"Republicans are so happy to get away from Washington that they are infectious in their bubbly, corny enthusiasm for life. Democrats are infectious in a different way, but this is a family magazine."
Bill Maher, writing about the GOP convention in Spin magazine.
The thrill is spawn
We know that October is the prime month for testosterone production -- and, depending on how well the Bills are playing on any given lazy Sunday afternoon and how many char-broiled Sahlens we've scarfed -- conception, too. So what better time to tuck into the brand spankin' new B.B. King autobiography, "Blues All Around Me," in which the rotund bluesmaster admits he has -- at last count -- 15 kids. Oh, and that would be 15 kids by 15 different women. (Warning: Picturing this may cause a certain amount of quease to the already pregnant. Skip to next item.) B.B. -- short for Baby Breeder. Ha! We kid! Er, we joke, that is -- claims to have lent his unstinting financial support to each one: "If a woman I've been with says the child is mine," he writes, "I don't argue." No, of course not, you're clearly busy doing other things, and it ain't tunin' Lucille -- unless that's the woman waiting at the stage door of your next roadhouse gig. Beebs. Beebs. You shock us. Remind us to sit a lit-tle farther back, next time you're at the Ogden Street Concert Hall.
Speaking of getting good seats, don't expect displays of genteel Southern manners when folks line up outside Shea's for a screening of "Gone With the Wind" (Oct. 26 at 7 p.m, Oct. 27 at 2 p.m.). And, you say, Buzz bases this on ... what? Simple. On the last time.
The scene: Outside Shea's, in line, awaiting that fine family classic "The Sound of Music."
The crowd: Surly, swelling and beginning to teem with resentment over still-locked doors.
The defining moment: The use of language that would have made Fraulein Maria faint. As one confused late arrival approached the Main Street doors and tried to get in, a woman at the head of the pack jerked her tiny daughters closer to the door and snarled, "Line's back there, pal." As the patron ambled down the sidewalk, the woman muttered, "A------." Sing with us now! "Raindrops on roses and angry young mothers/Bump them in line and they'd kill their own brothers ..." These, of course, would be Rodgers and Hammerstein's other lyrics.
Red, white and bleary-eyed
And what better says fall in Western New York -- more than conceiving during a boring Bills game, more than fighting over free passes to Shea's -- than getting into a bit of the grape in Fredonia? Sure, about 5,000 twentysomethings do that every weekend there, courtesy of BJ's and Old Main. But now's your chance! G'wan! Spill the wine! Dig that girl! The Fredonia Blues Festival's "Red, White and Blues" weekend is upon us. From 1 to 7:30 p.m. Oct. 26, taste the vino from the Johnson Estate, Merritt and (chorus of angels here) Fredonia's own Woodbury Wineries, while enjoying various blues bands at all sorts of Fredonia bars -- and there are all sorts of Fredonia bars. Best of all, it's free, and takes place within just a few blocks. If only Groucho Marx had lived to see this.
Color us intrigued by a recent Associated Press article on what Conde Nast Traveler readers have dubbed the world's most hostile city. With a dateline from Atlantic City, N.J., the article begins: "Forget Paris head waiters. Forget New York junkies. Forget war-torn Belfast and snowy Buffalo. The world's most hostile city? It's right here ..." The author? Ahem. A Mr. John Curran, son of Buffalo News columnist Bob Curran. One of our own. Now, that stings.