Tributes, Glee and me, oh my!

Pix courtesy of Fox Broadcasting

Okay, I am trying to wrap my brain around this “Glee” thing.  I had no idea musical television was such a big deal.  I think the last time I watched people sing on television was the Brady bunch kids on their own television show back in the 70’s.

No offense to the Glee actors and actresses for scoring employment and for being part of a phenom, but honestly I could not be bothered.  Not for the acting or the story lines, I am sure they are all wonderful.  I think it’s the musical renditions of music already recorded that reminds me of, well, of upscale Karaoke.  Here’s the thing…

Some of you out there don’t care if movies are remade or music is re-sung, right?  You simply like the song and don’t mind hearing it done by different performers.  But, for me it is not the song or movie I object to it is the feeling I had when I first heard and saw the work.

Example: when the 1976 film Rocky first came out it was during the country’s Bicentennial, so everyone was pretty patriotic.  I was in my teens and having a hard enough time dealing with growing boobies and boys not seeing me as the “tom boy” I thought I was.   Then there was Sylvester Stallone, who was at that time GOR-GEE-US!  I mean, the scene when Adrian first came to his apartment and he had his arms up and those biceps and…well, anyway…

And then the music, Rocky’s theme, well it just spoke volumes to how we were all feeling back then.  But, for me in particular I cannot replace the emotions of first seeing a guy on screen with big eyes, slanted smile, deep voice and fighting for his life, and I hate boxing.  And he opened this movie during a very patriotic time, well we all wanted Rocky to win, believe me!  My point, you just can’t replace those emotions.

Another example: Journey music.  Boy, I took such a ribbing when I was in college and all the house parties blasted AC/DC or Aerosmith or Black Sabbath.  When no one was looking and I got next to the record player I put on Pat Benatar or Journey.  Pat was fine,b ut as soon as “Anyway you Like It” or “Lights” or “Lovin’, Touchin’, Squeezin”  by Journey came on, it of course was sung by the original lead, Steve Perry, someone would push me aside and scream, “That’s not making out music and it’s not raaaawk!!” And tghe record would be scratched right off the turn table.

The experience of Perry’s voice back then evoked such emotion that I cannot bring myself to listen to imitators or people who sing like him.  My intention is not to disrespect the other men who replaced Perry when he left to retire and watch Giants baseball games.  I just like what I like and I like it to stay the way it is.  I recently  saw a video of the Glee cast singing “Don’t Stop Believin'” and well…again, just not the same emotions as back then.

I guess for me once you put it out there, it’s out there and that’s it.  I am a creature of originality, no movie remakes, no song remakes, I am comfortable the way things are, no need to change it.  I can still support tribute bands or television shows like Glee, but  I also like the old style music without voice boxes and electronic devices or whatever they’re called.  I like old drums sets, old electric guitars and I like singers who sang without special machines to pump up their voices.   That’s just my 50 pounds of middle-aged  boobs & four miles of forehead opinion.

All the best to tribute bands  all over the world and to bands still working including Journey and my best to Glee.  I say, hey do what makes you happy.  For me?  Well, I lost my old record player and what records I still have are probably warped.  But, I have a CD player and  DVD player and I just rented Rocky and now I am about to listen to some old Journey music with Greg Rollie and Steve Perry.  Yeap, I’m old and set in my way.

Last thing…..happy Friday, all!

What’s up, Chuck?

(pix courtesy of Perez Hilton)

What is the story with Chuck E. Cheese?

Lately all that is posted online about the 31 year-old establishment  is less about kids being kids and more about crazed customers going nuts.  There have been numerous internet reports for well over the last two years about customers fighting, being battered and robbed, some were arrested for drugs, some customers even beat up Chuck E. Cheese employees!  I think someone even killed a person!  The hell?

I went to Chuck E. Cheese once, one time, and I nearly had an aneurysm from the noises, the screaming kids, yelling parents and the demented stage puppets.  I did not get the point of that place, then again I don’t have kids.  But, what types of parents and their kids frequent such a hyper-kinetic mess of an establishment?  And the smell of the cheese, have you smelled Chuck E. Cheese’s cheese?  It’s like smelling Al Bundy’s fermented socks.  Worse, it smelled like the inside of a dead bear left in the sun for 6 months.  I’m talking rancid!  And people were walking around like they didn’t smell it?!  Well, granted most parents can’t help but to drown out “white noise” and smells, I mean they DO change diapers and they hear screaming kids.  I’ve seen parents on planes and in public places with their unhappy brats piercing everyone else’s ears, of course you know non-parents don’t have that gift of “blocking it out” like they do.

But, what really sucked for me at Chuck E. Cheese was that every five minutes or so these kooky, psychotic electrobotic puppets  performed on stage.  The curtain opened, the puppets were activated and the stage floor pushed them forward and the they sang… (animated music inserted here) “tinkly, tinkly, tinkly, tippy, tip…” or whatever the hell that sound was, for a few minutes straight.  Jesus, it made my kidneys nervous! Then the curtain closed and pandemonium continued to ensue because let’s face it, nobody’s kids were into those puppets. They were too busy throwing food, slipping on the floor and banging their heads, and helping their parents fight the people in the next table.

What’s wrong with a place where customers enter, sit down, act a fool then get arrested?  I’ll tell you what, it’s gotta be in the cheese.  I think Chuck E. Cheese’s cheese is tainted with PCP.   Or maybe Chuck’s middle initial stands for Evil and when you enter you morph into a demonic fist fighting, wallet grabbing, cheese throwing, creature.  Then again maybe Chuck E. Cheese is satan’s cousin, or he is the twisted half-brother of Chuky the doll from the film, Child’s Play.  Either way it goes, what’s up Chuck?

Granted some of the Chuck E. Cheese patrons seemed, well a little “hood,” “street,” “ghetto,” when I visited.  Then again why not?  Kids have free reign, why shouldn’t their beleaguered parents have one night out to not only watch their kids, but act like them as well?  Parents work hard to raise their brood, they feed them, they clothe them, they spoil the hell out of them, hell, some parents even they want to be their kids’ best friends!  Well, I say, “why not act a fool all up in Chuck E. Cheese and show your tiny terrors what being a kid really means?”

I have a tip for the troubled Chuck E. Cheese owners.  Sell the business to Disney, they’re so strict I guarantee no one would dare start anything!  My friend and I tried to sneak into Disneyland wearing hand-made costumes and we were stopped before we hit the gate!    Or, better yet Chuck E. Cheese should upgrade the quality of their food products, seriously.  No more processed, only fresh, organic salads and maybe a tofu pizza instead.  Well, no that is disgusting to me, but you get my point.  I have not heard about too many violent outbursts at Carl’s Junior, McDonald’s or Burger King and they sell processed foods.  What up?

Perhaps Chuck E. Cheese’s problems stem from a sign-o-the-times.  People have out grown fake sentiment, rancid processed cheese products and crappy games, toys and robotic puppet shows.   I think old Chuck should retire and people should go back to doing what I did when I was a kid.

We went to the local parks and rode Merry-go-rounds, we took walks to see the neighborhood around us.  Well, back then we lived in the projects, my mom was determined for my brother and me to see the rest of the city. But, there were no video games and internet and we tended to interact with each other.  And whatever toys we had we played with them by using our imaginations.  My brother and I used to play “Bus” ’cause he loved buses, using a cardboard box and a blanket.  He would sit in the box on top of a blanket and I would pull it down the hall and he would hum like a bus.  Sounds archaic, but it was so much fun!  And we had a bat phone and when we picked it up it said,“To the Bat cave, Robin!” And we would look out of our project apartment window and swear we saw Batman’s cave!  Ah, good times.  But olden times, of course.

Whether you are a “ghetto” parent or a “non-ghetto” parent, I think it would be a hell of a lot cheaper to stay at home and play with your kids and have pizza delivered while you put a silly hat on your dog or cat.  Why be cooped up angry and resentful and smelling of rotten cheese and hearing squeaking tin puppets sing off key in the House of Horrors?  Better yet, take the dog for a walk and the kids and get pizza at a regular pizza place where people just want to eat, chill, gossip drink and watch each other.  Just sayin.’

The Church of Mighty Reverend Mocha Bus Pass Lady helps celebs

(Lindsay Lohan courtesy of TMZ)

There is something I have always been good at besides writing and knitting.  I was always good at offering emotional support to folks.  People always seem to come to me when they need an ear to bend, or whatever the term is.  In the case of noted celebrities, however, people I once wanted very much to be, but never became, I have ears, but they are slightly hearing impaired.  (Actually, I really am hearing impaired.)

As far as celebrities are concerned, I wonder: what’s wrong with these folks, can’t their money help them?  Money CAN buy happiness, I’ve talked to a couple of rich folks and they informed me that it is most certainly true.  But, what is it about fame and fortune that drives some folks off a cliff, so to speak?  Too much too soon?  Or, maybe fame is like a run away train, once you are on, it is hard to get off?

Whatever a celeb’s problems I feel that if I was ever going to help a poor, tragic celebrity sort through their plethora of “issues,” or “shoos” as I call it, then I would need extra support myself.  That support would have to come in the form of my alter ego, a woman who can handle anyone’s problems any time and any place.  And while I am in no way trying to emulate Oprah, a woman some people seem to think is a deity in a dress, I do feel the need to reach out to my fellow celebrity human beings if only to offer sage advice.  I’m not always in the mood, but I guess giving advice is what I am born to do.

My advice comes from a divine entity, a woman who probably could save the world as long as she can afford hair care products, food, and cat litter.   THE CHURCH OF THE MIGHTY REVEREND MOCHA BUS PASS LADY AND HER PUSSY PATROL.

Basically, Mocha holds one of her two cats close to her middle-aged bosom, she calls them the PUSSY PATROL – her cats, not her bosoms – and while they purr, her cats, not her bosoms, Mocha gets a sign of some sort. A calming, heart rate lowering sign of peace.  That “peace” helps her help others find peace.

All right, so, in reference to poor, tragic, but talented as hell Lindsay Lohan, a product of two foolish people who chose to make children, Mocha, who happens to be holding her girl cat ’cause her fat-ass 16 lb boy cat is too busy tracking cat litter all over the floor, offers this advice…

“Lindsay..gurl, chile, take a break from your folks for just enough time to realize while they may love you, they themselves are in dire need of lots of psychiatric help, a good smack upside their heads and they probably need Jesus.”

Halleluah!  Amen!  Praise all who believe!

Later for now.

I hate aging or, “WHAT THE HELL’S A KEGEL?”


(This blog might seem like it’s for women only, but it’s not.  It’s about life, so don’t freak out, guys)

People who say they love to age, “Oh I love aging!” Or, “I think the aging process is brilliant!” Or, “I can’t wait to get older!” Those folks are either on the crack or just plain nuts.

How can anyone enjoy the annoying and uncomfortable physiological aspect of aging?  How?  What is so cool about celebrating a sagging, drooping pile of flesh spilling into one’s under pants, or bra, or that belly the hangs over the elastic of your panties with wisps of  hair dancing around one’s navel?  Ga-ross!

Now, I am not saying being human is not fun, it has it’s perks, WHEN YOU’RE IN YOUR TWENTIES!!!  When you’re young you don’t have to think about how your body changes when you age.  You just enjoy your body and move forward.  But, that’s only because the changes don’t show.  There are changes, but we don’t see them.

There is a point for this rant that should be geared towards a higher power since a higher power created this mess, however, seeing as how I have been a non-practicing Catholic for many years, I think for now I will direct my rant electronically.

Why-oh-why is it necessary for our bodies to physically break down?  Why can’t we simply age without the dramatic effects, the wrinkles, the sensitive bones, the loss of hearing and eye sight?  Better yet, why can’t our body and brains move at the same pace?  My brain is 51, but my body is 25 like the way I feel.  Right?  Well, then why can’t both my brain and body work together?  The emphasis being on my brain age, not my body age.  My body is aging rapidly, yet my brain is happy and safe and warm inside my  thick frontally-challenged cranium.  My body should also feel safe and warm, I mean good lord I don’t do drugs, I exercise.  My body should not physically bring me to a point where my doctors alert me to prepare for the changes like a war was fast approaching.   ~sigh~ Which brings the reason I brought this up the word, Kegel.

When a woman visits her OBGYN year after year it is the same droll…painful probing with the doctor shoving their  hands up to their elbows, it feels like, to check on our ovaries and bladder and such.  With all that twisting and wrenching a PAP felt more like the doctor’s up there doing macrame’ rather than examining me.

Over the years the PAP stays the same, but as women age and their bodies age the dialogue between doctor and patience changes.  When I was in my 20’s I heard, “see you in two years. “ Heard that until I was in my late 30s.  When I was in my mid 40s my OBGYN said something strange to me.

So, there she was up between my legs building a computer of whatever the hell, and suddenly I looked down at her face to see her furrowing her brows.  Not good. I asked,

“What’s the matter?”

With her hands up to her elbows inside my crotch, she said, “You might want to consider doing your Kegels.” Then she finished and motioned for me to sit up.

I had no idea what the hell a Kegel was, I mean I had biology in High School, but we never covered that aspect.  “A Kee-gul?”

“You know, the muscle…you contract and release, contract and release.  As you age…your body of course changes with gravity.  It’s a common practice and, well it’s a good thing to do.”

I walked out of the hospital and imagined I was a little older.  I had forgotten to do Kegels and had this conversation with someone in the street while holding my hand between my legs,

“Sorry, can’t talk now I have to clench up my vagi-wang or my insides will fall into the street!”

What a horrifying thing this aging process!   I now have to clench and release just to keep my insides from falling out?  That is just disgusting!  Why can’t they stay where they are?  If a woman has a baby what happens to her, does the Kegel exercise even work?  And what about men, do they have to do Kegels?  Or, maybe for them it’s about strapping their man mangos into a harness to keep them from swaying back and forth when they walk, knocking against their knees and possibly poking out a medium-size dog’s eyes when they walk sown the street. ~heavy sigh~

I truly hate how aggressive and deteriorating the aging process is.  I wish there was a better way to physically age. I wish my 25 year-old brain when it sees my bare dangling tits anxiously reaching for my knee caps like a three year-old reaches for his/her “blankie” it would not be so surprised.  Or, I wouldn’t mind it if my physical body ages so slowly that by the time my brain reaches 51 it had all caught up and adjusted.

For now I have no choice but to do my Kegel exercises for my vagi-wang, and my Pectoral exercises for my tits, and stand on my head once in a while to keep the blood flowing, and cardio exercises like walking for my heart, and use skin tighter creams and color the grey out of my hair and eye brows as often as I can.  I feel like I need a nap  after cleaning my apartment, or I get winded bending down to tie my shoes and when I get back up I see spots before my eyes. Phew!

Until I do accept the ravages of age and the fact that my metabolism is so slow my General Practitioner doctor told me the lump on my back was not cancer but back fat and that if I wanted to get rid of it I had to exercise…alot!  Until I melt into the earth faster than ice cream on a stove, I will fight for as long as I can.  And when you see an 80 year-old woman with one braid coming out of the side of her head walking down the street in Daisy dukes, go-go boots and a halter top with her tits looking like oranges in socks and swinging from side to side knocking into small children and motorized wheel chairs, and she’s smiling with a mouth full of dentures that look like oversized chiclets and bigger than her tiny face, don’t hate honey, congratulate!  I bet her 25 year-old brain thinks she is a DIVA!

Bye for now!  LDS

Freezing rain, coffee beans, hot tea and Ike’s

It was a long-ass, cold-ass, rainy-ass, freezing my ass-off-ass walk home from where I bought, but can’t really afford, a $10 Ike’s sandwich.  Those of you who have tasted Ike’s know what I mean.  By the time I arrived to the downstairs gate of my apartment, and I am not exaggerating, I was frozen stiff and could barely maneuver the key in the lock.  Actually, I had to limp home because my toes inside my rain boots with socks had frozen stiff.  My fingers inside warm gloves were also frozen!  Can I bore you for a second?

I started off my afternoon rather late, sometime after 1:30pm.  My plans were simple, drop something off, get coffee at my favorite coffee boutique, hurry home before the rain worsens.  That’s it, that’s all.

Took a quick train downtown to deliver a dog sweater to my ex-sis n-law for her sister who purchased it a week ago.  Met up with her, we talked then she drove me to where I normally get my coffee beans not too far from my house, maybe a quarter of a mile or so.  I enjoy grinding my morning coffee, my caffeine driven morning addiction ritual type thing.

Everything went smoothly even in the lightly pouring but freezing rain and it was time for me to go home.  When my toes start to get numb and my fingers inside my gloves are locking up, it’s time to go.  I had not, however, had lunch.  On my walk home I had a taste for Subway sandwich.  I knew of a place, but I suddenly remembered Ike’s Sandwiches which had moved from its previous location to inside a restaurant slash bar near the Castro District called Lime.   It was only my second time eating at Ike’s.  My first time was spectacular, but because I am unemployed I cannot treat myself too often.

Now, again it is freezing cold and rainy outside, yet when I arrived, there was a short line waiting to order and another line waiting for their sandwiches.  I waited in the line, I was kind of excited because today was different, I felt confident and positive and…well, good.  I felt good.  I especially felt good because I had sent out my coffee table book manuscript to two Lit agents after years of rejections.  Yeap, I felt hopeful.

I stood there listening to the hypnotic dance music from inside, we all could not help but hear the fabulous remixes of all the popular tunes, Rhianna; Prince, Latin rap; the late Mike Jackson.  I even did a little dance, mainly ’cause I was cold, but the music was so infectious I could not help myself.  Ike’s has no solid commercial resident as of yet, so customers are allowed inside to order at the door, but then they must wait outside for about 45-55 minutes for their sandwich.  Sometimes ordering in person rather than calling takes an hour as well.

Finally I was inside the door a tad warmer as I smelled that bar smell mix of alcohol, alcoholic breath and fruit.  I heard one of my favorite songs, a latin remix of rap gibberish slash pop, can’t think of the name.  Something like, “…Whoot, whoot, shake that, run that, this where we’re from..” All I know, the beat was sick!  So, I called myself bopping or whopping or whatever the terminology is for my kind of dancing, the kind with only just an ounce of soul for a black person, that one?

I ordered and I asked for a couple of slices of Corned Beef.  Hey, why not get a little extra fat on my bones in this weather? A customer must pre-pay for their sandwich, mine came to about $13 for the extra meat, and I was asked to wait outside.  Not wait inside bopping, or bipping or tripping to the great dance music along with all the happy, drunken patrons who were having early afternoon cocktails, but outside where even dogs being walked with coats and sweaters were shivering.  I might not have minded if they allowed me to wait inside, hell I might have had a drink if the mood hit me.  But, nope, had to brave the cold.

Well, at first I was just cold.  Just cold inside my light weight, water-resistant coat that I forgot was not at all warm,  although, I was smart enough to wear a turtle neck, also not very warm.  And I wore my tweed newsboy hat and my knee-length rain boots and I carried a tote for the coffee beans and the sandwich I was about to have, I think it was called a “Say Hey” or something, on Dutch bread.  All the sandwiches have names, but the menu is so vast it is hard to remember.

About 45 minutes later my toes had truly froze solid, I could not even feel them!  And my fingers were numbing up.   And being the drama queen diva that I can sometimes be, I mean if I get a hangnail the world’s gone to hell in a hand basket, I began screaming inside my brain, just loud enough for my kidneys and liver to hear.

“What the hell kind of sh*tty sh*t is this, waiting in the freezing rain with all these strange people for some fu**ing $13 sandwich, can you answer that for me, Jesus, dammit all to hell?!”

Finally the chubby young guy who looks like a dark complexion half-black and Indian guy with good hair comes outside and says, “Lorrie!” I jumped out from inside a tiny nook near the window of the next door restaurant and yelled “YEEEEEEESSS!”  God I was cold.  He handed me my sandwich, did a stupid “thumbs up” type thing and I was on my frozenway.

As I stated earlier I practically limped that long walk home, I coujdl nto feel my toes, I was tippy toeing home, trying not to fall forward.  When I finally got inside my apartment and noticed my two lazy-no-job-having-worthless cats were safe and warm and free from the freezing rain, I immediately dropped everything and ran to the bathroom, turned on a hot tub and added some Lavender scented bubble bath.   I broke open my sandwich, put on a pot of tea, chomped on half the sandwich which was at that point cold.  I pulled out the meat to reheat it in the oven, I don’t use a microwave, then jumped into the tub.  I swear my body was so cold the scalding hot water felt cold.  It took me nearly 15 minutes to warm up.

After the bath I put on some Native American Flute music, to soothe my frozen spirit, and poured a nice cup of tea to go with the  rest of the sandwich, but you know what?  Even after heating the meat the sandwich did not taste as good as it did when I first ate an Ike’s sandwich.  I am thinking it had to be that I was so cold I could not enjoy it.  I ate the whole thing, but it just did not seem as good.  The first time I ate at Ike’s where it’s old location was, it was a very hot day. The complimentary chips and candy-apple lollipop that they throw into the bag was a nice bonus, but the sandwich was superb.  Not this time.  Well, maybe that weather had something to do with it.  Or, maybe all my internal cursing and screaming for Jesus like someone stole my purse pissed off the powers that be and I was robbed of my sandwich joy.  Who knows?

All I can say is that I am happy to be home, thawed out, warm and full.  Will I eat at Ike’s again?  Perhaps when I have saved up for it.  Will I go out in the freezing rain rather than the nice and warm rain for a $13 sandwich?  Oh hell no!  Next time maybe a $5 Subway?  Probably.  But, the good thing is that experience is now in my blog and that is what I am learning, you can always share your joys and miseries with the world rather than be alone in your happiness or frozen grief.

Bye for now!

Finally…a blog. But, why?

I have never kept a journal.  Dyslexia makes reading difficult, yet I call myself a writer and I can knit a Norwegian Bolero jacket using 4 double-point needles.  I am not overly social, I am very much a loner, yet people tell me I am very personable and warm.  I will hold a conversation on just about anything when you see me in person, yet I rarely talk on the phone and most of my friends are mad at me ’cause I never turn on my cell, although, I do enjoy texting.  The last time I had company was, what, 2004?  So, like…why a blog?  And why now?

Modern technology is a reason for one, I mean I have to slide into the new Millennium or be left on the back burner, right?  Second, I am embarking on becoming a commercially published author.  I am told if I do not tell people I exist then how can I expect people to know who the hell I am?

Who is LD Sargent?  Well, I am complicated at best.  I seem easy to figure out, but as soon as one tries one fails miserably.  I will sum myself up like this; whatever mood I am in is who I am at the moment.

I have lots of projects in the works – all listed on my website .  My current completed project is a book I wrote on behalf of my ailing mother titled: TREASURE OF A BRONX WARRIOR; Photographs and Memories of a Devout New Yorker, Movie Star Hopeful and Loving Mother. Treasures is a book about my mother Doris Banbury’s 1950s New York photographs of A-list celebrities including Sammy Davis Jr.; Marilyn Monroe and Dame Elizabeth Taylor.  A select few of Doris’ photos are currently in an exhibit at the San Francisco Museum of Modern art on the fourth floor.  The exhibit is titled; EXPOSED, Voyeurism, Surveillance and the Camera Since 1870.

So, there it is and there I am.  See ya soon, but not sure when.  LDS