about 10 hours, didn't I?) Blue Oyster Cult. BOC. I saw them once in the 70's. It was awesome, or so I'm told. I fell asleep. Yeah. Let's go with that...

aliceAliceALICEALICE!!!!!

FestWear - did you know that my entire summer wardrobe consists of the gauzy dresses and skirts purchased at festivals and on the boardwalk? Well it does. Judge if you must, but it makes this bohemian suburbanite awfully happy. I got a new red dress last night. It's purdy.

Lines form on my face and hands... oh! was I singing out loud? Sorry! I'm a little preoccupied. You probably hadn't even noticed, bless your heart.

Big 2-0-0 - did you know I'm only a post or two away from my 200th post? I'm planning something I hope you'll find fun. Watch this space.

Only Women Bleed - Well lots of chores and errands to do before heading to the fair tonight. Did I mention I have concert tickets, too? Well I do. Goin' to see Alice Cooper, I am. Oh, Alice. It's only been 33 years since my mom said "no". Tonight I defy her! (and I'm takin' her grandbabies, too)

Sign, Sign, Everywhere a Sign

It's Thursday! Ready for your Trip down Memory Lane?



We've all seen the signs.

Huge signs, one every mile or so.

Florida Citrus Fruit! Free Samples! Souvenirs! The Largest Selection of _____! Discount Fireworks! Lowest Prices! 13 Foot Alligators! Live Bears! Last Chance for _______!

In my travels, the queen mother of these roadside tourist attractions has always been and will always be: South of the Border. Traveling south along route I-95 in North Carolina you see your first sign for South of the Border over 175 miles north of the attraction. You know this, of course, because each sign helpfully announces just how far you'll have to travel before you reach this most wondrous of destinations.

135 miles to South of the Border.

75 miles to South of the Border.

Only 11 more miles to South of the Border.

At the beginning, you only encounter signs every ten miles or so. As you get closer, the signs are only a mile apart. Closer yet and they seem to be right on top of one another. All of the signs feature an amazingly politically incorrect stereotype of a Mexican man named Pedro. We know this, because the text on every sign begins with, "Pedro says..."

Pedro says: Keep America green! Bring money!
Pedro says: You never sausage a place! (You're always a wiener at Pedro's)
Pedro says: Our honeymoon suites are heir conditioned!

When I was young and traveling south on route I-95 every summer en route to Myrtle Beach, the South of the Border signs were a great way to mark our progress. They were a double-edged sword for my parents, though. While they eliminated the constant barrage of "are we there yet?" (you always know where you are in Pedro's territory), they inspired instead a new litany, guaranteed to make parents long for "are we there yet?". That litany, of course, consisted of variations on a theme:

Can we stop at South of the Border?
Why can't we stop at South of the Border?
You think everything is junk! How can you know it's tacky and junky if you've never even been there?
Please?
PLEASE?
Pleasepleasepleasepleasepleaepleasepleasepleaseplease!!!

Pedro says: Keep yelling, kids! (They'll stop!)

Year after year my parents sighed and stuck firmly to their guns.

Pedro had guns. Well, fireworks, anyway. Just sayin'.

Pedro says: Pedro's fireworks! Does yours?

I can't swear to this, but they may have just inserted ear plugs at the first sign alerting us that we were, indeed, approaching South of the Border.

One year, I will never know why, they caved. Not only were we going to STOP at South of the Border, but we were going to CAMP there for the night.

Oh bliss! Oh rapture unforeseen!

As we took the exit - the one right before

Pedro says: You just missed South of the Border!

I was filled with anticipation. Years of wonder were about to be satisfied. Where would I start? Pedro's Beachwear? Pedro's Arcade? Pedro's Dirty Old Man Shop? (Mom probably wouldn't like that, but she'd never know!) Oh, how is a girl to decide? Oh Pedro, you magnificent bastard! How I've longed for this moment!

As we pulled in between the legs of a giant Pedro statue, I could tell we were in for a night of pure class. There were large statues of Pedro everywhere, as well as statues of animals and various inanimate objects. There's a sombrero tower, for Pete's - er - Pedro's sake. Statues big enough to climb on. Statues you KNEW you'd look great next to in a picture.

Pedro says: Take a picture, it'll last longer

It was after dark when we pulled in and, to my distinct disappointment, many of the shops and activities were already closed. Even more disappointing were the ones that were open. I was young, and I was naive, but I still knew junk when I saw it. Miles and miles of junk.

Just like my parents had always said.

Damn! Why did they always have to be so RIGHT?

I had a taco. It was mediocre at best. Damn, damn, damn. They'd been right again.

Pedro says: Chili today, hot tamale!

You know what else they were right about? Making that stop. In future years the pleading ceased completely. We still used the signs to track our progress, but we no longer wanted to listen to anything Pedro had to say.

Stupid Pedro.

Smart parents.

Pedro says: You just missed South of the Border!

How much further to the beach?

Are we close?

How close?

The Bo Bice Incident

I've alluded to The Bo Bice Incident on a few occasions. I have never told the story here before, but perhaps it's time. With the Week of a Thousand Bands looming before me, I've been thinking about concerts past at the venues I'll be visiting. Saturday, when I FINALLY get to see Alice Cooper, I'll be doing so at the Ohio State Fair. The last time I saw a concert at the fair...

But wait.

I'm getting ahead of myself.

A little back story is in order.

I don't watch reality TV.

(What never? No never. Never ever? Well - hardly ever!)

I've never seen 'Survivor' or 'The Bachelor' or 'Big Brother' or even 'The Amazing Race'. I did watch the first go 'round of 'Joe Millionaire'. I am not proud of that. I am really really really not proud of that. But I'm being honest here, and I didn't want "I don't watch reality TV" to come off as high-falutin' in any way. It's just not my cup of tea. (I did watch celebreality on VH-1 for a couple seasons - not terribly proud of that, either). I didn't watch 'American Idol', though I did enjoy both seasons of 'Rock Star'.

Let me amend that.

I didn't watch season 1 of 'American Idol'. Or 2. Or 3. But for some reason, I watched season 4. I guess the planets were aligned just right or something, I don't know. Maybe it's because it was around the same time as 'Rock Star: INXS' was ending and I'd been addicted to that and needed to fill the void. I don't really remember the whys, but I watched season 4 from day 1.

And I liked Bo Bice. He was my vehicle, baby.

Flash forward to the following summer. 'Saving Jane' was warming up for Bo Bice at the State Fair. My girls loved 'Saving Jane' and wanted to go to see them. My girls were pre-adolescent at the time and the song Girl Next Door spoke to them. Heck, it spoke to me, too. But they didn't want to stay for Bo Bice.

That was ok. I was pretty much over him and was a little bit embarrassed about having been as obsessed with 'American Idol' as I had been. It wasn't the first time I'd bought tickets for a show because I liked the opening band more than the headliner.

'Saving Jane' was great, and the girls were so happy. They were also so DONE. We had had a long day at the fair before the concert. Both girls were tired ALMOST to the point of tears. It was time to go. As we made out way out, the lights went down and Bo took the stage. We were in the hallway leading out of the venue, but could still see in. He opened with Vehicle. And my knees went weak.

I stopped in my tracks and, if my family is to be believed, pulled my hair and screamed, "I LOVE YOU BO!" then mumbled repeatedly, "So much pretty. So so pretty." The kids were no longer on the verge of tears, but I guess I was. Squealy fangirl tears. What Frankie referred to in 'The Rocky Horror Picture Show' as an orgasmic rush of lust. Now they just didn't know what the hell to do. They were stunned silent. They looked back and forth between Tom and I.

"Do we need to - stay?" my husband inquired. He knew that look, and I think he might've been hoping the after effects would still be in effect when we got home, nudge nudge, wink wink. "Do YOU need to stay? I could take the kids to the car..."

He was looking quite bewildered at his point.

He expected this sort of behavior with Joe Perry.

He expected this sort of behavior with Roger Daltry.

But Bo Bice? Really?

I didn't understand it, either.

I shook my head in the negative and we headed for the car. Both girls opted to hold hands with him. I think I freaked them out pretty badly. No child should have to see their momma in the throes of squealy fangirl bliss. I followed with my head bowed in shame, feeling a little numb.

After that, any time we heard a Bo Bice song, or saw him on TV, or even heard his name mentioned I could count on at least one of my beloved family members to pull their own hair and say "so much pretty!" Luckily for me, Bo never became what you might want to call omnipresent.

They've probably forgotten it by now.

I haven't.

Crap, two out of three of 'em read this blog.

I'm screwed.

See what I do to entertain you people?

It's probably not too early to start reminding myself: Alice Cooper is just a man. Alice Cooper is just a man. Alice Cooper is just a man...

ETA: Lea wanted to clarify her tears - I figured that was her story to tell, so I glossed over it. She wanted to tell it and did so here.