It takes someone special to knock Ashlee from the top spot on Lucy the Blog, especially on the eve of her opening.

But on this day in 1974, the Lord blessed all of us mere mortals with the gift of Derek Sanderson Jeter. 

On his kickass blog, Yankee beat writer Peter Abraham recounts that a reporter once asked Jeter what the best birthday he ever had was.  Jeter’s response: “Aw, you know I can’t tell you that.”

Undoubtedly, it involved finding a cure for cancer and feeding the hungry while in the midst of some ungodly sex romp with Jessica Alba, Jessica Biel, Scarlett Johansson, your mother, or any combination thereof. 

And surely, his performance was clutch.  For clutch is all that Derek Jeter knows.

So today, we salute you, Oh Captain, My Captain. 

And may I please offer you my firstborn daughter as a gift on this monumental occassion.  I know it is not much for a man of your riches, but she is all that I can give. 

I would offer the wife as well, but she foolishly thinks you’re too full of yourself.  I know, I know.  I hate her.

Also born on this day were Chris Isaack, who gave us Helena Christensen in sand-covered black-and-white, Jason Schwartzman, who gave us Max Fischer, and Michael Vick, who sucks. 

Hap-Hap-Happy Birthday to you all, from Lucy the Dog!

Oh, hello there.  I almost forgot about this dump. 

We’ve been a bit frazzled of late, with Ashlee scrambling to finish her show, and Lucy the Dog ass-deep in strong and supportive artist-spouse mode.  A true hero, he!

Her show is quite good.  It’s about moms and babies and shit.  So go check it out if you like art or meatballs.  I’ll be making some of the latter.  Crockpot, holla.

Small Person, Giant Presence
Ashlee Welz Smith and Meghan Moore
*OPENING RECEPTION:  Saturday, June 27th, 5 p.m. to 8 p.m.
Loading Dock Gallery, 122 Western Avenue, Lowell, MA

*The show runs from June 24th to July 26th, 2009 at the Loading Dock Gallery.  For hours, click here.

A couple of months ago, I was sitting on the side of the train, at the end of the car, in the seats facing the aisle, as opposed to the ends, of the train.

By the Winchester stop, the aisle had gotten pretty packed.  A man stood directly in front of me, with his arm above my head, holding the support rail for balance. 

Because there were so many people surrounding him, he had to squeeze in, forcing his intimate region to be level with, and in close proximity to, my facial region.

And so we rode, from Winchester to Wedgemere to West Medford to North Station, with his balls dangling on my nose.  It was the worst commute ever.

In contrast, seeing this in North Station would probably make for the best commute ever.  I bet Gary would hop right in the midst of it for a graceful, impromtu two-step with a Dunkin’ Donuts barista.  And I would cry and cheer like a schoolgirl.

RELATED: Gary and the Conductress: An Appreciation

There is so much awesomeness packed into this short video; I hardly know where to begin.

Love Melky’s farmer’s tan.  Love his inability to communicate with Marey Carey and his apparent indifference toward doing so.

Love the dedication with which he stuffs those peanuts in his mouth.  Love his lack of a reason for picking number 28.  Love his answer to, “Do you have a girlfriend?”

But mostly, I love that a little boy with nothing can come to the Big Apple from the Dominican Republic and become a New York Yankee and nail porn stars who once ran for governor of the state of California.  What a country.

In short, I love Melky Cabrera.  And I love America.

RELATED: I (Heart) Melky

yes, please.

If you’re to believe the Bible of communist arugula-drinking Brooklyn hipsters, then Lowell, Massachusetts is the place to be on the weekend of July 25 and 26.  

But this time, dear reader, those queers at the Times got it right.  Suck it, Goldberg!

Yes, there are days when you may get shot in our fair city.

But I’m sure you’ll agree, a non-life-threatening injury is a small price to pay for a few moments dancing in the glory of Rosie Ledet’s pussiere.

So, please.  Let Dr. Michael White take you to school.

Let Glen David take you to church.

And then let him take you to the streets.

Alive.  Unique.  Inspiring.  Luscious, strong thighs that make your loins burn.

Yes indeed.  There’s a lot to like about Lowell.

RELATED: One Summer, 14 Weekends, New York Times
RELATED: Lowell Folk Festival Homepage

Today marks the much-anticipated return of Do What You Feel Friday, Coach Football’s favorite blog feature and the preferred reading for his candle-lit mastubatory sessions*.

We’ve been dwelling on violence here at Lucy the Blog, in the wake of Tavyrna Chouen’s murder and my growing homicidal tendencies.  Last night, the face of violence quite literally showed up at our doorstep.  Hijinx did not ensue.

It came out of nowhere, really.  Ash was putting Nola to bed, and I was slogging through the wreckage of our home, trying to make sense of the chaos and clutter.  We’re having repairs done to flood damage in our bedroom and nursery, which required us to move everything into the office, where we all live like hobos under the glow of the iMac.  Because Ash can’t go to the studio, her painting gear is scattered about the living room, along with baby gymnasiums and chewed up dog toys.  All quite lovely.

It started with a few screams in the distance.  And then in seemingly no time at all, two grown men were rolling around our front yard, surrounded by a crowd of people cheering and hollaring, encircling the brawl like it was a cockfight.

Off to the side, I saw one of my neighbors, Ruben, who’s in the sixth or seventh grade.  He was a bit removed from the crowd, watching with an awestruck look that could have been admiration or fear.  Why must he see this?  It crushed me.  The police showed up eventually, but everyone had fled by that time, which is the case more often than not.

I’m not sure what the end-game is here.  Once the temperature starts to rise, you can feel the tension on the street follow — a situation that’s exasperated by the lack of jobs and the budget cuts to public safety and social services.  The city can’t even afford to let its employees work today!  But it’s not even June yet, people.  At this rate, the canals will flow with blood by Folk Fest.

So on this Do What You Feel Friday, I urge you all to CALM THE FUCK DOWN.

I need to follow this advice myself, because all jokes aside, I might be losing it.  It’s reflected by the recent uptick in cursing in this space.  But FUCK, man, it’s making me crazy!  The other night, there was a car idling outside, pumping its Latin hip-hop so loudly that it was shaking our book shelves.

This is not condusive toward calming the fuck down.  It’s condusive toward a nervous breakdown.  They’re rolling around on my lawn, punching each other in the face for God’s sake!  The very lawn where Lucy the Dog pisses every day.  Where Nola will have to play one day because we’ll never be able to get out from under this hellhole.  FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!!!

Calm the fuck down though.  Calm the fuck down.  But how can I be calm when Ashlee, of all people, says that incidents like last night make her consider buying a gun?  I was thinking the very same thing, but Ashlee?  My dear Chomsky-loving, tree-huggin, organic-eating, adorable little peacenik now harbors fantasies about packing heat?  What the fuck is going on here?  Why are we thinking about guns?  I don’t want a fucking gun! 

But I do!  Because then when there’s a mob on my front lawn, I could go outside brandishing it.  And I’d shoot into the air and yell or something.  Get out of here or I’m calling the cops!  What a disaster that would be.  Undoubtedly, they’d all laugh at me, and then I’d have to prove myself, so I’d aim at them, but just to the side, so the bullet scares them but hits the church across the street.  But that doesn’t stop them either, and now they’re bearing down on me, so FUCK, I unload that mother-fucker, and of course I’m so nervous that I miss and accidentally shoot Carmasita, who was on her way over to visit Nola and ask for a pickle.  And just like that, I’m imprisoned for life, alone for eternity with nothing but echoes of Carmasita’s dying gasps.  So I don’t think we’ll buy a gun.

But what will we do?  Nothing’s getting better.  This morning, during my walk to the train station, Shuffle Songs served up “Save the Life of My Child” by Simon & Garfunkel, a song that I like but would probably skip under other circumstances.  It felt appropriate today, however, as I walked by the flowers that still mark the spot where Chouen died.  “Save the life of my child/Cried the desparate mother/What’s becoming of the children/People asking each other.”

Something’s gotta give.  For now though, let’s take it one day at a time.  On this lovely Do What You Feel Friday, which we’re so blessed to be alive for, let’s chill the fuck out, please.  Whatever it takes.  If you need to poke some heroin into your eyes or sit in a room alone reading the Bible, do it.  Whatever.  Go visit grandma or rent Spaceballs.  Cook yourself a nice dinner. 

Just don’t be mean, OK?  For today.  Don’t punch any faces or curse anyone.  Do what you feel this Friday.  But do it calmly.  Listen to some Simon and Garfunkel.  Not “Save the Life of My Child,” either.  In this climate, even that song is too aggressive; it won’t take much to ignite a riot right now.  Listen to some hippy S&G instead, OK?  Just relax.  Deep breaths.  There you go…

There.  That’s better.

*Lucy the Dog would like to offer a special welcome to the person who, according to WordPress stats, found us by typing “Boston University masturbator” into a search engine.  Guilty as charged.

Nola Jane and unidentified man

These are dark days in the Beast’s dojo.  Not quite this dark, but dark all the same.

Thus, in an effort to jolt themselves from the somber doldrums of a lost second-round playoff series to the dreadful and unworthy Orlando Magic, the Beast Lair has generously offered up a free T-shirt to anyone who, well…it’s not entirely clear.  In their own words:

“Just give us a reason, any reason…a photoslop, a virtue of the beast, some fantastic statistical anomaly, whatever…and the one we like the best is getting a Beastly T of their choice.”

As of yet, the post has received zero comments, which may be because the site’s commenting feature is too depressed to get out of bed.  Every time I try to comment, it says I have to log in or something.  But I don’t have a Perk Is A Beast password, as far as I know.  So instead, I will plead my case for a free Beastly T right here in my own space.

Dear Beast Lair:

I deserve a free Perk Is A Beast T-shirt because I purchased a size L shirt that was big enough for me, Ashlee, Nola Jane, and Lucy to live in.  Since it was ordered through Cafe Press, I didn’t think I could exchange it. 

So then I bought a size M shirt.  But for that transaction, I was in more of a ringer T mood.  Those must be sized differently, because the medium ringer T turned out to be too small.  It’s tough to see in the above photo, but those biceps are about to tear the sleeves right the fuck apart.  So even though I’ve paid for two Perk Is A Beast shirts, I only have one, and it can only be worn to Europe or when dry-humping coked out bitches at the club. 

I also bought a onesie for Nola Jane.  It’s a little big, but she’ll grow into it.  I tell you this, however, because with those three purchases, by my math, I have invested nearly $75 in the Perk Is A Beast Empire.  Of course, all of this waste could have been prevented if I hadn’t gotten small and gone into big-spender mode when I visited your site.  But that damage has been done.  The only way to rectify matters now is to give me a free T-shirt.  Thank you.

Sincerely,

Lucy the Dog

UPDATE:  The Lowell Sun’s Police Line Blog by Robert Mills posted a couple videos from the rally. I embedded one of the spoken word performances at the end of this post, and you can click here to see the other two.  (At the 2:12 mark of the middle video, look for the sexiest bitch in Lowell on a leash held by a dirty hippy. Thanks to Robert Mills for posting these.) 

Yesterday afternoon, Ashlee strapped Nola Jane into her hippy-mom papoose device, and along with Lucy the Dog, we attended our second peace rally/vigil thingie in as many years.

Eddie, 2008, oil on linen, by my brilliant wife

The event was organized by members of the United Teen Equality Center, in response to last week’s murder of 17-year-old Tavaryna Chouen. 

As with the first vigil, held after a gay man was savagely beaten downtown, I didn’t know what to expect or why I was even going.  I generally recoil at such demonstrations, but even after a weekend of relaxation, I was still quite angry about Chouen’s death, and I wanted to be around other people who were equally angry.

We walked down Moody Street through the public housing projects, and Lucy the Dog decided to take a dump right next to two women who were loudly threatening to rip each other from fat-laden limb to fat-laden limb.  Apparently, minutes earlier, one of the women had walked in on the other whilst she was boning the first woman’s husband.  They were both hideous monsters, and it’s a wonder that either of them ever got laid by anyone, much less the same man.  He should be given a medal of valor for performing such a noble charity.

We tried to swiftly pass the ladies before they brought out the heavy artillery.  But Lucy had made an uncharacteristically soft, shall we say, bowel movement.  So, as the two women exchanged their “bitch this’s” and “bitch that’s,” I stood by unassumingly, trying to pick the shit up with a Quizno’s bag, but instead just smearing it all over the grass.

Meanwhile, Ashlee walked ahead unfazed, threading the needle between the crazed ghetto queens, with one hand over Nola’s head and the other raised in a dismissive ‘talk to the hand’ gesture. She is cooler than Trombone Shorty sitting inside a Snoopy Sno-Cone Machine.

When we got to City Hall, there was a decent crowd, comprised mostly of Lowell teens and UTEC organizers.  I’d guess it was 150 people, but it may have been 18; I’m horrible with numbers as they relate to measurements or quantities.  If you told me, for example, that I walked 400 yards from my apartment to City Hall, I would believe you.  And I would also believe you if you said that I walked 4,000 or 40,000 yards from my apartment to City Hall. 

I can say with certainty, however, that the weather was indisputably gorgeous, which made it a challenge to maintain the simmering rage that had brought me there in the first place.  It was like a pleasant reunion, seeing some of the friendly faces who had helped with Ashlee’s Lowell Teen Portraits show last fall, including two of the teens that she worked with, Kim and Eddie.  I also got a delicious oatmeal cookie.

In the same week that Chouen was killed by bullets intended for someone else, and in the same week that her ”friends” dumped her lifeless body on a Suffolk Street curb, UTEC learned that state budget cuts could put an end to its Lowell Teen Coalition program, which, according to the Lowell Sun, “has reached hundreds of city youths, ages 13 to 20, getting them into after-school programs, arts, gang-prevention programs, and putting them to work organizing anti-violence activities.”

Thus, some of the signs and speeches at the rally called upon investments in peace and, more specifically, support for the threatened programs.  But most of the language was geared toward the Chouen incident and the urgent need to “Silence the Violence.”  Three teens addressed the crowd in a commendable fashion, though none of them displayed the level of aggression that I personally yearned for.  I realize it was an anti-violence rally, but I wanted blood, goddammit. 

I wanted someone to stand up and give a booming FUCK YOU to the entire thug culture.  I wanted an unmistakable, middle-finger-raised, FUCK YOU to the gangs and the absent parents and third-world lowlifes roaming the streets at all hours of the night, cursing and fighting and wreaking havoc.  I wanted the good ol’ fashioned, WE’RE MAD AS HELL AND WE’RE NOT GONNA TAKE IT ANYMORE!  THIS IS OUR TURF NOW, FUCKERS.  AND WE WILL NOT TOLERATE ANY MORE OF YOUR BULLSHIT!!!

Of course, I didn’t really expect this, especially from three kids trying their best to suppress their nerves and deliver their statements.  But I wanted it, nonetheless.

Following those speeches, City Manager Bernie Lynch spoke, and then a fourth teen stepped forth for some ’spoken word.’  As she took the microphone, I braced myself because I can’t stand that spoken word shit.  Perhaps I’m out of touch and just not cool enough.  But for me, spoken word always sounds bloated and self-important and…oh, I don’t know.  Just silly, I suppose.  And coming from the mouth of a teenager, I expected something even more atrocious.  For if you’ve ever spent five minutes talking to a teen, you know that even the best educated among them are barely literate.

Kim, 2008, oil on linen, by my brilliant wife

But this chick blew the doors off.  I wish I’d brought my video camera or had taken some notes, because it was an impressive display – both her delivery and her words.  There were crescendoes and decrescendoes, and then an abrupt, sad conclusion with a few lines spoken to God by the voice of a mother whose son had been killed–something like, “Why couldn’t you take me?  I wouldn’t feel nothin’.  I’m already dead.” 

That’s not at all verbatim, and in fact it’s probably way off.  But the sentiment was along those lines, and she spoke the words with a tired and defeated inflection.  Then it was over, and after a brief silence, we applauded.  It was quite effective.  Yet it made me sad, when I still wanted anger.

From City Hall, we walked as a group to Suffolk Street, to the spot where Chouen’s body was left.  The organizers stressed that this was to be a SILENT walk, and in the moment, I started to get annoyed.  Fuck silence, I thought.  Fuck quiet.  Fuck vigils.  Let’s get fucking LOUD! 

But as we walked in unison, with police stopping traffic along the way, that silence proved to be quite profound, at least for me.  Because I could not talk to Ashlee or anyone else about anything, including how angry I was, I got even angrier.  We were all forced inside of our own brains, with nothing but our thoughts, which in the context of the day, tended toward Chouen and the insanity of her death and the implications for all of us should such violence continue.

It felt empowering to walk with all those people.  We were our own anti-gang gang, and in such numbers, who would mess with us?  I was proud of how many teens were not only present, but were also holding handmade signs and looking genuinely concerned.  This was not just some trendy cause du jour - a time to hang out and get interviewed by reporters and feel important and special and loved.  Several of the kids walked hand in hand, and some were even crying. 

I was struck by how many there were, with such varied backgrounds.  My inability to comprehend numbers surfaced again, as it seeemed like, with so many kids wanting to stop violence in Lowell, it should simply just stop.  How could they possibly be outnumbered?  They took up an entire street!  But of course, for every one of them, there are ten gang-bangers who are not quite ready to lay down arms.

At the spot of Chouen’s death, there was a moment of silence and more tears.  Members of her family were given flowers to leave at the side of the road.  This was a little awkward to process, as Chouen had apparently been in and out of foster homes and was living with a boyfriend in Lowell, instead of her mother, who was now drowning in tears on a curbside that she would never forget yet had never visited before last week.  She looked young for a mother of a 17-year-old.  And under those circumstances, with no first-hand knowledge of their relationship, I didn’t want to judge her.  Perhaps I’ll screw Nola up so badly that she’ll flee and wind up dead on a sidewalk too.  But I’d like to think that as parents, we can prevent such things.

In any case, we again walked in silence back to City Hall.  Near the old Battambang supermarket on Merrimack Street, I saw Mayor Bud Caufield walking through the crowd like a lost child at a mall.  He smelled of a very musky cologne, and I was surprised by its power.  I didn’t brush against him or anything, but there was a distinct smell of old white politician as he passed.  He may have been scheduled to speak prior to our walk, as he seemed to be apologizing to people and he looked a bit frazzled.  But once everyone reconvened at City Hall, he gave a speech that I found as surprising as his powerful scent.  In the old codger, I saw a bit of the rage that I’d been craving – or at least the closest thing that I’d get on this day.  It may have been total bullshit, but he looked moved by the turnout, and he made it clear that there was no place for such foul shenanigans here in Lowell.

He still could’ve been angrier though.  At one point, he started a sentence by saying, “One of the greatest songs ever written…,” and I was sure he was about to cite something embarassing like John and Yoko’s “Give Peace a Chance.”  But one of the greatest songs ever written, according to Bud, was “Let There Be Peace on Earth.”  And, Bud says, “let it begin with me.”  That’s helpful and all, but neither Bud nor me are the guy who’s walked by my home twice in the last two weeks, yelling, “I’ll kill you, nigger, don’t fuck with me!  I’m gonna kill you, nigger!”  I’ve got my peace shit covered, but I’m pretty sure I’m not the problem.  (Incidentally, an interesting sidenote about Mayor Caufield: City Hall sources confirm that his other favorite songs are Gwen Stefani’s ”Hollaback Girl,” “Duh Huh” by Rapping Duke, and Poison’s “Every Rose Has Its Thorn.”  A softie at heart!)

The rally concluded after another spoken word performance that was, again, impressive, leading me to think I should reconsider my anti-def jam throwdown stance.  The girl wore a T-shirt with a picture of her brother, who she said was shot dead in Lowell two years ago.  While she spoke, a cameraman from Channel 7 focused in on lil’ Nola Jane, her eyes bugged out and her head poking out of the papoose like a confused turtle.  What was this crumbling world that we had brought this child into?  I pondered over this, and then I looked at the Channel 7 reporter standing next to the cameraman, and pondered over how I’d like to molest her.  I didn’t really expect to.  But I wanted it nonetheless.

We had a nice walk back home, with none of the drama that we’d encountered on the first leg of the trip.  Even though I didn’t get as much righteous rage as as I’d hoped, I felt a little better for at least having attended.  After getting settled in the house, I surfed the web and went to Richard Howe’s site, where he’d written a post about the Chouen murder.  The first and only comment was left by a guy named “Right in Lowell” and said, “This is what happens when you have a MELTING POT!!!!! Kind of gets out of control.”

It’s not unusual to read such an assinine comment on the Internet.  But I wanted to punch this guy right in the throat.  There were so many ethnicities represented at the rally, and they all wanted to work toward getting things under control.  And I couldnt’ believe that someone’s first reaction to the murder would be to write such a stupid thing.  That shit made me pretty fucking angry.  And here I remain, pretty fucking angry.

RELATED: Reflections on Killing from a Cold-Blooded Killer, Lucy the Blog
RELATED: For a Moment in Lowell, Equality Near Disfigurement, Lucy the Blog
RELATED: Lowell anti-violence efforts in jeapordy, Lowell Sun

Courtesy of Barstool Sports, my guilty pleasure destination for nip slips and local co-eds with their cleavage on display, comes this video of Alfonso Soriano at a recent WWE event.

I haven’t felt this awkward watching something since…well, actually, it wasn’t that long ago.  We watched “Rachel Gets Married” on Saturday night, and that toast scene is just brutal.

Alfonso Soriano is easily one of my favorite Yankees of all-time, and I was crushed when they got rid of him in exchange for my least favorite Yankee of all-time.  I don’t care if he was an inadequate fielder or if he swung at lousy pitches or whatever.  I just loved him.

This video is terrible though.  Apparently Alfonso’s not much of a talker.  He barely spoke any English when he was with the Yankees, but you’d think he would’ve picked up a few phrases here and there in the last decade.  He looks like he doesn’t even know where he is.  And of all people to be dressed down by, a douche like The Miz?  Get it together, Fonz.