Michael Pare, or is This what happens when you beat a Big Fat Gay Street Gang in the movies??

I am on Twitter.

There, I said it. I Tweet MAYBE once a month. More, if I am feeling froggy, but generally, I don't think anyone sees it, and I really just want to know about my favorite guilty pleasures. You know them, Jesse James, Fred Durst, Joel and Benji Madden, you are getting the idea. It gives me that feeling of intimacy I know I will never achieve with these celebrities, maybe give an insight into their day to day lives which will prove that they ARE just like me (I mean US Magazine tells me this in EVERY SINGLE issue). This knowledge, in and of itself, makes me happy. Ray Liotta shops at COSTCO! Ricki Lake is having issues with flying! Kirstie Alley...well, she IS Kirstie Alley - nuff said. Celebrites celebrating the mundane, THAT is Twitter. And, if they can celebrate the mundane, so can I: Raining on the Island, looks like a soup and sandwich in bed day! The difference, of course, that that 40,000 people will not be answering my mundane tweets, ReTweeting them a million times or buying soup by the 40 gallon drum so that they can be JUST LIKE ME. Which brings me to the REAL reason for this post.

Michael Pare.

Yes, Michael Pare. Eddie Wilson of Eddie and the Cruisers, Tom Cody from Streets of Fire (which I watched for the 47,983,232 time this morning. Because tonight, indeed, is what it means to be young.) and B-Movie sexpot. Hubba, hubba is all I have to say. Michael Pare has found his way into my dreams, lately. The most likely reason, of course, is that Streets of Fire has been on a continuous loop on The Encore networks for the past two months. Let me take you back in time....

Lizzy and I shared a bedroom. We were, for the most part, opposites. Lizzy loved C. Thomas Howell. You could not call him Tommy Howell in her presence, it was C. Thomas or nothing. I LOVED Matt Dillon. Lizzy loved Streets of Fire. The summer it was released, 1984, I was 15, Lizzy was 12. We listened to Diane Lane and that entire soundtrack on our record player endlessly, even replacing it three times (you guys remember the bubbles that would form on records from being overplayed, right?) We knew every word of music, we knew every line from the film. I was sure that I would both meet and marry Tom Cody, he was perfect for me, after all. And I, of course, could make him forget Ellen Aim. Plus, he was a Soldier of FORTUNE. I mean, that must mean SOMETHING. Right?   Tom Cody bonded two VERY different sisters, so if it meant nothing before THAT, it certainly gained momentum after.                                   

Streets of Fire had something for everyone, men, women, old and young, black and white (this movie was the debut of MANY stars, and featured Forrest Gump's Mykelti Williamson - you know? Bubba? His name was Michael T. Williamson then, folks), straight or gay (the S & M bondage gear worn by MOST of Willem Dafoe's street gang! Who knew that leather waders would both threatening and chic by menacing Street Gangs in Dystopia?) But, I digress.

                                                                                       

Anyway, I went onto Twitter to see if Michael Pare had an account. He doesn't. HOWEVER, interestingly, I noticed that there was a post by someone who claimed she was Diane Lane (Ellen Aim). It was a simple one, none of her own words, really. But it quoted some other blog, stating that the real problem with Streets of Fire was, in fact, Michael Pare. That he was talentless. Well, I take exception to that. Seriously.

First thing being first, I am 43 years old, my husband is a 9/11 first responder whose health has steadily declined over the last 5 years. These days, lately, are long and often not fun. I am often tired, grumpy, mean, annoyed and generally not too fun to be around. HOWEVER, when I saw Streets of Fire for the fire time in 20 years 2 months ago, I was 15 all over again. I remembered everything that I felt the first time I watched it when I was a kid. All I have to say is Michael Pare did that. Done. And done.

Time isn't kind to everyone, but this guy has aged well. He's still got it. He has consistantly worked for 30 years. He is, by most accounts, a smart, amiable guy. A trained chef, even! Now, I have heard there is an unofficial sequel to 'Streets of Fire' called 'Road to Hell'. I think Tom Cody is supposed to be a serial killer or something. I would like to see it, if only to see Tom Cody again.

So, blogger person, while opinions are what they are, you need to see Streets of Fire again. Have an open mind. Call it what it is, 80's cheese. Oh, and Michael Pare, if you are out there, you will always have my heart. You rock, dude.

My Buddy, Kevin

Allow me to introduce you to Kevin.
We have been together for some time, Kevin and I. Specifically about 9 years. It was around my 31st birthday while plucking my eyebrows and checking for blemishes in my 15x magnification mirror that I spotted him. A jet black, pin straight hair jutting out of my chin. I was horrified. This happened to other people. My mother-in-law, or that scary lady at the post office, maybe, but not me. NO! I ripped it out, satisfied that it was a mistake, some weird phenomenon that would not be duplicated until I was at least 50. But a week later, there it was again. It was coarse as a wire brush. It was thick and stiff, but it was a hair, nonetheless. I could have towed a boat with it. I was driving when I spotted it again, so for the full day, all I could think was that every person I came in contact with saw this hair and wondered why I allowed it to grow, maybe felt pity for me, even. In my view, it was easily 6 feet long. I continually tried to pull it out with my fingers, but it wasn't happening. It would not budge. I became obsessed with it, and the first chance I got (I'd actually run to my mothers house to use her tweezer) I tore it from its comfy lair within my chin. Before long, however, I realized this would now be a lifelong battle. I purchased two extra Tweezerman Ultra tweezers, one for my pocketbook and one for my car. I would NEVER have a noticable chin hair again.
So it was inevitable that around that time, while waiting for my 11-year-old to get out of school, I sat in the parking lot and noticed that it was about to rear its ugly head again. I took out the car tweezer and began picking in earnest. Franky got into the car and looked at me with quizzical horror. "What are you doing?" He asked, mouth agape. "Shut up." I said through gritted teeth. "And tell nobody about this." He shook his head and played his video game as we finally drove away.
Less than a week later, though, we were driving home and he pointed at my chin. "Hey,"He said, finger nearly touching my chin. "Kevin is back."
"Kevin?" I asked. I looked up into the rearview mirror and saw that nasty hair again protruding out of my chin. I pulled over and again removed the hair. "Where did you get that name?" I asked him on the drive home.
"Well you know Kevin, in my class? He has a beard like yours." I thought about 11-year-old Kevin and, Frank was right, he had a Shaggy (from scooby doo) beard of 5 hairs. They were long-ish. This was a hilarious comparison, but I didn't want to encourage him by laughing. So I was forced to stifle my laughter all the way home. When we got home, Frank called his father to say we'd gotten home safely, and to tell him about his day. I walked into the room to hear Frank tell Bob, "Oh, she was plucking out her beard on the way home from school." I snatched the phone from him, "I DON'T have a BEARD!"
"Yes, you do, it looks just like Kevin's" Frank shrugged walking out of the room. I was being compared to a pubescent boy, and I wasn't liking it. Not. One. Bit.
As the years passed, most of my friends met Kevin, because he was a preoccuption for sometime. In fact, there was a time when, for reasons I will get into at another time, my tweezer time was limited. I could get away with long armpit hair or leg hair, but a flowing she-beard was OUT OF THE QUESTION. Therefore, I talked about Kevin frequently. In fact, I have friends who I haven't seen in years who ask about him. Actually, many of my friends refer to their chin hairs as Kevin. It doesn't bother me, though. It makes me happy that I am not the only one with a friend on the chin. I am on top of Kevin these days, getting him before he peeks out. Imagine my horror, however, when I was plucking last week, and realized that Kevin has been joined by two friends. Joacquin, who I named for my favorite actor, and Pierre, who has been named for his obnoxious placement in the exact middle of my chin, giving me the look of the demented Captain Morgan, or at least a mean spirited frenchman who has chosen to hate THIS American more than any other.
Now excuse me while I go hunting for Kevin and his friends.

Ode to the Tourists of LBI

Oh, tourist, seriously?
This is a beautiful place, we agree, and we are glad you have decided to spend your money here. But perhaps you can take some things under advisement.
Wawa is terrific, we love it too. Bare feet inside Wawa, however, is disgusting. I am thrilled that you are that relaxed, but food is being prepared all around, and are you aware that athlete's foot is a real thing? Plus, your feet are gross. Really, black-bottomed-feet are repulsive. While we are on the subject of Wawa, g-strings are ill-advised. I understand why you wear then on the beach, but your choice of wearing butt floss inside a crammed convenience store is questionable at best.
Beach badges are required. The revenue they generate keep our beaches among the cleanest, safest and nicest on the Jersey Shore. Isn't that WHY you come here to begin with? So please do not abuse and/or assail the young people who, in addition to being members of my immediate family, are just doing their job. You do not need to call them names, and believe it or not, it doesn't matter that you OWN your beach house. Merely OWNING real estate on Long Beach Island doesn't preclude the necessity of beach badges. By the way, we are VERY, VERY impressed that you own your weekend home here. This, however, does not mean you are a local. Local live here all the time, and work very hard to keep this place going all year long. Amazingly, in your absence, this island continues to thrive. Scary, I know, but true.
Also very impressive is your choice of motor vehicle. I know, your BMW, Audi, Jaguar, Porsche, well you get the idea...., is the single most impressive car on the island, therefore, the general rules of the road do not apply to you. Stop signs, traffic signals, crosswalks, and speed limits are for those of us who drive Jeeps, Toyotas, or even the dreaded FORD! Your luxury car is exempt. We UNDERSTAND. While on the subject of driving, you know that crazy middle lane with the arrows going on both directions?? That is called a TURNING lane. It is an amazing invention. You can pull into it and the safely turn from it. I know. I will pause now, so you can recover from your shock.
I would also like to introduce you to the bike lanes. Bike lanes are very interesting, because while we have helmet laws, very few of you choose to exercise your right to wear a helmet. I find this particularly interesting, due to the fact that you ALSO choose to ride in the middle of the road as opposed to the BIKE lane. Believe it or not, at least once a year (and by year, I mean summer) a pedestrian and/or bicyclist is hit by a car. Generally, the car will always win in that match-up. Obeying the rules of the road for bikes is always recommended, especially when you have to understand that the people who are driving MAY fit into the group of vehicles I mentioned before. Finally, I would like to tell you that we have very little crime here. EXCEPT, of course, during the summer. A rash of bike thefts, petty shoplifting, clothes off our lines, etc. is always expected. Sirens going all day and night are a sign that you are here. We do not want you to die on vacation, we want you to come back (well, sort of), so please, practice safe visiting while vacationing here. And while you abuse us in our stores and restaurants, we will be counting the minutes until Chowderfest comes, and you go home....

Bob's Bed, or How I almost bought the Farm- again

Buying a bed for normal people is generally a straightforward thing. There is, perhaps, some research to do, then the actual purchase. For us, however, not so much. For us, nothing is ever straightforward. This was no different.
For the past year, we have been planning the purchase of a new bed. The first and most serious reason it took so long was that we couldn't agree on the 'Pillow Top'/non 'Pillow-Top' issue. I hate a mushy bed, but I do like some cushion. Bobby is strictly a firm bed guy. We agreed on the Temperpedic, but I wanted the thick, lush 4 inch pillow top. And on and on. Finally, we saw a commercial for a bed that bragged all the same traits as the Temperpedic, but made with gel capsules, it promised a cooler sleep. COOLER. Hmmm. We hadn't even thought about sweating in our sleep, but alas, upon further research, it was confirmed, we would sweat in the Temperpedic bed. So, finally we priced the Novaform, and bought the bed.
It is here that I must tell you this queen sized bed is vacuum packed into a 4x2.5x2 box which weighs about 100 pounds.
We got it into the Jeep with little problem, and took it home. We knew it would be several days before we could sleep on it, so the plan was to open the box and let the bed 'recover' in my walk in closet. Yes. A plan.
The box comes on wheels. With a handle. I wanted to carry it up the steps like the trained household mover that I have been for much of my adult life, with the boys help. Bobby, however, disagreed. Considering he is blind, has a bad back, cancer and other things, I decided to listen to him, and schlep it step by step up the curling stairwell on a moving pad. The fact that the stairs curve was helpful, because when it slipped (twice) it didn't go far. Once I was upstairs, my coach was already shouting: "Read the instructions, AND NOT THE QUICK SET-UP ONES!!" And so I did, but it became immediately clear that my closet wouldn't work, so we did it in the spare bedroom. Well, my coach shouted, and I did it. I cut it out of the box, as directed by the photos, then tore open the vacuum packed bag that had it smushed to one tenth of its actual size. It is here that it got ugly. The bed does expand, however, it is not a gradual thing. I opened the bag and nearly instantly became trapped underneath it. So Coach started to scream, "You never listen! You are ruining my BED!!" Calmly, I implored him. "Bob, please lift the bottom of this mattress, so I can get out from under it."
"If you listened to me you wouldn't be stuck. If you screw this up I will be pissed!" He shouted. With this I tried, unsuccessfully, to get myself out from under the gel capsule filled mattress. "Stop moving!" Bobby screamed again, "It needs to lay flat to fully recover. If you keep moving it will not be able to recover."
"I am stuck." I said, simply. "Please Help me get out."
"Well, you should have listened to me," He said again. At this point, I must point out that I DID listen to him, in part because he is impossible to ignore. He still made no move to lift the bed, which now had be trapped between the wall and floor. "Its BENT Cille. IT'S BENT!!"
"Bob, if you help me get out from under it, it will be straight, I cannot get out from under it by myself, just grab the mattress pad, already."
"Well, what have you learned from this?" He said, hands on hips. Well, it looked like his hands were on his hips, but from my vantage point, anything was possible.
Now it was MY turn to scream. "BOB, HELP ME!"
"You should have listened. You never listen."
"I KNOW, Bob, I KNOW, just help me get out." Now I should point out, that at this point, Sandy (our yellow lab puppy) decided to come and check out what the hub-bub was all about. Oh, and try out the new Mattress. So now, Sandy was assisting, by laying on top on the mattress as it lay on top of me. "SANDY!" I screamed. "BOB! Get her off the mattress."
"SANDY! You are going to ruin my mattress!!!" He yelled at the dog. "LUCILLE, I TOLD YOU! THE MATTRESS NEEDS TIME TO RECOVER!"
"Bob! Damn it!" By now, I had turned myself over under the mattress and was crawling out from the mattress.
"The Mattress is bending! You can't do that!"He screamed. I got out from under it, crawling, and freed myself. "You should have listened to me." He said, for the nine millionth time. "But now, we need to make sure nothing else happens to the mattress. Cover it up, so the cat doesn't climb on it. The mattress needs to recover."
Unfortunately, I had to recover on the old mattress.