not that you asked...

Pluter, a true son of West Virginia

Pluter lives down the road from my grandparents in a public housing complex that has seen better days... namely, the first three days after it was built. After those first three days, the houses began to be shamelessly defiled by their occupants, because although those who inhabited them were not too proud to accept public assistance, they WERE completely above picking up their trash or bathing regularly or keeping their fifteen naked toddlers from wandering out into oncoming traffic. (And we, being socially aware and very politically correct and with much sympathy for their situations called them "The Dirties.")

So Pluter lives among his dirty people, though he has gotten to know my extended family for reasons I am not privy to. But in our family, there is always much talk of Pluter's home improvement projects, the last one involving the addition of a small deck onto the back of his house. The deck was built in roughly five years, for the most part due the fact that Pluter retrieved his decking supplies from a lumberyard about three miles away. Pluter did this once a day by bicycle, two (possibly stolen) boards at a time. I'm sure the deck increased Pluter's property value almost as much as the biker bandannas he tacked up on his carport.

I tell you this to help you understand the hardworking, perseverent nature of Pluter, and to assure you that Pluter's next project, illustrated below along with biker bandannas, will no doubt take just as long and be as much of an eyesore as his deck. So I present to you, Pluter's Stone Wall Built To Surround His Home To Keep Out Water Except How Do You Think You Are Going To Be Able To Get Inside Once You Brick Over The Gate Amen.

Love Poem to a Hot Dog

This is Erik.

Erik choked on a hot dog in 1983 and therefore never attempted another until April of 2005, more than 22 weiner-free years later. Sadly, Erik's return to frankfurter ingestion involved the purchase of a tube steak from the snack bar at George Washington High School in Charleston, West Virginia. According to Erik, this did not make for a satisfying hot dog experience, despite a delicate canned chili topping.

This, however, DID make a satisfying hot dog experience for Randy, who got a free hot dog when Erik refused to finish his. Looks like that guy in the background polished off a few, too.

Just a girl and her dream

As someone who has never actually set a goal for herself, I find it amazing that I actually managed to fulfill one last week. Last Friday night, Dave and I drove to Richmond to see Todd Snider put on a show at a small local venue called the Canal Club and yes it is the same Canal Club where five people were shot in the parking lot last year but that doesn't necessarily mean the place is a hole. And besides, its not like anyone DIED or anything! Bullet wounds go about healing ALL THE TIME in this country.

So anyway, before I continue, I must preface this story by elaborating a bit on the Big Problem I have with Todd Snider, and that Big Problem just happens to be the fact that I am OBSESSED with him, though it is in a very friendly kind of way and not the kind of way that say, Michael Jackson is obsessed with teensy children. I'm no homewrecker, Todd has a WIFE. And although sometimes I forget, I HAVE A HUSBAND. (Just kidding Dave!) It is a HEALTHY obsession, similar to the one that I have developed for Sno-Biz sno cones and Sonic cherry-limeades and while we're on that subject could someone PLEASE explain to me why Sonic torments me with a barrage of commercials lauding the glory of its products during reruns of Friends when there is NO SONIC WITHIN 200 MILES OF HERE? Its to the point where Dave has to turn off the TV or else I drool all over the couch at the prospect of unrequited cherry-limeade lust.

Back to the point. The point is, I don't want to make out with Todd Snider; I don't want to correspond with him in any way, shape or form; I don't fantasize about having his child, though honestly that is for two reasons, the major one being that I should probably feel the need to procreate with my husband before moving on to some folk singer. The other one involves my thighs. But I DID want to meet him, to tell him that I think he's fantastic and that I love his music and all the other crap that he must hear from hundreds of people every night of his life. I just think the guy is fantastic. Oh, and a genius. I love hearing him sing, I love that he still plays small venues so that it feels personal. I confess that I am on a list-serve of people who are similarly enthralled, and every day I get at least 25 emails about what Todd did the night before. Its so easy to be sick with Todd Snideritis, and I enjoy every minute of it.

Friday night we get to the Canal Club early after checking into our hotel. Doors are supposed to open at 8:30, but when we get there at 8:15 there is already a line through the building of people who are waiting to be allowed up to the room, which is disappointing because 1) I wanted to be EARLY, dammit and 2) there are WAAAAAY too many people in on my secret, which is that Todd Snider is a genius. Also, let's be honest, 3) there were some way hotter chicks than me there. I was starting to feel like I didn't have a chance in the world at being noticed, which I guess is what I really wanted from him, just to be noticed. Are you wondering at this point why Dave hasn't divorced me on the grounds of irreconcilable differences which happen to be that I am obsessed with a folk singer?

So then Dave and I sat down, and I tried to relax (we were FOUR ROWS BACK, which was painful, it actually felt as if my heart had been ripped from my chest - I had no chance of being sweat on from so many feet back!) if relaxing also means downing several beers and doing a shot of tequila with four male strangers you meet at the bar. We had a great time at the show, the first opening act was amazing, the second sucked (who names a band the Taters?), and then Todd was fabulous as always. I peed a lot during the show, but I don't think he noticed. We wished he had played a little bit longer, but then again, people who pay $15 for tickets to a show can't exactly demand much more than what they got. (Another of Todd's redeeming qualities is that he's a bargain!)

And then the end of the show is a bit of a blur, but I know that everyone started leaving the room, and I saw this girl run across the stage and up the stairs to Todd's dressing room. And that's when my competitive nature (I was impressed that I actually HAVE one) kicked in and I just COULD NOT STAND THERE AND DIE INSIDE WHILE SOMEONE ELSE MET MY MAN. So I turned to Dave and I said, "I'm going to meet Todd." So I climbed up onstage and walked across it and up the stairs and turned the knob and forced my way inside.

I can't share ALL the details with you, I have to have SOMETHING left for myself, including one or two shreds of dignity. But I can tell you that I always thought of myself as someone who could remain unfazed by any situation. I think many of my friends would back me up on that. I am not shy, I will talk to anyone, and I rarely have embarrassing moments simply because it is so easy to turn the AGONY of embarrassment into the JOY of telling it again as a story. And yet here I was, a girl with a dream who had bounded up those stairs with the energy and confidence of someone who knows exactly what she's doing and also whose husband had told her she looked hot that night! But when I got inside that tiny, musty dressing room...

I FREAKED OUT.

I fell apart. I started shaking like someone had just dragged me out of a 40-degree river. I said stupid, stupid stuff. (I know I said it because Dave told me I did and I just can't bear to repeat it here, I'm actually blushing in shame as I type this.) I believe I may have even said things to his tour manager that sounded like pickup lines. But I shook the man's hand, I told him I loved his stuff, and I got my photo op.

And then I got the hell out of there before I could do any more damage. And today, I realize that although I didn't leave him with any lasting impressions of me (regardless of the heft of my push-up bra), next time I have a shot at a do-over.

I met Todd Snider! And to tell you the truth, I love him even more for making himself dangerously accessible to head cases like yours truly.