Top Ten of 2007

This is the time of year when every critic, newspaper and TV show trot out their "Top things of the past year" lists. You know, the ten best movies, the ten worst movies, albums, books, penmanship, top ten most shocking celebrity moments, the top ten best underwear commercials, etc, etc, blah, blah. What a bunch of crap. Who cares what their lists are? It's all subjective. I thought Ratatouille was one of the best films I saw, because I only saw a handful of movies, most of which sucked. I think Pushing Daisies is the best show, because it's the only network show I can stomach. And I wish the most shocking celebrity moment would be that Britney and Lindsey and all those other slobs would be shipped off to Zimbabwe to wet nurse wild boars.

So, not to be outdone by all those lists, here is my list of things that I will remember most about the past year. Not in any particular order. And not one of them involves Ellen Degeneres' dog.

1. My divorce from the evil one was official. Sure, I had left almost a year earlier to seek sanctuary in my mother's bosom, (Oh, God, did I write that?), but it's never really over until it's over. And when it was really over, I drank a few shots of 18 year old Glenfiddich and sat in my apartment alone. It was good.

2. I finally got an internet connection at home. I was "borrowing" my neighbor's wireless connection for a while, and it was working just fine, too. Dammit. Then suddenly, without warning, they put a freakin' block on it. And there I was, stranded, without the internets. No e-mail at home, no Googling after hours, no kinkynunsincorsets.com! So, I did it. I called Comcast and got my hook-up. That made this whole blog possible. Among other late night diversions.

3. My daughter made her communion. Which is kind of a big deal to those of us who call the day that Jesus was nailed to a cross "Good" Friday. She looked absolutely beautiful in her lacy white dress. Although her grandparents gave her a big party that I wasn't invited to, because to them, I am the slime on the bottom of a snot trail, which is lower than the snot trail itself. More on that another time. But that's okay, because I got to see her and she truly is my angel that no boy will soil. Ever.

4. I took my son to his first concert. One of my favorite things to ask someone about is their first concert. Mine was ELO. Pretty cool, with the cheesy giant UFO that raised up to reveal the band playing "Turn To Stone." I was a freshman in high school and ELO rocked! I know, it wasn't AC/DC or Van Halen, but hey, at least it wasn't Bay City Rollers or Andy Gibb or someone like that. So I took my 11-year-old son to the WXPN outdoor concert with all these eclectic bands. And in a time when kids his age are listening to crap like Rihanna or Three Blind Mice or whatever their names are, he got to stand right up front and see really cool musicians like Fountains of Wayne and The Fratellis. He even got to meet them. I'd say he'll remember that, which is why I will too.

5. My favorite store closed its doors. In my apartment, you'll find some items, that you may think are geeky, but I think are cool. Like my monkey with a fez bobble head, my retro space rocket tin lunch box, my "automobiles of the '60's" collector plates and tin Hawaiian postcards. All purchased from the now defunct Larry's Hardware, formerly of the supremely eclectic Zern's Farmer's Market in beautiful downtown Gilbertsville. Of course, Larry's didn't carry much hardware, but they had Godzilla models and Jack Skellington toilet brushes. Sure, I can make the hour trek to Zern's for my dried beef needs, but it won't ever be the same without Larry's. Thanks, Neil and Susan for showing me the joys of needless things. Now, where the hell will I ever find a monkey mask...

6. Movie trailers. Dear sweet mother of mercy on a saltine cracker...have you seen some of these things? And most of them are better than the movies themselves. Cloverfield! Speed Racer! Iron Man! Hellboy 2! The Dark Knight! Rambo! I'm such a friggin' geek. And thankfully, so is God, because he grants us these two-minute glimpses of what could be awesome to tease us and make us nerds crazy with anticipation for a damn movie! And it's truly been a banner year for geeks like me and our trailers. I'm not ashamed of this one bit.

7. God. Yes, I truly believe He was with me during one long weekend's bout with an impossibly nasty stomach virus. I called His name many times, and it bounced around the walls of my small bathroom. And after I was through, my pants fit better and I knew He had been there.

8. Boobs. (Hey, they're in my top ten every year.)

9. The return of old friends. My best friend, Anthony (Antny to us in South Philly) and I have been friends for a long time. But this past year has seen the reunion of a wider group of gents who used to hang together like sticky pasta. Richie, Louie, Angelo, Gimmi, Dom and others all decided that it had been too long a time since we've seen each other, and thanks to the miracle of Al Gore's Internets, the impossible became possible. And now, we're planning an even bigger gathering, including Matt and Mike and Nunzio and Rocco. All nice Irish boys. Yeah, right. But those aren't the only friends from the past who resurfaced in my life. My fourth-grade girlfriend (no, she's not in fourth grade now. We both were in fourth grade at the time. Duh.) and I struck up a renewed friendship after running across each other online and now we commiserate regularly on the trials and tribulations that be online dating.

10. Live Musings Nightly. I know, it's been far from "nightly," but it's extremely cathartic for me. And I promise to write more often this coming year. It's one of my resolutions. That and to lose weight. And get completely debt-free. And to learn to make gravy. And to find true happiness. Oh, and to stop writing short thoughts punctuated with periods. But honestly, this blog has been a great creative outlet for me. I have been told that I need to be less "angry" here, but sometimes that's what humor is. It's damn angry with bared teeth and crinkly lines between the eyes. So, I'll keep writing, and I hope you'll keep reading.

Miss Match: Part 3

Okay, I've been told that people really liked hearing about my suffering through insufferable dating experiences, especially those that originated through the whole online dating thing. (See blogs "Miss Match: Parts 1 and 2" from October) I want to say that I'm glad people enjoy my stories of dating gone wrong. I can also say that it's more fun writing about them than it was living through them.

But instead of giving you another long, miserable tale of just one date gone awry, I'll give you an overview of things I've experienced, so if you ever, God forbid, find yourself among the single and looking for a relationship online, you can take heed to these things. Consider this the "potpourri of dating mishaps, wigouts, annoyances and flim flams."

Someone smart once told me, "If it smells fishy, there are probably fish around." Good advice. In other words, if something doesn't seem quite right, you should go with your gut because more than likely, there's more there than meets the eye. Okay, I just explained a cliche with another cliche. So sue me.

I'm not saying I'm perfect. I have my faults. I can be a little insecure sometime, and I have hair on my back. But I consider myself a relatively normal, down-to-earth, hairy-backed person. And I know there's no 'perfect' person. But there's someone out there relatively perfect for me. At least that's what we all hope.

Remember, these are all things that I have experienced firsthand. For example:

• If someone is still active on the online dating site, even after a couple months of dating you, raise the red flag. Call me insecure, but to me, that probably means she's not as into you as you are with her. Hey, I'm just saying. I don't want someone to latch onto me and throw out all other options after the first date, but after several dates, you should know if you want to continue with this person and see where it goes. As my grandmother used to say, "shit or get off the pot." (did people really used to shit in pots? Maybe that's why granny's gravy always tasted funky.)

• If someone hasn't told their friends or family that she's dating someone, even after going out for a couple months, and spending weekends together, there are fish around. I always thought it was common girl talk to discuss who you're dating, where you met and how much you paid for that new pair of slingbacks, just as guys get together to fart and talk about their balls. I'm not looking to be the topic of conversation, but it's nice to know that the person you're seeing is interested in you enough to discuss you with those close to them.

• What the hell is with the texting? Look, I'm a writer. I spend most of my day tapping keys and making words. I don't mind a text or two here and there, but entire conversations? I'm not a 13 year old girl with her first cell phone. (Well, in certain chat rooms, I am, but that's another story.) Texting is nice to send a quick note, other than that, stop it. That goes for the whole IM thing too. As I said, I spend most of my day typing at a computer. Do I need to communicate that way too? I mean, the first couple of chats, fine, but if you want to get to know me, let's just talk on the phone, for crying out loud. brb! lol! UGH! ;-P

• I look forward to weekend getaways with that special someone. I think they can be fun and romantic. I look forward to getting asked to go away with someone. Maybe that woman says, "Hey, next weekend, I'm going to the mountains with my sister and her husband. Wanna come?" Sounds great, right? Sure. Just not on the FIRST DATE! Yikes. Even if the immediate attraction was there, that's a bit much. I mean really.

• I don't think a woman should down a beer faster than me. I'm not a big drinker, but I'm not ready to date Queen of the Keggers.

• Did you ever meet someone who is always looking slightly past you when you talk to them? What the hell is that? It's not that they're checking out something behind you, it's just that they don't look you in the eye. Seems a little autistic or something. I'm here, honey! Look into my eyes! Last I checked, I wasn't a horse with eyes on my temples.

I could probably go on with this, and I'm sure I will sooner or later. But this is a good overview on things to avoid when looking for a relationship, online or offline.

Gotta run. Someone texted me the Magna Carta.

Stuck in my craw. (What the hell is a craw anyways?)

Here's the deal: A lot of people walk into a roomful of strangers and think, "Oh, here's a group of people I don't know. I'm sure they're nice. I'd like to get to know them." Guess what. I'm telling you right now that that doesn't work. Here's a better, proven effective way to proceed. When you walk into a room of strangers, just think, "Oh, here's a group of assholes. I'll see which one can prove to me that they're not an asshole." Much better, believe me. Then you're never dissappointed at the end of the day. You'll never leave a room thinking, "Hey, I can't believe I thought so-and-so was a decent person. They turned out to be such an asshole!" It will always be, "I knew so-and-so was an asshole, and he just proved it."

One thing I've learned over the years is that the majority of people in this world are basically self-absorbed jerks. They care about themselves and no one else. Which is fine, as long as you keep that to yourself. It's when you become a total prick about it, willing to stab anyone in the back or walk on everyone else to get what you think you are entitled to, that it starts to effect those around you. And let me say this, no one in the world is really "entitled" to anything. Think about it. When thousands and thousands of immigrants came to this country years ago, from all over the world, did anyone say, "Hey, thanks for coming to America with your stinky-ass food and your bizarre foreign germs, here's several thousand dollars to help you out, because you're entitled to it." No. No one said that. Okay, maybe victims of crimes and their families are entitled to something, if it's coming from the piece of crap that commited the crime upon said victim. But the general public...not entitled, so give it up.

What put these thoughts in my head? Two words: Christmas shopping.

Holy crap! Is there something that goes off in the collective heads of Americans sometime right before Thanksgiving that makes them become bigger morons than they already are? You know, I don't need to buy a lot of gifts. And I get what I can on the Internet. But there are some things that I need to get in a store, especially for the kids. The mass of bug-eyed, zombified humanity out there in the malls and Targets and Wal-Marts of the country has collectively become the most ignorant pile of flesh ever. I was in the mall on Sunday to pick up a few things, and was knocked about relentlessly by people with shopping bags, none of whom had the simple common courtesy to say "excuse me." What the hell is that? Is it so difficult to acknowledge the fact that you're a clumsy prick? I came across people standing in the middle of an aisle in a store, blocking the way through. When I said "excuse me" to get by, they looked at me as if I was bothering them. And then we wonder why a teen walks into a mall with a AK-47 and lets loose. Yeah, it was the inexcusable act of a severely deranged mind, and too bad he didn't live to face the victim's families rage. But, on some level, wasn't it just the ultimate act of a person so pissed off by the assholes around him that his feeble mind finally snapped? Maybe if everyone was just a little nicer to the kid, eight innocent people would be alive today.

Okay, okay. I'm on a soapbox, and what I really want to be is funny. Sorry about that. Promise that my next entry will be a real hoot. As long as I'm done all my gift buying.

A Visit From Uncle Nick

Okay, so Christmas is quickly approaching. (Yes, I dared to say the "C" word. How perfectly politically incorrect of me. Friggin' sue me.) And the following poem is maybe one of the only traditions I have anymore. I wrote this around 15 years ago and have been sending it around ever since. Now, with the power of this World Wide Webs, it can reach a whole lot more people. And apparently, it has. I've found it's been making the e-mail rounds all over the country. In fact, the reason I chose to put this up today, is that my mom heard her favorite radio DJ reading on the air! Cool. But I've copyrighted it, so use it only with that copyright line, or I'll sue your damn asses off.

Enjoy...

A VISIT FROM UNCLE NICK

or, “Christmas in South Philly”
or, “’Twas? What da hell kinda word is ‘Twas?”

By Steve DiMeo

‘Twas da night before Christmas,
You hear what I’m sayin’?
And all through South Philly,
Sinatra’s Christmas tunes was playin’.

Da sink was piled high,
Fulla dirty dishes,
From da big Italian meal
Of gravy and seven fishes.

Da brats were outta hand
From eatin’ too much candy.
We told them to go to bed
Or there wouldn’t be no Santy.

And me in my sweatpants,
Da wife’s hair fulla rollers,
Plopped our butts on the sofa
To fight over remote controllers.

When out in da shtreet,
There was all dis friggin’ noise.
It sounded like a mob hit,
Ya’ know, by Merlino and his boys.

I trew open da stormdoor
To look and see who’s who.
Like a nosy little old lady
Who’s got nuttin’ better to do.

In da windows of da rowhomes
Stood white tinsel trees.
And those stupid moving dolls
You get on sale at Kindy’s.

When what should I see,
Comin’ from afar.
But fat Uncle Nick
In his big ole Towne Car.

He was swervin’ and cursin’,
Givin’ all da gas he got;
As he barreled up the shtreet,
Looking for a spot.

More faster than Santa,
My drunk Uncle came;
Wit’ a car full of relatives,
All drunk just the same.

“Yo Angie! Ay Dino!
Vic, Gina, and Pete,”
He yelled out there names,
Then spit a loogee in da shtreet

“I can’t find no spot nowheres,”
Pissed off, he said.
So he double-parked the Lincoln,
And came in to hit da head.

As he hugged me, he burped,
And passed a loada gas.
It stunk up da house,
Like a rotten sea bass.

His coat was pure cashmere,
His pinky ring shined;
His toupee was all twisted,
The front was now behind.

He ran up to da bathroom,
Bangin’ pictures wit’ his hips.
Never lettin’ da smelly stogie
Fall from his lips.

With eyes oh so bloodshot,
And a butt, oh so flabby;
In walked Aunt Angie,
All dolled-up and crabby.

“D’jeat yet?” she asked,
As she thundered to da kitchen;
“All da calamari’s gone?”
Aunt Angie started bitchin’.

In came Cousin Gina,
In Guess jeans too tight.
She was bathed in Obsession,
Her hair reached new height.

In strut Cousins Dino,
Little Petey and Big Vic;
Shovin’ pizzelles down their throats,
It was makin’ me sick.

I said, “What da hell
Are all youse people doin?”
Not one of them answered,
They was too busy chewin’.

Uncle Nick came down at last.
His face was beet red.
“Sorry I missed da toilet.
I pissed in the bathtub instead.”

That was it, I had had it.
I yelled, “Get the hell out!”
Uncle Nick looked real puzzled.
Cousin Gina started to pout.

Wit’ that they mumbled curses,
And opened a Strawbridge’s bag.
And fumbled ‘round to find da gift
Wit’ our name on da tag.

I then felt kinda stupid,
As I thanked them for their gift.
But they stormed out da stormdoor,
All of them miffed.

We tore open da paper
That was taped on and on.
It was a bottle of Sambuca,
And half of it was gone.

But I heard him yelling
As he slammed on da gas.
“Merry Christmas, ya ingrate!
You can kiss my ass!”

Yo. Happy Holidays, a’ight?


© 2006 by Steve DiMeo

Driven to tears.

Commuting sucks. I have an 18-mile drive to work everyday, and it is the bane of my existence. It's not really the distance that's the problem. It's just that it's the worst 18 miles you could possible travel. I actually find myself imagining that my car could sprout wings and fly, a la Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. Which is a nice thought, if you're a 7-year-old girl. For a 44-year-old man, not so cute.

I think one of the main problems with commuting is the way people drive. You have your aggressive drivers who are assholes, and your passive drivers, who just plain suck ass. It's a lot like life. You got this long line of traffic and nobody is moving, except for this one jerk who rides up the shoulder and squeezes his way in. The cops never see him because there’s always that stupid loser passive schmuck who lets him in. And here I am, stuck in in the traffic of life and here they are on the shoulder zipping past me. And there go all those imbeciles and clueless shmoes letting them get their way in life.

I love the opening scene in Office Space where our "hero" is sitting in a long line of traffic. The lane next to him is moving, and he's in a standstill. So he moves into the other lane, which promptly stops moving, and the lane he just got out of begins to move. I can't even tell you how many times that has happened to me. But of course, I'm always in the wrong lane anyway, whether it's traffic or the supermarket. I always get stuck behind an old person wearing a hat. They are the worst. And I've heard a lot of jokes about how bad Asian drivers are, which tends to be true, but there are just as many non-Asians who suck too. You got your imbeciles texting while driving, your idiots who are clearly medicated in some way, and your buffoons who just simply believe that the laws of the highway apply to everyone but them. Oh, and the jack-offs who really believe that cutting you off, and reducing your "safe distance" with the guy in front of you, will actually get them to their destination that much earlier.

Just once I would love to see one of these morons get pulled over by the cops. I think that's what causes a lot of delays on the highway. Have you ever been in a long line of traffic, only to find the reason is that a cop has pulled over someone on the side of the road. Everyone slows down. I used to think it was just to see what was going on, but now I know it's so they can laugh and point at the guy pulled over. I do it too. Screw the long line of traffic behind me, I'm going to laugh at that asshole and make sure he sees me laughing.

Beyond the drivers is the road itself. Namely the Schuylkill Expressway. And yes, I had to look in up online to makes sure the damn thing was spelled right, which is more respect than it actually deserves. The engineers who designed the Schuylkill Expressway must have been stoned or majorly depressed. The lead guy probably lost his wife and home after a long drunken weekend gambling binge, then came into the office, all pissed off, sat down and designed I-76. It's truly an evil road. You can be on that thing anytime day or night and still get stuck somewhere along the way. 2:30 AM on a Tuesday night and you'll find a back up somewhere.

I used to wonder how people could do that commute day after day, never thinking in the back of my short-sighted mind that I might someday be one of those saps. But I do it. Because bills have to be paid and work has to get done. I really do miss the days that I could be at work in minutes by bus or subway. It was a lot less aggravating, and definitely saved on gas. Although I do remember complaining about the bus and some of the noxious fumes eminating off the riders.

Maybe I'll work from home from now on.

City of Brotherly Shove

I have two brothers. Mike is the older, Joe is the younger. So, yes, I'm smack dab in the "troubled middle-child, Peter/Jan Brady syndrome, black sheep, gotta-be-independent" middle of them. We're almost equally divided by three years each. We get along pretty well...now. We've had our ups and downs, but now that we're adults, and there is nothing evil trying to ooze darkness over the relationship, we're all rather amicable. Which is good, considering some of the crap we used to pull on each other.

On Thanksgiving we were all together, and when that happens, we usually toss around the same stories about our youth, much to the chagrin of the wives who heard them all before. Like the one about when I squeezed my younger brother's nose hard while wrestling, and he wound up with a nice black and blue on the tip of it. I love that story. Or when I put a hot spatula on his arm because he was bothering me while I was making pancakes. Another knee-slapper. Then we sit around complaining about the crap on TV, or comparing bellies, or updating each other on the latest "mom" horror story.

I'm sure it wasn't easy for our parents to raise three boys. We weren't hellions by any stretch of the imagination, but we were still three boys. And we enjoyed torturing each other. Actually, we really enjoyed torturing the youngest...

I can remember Mike and I tying the "baby" of the family to the bed, using the belts from our robes. We'd tell him it was part of a game. Then we'd leave him and go about our business, until his screaming caught the attention of our mother. Sometimes, we would lock him in the cedar-lined bedding closet. We'd tell him that was part of a different game. Then we'd leave and go about our business, until his screaming caught the attention of our mother. We even wrapped him like a mummy in cloth bandages. Then left him. He couldn't scream that time. We bandaged his mouth too tight.

We were big wrestling fans as kids. Not that soap opera crap that goes on now. The real wrestling, with true athletes like Andre The Giant, Bruno Sammartino, Chief Jay Strongbow, and George "the Animal" Steele. Those guys were awesome. And we would do our best to imitate our heroes with major bouts that always turned into real fights. Whether someone kicked someone else a little too hard in the neck, or a punch landed unintentionally to the gut, the fake wrestling became three brothers pounding the crap out of each other. Until it caught the attention on our father. Once, I kneed Mike in the back really hard, and he actually threw me across the basement into our game shelves, which promptly collapsed on me. Good times. Of course, this was the same guy who beat the crap out of a punk from the neighborhood who hit me for no reason.

Once, Joe wanted to be Jimmy "Superfly" Snuka, and attempted a flying leap off the wrought iron railing in our living room. His chest landed squarely on my knee, knocking the wind out of him. Sure, he could have died. But he didn't. Which makes it much easier to laugh at the story. Especially if you were the one on the floor watching him fly at you off the railing. It's priceless stuff.

I believe that this is how we bonded. We worked out our aggressions on one another, then would make up. Until the next wrestling match. We could kick each other's ass, but would stand up for each other if anyone outside tried to push one of us around. I guess that's how brotherhood works.

Today, Joe is a psychologist. I suppose all those years being tied to the bed and wrapped like a mummy made him want to help others who suffered similar abuse. When he starts spewing some of his psycho-babble with us, we lock him in the closet until he shuts up. Since my dad died, Mike has really stepped up, taking on a lot of responsiblities, helping my mom with finances and house stuff. Believe me, I'm thankful for that. When we get together, we always laugh at the stupid stories, no matter how many times we tell them. Like the one where Joe was going to catch a beating from our father and he filled his pajama bottoms with books to soften the blows. As if my father wouldn't notice. Or the way Mike would come into our bedroom every night and cut some truly nasty butt gas. Every night. Like clockwork.

When I turned away from the family during my ill-fated second marriage, all it took was a phone call after it ended to have them back in my life. I'll never forget that. They were there for me in an instant, and they forgave any stupid crap I did or said in my possessed state. They even helped me move into my new place. I know I would do the same for them in a heartbeat. Despite being thrown into shelving as a kid. I guess that's also how brotherhood works.

Next time we're together, I think I'll challenge them to a wrestling match. I would love to see Joe trying to climb onto the wrought iron railing to do a "superfly." Better alert the emergency room.

The 70-year-old virgin.

My father used to tell a story about my mom. When he was working, he had voicemail, long before the time of cell phones. He told us that when my mother would leave a message, she would start her messages by saying, "Hello Joe, this is your wife...Janet." He would tell us, "Good thing she said her name, I wouldn't know which wife was calling." I'm telling this story just to give you an idea of the naive little person that is my mother.

She just turned 70. She's older, but not very much wiser. I love her dearly, but she really is a very naive 70. And more than just a little behind the times. She's never touched a computer, let alone a cellphone. My mom once told me to be careful about dating women I meet on online dating sites. Like I'm a ten year old boy in a chatroom with a bunch of priests. (Didn't want to go the "child molester/priest route," but somehow it works.) To her, the internet is a place where sickos hang out looking for their next victims, and people get your credit card number to steal your identity. In her mind, the idea of owning a DVD player is like placing a hungry crocodile in her living room. The most high tech piece of equipment in her house is a cordless phone. Of course, it sits next to the couch where she watches TV. The handset is never further than a foot from the base, totally missing the point of being "cordless."

I'm sure that there are many seniors out there who are just as techno repellent, but I also hear of alot of older folks surfing the net and carrying cells. I would love that to be my mom. Just once, I'd like to hear her tell me about a site she visited, or about something she bought off the 'net. Although, if she discovered an online slot machine, there goes my inheritence.

When my dad died 12 years ago, my mom was totally lost. She probably hadn't written a check in thirty years, had no idea how much money was in the bank, and knew that you had to put something in the car to make it run. It was actually a good thing that my dad knew he was terminal during those last months. He took care of everything before he died. My mom didn't have to worry about a thing. In fact, when we heard what he left her, we realized why we spent most of our childhood choking down peas and pasta or ground meat casserole dinners. He was saving all his money for her to blow on lottery tickets and monthly trips to the casino.

My mother takes pride in her house. And has for the 30+ years she's lived there. That's probably why she hasn't changed the decor in as many years. Oh, the wallpaper has switched from red flocked paper, to flower prints, to textured white Sanitas, and I remember at one time there were green rugs instead of the rusty brown ones there now. But the bathroom is still a lovely avacado, the paneling is still holding up the drop ceiling tiles and the lamps still have cherubs on them. Okay, there's no plastic on the couch and the 42-year-old fridge was finally replaced last month by a new model. I chalk it up to her being so used to her surroundings that changing it would be like getting a nose job at her age. She couldn't wake to a new face looking at her in the mirror. It wouldn't be comforting.

So, why did I title this blog "The 70-year-old virgin?" Well, that's how I see my mom. Sure, no one can imagine their parents having sex. Not that anyone would really want to either. (Unless they're one of those Internet sickos my mother always talks about.) But you see, my dad was very outgoing, upbeat and fun. I could imagine him having sex. He was that kind of guy. My mom? Never. I honestly don't think she ever did. Okay, I'm kind of sure she did. At least three times. There's no denying she's my mom. I have the same round nose as her. And W.C. Fields. But she just seems too damn naive to have known what to do. I'm getting a little creeped out thinking about it, but for the sake of art...So, just like a young virgin, who seems uncertain of the ways of life, she's definitely cherry when it comes to the world around her. And just so you all know, I never thought I'd ever refer to my mom as a "cherry."

So now, at this age, my mom will probably never write an e-mail, text a friend, see a movie in high def, know the joys of On Demand, understand what a blog is, listen to music on an iPod, or drive anything but her beat up '89 Honda Civic. And that may not be fine with me or my brothers, but it's absolutely fine with her. Because she's happy being cherry. And I guess that's pretty good at 70.

Happy Thanxgiving

Remember Thanksgiving? It was a pretty cool day, where family would get together and enjoy a huge meal, before falling asleep on the couch. Kids used to go to school the day before and reenact the history lesson, where Pilgrims met Indians and shared a meal. Often, you would get to see relatives you hadn't seen in a while. It was all very Norman Rockwell-esque, even if you lived in the bowels of South Philly.

I remember sitting around a huge table at my grandparents house for hours, just eating and talking and eating. The meal started with the traditional Italian Wedding soup, also called "escarole soup," but bastardized into just "shcatole soup." Then a big antipasta, including hairy little anchovies, proscuitto (we call "brajhoot") and provolone cheese that smelled like a fat guy's feet in the summer. Mmmm. Then, came the pasta course, with ravioli, spaghetti, meatballs and sausage. At this point, you're already feeling like an over-stuffed cannoli. But, what's a Thanksgiving without the turkey? And that came next, complete with all the trimmings. Gut busting, stuffed to the hilt, going to explode, where's the couch 'cause I'm gonna pass out, full. Until dessert.

Today, things have changed. Family traditions have passed away like the loved ones who spent hours in the kitchen preparing the meals. Relatives marry and move away, or have other families to spend time with. And what's left are the immediate kin, my brothers and mom who all live in proximity. But, we'll get together and laugh, maybe pull out the old 8mm home movies and crack up at ourselves. Watching big family parties from the '60s, when kids sat playing in the living room and adults sat around them, smoking like the Bowery during the Industrial Revolution.

But that's not all that changed. Oh sure, families gather for turkey, but meals are cut short because of the games on the big screen or cell phone calls. People are far too busy to prepare the giant meals. And Thanksgiving is simply the day the big sales circulars arrive, and everyone has to get home early to get some sleep before waking at 4 in the morning to get to Wal-Mart and stand in line for a $200 computer.

We're not allowed to say "Christmas" anymore, because we may offend someone. So the "people in charge" have come up with "X-mas." So, maybe we need to call it "Thanxgiving." It's become the first day of a long weekend, a day that's just part of the holiday season. And that sucks.

Maybe I sound bitter. Maybe I'm just being too nostalgic and have to change with the times. But I wish my kids could have experienced the 5-hour marathon of family dining. I miss that, like I miss my dad and my grandparents. And you just can't get brajhoot like that anymore.

Fat Squirrels and other distractions.

I may have mentioned before that I take walks in the morning. Well, I try to. Usually three or four times a week, for 40-45 minutes or so. I do it first thing in the morning because after work, I usually feel like that saying, "my get up and go has done got up and went." It's basically my exercise regimen, since I just can't bring myself to join a gym. The whole financial commitment doesn't sit right with me, and the thought of a locker room with naked guys walking around is just gay. Put a bunch of guys together anywhere, and if they're naked, it seems gay. I don't care where it is. It's just weird and I don't do it.

Anyway, it was a nice, crisp, Fall-type morning, so walking was a pleasure. I walk around a local park that's a city block square, one of the only tree-lined areas you'll find in South Philly. Most streets in South Philly don't have trees. but that doesn't stop dogs from finding places to pee and poo. I don't wear earphones, because I don't have an iPod. I know, I'm technologically impaired in that sense. But that's okay, because I like the fact that my mind can wander a bit and I often get good ideas while I'm walking.

This day, however, I couldn't get focused. The reason? Too many squirrels. They were everywhere. There are usually several here and there, but for some reason, the squirrels were out in full force. They must sense winter in the air, and they're doing their collecting before hibernating, because the little furry-tailed rodents were freakin' everywhere I stepped. And not just squirrels, but fat ones. Plump, grey John Goodman squirrels who were not going to let me get in their way of finding more nuts to forrage. I had squirrels playing "Chicken" with me as I walked down the sidewalk. They were coming at me, I was coming at them, and it didn't matter that I towered over them, they were coming straight at me. Who was going to sidestep? Would it be the fat tree-dwellers or the chubby dago in sweats?

As I said, with all this squirrel-related dodging going on, I couldn't get a good line of thinking. So my mind wandered. Here are some of the random thoughts I had in between squirrel attacks:

• I heard an actress the other day on the radio talking about how nice a guy Will Smith is. There's something I don't get. If I had his fame and fortune, I'd be the happiest son-of-a-bitch in the world. I'd be pissing rainbows and burping sunshine. Everybody would be going on and on about how nice a guy I am, and I'd say, "Look at my money and fame! Of course I'm a nice guy. Why should I be an asshole?"

• Who the hell is Rihanna? I heard that painfully awful "Umbrella" song once and I wanted to stab my ears with a ball-point pen. Does she really need to be made into a mega-superstar for that?

• I wish my goatee wasn't so rough and pinchy. What kind of conditioner can I use on my facial hair to make it as smooth as the fur on those goddamn squirrels I'm almost stepping on!

• I don't play the lottery, but if I did, and I won, I'd probably win like $250,000, which, according to statistics, would spoil my chances at winning the really big $10 million plus jackpot. Because if I was ever that lucky to win, I wouldn't be THAT lucky.

• Are these squirrels coming at me going to get the hell out of my way?

• Damn, my shin hurts.

• My mother just turned 70. I wonder what that feels like. I wonder if I'll get to see firsthand what that feels like.

• What does squirrel stew taste like?

• I used to like Billy Joel. What the hell happened to him. I saw him in concert like eight times, had every album he made, knew all his songs, and then one day, I just moved on. Now, I can't listen to his stuff. It really gets on my nerves. So, I guess it's good that he's not making music anymore. Because I might feel bad and buy his new CD since I have all his other stuff. Oh well, guess that saves me $15.99.

So, I approached the squirrels, closer and closer, and they approached me, looking at me with their beady little eyes, just like their sewer rat cousins. So who would win this game of chicken? Would I have to sidestep, breaking my steady stride, to get around them, or would they finally scatter a millisecond before I stomp on them? Who would win...

Damn squirrels. I hear they carry rabies.

Heaven help me.

I was having dinner with the kids the other night, and I asked them about their day. We have this ritual where I ask them to tell me one interesting thing that happened to them in school today. Usually their answers are topical, such as "This girl threw up," "Some kid made fun of my hair," or "I fell at recess." Well, on this particular night, my son told me that a priest had come into his class and was talking about heaven. I asked what they thought heaven was like.

At that point, my Catholic school upbringing flooded my memory like a bath in holy water. Their answers were so clearly influenced by their Catholic Church primers. My 8-year-old daughter's first thought was that she would get to meet John Lennon, her favorite Beatle. (She thinks the young Lennon is really cute. I think she's got moxie for that choice.) My son imagines a place where all your family is waiting for you. And he'll finally get to meet my dad who died a couple months before he was born. (Which got me a bit choked up, I must admit.) They both agreed that you walk in clouds, with everything bright and white. Angels lift you up and St. Peter is waiting by the gates. It all sounded so perfect, so idyllic. And yet I realized how innocently wishful it was. It's unfortunate how cynicism can play such dirty pool with our once hopeful visions.

Now, I must admit, being whacked on the side of the head by crusty old dried-up nuns through most of my grade school years was probably not the most efficient way to ensure that a child grows to be a card-carrying member of the Jesus Club. Sister Jamesita back in grade school was a true warrior for Christ, yanking sideburns as if they were the long-lost remnants of her unrequitted sexual longing. She would delight in tortures of all kinds, and I'm sure some orgasmic pleasure would course through her body as she came waddling on her pudgy legs down the aisle to administer a quick knuckle to the noggin. All that aside, I still managed to maintain some semblance of faith and belief in a higher being, but the whole peaceful heavenaly bliss after death thing has become a tough sell.

It's a belief that gets harder to hold on to. After a couple failed marriages, failure to win even one tiny little lottery, hair on my back, and a dented PT Cruiser, I got pretty cynical about things getting better once I pass on to the great beyond. I seriously doubt that we don white robes, get handed a harp and spend eternity floating through a fluffly cloud filled paradise. As my kids went on about how they'll meet Elvis and play with their deceased cat Willie, I began to fill with dread that someday they'll have the same conversation with their kids and be thinking what I'm thinking. That there just may be nothing. All gone. Zilch, nada, etc. And is that really better than two divorces, no lottery, waxing, and dents? Maybe this is heaven. Here and now. Life is heaven and the better we live, the better it is for us, because once it's done, there's nothing. Spending time with the kids, being with someone who makes you happy/crazy with desire and passion, seeing a really great movie that gives you goosebumps, biting into a perfectly prepared filet mignon. Maybe all that stuff is what heaven really is, and the dudes who wrote the Bible were full of crap about it coming after death.

Okay, I'm getting really deep here, and I don't mean to. But as I get older (and older still), the thought of death and heaven does pop into my brain more often than when I was a youthful whippersnapper eager to live forever. So I guess what I really need to do is enjoy what I've got here. After all, I did live through hell during my second marriage, so why not heaven? We all should live by that tired old cliche, "Make every moment count." And enjoy heaven on earth. And maybe, I could hit the lottery, nothing big, just a few grand to pay off some nasty bills and get a new car...Then, when I'm near death, I could worry about what's coming next, and hopefully not crap myself.

It would be cool to meet Elvis though.

Let's do a meeting. In hell.

I friggin' hate meetings. Plain and simple. Meetings suck the life out of everything that touches them. There are some places where meetings are held for every little issue that pops up. I like to think I work in a creative environment, where free thinking is held with the utmost regard, where anything that takes away from that creative thought should be avoided. Not the case. There are meetings to start an idea, meetings to present an idea, and meetings to discuss the start and presentation meetings of the idea. For me, it's the equivalent of a Black and Decker drill being driven directly into the back of my skull.

Here are the phases I generally go through during most meetings:

1: Disgust. I enter the meeting room already pissed that I had to leave my desk and the hundred due dates waiting for resolution to come into this meeting. I'll toss my pad down on the conference table, throw my pen, and collapse, sighing, into the chair. Everyone else does the same. Except for the schmuck who called the meeting. We'll get into that person in Phase 2.

2. Show some minor initial interest. I do my damnedest to listen to what's going on, try to stay focused, and maybe even add a tidbit of meaningful bullshit to the already overflowing bullshit that's going on. But right there is the problem. What could have been done in a memo, an e-mail, or a phone call, now takes several people, puts them in a room, and adds several pounds of crap. Let's face it, most of what goes on at meetings is people trying to prove that they're actually worth something in the company. It's that person who called the meeting who is trying to show that they really do add some value. Finding their raison d'être. So they hold a meeting. And thus the bullshit is spewed. What could be said in a sentence now needs a Powerpoint chart, a diatribe that could filibuster an bill on Capital Hill, and endless senseless comments from the other jerkwads in the room trying to prove they also have a reason for being.

3. Drifting. Soon, usually about 5 to 8 minutes in, I start drifting. My mind starts to wander off in all directions. It's kind of like my morning walks. I get up at 6 AM or so and go out for a 40 minute walk. I don't have an iPod or Walkman. I just walk and my mind goes all over the place. Probably in part, due to the fact that I'm depriving my brain of any real circulation or oxygen, because I'm actually out of bed that early and doing some exercise. But I do have some great brain farts during those walks. In meetings, my brain goes toddling down that same highway of vapid thoughts. "What's for dinner?" part of my brain asks as the meeting drones on like the endless hum of a 20-year-old refrigerator. "Well, I did thaw out those chicken thighs," the other side of my brain suggests. "I wonder what it would be like to kick this guy in the neck," another part of the brain chimes in on the dinner discussion. It's when that part of the brain starts making comments like that when Phase 4 usually kicks in:

4. Total Disengagement. I'm now gone. Blacked out. My mind is now in some foreign territory where wind howls endlessly over bleak flatlands. Where broken earth sits parched and barren. My mind is out there. There's is little I can do at this point. If anyone were to ask me my opinion at this point, I might just jabber a line from The Big Lebowski or some nonsensical hogwash. Once, I was at this point in a meeting with the president of the company, who was talking about goals for all our employees, or some meaningless bullshit like that. He looked at me, and my mind was lost somewhere out there, in a scene from Dune. He asked what I thought of his colorful, yet incomprehensible chart. My brain went into shock. Every neuron and electron was down for the count, not one of them firing at all. My mouth opened and out came, "Yeah, people working more efficiently helps the company." I swear. That's what I said. I had no idea if it was even in context. But I think everyone else around me was just as brain-dead, and it probably made sense to them, because they all nodded in agreement, happy that it wasn't them who was called on to comment.

5. Fighting the Doze. Now, the only thing left to do is to remain awake. My eyes are fighting to stay open. "Stay open! Damn you!" that tiny part of my brain still somewhat alert warns my eyelids. It screams from deep in the recesses of my skull, "Focus on something! Anything! Move the eyeballs! Blink! Don't fall asleep!!" You look at other people. Your eyelids slowly start to droop, and your vision becomes a gauzy blur of colors and shapes. This is what the world must look like to a 2-day-old baby. Then, as your body becomes Jell-O and the last little flicker of light left in your belfry starts to dim, the tough little corner of your cerebellum gives you a quick kick in the brain nuts and you snap out of it with a shudder. You hope no one around you saw you jump. But that only lasts a moment before the Axis of Ennui takes over again...You fight it over and over and hope and pray for:

6. The end. As the meeting winds down, my brain begins to charge up again. Pistons suddenly start firing. Gears slowly start grinding. The whir of a turbine starts whining. Carefully and cautiously, the mind comes back to life, leaving behind the desolate desert that was the thick of the meeting. But now, I'm expected to go back to my desk and resume working. The mind still isn't functioning at full throttle. I need a jolt. An e-mail that makes me smile. A cup of coffee that burns my senses back to "go-time."

Soon, things go back to normal. And then the inevitable. "Let's have a follow-up to that meeting."

Someone will get kicked in the neck someday.

I have 'til tomorrow.

So I'm sitting here in my apartment, it's 11:00 PM, the kids are here tonight, sleeping. I should be working on the syllabus for the course in copywriting I'm teaching starting this January. I should be entering my bills into my online bill payer system. I should be doing anything instead of what I'm doing. And what I'm doing is entering a post to my blog about why I'm not doing what I should be doing and instead writing a blog. That's what I do. I'm a procrastinator. And it's bitten me in the ass more times than I can count.

I guess it all started in grade school, when I put off making my shoebox diorama of the Jurassic Period until the night before it was due. And so, I was yanking stuffing out of an old stuffed animal and spray painting it green for the moss. And my dinosaurs were completely the wrong scale. My diplodocus was too frigging small and the tricerotops was way too frigging big. Besides, I don't think they lived during the same period anyway. Like that mattered. Then in high school, I never wrote out any of my papers or did outlines. There was never time. I sat at the typewriter and typed away, thinking on the fly, while on the phone with my girlfriend, with the radio on, eating a bowl of Peanut Butter Cap'n Crunch. College wasn't much different. Waiting until the very last minute to do a term paper was a usual occurance. Who the hell wanted to be writing a paper on "Heart of Darkness" when there was beer around. "Heart of Darkness" was truly boring anyways. What I read of it. I put off reading it until a couple days before, and only got a few chapters into it before it was due. See...bitten in the ass.

So now, years older, but not much wiser, I'm still putting off things. And I wish those things were as simple as gluing some plastic dinosaurs to a Thom McCann box and painting a volcano in the background. (Because there ALWAYS has to be an exploding volcano when there are dinosaurs around, right?) Now, it's putting off paying the bills. Putting off the freelance work. Putting off making that phone call to my cousin in Atlanta. Putting off time sheets at work. Putting off cleaning the apartment. Of course, I never put off watching a movie. There's always time for that.

I have to admit, I do work better under pressure, but sometimes there just isn't enough time. I really hate those people who are so together that they have the following weeks worth of crap taken care of before the previous week is through. Screw them. I bet they drown puppies and harrass old people during all that time they saved.

Okay, there are some things that I don't ever procrastinate on. Sitting on my ass is one of them. I never seem to wait around for that. Buying Christmas gifts is another. I really like doing that, so I go out and buy stuff. The problem with that is, when it's time to wrap, and I pull everything out, I realize I got way too much stuff, because I forgot about everything I had bought. See, if I had waited til the last minute, that wouldn't happen. Oh, and I hate being late for a movie. I have to get there in time for previews and all. I want the whole experience.

Another thing I don't wait until the last minute to do is eat. I'm always on time with that, you bet your sweet ass.

I read that there is a seminar you can take on better time management, and overcoming procrastination. I'll look more into that tomorrow.

Miss Match: Part 2

I don't like games. I don't mean Operation or Mouse Trap. Those games rock. Although I did play Life with the kids recently and it really sucks. As a kid, it was great, because it all seemed so absurd. But as an adult, that freakin' game is just too damn real. You get a lousy job, a ton of responsibility, and I landed on every space where I owed someone money. It was the Spongebob edition of the game, and it still hit too close to home.

Okay, this post is not about board games. But head games. In my quest to meet the girl of my dreams, I pressed on in Match, thinking that sooner or later, something would click. I got more thuds than clicks. I'll call this next story:

"Did I mention I'm nuts?"

I started conversing via e-mail with a woman who seemed like she was very together. Nice picture, intelligent and funny profile. We decide to talk on the phone. So on a Sunday evening we talk. And talk. And talk. Two and a half hours later, we say goodnight. The next night she calls, and so forth. We talk on the phone every night for at least an hour, if not more. We have lots in common and the conversation flows well. Except for one oddity. She puts her kids on the phone. Yeah, a little weird, I thought, but since we were getting along so well, I was willing to overlook it. Her kids are pretty young, maybe 4 and 6 or something. Anyway, we schedule a dinner date for that Saturday night. I go to her home to pick her up and she invites me in...to MEET THE KIDS! Okay, that's a bit much for a first date. I have to feel pretty damn comfortable with someone to introduce the kids, and it especially wouldn't be on the first date. Actually, the kids haven't met anyone I've dated yet. I've come close, but it hasn't happened. I know it will, but for obvious reasons, I'm very protective. (You know, the whole "my stepmother was a creature from hell," thing I put them through.)

Okay, so I meet the kids and the sitter, and off we go to dinner. We're hitting it off. She's cute, and she seems to feel the chemistry. She takes my hand during dinner. She cuddles up in the car afterwards. In other words, she's putting the signal out that she's into me. I take her home, the kids are still up. She goes to put them to bed and calls me upstairs, because the kids WANT TO SAY GOODNIGHT! Now I'm really weirded out. This is really too much. Well, after a nice goodnight, we agree to talk the next day and see each other one night the following week. Again, I'll overlook the kid thing, because she was nice, and there was chemistry. Although maybe she needed chemistry of a different sort and her presciption was low. Because...

I call her around 5 PM on Sunday and leave a message. She calls back at 11 PM with this excuse for not getting back to me sooner: A former boyfriend texted her during the day and she's been on the phone with him for a while. I asked why she felt the need to tell me that, and she explained that she didn't want to hide anything. Okay, fine. But then, when I ask about going out again, she tells me that she didn't think we were a good match, and she wasn't sure about getting together again...WHAT? After all that?? (which is exactly what I said. Then just told her I was tired and we'd talk tomorrow.) Maybe her kids didn't like my jokes...maybe her sitter didn't like what I was wearing...maybe she's FREAKING NUTS!

The next day, I get an e-mail from her saying that she was looking forward to talking again! Oh my dear sweet Lord. The red flags that were already raised are now searing my brain with their crimson flames. It's as if the Amityville house is yelling in my head, "GET OUT!"

I got out. Told her that she needs to figure out what she wants, and it ain't gonna be me. That's the end of that.

Sorry, gotta run now, I'm hungry. Reminiscing about unbalanced minds often does that to me.

Miss Match: Part 1

I debated whether I should write a blog about my online dating stories, because anyone who has tried it has at least one or two stories about it. Some that I've heard are pretty damn funny. Not "ha-ha" funny, but more like the "you've gotta be freakin' kidding me" kind of funny. From both men and women. But someone dear to me told me I should write about some of my experiences. So here's goes...

After my disastrous second marriage, the match made in the bowels of the Antichrist, I needed some time to get over it. So, following a period of puking up thick, green sewage, and the demon leaping out of my soul and into Father Damien, who promptly jumped out a window to his death, (in other words, good therapy and some drugs), I decided it was time to try dating again. Cautiously, I put a profile on an online dating site. There were several reasons this felt like a good idea. Number one: I'm not a club person. The stink of cologne, big hair, and walking sideways through a crowded bar trying not to spill my overpriced vodka tonic just doesn't feel like it would be the best place to facilitate meeting the girl of my dreams. Number two: I'm a writer, so it would be a great way to be charming and disarming from a safe distance. Number three: It was something I had never done before, so I thought it would be interesting. Since then, I've met some nice women, some "interesting" women, and some I'd rather forget. And so, I give you Part 1 in my online dating saga. I call this story:

"Didn't you think I was going to find out about the extra 192.5 pounds?"

So I'm e-mailing this one girl, who seems nice. Her picture was nice. She listed her body type as "curvy," which is fine with me. We talk on the phone, we have some stuff in common, but she tells me she's moving to Indiana temporarily to help her sister out there. Well, fine. I tell her to call me when she gets back. She tells me that she really wants to meet. Like really wants to get together before she moves. I'm working late, but she begs, so I agree. I wait outside the bar for her. Just then, a truck pulls up. I'm not talking about the vehicle. I'm talking about the woman driving it. Now, I've got nothing against big girls. I'm no bag o' bones myself. But if you list yourself as "curvy," I don't think they meant that as curvy like the side of a mountain. Her picture was probably several years old. So, right off the bat, I'm pissed. Not because she's big enough to bench press a Buick, but because she lied. And that sucks. So we had a beer, and she insisted on having another, even though she's leaving for Indiana the next day. I tell her that I'm really beat, and need to go home to bed. She's hinting around the idea of leaving Philadelphia with a bang, with me as the fuse. I don't see that happening. So I walk her to her steel-frame reinforced vehicle, and lean in for a quick "nice to meet ya" hug, when she reaches out and engulfs me in her fleshiness, planting her gaping maw across my mouth. She's digging for cavities with her tongue and I can't even breathe. I felt my entire intestinal system being dragged up my windpipe by the sucking force. I could not pull away. It was like I had gotten the Hulk very angry and you wouldn't like it when he's angry. Finally, she lets go, and I backed away, slowly. She asked again if I wanted to go back to her place, and I felt in my pockets for holy water, a tazer, anything. I said no thanks and left. When I got home, I curled up in the fetal position in the corner and cried. I felt violated. I was ready to go to court and point out the places she violated me on a doll. I shot her off a quick e-mail the next day letting her know that I didn't think she was my type. I prefer women with a weaker grip than me.

That afternoon, I was back on Match, searching for the girl of my dreams. Why? Well, I think Woody Allen put it best. In the last line of one of my favorite movies, Annie Hall, Woody says, in voiceover:

" I thought of that old joke, you know, this guy goes to a psychiatrist and says, "Doc, my brother's crazy. He thinks he's a chicken." And the doctor says, "Well, why don't you turn him in?" And the guy says, "I would, but I need the eggs." Well, I guess that's pretty much how I feel about relationships. You know, they're totally irrational and crazy and absurd and ...
but, uh, I guess we keep goin' through it because we need the eggs."

It rings true. But one thing's for sure, I know I won't be going to Indiana to find any eggs.

Elvis, Beelzebub, and the Broken Clothes Dryer

You know, not everyone would meet the spawn of Satan and think, "Hey, I've gotta marry this thing."

Unfortunately, I did.

What was I thinking? Oh, believe me, I've heard that question a thousand times. Coming off my first marriage, vulnerable, thinking that this woman was the complete opposite of my first wife, and assuming that was a good thing. Mistook psychosis and satanic possession for passion. Under a Svengali-like spell, probably from some enchantment she learned during her frequent visits to the anus of Hades, I married her. What was I thinking? Obviously, I wasn't in a normal state of mind. We flew to Vegas after being together a few months, and got married by a gold-sequined suited Elvis impersonator. That was the best five minutes of the relationship.

Two months later, we were in marriage counseling. The kindly, older counselor sat wide-eyed as the Beast spewed forth a diatribe of profanity-laced meanderings about my time spent with the kids, how I wanted to treat my ex with respect, my support payments, among other things. Then she left the room in a huff. He turned to me and simply said, "Honestly, I don't know how you're doing it." That was not encouraging, to say the least.

Her house was basically four walls and lots of boxes of junk. I tried cleaning out the place—and actually put a bunch of boxes in storage, paying $75.00 a month to store trash—but it was too overwhelming, and I couldn't throw out anything without her permission. Have you ever seen those 20/20 profiles on "pack rats?" You know, people who save everything? It was like that. Oh yeah, and I was not allowed in the basement. I assumed there were bodies down there. Or at least the heads. But I did sneak down. Remember that scene in Star Wars when Luke, Han and Leia fall down into that trash chute on the Death Star, and that slimy creature pulls Luke under the garbage? That should give you a pretty good idea of what it was like. Only, there was no water. Just trash, clothing and assorted junk. I didn't see a floor. But I did see something moving under it all. I swear, I did. But I didn't have my laser gun with me at the time, and Chewie wasn't there to yank me out, so I ran up the stairs, never to go down there again.

How do you argue with this one: It was my fault when the clothes dryer broke down. I never used it, because, remember, I wasn't allowed in the basement. But, it was my fault because my clothes were "bigger" and the dryer wasn't used to spinning all that weight. Yeah, honestly. She said that. What does one say? Especially with the stinging smell of sulfur hanging around the evil fingertip she had in my face.

I felt my kids slipping away from me. It was obvious she made them very uncomfortable, and they hated being there among boxes of junk. I felt my family slipping away from me. I didn't talk to them for months, because she-demon felt they hadn't "accepted" her as they should have. ("I am Satan! Accept me!!") My friends slipped away from me. The people I worked with, thankfully, were very supportive. They witnessed the insane phone calls, they saw my sanity slowly being drained, day by day. My therapist offered what she could in advice, but obviously, the rest was up to me.

After a year or so, I started to sleep in a separate bed. A futon in the "living" room. (I use the quotes for somewhat obvious reasons. No one could actually "live" there.) I woke up in the middle of the night to find her standing over me. Just standing there, looking down at me as if to say, "Oh, I could've killed you just now." Let me try to explain what that feels like: Imagine you're in the woods, and you come across a bear. It's really pissed off. You don't know why. You didn't do anything to it. So you play dead. You fall to the ground, curl up in a fetal position and try to stop breathing and shaking in fear. Your eyes are clenched tight. You're totally exposed and vulnerable. You slowly open one eye and peek, only to see the bear's nose inches from you. It's huge claws right by your body. Then it turns, walks away. It goes to the outskirts of the forest, where it can still see you. It sits down and watches you. Waiting for you to move.

The next day, I packed my stuff and moved out. I went to live with my mother until I found a place of my own. Yeah, living with my mother was a better alternative. At least if I woke to find my mother standing over me, I knew it wasn't to kill me. Creepy, but not in a shit-your-pants kind of way.

I told the kids I was getting divorced, and I found an apartment just blocks from them, and that they were going to have their own room with bunk beds. They didn't ask about the divorce. They did want to know more about the bunk beds.

What was I thinking? I may never know. But I know that I am happier than I've been in a long time. The demons have been exorcised, literally. If that is my baggage, my regret, my mistake, so be it. I'm smarter now for it. I have not written off getting married again, although I have written off marrying another of Satan's minions. Thanks to the support of family and friends, my mind is clear and I'm in a good place.

Although sometimes I get nervous about putting all my heavy clothes into the dryer.

Take two and call me in the morning.

I just saw a commercial for a birth control pill called "Yaz." I don't know, but that name just doesn't inspire a whole lot of confidence. "Honey, did you take your Yaz today...we don't want an accident...". It struck me, probably because I'm now working on a name for a new over-the-counter med. It's from a big well-known brand. I'm finding it really tough, because you want to make it sound impressive and clinical and all, but it also has to be easy-to-remember and consumer-friendly. It's for a pill that controls body aches. So, maybe I can go with the "Yaz" formula and name it after an obscure band from the '80s. How about "Kajagoogoo?" Would you take that if you were in pain? Or, "Oh, my back is killing me. I'm going to CVS to pick up some Animotion." Or, maybe they just thought the name "Yaz" was cute and fun for a birth control pill. Three letters, ending in an often unused letter. Just like the word "sex." Hmmm...good thinking. In my opinion, I think the "Yaz" folks got the easy-to-remember/consumer-friendly part right, I just think they dropped the ball on the impressive/clinical side. I guess I'm obsessing a bit about it because I am banging my head against the wall for a decent name, and yet there's some dipshit who suggested "Yaz" as a joke and got paid for it.

What about "Enzyte?" It's the "male enhancement" pills advertised with those retro type commercials and that guy "Bob." Funny commercials. Bad name. "Enzyte?" Not getting it at all. "En" as in "enlarge," "zyte" as in...nothing! Why not call it "Bigwangyte" or "Horseschlongzyte" or "Rockhardyte." At least you'll know exactly what it does. Is it really supposed to make your junk bigger? No such thing. You want a bigger digger, you get one of those plastic pump things. Everyone knows that.

I'm not even going to get into the commercial for Cialis with the people in bathtubs on a hilltop. What the hell? But I guess we can be thankful they didn't call it something like "DeBarge."

Mutant Power!

After watching one of the X-Men movies with my son, he asked what power I would like to have if I were a mutant. I don't think I've ever been asked a tougher question. Think about it...all the possibilities.

My guess is, most people immediately think of the two biggies in super powers: flying and invisibility. I think if you did a poll, those two would get the most votes. And why not? They are awesome powers. Traffic? No problem. Pull over, get out of the car and fly the hell home. Wanna know what's going on behind closed doors at the office? Go invisible, slip in and find out if you're the poor schmuck who is going to get his ass let go. After these two powers, I'm thinking super strenght is a close third. No brainer there. Of course, sometimes just hauling my ass out of bed in the morning requires superhuman strength.

Those are really obvious though. What about some of the other powers not so obvious? I'm not talking about reading minds (which would be really friggin' awesome for every situation in life), or being able to stretch like that guy in the Fantastic Four. I mean, come on. Do I need to spell that one out? What fanboy hasn't thought about having Reed Richards' ability to stretch his johnson to be about nine feet long, and have a 2-foot tongue? Come to think of it, what girl hasn't thought of that?

So, how about super speed, but only in your fingers? Imagine typing a book in mere seconds, tapping the drum solo from Inna Gadda Da Vida on your desk, or well, you know, and better than any store bought vibrator thing.

Another great one would be the ability to change your weight depending on where you are. For example, I'd want to be real skinny when flying, so I don't have to rub knees with the annoying prick seated next to me. And then be really fat when going to a Chinese buffet, just to watch everyone freak out and run up to the buffet before I get there.

I'm sure everyone can come up with a few like that. But this is my blog, so I'll keep going. How about the ability to see through the eyes of other people? You could watch yourself do stuff. I mean, who hasn't wondered what they look like to other people? I do all the time. Like you're walking down the street and you think you look all hot, and then you pop behind the eyes of the person coming toward you and you realize you look like a dork.

And then there's the ability to make people believe whatever you say. I'd be a damn millionaire. Would it be immoral? Probably, but no one ever told Hulk that pounding sidewalks into rubble is a decent thing to do. Imagine telling someone you have no head, and they believe you. Or walking into a bank and telling them that you have to take all the money because it needs to be washed. Hello Tahiti!

So, my son asked me what power I would like to have. I told him I'd like to have the power to keep him and his sister safe always, no matter where.

He wanted to be invisible.

Both would be cool.

The Mall with kids on a Saturday.

I get my two kids every other weekend and every Wednesday night. Kind of the regular divorced parents schedule. I love having the kids. My son is 11 and my daughter is 8. They're very cool kids. And when they're with me, they kind of expect us to be in constant motion, full-speed ahead, destination: fun. If I don't have the weekend planned out on Friday night after picking them up, chockful of fun and interesting things to do, then I have some explaining to do. It's not that they're brats. They just like to know that dad is fully in control, with hands on the reins of excitement, ready to keep downtime at bay and continued occupation at full surge. So, today, I slapped the reins on that chariot of adventure and we went to the mall. I know, not very imaginative. But they do like it. Look at it through the eyes of kids. It's a literal smorgasbord of lunch options, a veritable plethora of cool shit to beg for, and a easy way to breeze through a wad of dad's cash.

So we started with lunch, which can be a pain, since no one in our little gang of three can choose one place. My son wants Taco Bell, the princess wants McDonald's, but we had that last night, so she settles for Nathan's. I go for a melange of rubbery chicken and mushrooms in brown sauce from the somewhat-Chinese food place. And I just now tasted it again, even though we ate lunch nine hours ago. And had dinner in between. That's powerful stuff there. It's like I french-kissed the alien creature and he spewed his acid spit down my gullet.

Now, let me say this much: I don't mind shopping. No, I'm not gay and saying that doesn't make me less of a testicle-carrying member of the Man's Club. I really kind of like shopping. Target pretty much friggin' rocks. And getting a box of Honey Bunches of Oats at Wal-Mart for just a measley $2.58 compared to like $4.97 at the supermarket can almost make my day. So hopefully, we established the fact that shopping can be okay for a guy, unless you're left holding the handbag for your girl as she's trying on the nineteenth pair of jeans. Especially when you're with kids and you're going in stores that hold some interest for a geeky dad such as myself.

Take Hot Topic, for example. This kind of suburban-punk, faux anti-establshment, corporate run, gothy loner stoner head banger store. It's got speakers blaring music that would make your mom shit her old lady panties, lots of pretty cool t-shirts, and people behind the counter who have been pierced more than Jesus on his last day. (Just tell me one thing: How the hell do they get the stud through the bridge of the nose. Damn, that's freakin' nasty.) My little 8-year-old prissy princess just happens to think goth girls are the coolest thing ever, and I do often pray that she goes the black eyeliner route, if just to piss off her grandparents. She enjoys checking out the goth wear. You know, plaid mini-skirts, shirts with skull prints, and black patent-leather hi-heel sneakers. I picture the day her grandmother's cerebellum bursts in a spray of brain matter and skull fragments when her former angel enters looking like she was conceived by an unholy union of Wednesday Addams and Mad Max.

Then there's F.Y.E. What the hell were they thinking with that name? Sure, it means "For Your Entertainment," but who the hell calls it that? You just bastardize the name as "Feeyah." At least that's what we do. Anyways, the kids are now into The Beatles, after they insisted I take them to see that "Across the Universe" movie. So I bought "A Hard Day's Night" on DVD, just so they could see the real Beatles, not some Brit soap star trying to sing "I've Just See A Face," as teenagers bop across a bowling alley. I also like looking through the used DVD sections and often wonder why the hell people would actually buy some of the DVDs they do, only to return them for a fraction of what they paid. Did someone really pick up a new copy of "Night at the Roxbury" and consider how much they really couldn't wait to watch it over and over, and show their friends as well? But there it is, in the used bin, where it will surely end up fueling a sparking pyre full of other crappy DVDs.

Of course, there was the obligatory stop at the toy store, the book store, Spencer's, where you can pick up your new life-sized Chucky doll and a vibrator shaped like a gopher that plays the theme to "Caddyshack" while you take care of business. How do you explain that to an 8-year old girl?

As we left, I considered all the other things I might have done with them instead. But where else could I have better bonded with my children than in Hot Topic as we laughed over a t-shirt that read, "I don't remember your name, so I'll just call you dumbass!"

Okay, next time I have the kids, I'm planning better.

So, this is Blogland...

I'm not that old. 43 is not that old. And yet, in the realm of Internet blogging, I feel like Methuselah. But here I am, at the urging of a good friend who said, "You're a writer. You need a blog." 25 years ago, he would have said, "You're a writer. You need a typewriter." Now, I need a blog. Okay, so here's my blog. What am I planning to write here? Christ knows. But you can bet it'll be pretty damn insightful. Okay, maybe insightful isn't the right word. I don't have many insights into things. I could care less about politics, sports do not interest me, and most mainstream interests are, let's face it, pretty damn imbecilic. So I do have a lot of complaints, and I guess you can call them insights. I'd rather call them musings, especially on things I know. Things that affect me. So that's what it'll be. Musings on internet dating, women in general, being a single dad, being divorced twice, being married to the spawn of Satan, working as a writer for a mid-size branding firm, daily commutes, action figures, walking into a roomful of assholes, weight loss, growing older, shitty movies, great movies, the past, the future, the here and now, and probably something about ground turkey vs. ground beef for making meatballs.

If any of this interests you, please stop back from time to time. If it doesn't interest you, stop back anyway, because you might find that it actually does interest you. Because I can actually be pretty funny. So I've been told. Especially by women, right after I've slept with them. Oh, yeah, I'll probably tell some dirty stories too. That ought to bring some of you back.

Okay, so now I don't feel so old. I actually have a freaking blog. Whoop-dee-doo for me!