DJ Santa and the Funky Bunch

I mentioned a few posts ago I had a radio interview yesterday morning — my first ever. I wasn’t too worried about it considering the size of the town I live in (smallish to medium). I was fully expecting something akin to the Alec Baldwin SNL Schweddy Balls sketch.

Haven’t seen it? Oh, it’s a must. Take a minute. I’ll wait.

Classic.

So, where was I? Oh yeah … driving like a bat outta hell, MP and I made it to school with literally no time to spare. We’d gone over the familiar, “no diddle dawdling with good-byes because Mommy is really REALLY late” protocol in the car, so she was prepared for my abrupt departure. (If you haven’t gotten it by now, “Late” is a lifestyle at the Pie House.) The drop off was made in record time and I arrived at the studio by 7:30 a.m., adrenaline the only thing keeping me awake.

Because I stay up all night and BLOG. It’s unnatural.

Anyhoo, you know how you generate an image of someone in your mind before actually meeting them? I’m NEVER close. I knew my host’s name was George and that he was a larger man, so naturally, it stuck in my head that I’d be chatting with George Foreman.

After standing outside for an eternity, waiting for George to cut to commercial, I was finally buzzed in. The person on the other side of the door was in fact, NOT a large Black boxer; NOT the inventor of the AMAZING grill that bears his name; but Surly Hippie Santa Clause DJ instead.

After just a few minutes of off-air chit-chat, the headphones go on and Hippie Santa DJ introduces me to the world. I’m there to talk about a pretty big Women’s Conference my company is sponsoring next week, so naturally, I want to tout the benefits of registering, right?

I do manage to get in some key points, but I’ve been warned George likes to get tangental. (In case you’re new, I enjoy making up words.) He doesn’t disappoint.

Somehow we wind up talking about men who wear ladies shoes.

“I think they’re called … pumps? Is that right?”

“Mmm hmm. Very painful. Not good for an ALL-DAY CONFERENCE, like the one on May 21.”

“I don’t even know where someone would GET a size 12 pump …”

“Well George, I’m sure there are lots of sites on the web that cater to men interested in wearing pumps.”

I can see he’s kind of liking this pump wearing idea. At this point I’m thinking,

a. Get this guy on point.

b. Don’t forget to mention sponsors.

c. How many greasy heads have these earphones I’m wearing actually BEEN on?? Eww eww eww!”

Don Imus dropped by, made himself at home, and started popping off about women’s basketball. I think he was confused about the topic, Women in Business.

Then Howard Stern showed up and added to the confusion.

He was totally inappropriate.

And we were WAAAY off topic.

*sigh*

Pre-Photoshopped Howard Stern photo credit AP Photo.

A Lesson in Judgment

Before yesterday, I never would’ve considered myself a judgmental person. Anyone who knows me, knows I am anything but. At least I always thought so.

I stand corrected.

A few posts ago I wrote I was being sent to the armpit of the state for a two day conference. I spent yesterday, last night and today in this town, and am now humbly eating my words.

Unfortunately, because all those freak shows out there searching on ‘wet granny panties’ and ‘hot mommies’ have made me paranoid, I’ve never divulged my state of origin.

And dammit, that pisses me off.

Because I’d love to tell you about this town. Its amazing history, architecture and origin of its blue-collar culture are something I’ve never taken much time to learn. And it’s a shame, because, in a city that appears run-down to most, beats a heart filled with colorful and rich memories. Memories of speakeasies, working class Irish immigrants, and brothels that, at one point in time, made up the largest red-light district in the U.S.

It’s a mining town. A hard-drinking town. And a town filled with honest, hard-working, down-to-earth people. After decades of seeing only part of the picture, in one short day, my perspective has changed. I can appreciate it for what it is.

A place where history lives through its architecture.

Home to one of the most beautiful churches I’ve ever seen.

Home of the pasty, a traditional Cornish lunch eaten by local miners every day, thousands of feet under the earth.

Three words. De.Lish.Us.

I bought 24 of these yummy victuals — pastry crust filled with meat and potatoes — and brought them home to freeze.

Image borrowed from these guys.

Whatever you do, just don’t pronounce it “pay-stee.”

Image borrowed from these guys.

It’s ‘paaa-sty.’ Rhymes with ‘nasty.’

(Irony. It’s a beautiful thing.)

So, my apologies, Town-That-Shall-Remain-Unnamed. You’ll be glad to know, tonight when I walked through my door, I brought with me a valuable lesson — I’m not as non-judgmental as I’d like to think. I can do better. And, as hard as it is to leave MP overnight, I’m glad I made the trip.

The enlightenment is worth more than a crappy t-shirt any day.

Now, before I log off, I feel I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention the top-notch entertainment the city has to offer.

Well, three outta four ain’t bad.