That's Church

Bret Michaels reigned victorious in his battle to get me to love him when TMZ filmed him arriving at his home in Arizona and he was randomly wearing a Buccos of Suckitude ball cap.

GOD HELP ME, I LOVE THE SON OF A BITCH.

All it took was a ball cap. Who knew I was this easy?

Apparently, Lukey moved to Westwood.

I don’t know where Westwood is. It might as well be Azerbaijan because I have about as good of a chance of finding it on a map.

But, anyway, Lukey moved. No big deal.

Except, Lukey is MAKING it a big deal:

I spent the better part of last week trying to reach the mayor on this, but a spokeswoman finally left this message on my voice mail Friday afternoon: “He’s not interested in talking about where he lives. He considers that his private life.”

Big. Giant. Eyeroll.

I’m sure Brian O’Neill wasn’t calling to ask, “Mr. Mayor, where exactly do you live in Westwood? What is your address? Is it a friend of Kevin’s house? Are you shackin’ up with a cougar? Did Ron Burkle hook you up? Boxers or briefs?”

All Brian O’Neill wanted to know was does the Mayor live in Westwood and how does he like it there?

And Lukey is all, “[Jedi mind trick hand wave] You never saw me. I was never here. This message will self-destruct. I am your father.”

Geez, Mr. Mayor, how about being a little bit more transparent? How about not making a big deal out of what is actually a big Nothing, because otherwise, you’re making us think it’s Something? How about next time, you have Joanna say, “Yes! The mayor has chosen one of Pittsburgh’s fine 90 neighborhoods in which to make his new home. He has chosen Westwood and while I’m sure you’ll respect his privacy at his new home considering he has a young son, he’ll be glad to answer any questions you have about why he chose that particular neighborhood.”

Ta-daa!

[takes a bow]

(h/t Cheryl)

Let’s talk about television this morning, shall we?

Last night marked the series finale of Lost, and if Twitter is any indication, THE WHOLE ENTIRE WORLD watched it.

I didn’t. In fact, I have a history of missing big finales. Seinfeld? Never saw it. Still haven’t. Meh.

Friends? Think I saw it as a rerun. Not sure. Meh.

I was a huge fan of Lost during its first three seasons, regularly telling my husband, “You need to start watching this show because my brain is all KABLOOEY!” But I sort of fell away from it when I had amassed eight old episodes of the show on my Tivo and was like, “Blah. Whatever. Delete.” I was a pregnant working mother. Who has eight hours to kill as a pregnant working mother? That’s a trick question. NO pregnant working mother has eight hours to kill for anything other than sweet sweet … sweet sweet sleep. And swiss rolls.

I especially couldn’t spare eight hours for a show that would end all eight of those episodes with my jaw on the floor, tears in my eyes, and questions rolling around in my brain like, “Wait. Maybe the smoke monster is supposed to be Satan and the snowy white polar bear is God, but why would God try to eat the islanders and OMG IS CHARLIE GOING TO DIE and if you add 4 + 8 + 15 and carry the one and divide it by the square root of 23 and multiply it by 42, does that equal 666? and I feel nauseous and WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAALT!!!!!!”

I like my TV to not tax my brain so much, eh? And I particularly like my TV to not EVER make me get out my calculator, which is why I don’t watch “Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader?” So I gave up. I tried to get back into it this year, but I found I preferred NCIS: LA. Don’t judge me!

Having said that, I can absolutely understand the devotion many people feel toward Lost, and I can understand their attachment and their sadness that it’s over, because there’s this — despite what those of you who are all, “I don’t even OWN a TV! [chest thumps]!” will claim, yes, I admire that you can live without TV, and yes, sometimes TV is a giant waste of time, a sucker of energy, a box of vapidity, but sometimes, TV is art. And art is designed to elicit emotion and to stick with you after you’ve torn your eyes away from it.

I am one of those people who have been moved to action and creativity by stories I see in television and movies. I would tell you what some of those movies and shows are, but again, you will judge me for being the dork I am. A Walk to Remember. What?!

Some made-up stories matter and move us. That’s what Lost did for so many people and if I had stuck it out as swiss roll-snarfing pregnant working mother, I would be one of them.

One of those people really moved by Lost is SALLY WIGGIN SALLY WIGGIN SALLY WIGGIN, who wrote a perfect blog post about how she feels about Lost’s conclusion. Her emotion is palpable.

I imagine she feels how I felt when Moonlight ended. What?! Shut up.

P.S. Did they ever explain the numbers?!

The Trib has a story in their Living section about designer swimsuits designed to hide the body flaws of women with less than perfect bodies.

Let’s take a look at the pictures that go with the story:

What a bunch of lard-asses! I don’t think a swimsuit with tummy-slimming panels is going to hide all that cottage cheese blubber. What these cows need is some gastric bypass.

Stop me if I’ve shared this story with you before.

It was a busy lunch crowd that had gathered in Bruegger’s on Grant that one winter day about ten years ago.  My sister Princess Aurora, who had been living in Texas for the past five years, was home on a holiday visit and came downtown to have lunch.  My father and I were dressed as normal ‘Burghers who by December need only a semi-heavy unbuttoned coat to ward against the cold downtown winds, whereas my sister, having become un-acclimated to the cold Pittsburgh winters, was bundled up in winter clothes borrowed from my father’s closet that morning.

A Steelers tassel cap from the 70s that was missing its tassel.  An old green corduroy coat that was easily 10 sizes too big for her.  A scarf to her chin.  Big men’s working gloves that I think my father used to use when checking out a hot roll of steel.  Ear muffs.  And still she shivered.  The big sissy.

At the condiments area after receiving our food trays, I was grabbing napkins, my father was grabbing spoons for soup, and my sister was trying awkwardly with still-gloved hands to rip open sugar substitute packets to stir into her coffee, when I saw Princess Aurora do a double-take at the blond woman standing next to her.  A woman minding her own business.  A woman hurriedly shoving a few napkins into her lunch bag.

And my sister, easily dressed like the least sane person in the room, inhaled.

I knew what was coming so I shielded my ears from the shrieking that pierced the air of the entire bagel shop.

SALLY WIGGIN SALLY WIGGIN SALLY WIGGIN SALLY WIGGIN!

Dogs in Beechview perked up all, “Arooo?”

That’s how shrill she was.  How excited and completely undone she was by seeing Sally Wiggin up close and personal.

My sister was 23 at the time, so you can imagine why my father and I slowly turned on our heels to look at a blank wall behind us that had suddenly become the most interesting blank wall we had ever seen in our lives and no, we don’t know that crazy woman there screaming at Sally Wiggin like she’s just spotted dead Elvis.

Poor Sally Wiggin.  Here’s this crazy person covered from head to toe, who could be hiding any number of weapons in her too large coat, jumping up and down and screaming, “SALLY WIGGIN!”

So Sally Wiggin did what anyone would do.  With a smile plastered on her face, she slowly backed the heck out of the door behind her, probably praying to a million different gods that the crazy girl didn’t follow her.

And that “shrill jumping up and down and screaming” manner is exactly the way my sister reacted when I introduced her to Sally last fall.

No lie.

The point of this story? I asked SALLY WIGGIN SALLY WIGGIN SALLY WIGGIN five questions.

Go read as we discuss elephants, pigeons, 9/11, Russell Crowe, and the Buccos of Suckitude.