Live Musings Nightly

Happy Holidays and all that crap.

2009-12-07T19:51:00.002-05:00

So, anyways, it's the holidays again. But, we all know that it's really Christmas time. After all, Hanukka is one of the lesser Jewish holidays, kinda like President's Day or Jewish Groundhog Day, and Kwanzaa was made up by some former shoe salesmen or something, which makes it about as real as Festivus, the holiday for the rest of us.

Christmas is very big where I'm from. South Philadelphians continue their annual tradition of pissing off their neighbors by putting up as many lights and plastic things in front of their houses as they can, often spilling out onto the sidewalk. Sorry, Guido, the giant inflatable Santa in a Chimney is meant for someone with a big lawn, not a few feet of cement block. Everyone gets new leopard print clothing and extra cologne for their annual trip to Mass at midnight, where they spend most of the time watching old people, so they know when to kneel or sit. The old Italian ladies still make seven fish dinners on Christmas Eve, and the younger Italians still won't eat smelts. Afterwards, everyone exchanges gifts of gold chains and homemade Lemoncello, then goes home to watch Christmas Vacation or A Christmas Story. Ho ho ho, bitches.

Many of us have lost the meaning of Christmas in all the crass over-merchandising and rampant consumerism. I heard my first Christmas tune of the season the day after Halloween, for crying out loud. Really? I have candy corn stuck in my teeth and we're being bombarded by Yule logs. That sucks. The Christmas season begins the day after Thanksgiving. Seriously. Remember that holiday? Where we gather and eat turkey? No gifts, no pretensions. Just family and food, full bellies and for those who care, football. It's now the day you grab a bite before going to a midnight doorbuster sale or get some sleep because you're waking up at 2AM to beat the lines when WalMart opens at 4. But it used to be a real holiday. When I was a kid, it was the first day you took out the Sears Wishbook and starting wishing. The first time you saw Santa then was at the end of the parade, not two weeks prior at the mall.

I think what's most important is that we remember what this season is all about. Whether you believe it's the day Jesus was born or not. It's about family and friends, celebrating happiness, and giving from the heart, not the wallet.

I may sound like a Scrooge, but I'm not. I love this time of year. It brings people together. It warms the heart. It's a magical time that is best seen through the eyes of a child. I love the lights, the music, the joy. I will celebrate with family. I will watch A Christmas Story a dozen times. And I will remember what it was like when I was young.

Now, excuse me, I've got a crapload of shopping to do.

And for all of you, once again, here is my now infamous Christmas poem. Written about 15 years ago, it's been making the rounds ever since. Feel free to share, but please remember, it's copyrighted. Use it without the copyright line, and next Christmas, I'll have a lot more money to spend on gifts...

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

The Upside of Being Downsized.

2009-08-17T16:56:00.002-04:00

I thought that nothing funny was happening in my life to write about. Which is probably why I haven’t posted to my blog in a few months. Which sucks, I know. I always seemed to have something to write about before. Then I kind of lost the wind in my blog sails. Then a couple funny things happened. My mother needed a new TV in her bedroom, which is actually more painful than funny. Then I got downsized. Funny, huh?

Now, if downsizing meant I dropped a crapload of weight, so my gut doesn’t hang over my pants, I’d say, “downsize me, till I look like Brad Pitt.” Unfortunately, as most of you know, what it means is that I got the “we can’t pay you anymore, thanks for everything” speech from my place of employment. Now, lots of people would be really pissed at the company, and I was told by many people that I should be angry. But, I understand that it was just business. I was being paid for doing nothing. The work wasn’t there. Sure, I’d have loved miling that cash cow for as long as possible, but I realize it’s just ain’t good business. And when the board of directors, who don’t know me from the woman who cleans the filet mignon stains off their gold-rimmed china, look at the billing compared to the payroll, they think, “Hey, we’re paying some of these people for doing nothing. We ain’t gonna let them milk that cash cow no more.” So, there I go, box of toys and paper clips under my arm, out the door. No filet mignon, no gold-rimmed china, and no more cash cow.

Sure, it was freakin’ scary. But, there’s no way I’m cutting off cable with the new seasons of Bizarre Foods and Mad Men starting. Screw that. So, I’ll stock up on ramen noodles, economy-sized packs of chicken wings and cut out the daily Starbucks Venti Mocha Chai Soy Skim Latte Frappaccino.

Thankfully, I made a lot of connections and while looking for a more full-time gig, I’m actually able to make a go at freelancing. I’m enjoying the freedom of working off-site, spending time in NYC, watching The View, and writing at Starbucks, while enjoying a Mocha Chai Soy Skim Latte Frappaccino. Only it’s just a Grande instead of Venti. Hey, we all have to sacrifice, right. There’s also something nice about earning a living for myself instead of helping any board of directors put another filet on the grill on the patio of their McMansion.

Oh, and yeah, I did say I watch “The View.” Honestly, I have gotten a better look inside women than most gynecologists. I’ve found that watching The View is like watching a bunch of slightly insane aunts bitch at each other over coffee after a big Christmas eve meal of gravy and seven fishes. Whoopi is the kinda cool know-it-all who you wouldn’t mind getting shitfaced with. Joy is the insane aunt who smokes too much and tries to fuck your friends. Barbara is the aunt who used to be hot, but now just tries any way to look good, but ends up looking really sad. Sheri is the cousin who thinks she’s funny, but really isn’t, so you pretty much ignore everything she has to say. And Elizabeth is the good-looking but dumb-as-a-bag-of -rice niece who married for money, pops out babies like gumballs and you just want to smack until she shuts her idiotic piehole. It’s great TV folks.

I’ve been able to work on things that I couldn’t while tied to a full-time job. Like my Facebook and Twitter acumen. I now find it funny when people post complaints about getting up on Monday mornings to go to work. Umm, consider the alternative, people! But even now that I have more time to spend on there, I refuse to participate in any of those stupid quizzes or games. Honestly, I don’t care what your stripper name might be, or what character from a Poison video you might be.

I realize those things aren’t the most valuable use of my free time, but give me a break. I need some kind of social activity in between the freelance, The View and the porn.

Spending time in New York has also been a huge benefit of being out of work. I love New York. (Hey, I should remember that…it would make a great campaign!) Being a writer-type in the city is incredibly inspirational. For example, I turned a corner on a street in the East Village to see a guy leaning against the wall with his hand down the back of his pants. He was standing perfectly still, like a statue with an itchy anus. Pure inspiration for a few reasons. I wondered what his story was, and maybe I could come up with some funny short fiction about him. Secondly, he inspired me to never wind up standing on a street against a wall with my hand down the back of my pants. I hadn’t thought of that before, but this gentlemen gave me the will to avoid it.

Of course, one of the negatives is that my mother knows I’m not actually in an office working, so she thinks that any time of day is okay to call and bitch about my brother not being able to take her to her cousin’s 50th wedding anniversary party, or to tell me that she needs a new TV for her bedroom. Which is another story altogether. Oh yeah, another negative is that I still have to provide for my kids and myself. Send contibutions to my attention anytime. I’m not that proud.

Actually, I want to take the opportunity to thank everyone who was incredibly supportive during those first few weeks and helped me get some footing in the freelance business. You all know who you are and remember, any act of kindness will be returned tenfold someday. (Okay, maybe two or three-fold, but I promise it will be returned. Maybe a beer and some free bar nuts.)

And so, now, as I sit on a Bolt Bus heading back to Philly after a few days in New York, I’ve thought of another benefit. Being able to write this.

And now that you read it, remember, I didn’t say it was a benefit to you…

Diversity, South Philly style. Or: “Yo, you ain’t Italian, are you?”

2009-04-14T00:11:00.003-04:00

When I was a kid, I went to the Catholic school in my neighborhood, St. Monica’s. My classmates were kids who lived in the ten/fifteen block radius of the parish. All similar kids with similar upbringing. Mostly, Italian Catholic, Irish Catholic or Catholic Catholic. We all had spaghetti at least once a week, called the red tomato sauce “gravy,” went to church on Sundays, argued over who had the better banana seat on their bike, and never missed an episode of Happy Days or The Waltons. In other words, I didn’t grow up with a whole lot of diversity. The South Philly I lived in back then was about as diverse as the part of South Jersey where everyone from South Philly has migrated to over the last few years. The closest most of us had come to a Jewish person was the guy hanging on the gold cross hanging around our necks. Although, there was a Jewish couple who lived in the house behind mine. I believe my neighbors called them the “token Jews” on the street. I didn’t understand what taking the bus had to do with being Jewish. We knew nothing about being Jewish and thought it was some sort of cult. We would often peek out the back window to see if we could catch a glimpse of them slaughtering sacrificial lambs or performing weird Jewish voodoo rituals. And our knowledge of African-Americans came from watching “What’s Happenin’?” Rerun, Dwayne, Raj and Dee showed us what it was like to grow up in a black neighborhood. They went to Doobie Brothers concerts, hung out at the local soda shop where the huge smart-ass waitress would insult them, and their gigantic mom was always threatening to whip them with a belt. So to us, life in a black neighborhood seemed pretty, well, whitebread.

Then I went to high school, and it opened up a whole new world…one that encompassed other parishes in South Philly. Woo. It was basically kids who lived in the parishes that surrounded St. John Neumann High, all similar kids with similar upbringing. Still mostly Italian Catholic, Irish Catholic or Catholic Catholic. We all still had spaghetti at least once a week, called the red tomato sauce “gravy,” ducked church on Sundays, argued over rock vs. disco, and never missed an episode of Three’s Company or Saturday Night Live. Hey, wait a minute…there had to be something different about high school. Surely, it was more diverse. Oh yeah…there were NO GIRLS! That’s right, it was an all-boy high school. Painful? Mmmm, yeah. Diverse? Mmmm, no. At least there were girls in grade school. We didn’t even have that. Which, now that I think about it, might have been a good thing. You see, going to school with a bunch of South Philly guidos with raging hormones and gold chains, all out to prove their masculinity, was the equivalent of walking through a forest full of gorillas. It smelled like dirty socks washed in spit and ass sweat, a fight always broke out at mealtime, and there were a hell of a lot of hairy backs. Some guys even had knuckles that reached the ground too. Hairy knuckles. I made it through high school relatively unscathed even as the more sensitive, creative type that I was, mostly because I could draw funny caricatures of the teachers really well. A hallway conversation between a couple of those lugnuts would go something like this:

Guido #1: “Yo, let’s kick DiMeo’s ass. He’s a fuckin’ nerd!”
Guido #2: “Nah, he’s a good drawer. Let’s just bust his balls, then go beat up that fag wearing the plaid jacket…”

Oh, and yeah, someone who draws in South Philly is called a “draw-er,” just as someone who drinks is a “drink-er” or someone who runs is a “runn-er.” Or they could be just late for the bus again, when in that case, they’re called “freakin’ lose-ers.”

In my high school, there wasn’t a whole lot of acceptance to gays either, in case you hadn’t guessed. That also was true for guys who weren’t into sports, guys who didn’t drink, guys who studied and did well in school, or guys who wore plaid jackets. But come on, that last one, well, that one is completely understandable. Of course, the same guys who would make fun of the more effeminate guys in school were also the ones who dress up in “wench” costumes and ostrich feathers every New Year’s Day to march in the Mummer’s Parade. Go figure. One day of public flitting around like a fey Vegas showgirl a year is completely acceptable. But dress like that on January 2nd, and those same guys will kick your trannie ass all the way to Fire Island.

Finally, it was time to go to college. Did I choose a university in the middle of the country, where I would live and discover people from all over? No. I went to Temple University, smack dab in the middle of Philadelphia, a mere subway ride from my parents’ home everyday. But--and this is a Nell Carter-sized but(t) -- it was actually truly diverse. I went to class with minorities from all walks of life. In fact, not only did I go to class with them, I befriended them! People of every cultural upbringing and ethnic race! Me! The kid who had been in the presence of Asians only when in Chinatown. Me! The kid who thought the only Indians there were wore feather headdresses. And I was fitting in! Sure, there were cliques, like the South Philly-ites, or the Northeast Philly-ites, who hung out together and refused to look beyond their lives back in the neighborhood. But I wanted more. I had my clique of high school buds, but I also expanded. I made friends with people from the ‘gasp’ suburbs! I even dated a Jewish girl! And she didn’t have any weird Jewish sacrificial rituals. Although, I wouldn’t have minded something a little weird.

I also realized there were guys who didn’t mind if you weren’t into sports or kicking other people’s asses. Generally, that’s a good thing for someone who wasn’t into sports or kicking ass. It was a nice step to being introduced into a world beyond what I knew.

So, being out in the “real world,” re: outside the confines of the “spaghetti once a week, topped with gravy” world of South Philly, expanded my diversity horizons. I learned that no matter where you go or who you meet, there is good and there is bad. There will be people who want to kick some ass because they are simply too ignorant to accept any differences. But even when peeking out my back window at the Jewish couple behind us, I thought that the differences that separate us might also make life more interesting. Sure, there was a comfort in the grade school where everyone had the same upbringing and life experience, when everything outside our realm of experience was showed to us on TV. I was more interested in visiting the “Land of the Lost” than I was any area outside South Philly. I could go home and watch Rerun and Dee, or Chico and the Man through the safe non-descript dialogue of a white sitcom writer. But as I grew older and wiser, I found I was right. Life is more interesting thanks to all those differences.

Today, I try to instill in my kids a sense of understanding, tolerance, and realization that it’s never a good thing to wear plaid pants or suit jackets. I think they’ll do just fine, even after they decide to move out of the safety of South Philly. Although it's too bad that “What’s Happenin'” is hard to find on TV, even in syndication. I miss Dee. She was funny as hell.

Face the Book.

2009-02-10T23:24:00.002-05:00

So, I took a little time off from writing the blog. Sorry, I have no excuse. I could come up with a whole bunch of them though. You know, the holidays, writer’s block, laziness, procrastination, loss of limb, the heartbreak of psoriasis, a nasty cold, a puma ate my Mac, preparing class lessons, making sure my Mogwai doesn't get wet, etc. Screw that. I’m just gonna say that I’m back and I’m writing again. So there it is. And here I go.

Okay, maybe there is another excuse. It’s called Facebook, and I’m addicted to it. For those two or three people out there who don’t know what it is, it’s a social networking website than puts you in touch with people you see and talk to everyday, those you haven’t seen or heard from in years, some you might have forgotten completely, people you have never met but know from being in the ad business for so long, or people you have never met, don’t know at all, but somehow have the same friends, and they sent you a friend request and as everyone knows, the more friends you have, the cooler person you are, so you add them to your friend list. And it’s all pretty cool.

The thing is, it is addictive and I find myself checking it as much as I check my e-mail or my nose to see if anything nasty is hanging out of it, which I do really often. Probably too often. And I find myself intrigued by what’s going on in people’s lives more than what’s going on in my nose. So much so, that real news is often pushed to the farthest reaches of my interest. I had no idea there were huge disastrous fires in Australia, but I knew what I guy I went to high school with had for dinner the other night. Sure, the economy is in the shitter, but I take comfort in knowing that some woman I worked with in another lifetime made her husband shovel the driveway. I couldn’t tell you who Obama chose for his cabinet, but I can tell you the name of a dog owned by a guy who knows someone who knows someone who worked with someone I worked with at an agency 14 years ago.

It’s all very distracting, which isn’t always such a bad thing. Being distracted by things on the Internet, such as games porn or social networking sites, is a nice break from the stress of everyday life. If I’m feeling totally out of control, I can check on Facebook and find out that someone else’s life is pretty damn out of control too. People’s status postings are like little windows into who they are and what they’re thinking or doing. And as the voyeur that I am, it’s all very intriguing. The more frequent the the post, the more minute the details they give. And yes, even I admit that it can get a little annoying at times, and probably a bit narcissistic. When someone posts that they’re on the train to New York and then an half hour later post that they’re in New York and then another half hour later to say that they’re eating a corned beef sandwich in the East Village, honestly, that’s a bit much even for me. I’m glad your life is so very exciting and jet-setting, but can’t you just say that you’re going to New York for the day and you’ll be back later with a stomach full of Jewish deli meat, and call it a day? I actually prefer to post more generic status updates, such as “Steve can get you a toe,” or “Steve can make the sun rise, sprinkle it with dew…” So while I’m getting insights into everyone else’s lives, they’re getting movie dialogue and lyrics from cheesy musicals of the ‘70s.

But it’s also fun to think about some of the people I’ve crossed paths with over the years and find out they still actually have lives. Before Facebook, it was kind of the “out of sight, out of mind” thing. If you haven’t heard through the grapevine that they’ve died, then you always just assume they are out there somewhere doing something with someone for some reason. And before they became my friend on Facebook, I didn’t care who, what or where they were doing what they were doing. Now I kinda do. Maybe my life is just too friggin’ sad and empty.

There were plenty of times I would do the “whatever happened to…” quiz with friends I’ve stayed in touch with over the years. And the answer used to be, “I dunno, last I heard he was married to a trucker in Ohio.” Now, if that person is on Facebook, when the “whatever happened to…” thing comes up, I can answer with a resounding, “He bought a ferret for his daughter and it bit him in the nads!” Awesomeness.

Then there are the pictures that people post. It’s nice when you can see what someone is up to with photos. But do there have to be so many photos of people at bars, holding a drink, giving the peace sign and sticking their tongue out? I would hold those pictures back and keep them from public display. The web has become the breeding ground for public disgrace, just ask Michael Phelps. (Yeah, I heard that news. Someone posted it on Facebook.) Based on some photos people post, I’m assuming they have no plans to run for political office or land in the public spotlight any time soon. The pictures of people’s kids are cute and fun, and that’s the kind of photos I usually post. In fact, I have no photos of me, other than my profile pic. Honestly, I don’t mind looking at you, but there’s no need to subject you to my face. If you’re really that interested in seeing me on vacation or hanging out with friends, I’ll be happy to send you a photo. Just ask. Although next time I’m in a bar, making a peace sign and sticking out my tongue, I’ll be sure to slap in it in my photo album for ya.

Apparently, in a lot of social circles these days, it’s very much the in-thing to ask someone if they’re on Facebook, as much as asking what you do for a living or where you get your hair done. I don’t really run in these circles. In most of the groups I find myself around, the questions are usually more like “Did you fart?” or “Does this look infected to you?” The whole Facebook phenomenon definitely has its fans and you know when you are in the presence of people who might be part of that. And it’s also pretty easy to decide who you want to find your profile and who you don’t. Sorry, if you pop your collar, I’m ignoring your friend request.

So, anyway, yeah, I’ve been hanging a lot on Facebook. And I’m not ashamed of it. I have lots of friends, old and new, from just about every time in my life. And it’s nice seeing them again. Even if it’s only to read about how a guy I had an economics class with in college is getting ready for a dentist appointment. Oh well, at least I know he didn’t get a sex change and move to Miami, even though that’s what I had heard before Facebook.

Another year older. Another year closer to adult diapers.

2008-12-15T01:15:00.001-05:00

I'm turning 45. That's just a hop and a skip away from 50. (Not a hop, skip and a jump. I gave up jumping at 40. And skipping, well, that I don't do often, especially when others are around.) It's a bit scary. I never thought I would be where I am now at this age. Need I go into all the ugly details? No, I need not. It would only depress the living crap out of me. Anyway, I've been thinking a lot about that whole thing. And I realized that I am where I am in life because of myself. Not like fate or kismet or any cosmic mumbo jumbo intervened like The A-Team. It's our decisions in life that lead to our situation (or non-situation). I've made some bad decisions and some good ones, I've done dumb things and smart things. All of which have placed me clearly smack dab in the middle of the happiness meter. I'm not a millionaire playboy, which is where, as a teen, I pictured myself at the ripe old age of 45. Actually, when I was a kid, I don't know if I ever pictured myself as 45. I just pictured my 13-year-old body living like an adult millionaire playboy. Secret double-life and all. But I'm also not a down-and-out bum with bunions and a drinking problem.

Oh, man, listen to me. I sound like some guy on his deathbed considering his life. I should have 'My Way' playing in the background. I guess birthdays are as good a time as any to become introspective and consider your life. Of course, I'd rather be considering what I'm having for dinner, what I'm going to do on my next free weekend, or how they got that horse to do that thing in the video I saw on the Web the other day. You see, the thing is this, the other night, after I started contemplating all this happy horseshit, I had a couple of things take place that may or may not have me believing that some odd force of destiny is playing "let's fuck with Steve."

First, I meet this girl in Target who I had a great date with well over a year ago. Nothing every came of it, because at that time, she wasn't looking to get involved in a relationship. Anyway, we talk for a bit, and there's some chemistry there, so she suggests we get together again. I'm all for it. In the checkout line, she gives me her number, which I punch into my cellphone. Great, I think, it's pretty cool that we met again. It must be fate. Well, in all the confusion, I close my phone without forgetting to hit 'store.' I check later, and the number is gone. So, I have no way to get in touch with her, since I don't know her last name or e-mail or anything. Great. Fate was there in the beginning, but when it bent over, absent-mindedness shoved it's cold, lubed finger right up its butt.

Another night, I took the kids for Chinese food. And no, it didn't give me such indigestion that I thought I was having a heart attack and was dying, which would get me all misty and thinking about my life. Although, that had happened in the past. I'll save that for a later posting. No, it's the fortune from the cookie that got me. It read "Depart not from the path which fate has you assigned." Pretty deep for a note found in a cookie. Usually, I'll get something more bland than the cookie itself, like "Don't look a gift horse in the mouth," or "You have soy sauce on your shirt, slob." No, this night, I got that path of fate message. Great. I was just thinking that very day about how I don't believe in fate and I get something that tells me to follow it. Is that fate, or what?

So, my problem is, what the hell is the path which fate has assigned me? I didn't get the e-mail memo from fate. "Dear Steve, Your assigned fate is to watch more Aqua Teen Hunger Force, have lots of meaningless first dates, and suffer occasional bouts of irritable bowel syndrome and acid reflux. Remember, don't depart from your path!" Hey, if I got that memo, I'd be golden, well along the assigned path. But no, the fickle finger of fate did not let me in on its cruel little destination plan. For all I know, I could be halfway to Timbuktu and miles from the friggin' yellow brick road of divine will and circumstance. Maybe I should have made that left at Albuquerque.

If there's anything worse than not knowing what you're supposed to be doing with your life, it's not knowing what you're doing with your life at the age of 45. Again, it's not like I have a bad life. I have two awesome kids, a good job, great friends and family, and a really cool Elvis bust in my living room. My health has been relatively good, with no major malfunctions. So what the hell am I whining about? I guess I just really want to know where that path is going. Hopefully, it will digress through a poppy field, and I'll get a good night's sleep or two out of it.

In "A Christmas Carol," when the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come visits, Ebenezer Scrooge is frightened and says that he dreads this ghost most of all. None of us really want to know where we'll wind up down the road, even though we say we would love to know where we'll be. But Scrooge also realizes that if he changes, he'll alter the crappy vision of his future that shows him dead without anyone caring. Which leads me back to where I started. It's all about our decisions that put the curves and the forks in the path of fate. If I had been more careful, I might have been dating that nice girl I met in Target. If I had taken a different career path, I might be driving a Hummer and sipping Cristal from a strippers thong. (Although, I can't imagine what decision I would have made to lead me to become a rapper.) Maybe, just maybe, where I am now is exactly where I'm supposed to be and I'm not to complain. Just don't depart from the path and I won't have a gang of rogues selling my clothes off when I'm dead and gone, as they did to old Scrooge.

This is all a bit too much for my feeble, soon-to-be 45-year-old brain can handle. I think I need to take my Metamucil and get some sleep. Fate will be there when I wake up, and at least I'll be well-rested enough to figure out which fork to eat with, let alone to take in my life's destiny. Why couldn't I just get a fortune that said "He who farts in church sits in his own pew." That, I understand completely.

A Visit From Uncle Nick

2008-12-11T16:10:00.003-05:00

Okay, so the infamous "A Visit From Uncle Nick" poem is starting to make its rounds on the internet again. And I guess it's time to post it here again. Just to update those who don't know...I wrote this about 15 years ago for a family function. I now use it as a Christmas greetings to friends and co-workers. So, thanks to the power of the Web, it's showing up in inboxes and blogs everywhere. Just a reminder, it's copyrighted. If it shows up without my name on it, my Uncle Paulie is gonna come to your house and show you other uses for candy canes.

Enjoy! And Happy Freakin' Holidays.

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

Thanks a lot.

2008-11-24T09:54:00.008-05:00

With all the tough times right now, and probably ahead as well, many people will have to dig deep to find things that they can say they're thankful for this Thanksgiving. But in the spirit of the holiday, I'll give it a shot, without getting all sentimental and crap. I mean, sure, I'm thankful for my kids and their health, I'm thankful for my family and friends, blah, blah, sentimentality...Oh yeah, I'm thankful that I have a job, a good job, that I really like...(You reading this TMX?)

But what about those other things? You know, the small things that make life more interesting. Well, here's my fervent prayer of thanks:

Dear Lord, thank you for my mother's uncanny ability to never cease to amaze me. Not by any herculean efforts or wondrous deeds, mind you. No. I'm thankful that she's a bottomless pool of priceless witticisms that provide me with lots of stories to tell. Like the other night, she was talking about a distant relative that died at the age of 52. She said, "Well, you know, he smoked like a fish." What do you say to that? I asked what kind of fish smokes that much.

Thank you for granting me kids that hate the Jonas Brothers. I didn't expect my son to be caught up in that putrid preteen pop that is sending girls into a frenzy. But I'm really happy that my daughter turns her nose up at the madness. Sure, she's into Hannah Montana and the whole High School Musical insanity, but I'm glad I don't have to hear any of that Jonas Brothers slop as well. Hell, she'd rather listen to the Rocky Horror Soundtrack, and I'm pretty damn thankful for that.

Thanks for the washer and dryer in my apartment. I know you didn't put them there, you have bigger fish to fry (smoking fish, maybe?) But thanks for giving the landlord the foresight to do so. I've been to laundromats and they are the gathering place for every person who has had bed mites at least once in their lives, along with a friend or relative in prison for murder, a home on wheels or one that should be, or has shit stuck in their teeth from dinner...two weeks ago. That is, at least for the laundromats I've been in. Other people may have a different experience. They may be thankful for the fact that their laundromat attracts Home and Garden readers looking to launder their fine garments, while sipping soy double non-fat chai mocha-frappe-lattes from Starbucks. Bully for them.

I'm thankful that I don't have a third nipple. That's just damn weird. Why would you do that to some people, God? Do any of the Jonas Brothers have third nipples?

God, I'm thankful that you had the foresight to create cheese. I really like cheese. The other night, I was in a supermarket, trying to decide what cheese to buy. Should I go with the sharp New York cheddar, or the Colby? Such decisions are never to be made on an empty stomach, because I wound up buying both, and since I'm the only one living full-time in my apartment, I now have two bricks of cheese in my fridge for no one else but me. I'm sure I'll manage to get through them, but I'm not sure what will come first. I'll either run out of crackers or my colon will be bound up tighter than a geisha's feet. So, also, thank you for Fiber One cereal.

Thank you for allowing me to realize if I smell funky. I assume I don't, since no one has told me that I do smell funky. I got on the train the other day and a guy sat down three rows ahead of me. Notice, I said three rows. Not next to me or directly in front or behind me. But three rows ahead. He was a pretty normal looking guy, not your lawyerly type, but not a some sort of street dweller either. But he had a smell. It wasn't the BO smell of a rotten onion that's been under the counter at a hoagie shop smell. It was more like a moldy closet full of old pee diapers kind of smell. Anyway, I'm thankful I don't smell like that.

Finally, thanks for helping me get through another posting on my blog. I really, truly want to write more, and I plan on being more frequent with my updates. I'm just thankful that people seem to enjoy what I write. At least I think so. Actually, I hope so. I'm kind of afraid that if I don't have people reading what I write, I'll wind up sleeping in a laundromat, smelling like bad cheese and smoking like a fish. And we don't want that, do we?

Amen.

Happy Thanksgiving and all the best to you and yours. Whatever yours may be.

Curses!

2008-11-07T16:14:00.019-05:00

So it's fourth grade, and a bully named Louis "Italian Last Name Goes Here" kicked the schoolbag out of my hand and sent it flying into the street. I turned around and called him a 'fucking asshole.' And thus my infatuation with cursing began.

Anyway, I got punched by Louis for calling him a fucking asshole, which he totally was, and I'm sure he grew into a bigger fucking asshole, because let's face it, people never stop being fucking assholes if they're one as a kid. I've come across many. Maybe they don't kick your schoolbag out of your hand, but they find other ways of maintaining their fucking asshole status. I'm sure that prick you work with now was a prick in high school. And that bitch who lives next door to you was a bitch in kindergarten. All that aside, my dropping of the "f-bomb" after school that day was the first big cursing moment I can remember. And as nervous as I felt after doing it, knowing full well I would have to confess it the following Saturday, it was also quite a rush. I had expressed exactly what I thought of that fucking asshole right to his face. Simply calling him an idiot or a dope or a poophead or something fourth graders used back then was not enough. Even just calling him an asshole did not sum it up for me. I went for the gusto. I had opened up a whole new vocabulary. It was expressive, angry and topped with a great big dollop of anti-establishment.

As a Catholic school student, we were made to believe that cursing was a sin, that those words are bad. I would go in the confessional and do the regular rundown of sins, "I lied, I cursed, I disobeyed my parents, I made fun of others..." I'd probably give the same rundown of sins if I set foot into a confessional again, just out of habit. I'm sure the priest would wonder why a grown man is confessing about disobeying his parents. But as a kid, I started to wonder what the big deal was about. I wondered why certain words were considered bad. Was it their meaning? I mean, shit is poop, so why isn't 'poop' considered a swear word? Why isn't intercourse, penis, anus and so forth? If I called Louis a fornicating rectum, shouldn't that be just as bad as 'fucking asshole?'

After that big fucking day of reckoning, I remember hanging out at my friend's house, sneaking into his older brother's room to listen to his comedy albums. (Albums are what we had before CDs, iPods, MP3s, cassette tapes, etc. And no, they weren't made of stone.) He had Cheech & Chong, Bill Cosby, Richard Pryor. But our favorite was George Carlin. We had all seven of those dirty words memorized. Other kids knew all the players on the Phillies or Flyers. We knew the words that could give Sister Jamesita a massive coronary. It was one long nasty string of filth that rolled off the tongue. Shitpissfuckcuntcocksuckermotherfucker AND tits. Oh, Lord, my grandmother is now spinning in her grave. But my dad is probably laughing up there in heaven. I know that in later performances Carlin discussed dropping 'motherfucker' from the list stating that a language expert called him on it, saying it was "a derivative of the word 'fuck.'" And I wonder if Carlin would have added some words to the list if he were still around today. Sorry, I digress from the fucking point. Carlin was brilliant in how he made those words just words. They are only words, after all. Words can't kill or maim. So what the hell is the goddamn problem?

Probably one of the reasons I enjoy 'The Big Lebowski' so much is the script. Almost 250 uses of the word 'fuck.' Each one placed brilliantly in the dialogue for maximum impact and character development. I'll never understand why people complain that there are too many curses in movies and comedy. "Oooh, did there have to be so many curses? Why was that necessary?" Well, as a writer, I'm a slave to naturalism in dialogue. Real people talk that way in every day life. Everyone curses, whether it's to release some anger or emphasize their point. Thank you Clark Gable for not going with, "Frankly, Scarlett, I don't give a pigeon's patootie."

My dad used curses pretty freely, and he was a decent church-going Catholic, who I'm sure is up in heaven right now (if that's where us good Catholics go). As we got older, I remember him even using the word 'fuck' around us. Never around my mother. She would've had a fit. In fact, my mother is not very good at swearing. She'll throw in a random 'shit,' 'damn' or 'hell,' but it just doesn't sound right coming from her. I don't think I'll ever hear my mother call someone a 'fucking jack-off.' Which is probably a good thing. She has her own pronunciation for certain words, like 'prawn' instead of 'prune' and 'Ofrah' instead of 'Oprah.' I can only imagine the confusion on someone's face if my mother called them a 'facking juck-off.'

Today, I enjoy the emphasis those words bring to my vocabulary. As with most of us, driving is always the perfect time to pull out the foul language. "Did you see that idiot cut me off!" is just not as powerful as "Did you see that fucking douche bag cut me off? Stupid prick!" Do I feel the urge to run to confession every time I let a vulgarity rip? Not anymore. I'm thinking there are a lot of worse things I could be doing to get myself into hell than just splashing a few fucks, damns, shits and douche bags into my everyday discussions.

There are some curse words that I find more amenable than others. I guess we all find our favorites. As I mentioned, I do like "douche bag," and I'm guessing because it's not as common as some of the others. It has a certain grossness to it that some of the others don't offer. I also like to throw words together to make new, interesting combinations. It's like a linguistic game for white trash foul-mouths. You know, like shit-sucker, ass-moocher, fuck-knocker. Of course, it's all fun and games until someone loses an eye.

Bottom line, Carlin was right. They're just words. My kids have heard them. My son has dropped a few f-bombs already. They hear them in music, movies and on TV. And while I don't want them to turn into a couple of little trash-mouthed trailer park rugrats, I can't expect them not to use what's become pretty much part of the American lexicon. As long as they're strategically placed, in context and not too over the top. I don't think I'll ever want to hear my fair-haired little princess calling someone a shit-sucking douchebag. Although I'm sure she would make 'shit-sucking douchebag' really adorable.

Ad Aged.

2008-10-15T15:33:00.010-04:00

I've been in the "ad biz" for more than 23 years. To you youngsters out there, that means I started before there were computers in the offices. I started when there were still things called "marker comps." I started when there was no internet, cell phones were big monstrosities like Radar used on M*A*S*H, and you had to use hot wax to place copy on a layout. It was friggin' awesome. Yeah, I'm like one of those old farts who yells at the kids on their front lawn and complains that the good ole' days are gone. The kind of rambling that usually leads to the phrase, "you don't know how good you've got it now." I get the looks from my twenty-something co-workers every time I start a sentence with the phrase, "I remember when..." It's that look they probably give to their parents, knowing that someday they'll have to change their adult diapers and wipe the slobber from their chin.

I can go on and on about how computers have taken over and ideas have suffered for it. So much time is spent on making the spec piece look perfect that the actual concept is secondary to visual, font and layout. The client used to see a drawing done in marker, lines where copy was meant to be, and body copy typewritten (and I mean from a typewriter), stapled to the layout. It was all about the concept. Like I said, I can go on and on about it, but I won't. Good work is still getting done out there. Somewhere.

What I really want to go on and on about is all the fun I actually had back then. Yes, I remember when...working in Philly ad agencies was friggin' fun. Some of my best friends were found through the time spent working together at various ad agencies. It's hard to believe we actually got work done back then with all the insanity going on. I'll name some names, only because if you're lucky enough to know some of these great folks, then you'll get the stories even more. We were more than just creative in our work. We were creative in having fun.

The first major agency I worked for in the city was Ketchum, back in the late '80s. It was a time when clients had big budgets, and agencies had more than a day to create an ad campaign. There was some major talent at that agency at that time. And many were talented at screwing around. We had happy hours every Friday afternoon starting at 4:00 sharp. It was a small scale Mad Men moment. The management team once put up $75 for me to eat the worm from the bottle of Tequila. Easy money. Not out of place at a corner bar. But it took place in the wood paneled boardroom.

We rode bikes through the hallways. Smoked in our offices. And lit small fires. We had one guy spray paint a drawing table, and the fumes were so bad, they had to send a couple pregnant women home. We stapled slices of ham to the lunchroom wall and made creepy announcement over the loudspeaker. One of my heroes, an old school art director named Frank Campana, was an ascot-wearing kind of guy who probably sniffed too many Sharpies in his day. But a damn fine art director. I once coated the bottom of a big metal ashtray with Bestine. As I smoked I tossed the match into the ashtray on the floor of his office. A tower of flame shot out of it, then quickly was gone. It left an acrid smell of chemicals in the air and it nearly gave Frank a heart attack. But Buzz and Shawn, Ray and the rest of us peed our pants laughing, and Frank needed an extra martini that night.

I used to play Tom Jones' "It's not unusual" loudly in my office, and several of us would dance on my desk. I was thinner then and I haven't danced on a desk since then either.

Time passed, and we moved into a new building. Michael B., our copy director had the first computer. One of those early Macs. We were amazed. So we figured we'd fuck with him. We put a walkie talkie in the ceiling over his computer. Then proceeded to say things throughout the day as if he were intercepting messages from some of the construction workers on the upper floors. He swore his computer was picking up the voices. After he complained to the office manager, who was in on the joke, I began making threatening messages about the "prick on the 32nd floor complaining about our walkie talkies." Not sure if Mike B. ever figured it out.

Buzz kept a tape recorder on pause in his cube. If anyone had to fart, they would go in there, put their butt on the microphone and let it rip. We called it the "Beef Tape." Everyone did it. From Sam, the president, to Karen, the copywriter. We had 45 minutes of noisy wind on tape for all prosperity. Why? Because farts are friggin' funny, no matter how old you are. In fact, Buzz once lit a fart in my cube and fell backwards, taking the entire wall down with him. Yeah, like I said, farts are funny.

At RB&T, now the Star Group, we once held a Hawaiian luau while the entire management team was away on a trip to Hawaii. We even brought in a whole roasted pig. Put it right in the middle of the marble conference room table. Another time, I began filling an art director's office with balloons while he was away on vacation. The best part was, everyone got involved. Each time someone passed, they would blow one up and toss it in. Saved me a lot of breath.

Over the next few years, there were lots of other places and lots of other people. I worked with one of my best friends, Jim, at three different agencies. First, at the stiff-upper-lipped Reimel-Carter, where we actually had to wear a tie everyday. So naturally, I went out and bought every vile, obnoxious neckwear I could find. From a Buckwheat tie to a tie with King Kong on it. So, obviously there wasn't much fun going on there. Made some good friends, and we laughed and smoked in the stairwell, but no dancing on desks or sneaking video cameras into the ladies room.

When Jim and I worked together again at a different place, our big thing was tossing paper airplanes out of the window, often right down to the busy 16th and Walnut intersection. We once made one out of a 3'x 2' sheet of paper. This thing was gigantic. It flew like an anchor, right onto the top of a passing bus. By this time, the internet was exploding. I was online, chatting and playing games. Interaction with co-workers started dwindling.

Over the past several years, and several agencies, that interactive influence has definitely dampened some of the craziness that went on in those early days. But with the right mix of people, fun can still be contagious. At another agency in Center City, Elkman/Alexander, I found myself working with Buzz again, along with a bunch of other talented wackos. We used to screw with the little creative director guy. He was a bit short, so outside his office, we posted a note with an arrow, reading, "You must be this tall to be creative director." He was so oblivious, we once replaced the big framed black and white picture behind his desk with a black and white picture of boobs. He didn't notice it for almost two weeks. Even the female president thought it was hilarious.

At Brownstein, we once videotaped one of the art directors throwing a full chocolate cake out the window. It flew across the back alley and smashed across the roof of an SUV parked on the top level of the parking garage across the way. The alarm went off, but it didn't deter us from making sure we videotaped the owner coming out later to discover the chocolaty mess on his car. Okay, it was kind of mean, but funny as shit.

It's amazing how many of those agencies are gone. Ketchum, Reimel/Carter, Weightman, Elkman. And now, as I chat via IM with a co-worker who is just a few feet away, it puts it all in perspective. That personal interaction just isn't as prevalent anymore. People don't get up and run over to their co-workers desk, let alone dance on it. You have instant connection to your friends outside the office from your computer. You can send funny emails or links to funny videos. Or put on your headphones and just listen to music. But, here I go again, doing the old wheezer crap and pining over the "good ole days."

It's good to get together every so often with those people that I spent so much time concepting with, creating with, farting. We reminisce about those times and laugh alot about the crap we used to pull.

Of course, we do it mostly via e-mail.

Fresh Meet.

2008-09-29T11:21:00.011-04:00

I'm rather proud of myself. I did something the other night that I didn't think I could do. No, it wasn't as big as climbing a mountain or even learning to swim. Hell it wasn't even something like making the perfect gravy. Actually, I went to a nightclub all by myself. Oooh, big deal, you're thinking. But it kinda is. Let me say this: I'm not a nightclub type person. I really don’t find much pleasure in walking sideways through tightly packed crowds, waiting forever for overpriced drinks, and inhaling the rather obnoxious, and probably carcinogenic, mingling of perfume, cologne, mint gum, sweat, alcohol and hairspray. Not the most attractive olfactory experience, but apparently it’s like spraying pheromones in a monkey cage. Because the only difference between the monkey cages and the nightclub I went to is swollen red asses. At least at the beginning of the night.

But I went because I didn't really feel like spending another Saturday night at home alone. My best friend convinced me that I should take the chance. What did I have to lose, right? So, I got the most "clubby" clothes I could dig up from my closet, I didn't think a bowling shirt, jeans and my Converse All-Stars would work. I bathed in some cologne, and bought a pack of gum. Hey, I figured if I was going to go for it, I might as well do it up. The gum was a nice touch, don't you think?

I went to a place known to be a real pick-up joint, otherwise known as a “meat market.” A place where I would find people of my age group. I honestly had no intentions of ‘getting lucky.’ Oh sure, you're thinking, "Yeah right, Steve-o, you know you wanted to wet the willie." But, really, I wasn't going for that. Just wanted to get out, have a drink, people watch, and wind up with a good story for my blog. Obviously, I got one.

There are two words that describe this place: Holy. Shit.

It was crowded with people aging from 25 to 75. There were people that could have been my kids, and a few people that could have been my grandparents. Humankind in every size, shape, color and financial standing filled the place. There was slicked hair, high hair, mullets, guys in cowboy hats, women with way too much body for the outfits they were wearing, and guys who apparently lost the ability to button their shirts after the first three bottom buttons. I'm not sure how many of these people got through college or could put a sentence together, but one thing was certain, they knew how to check out the opposite sex. I always thought that it was best to be discreet when looking at a woman. I guess the rules of attraction pretty much go out the door, the minute you get your hand stamped at it. There was nothing discreet about this place. I saw guys watching women as if they were 350 pounds and eyeing up a bowl of Rocky Road ice cream. Drooling was not only acceptable, it was expected. The humanity was squished together on the dance floor, moving, sweating, grinding. Cold and flu germs being shared willy-nilly.

I'm not a math person by any means, but apparently the formula is this: The ratio of overbite directly correlates to the lack of dance technique among white men. Also, it seems, the more chest pubes or cleavage showing, the lower the IQ. Another equation is that tighter pants plus tight tops equal more bulges. Especially when the person is a bit over the average age of a cheerleader, but still insists on dyeing their hair the color it was back when they were schtupping the quarterback under the bleachers.

I guess most people were there looking to get lucky. And I don't mean lucky in love. I seriously doubt that anyone hoped to meet the person they would take home to mom for Sunday dinner. I doubt if they even hoped to have them around in time for Sunday brunch. Sloppy, anonymous, stanky and without any regard for personal safety was the theme of the night. And that was just on the dance floor.

I also discovered a unique trend where mostly bleach-blonde caucasian women in tight outfits grind their buttocks into the crotches of large, bald football player types. I saw several incidences of these public displays. I myself, not being from either demographic, was unable to participate in the festivities.

So, my night was like this: I had a couple beers, and watched in awe at the bizarre mix of male and female forms and body language. After a bit, I left the safety of my little corner of the bar and began to circle the dance floor, trying not to look creepy like some of the other wankers hanging around the edge of the floor, looking like pedophiles at a Hannah Montana concert. Suddenly, I was molested. Yes, me, in my faux dance club clothing, I was groped. A red-nailed hand reached out from the crowd and grabbed my chest. Naturally, I offered my butt as an bonus grope. The woman was extremely friendly, and even though she claimed she thought I was someone else, I used the mistake to my advantage. We talked a bit and then began dancing. Well, I was dancing. She was sliding most of herself on my thigh and torso. Then the most bizarre coincidence occurred. Here I was, on the cusp of possibly doing what I swore I didn't go there to do, when this woman's friend came over and asked where their other friend was. She pointed across the floor, and there was a woman I had met online and was supposed to meet for a date the next day. Oh yeah. A woman I was chatting with online and had planned a date with was friends with the woman who was using me as a stripper pole. She and I danced, chatted and realized we probably didn't have the right chemistry for any kind of relationship.

I left, sweaty, alone, and smelling of everything that comes before sex. Even though I knew I would have to burn the shirt I was wearing, I was definitely proud that I did it. I had ventured into the wilds of singledom alone. I had armed myself with the right attitude and made it through the night unscathed, but not untouched by the whole experience. Will I return?

Fucking A-right, I will.

Wheels of Misfortune.

2008-09-18T11:39:00.009-04:00

The year is 1986. I was working in North Jersey right out of college. I was making next to nothing and living paycheck to paycheck, as most recent grads do. And I landed a date with a girl who lived in Manhattan with her parents, both of whom were rather successful. Her father was a heart surgeon. In New York. Yeah, let's talk money. I met her through my roommate, who was also from money. Old. Boston. Money. Anyway, I go to pick her up at her parent's place on one of the upper sides of Central Park. East, West, I don't remember, but clearly, the richer of the two sides. The doorman greets me, asks me who I'm there to see. I tell him and he calls up. I get on the elevator with the elevator operator. We arrive at the floor and the doors open...wait for it...here it comes...into the friggin' apartment. Yeah, right into the apartment!! Okay, we're talking money. Full length windows that overlook Central Park. Furniture that smelled like the inside of a bank vault. And vases that looked like if you broke it, you bought it with your life. Her parents walked out of an episode of Dynasty (remember, this is 1986)and into the living room. The girl comes out and says she knows a great place for sushi, if that's okay. Now, I'm an Italian guy from South Philly just out of college. What did I know of raw fish, other than the occasional undercooked Mrs. Paul's Fish Stick? I say "Sure!" At that point, I'm wondering how much credit I have left on my Visa card. We leave her place. I'm trying hard to impress her with my witty banter, until I get to the car. At which point, there is absolutely no witty banter that would save me. I could be the wittiest, Oscar Wilde-spewingist, New Yorker-quotingist son-of-a-bitch in the world, and it wouldn't matter. Because I'm driving my father's hand-me-down Plymouth Volare. Yellow Plymouth Volare. Did I mention it was yellow? And a Plymouth Volare? Without the the rich, Corinthian leather of Ricardo Montelban's Chrysler Cordoba. No, it had the stain-guarded fabric upholstery of a yellow Plymouth Volare. Any hopes of making it with this princess died the moment I walked over to the yellow, fabric-interiored Plymouth Volare. Not that she was shallow, but it was a yellow Plymouth Volare after all. The kind of car a wife would never let a husband purchase. The kind of car driven by old guys who wore their pants up to right under their nipples. It would have had a cheap crack whore laughing, even if I pulled up to her with hundred dollar bills taped to my forehead. It was yellow. It was a Plymouth Volare.

That's pretty much been the deal with cars for me. Not the finest of love affairs.

The first car I drove was a hand-me-down '76 Ford Mustang. Oh, wait, if you're thinking, "Oh, a Mustang, that's cool!" Well, it wasn't. No, not a cool, souped up Mustang. It was a small four-cylinder puke green Mustang II with rust eating a hole through the floor and the smell of something dead seeping from the vents. But I loved that car. And I drove it into the ground. Which is why I eventually wound up with the dreaded Plymouth Volare. Okay, the Volare had some advantages. For example, if you were the suavest bastard in the world and could actually persuade a girl to go out with you despite your car, it had a bench seat in the front. Something that has been gone from automobiles for almost a century now. The bench seat was good, because the girl could cuddle in next to you as you drove. Or lay down for other things...like to hide from the friends that she didn't want seeing her in a Plymouth Volare. A yellow one, no less.

Once I bought a used Ford Escort. This little deathtrap did very well at getting me from point A to point B. Point A being "Hey, at least it's a car", point B being "I don't care...I fucking hate this little piece of shit." It was grey, ugly and grey and ugly. It needed a quart of oil at every stop sign. It did very well on gas, actually. Because most of the time, it was undriveable. And it rattled when you drove over 35 mph. I mean really rattled. Like just leave your vertebrae on the seat rattled. It was like a vibrating bed in a cheesy, cheap motel. And just like a cheap motel room, it smelled like bedbug feces and head grease, and had unrecognizable stains on some of the upholstery. Basically, if the Volare was the moth-balled old uncle who wore sweaters in the summer and would cough up chunky phlegm, then the Ford Escort was the slow cousin who would scare the neighbors kids and eat his own boogers.

When I was married I did the minivan thing. And I'm actually not ashamed to admit it. I actually liked it. I mean, it wasn't like I was going around trying to pick up women or anything. I was married! It was a Nissan Quest, and it drove well, had a VCR in it to allow Barney to entertain the kiddies, and you could fit a lot of stuff in the back. I thought of it as a diner waitress, or a broom or a plowhorse – you could count on it to get the job done, even if it didn't look all that pretty.

So now I'm at the point where I need a new car. The dented PT Cruiser has surpassed the 100K mark and now sounds like a frigate ship that's been attacked on too many occasions by marauding pirates. It creaks. It knocks. It squeels. It wheezes. It's downright more embarrassing than driving a PT Cruiser should be. Often when I'm on a date, I feel much like I did back in '86 with the yellow Plymouth Volare. Embarrassed. So I turn up the tunes a little louder and make a few jokes about the car. Have you ever had to make a joke to cover up something? There ya go. Of course, I did buy it during the ill-fated disaster of a second marriage, so that could have something to do with my disdain for the vehicle. It's got a sizable dent on the driver's side door that happened one night while I slept next to the Antichrist. I never did get it fixed. It's like a battle scar. A constant reminder of the twisted wreck that union turned out to be. So, now it's time to move on.

I actually put an ad up on Craigslist to sell the car. I got a dozen scam e-mails from people who promised to send me a "cashier's cheque" and would have their delivery service pick up the car, and one e-mail from a guy who said he would show me his penis for a test ride. I'm not that desperate to get rid of it.

Another problem is, I hate the whole car buying process. It's like being cornholed by a sleazy door-to-door salesman. Which is actually a pretty good assessment. But my best friend's dad and brother-in-law work in a car dealership and I've been told to go see them to get a deal. Okay, so I'll still get cornholed, but at least I'll know who is doing the cornholing.

Or maybe I'll wait to see if I can get a date with that girl in Manhattan again. When I pull up in the dented PT Cruiser instead of the yellow Plymouth Volare, I'm sure she'd be impressed with how far I've come over the past 22 years.

Girl Trouble.

2008-08-17T10:32:00.010-04:00

My son doesn't have a problem. He thinks he does, but I don't see it that way at all. The thing is this: he told me that all he thinks about is girls. He considers it a problem because he can't stop thinking about them. I'm thinking that's not a problem. Sounds like a normal twelve-year-old boy going through puberty. Or a normal 40-year-old man going through his day.

The other thing is, for some reason, he doesn't believe that he'll ever have a girlfriend. I tell him that he doesn't need a girlfriend at his age. He's only 12. At this point in his life, he needs comic books and to know when not to pick his nose. Of course, there are some people who should never have a girlfriend, but that's a different story. And when it comes right down to it, does anyone really "need" another person? Millions of songs, movies, books and such have been made about "needing" someone. But it's kind of a biological fact that all we really need is air, water and the occasional roast beef sandwich to really survive in life. Sure, having family around is nice (as long as they don't live too close), and we find ourselves wanting some kind of social interaction, even if it's with a dog or the latest episode of "Deal or No Deal." But, we can pretty much survive without ever mating, and without ever having a significant other. Just ask Richard Simmons. I didn't say we'd be happy as him, but we could get by. Hearing this hasn't stopped my son's pubescent obsession with girls.

On our recent trip to the sunny shores of Wildwood, New Jersey, he would elbow me as we walked the boardwalk, wanting me to check out girls he thought were cute. Of course, all the girls were around his age, so I felt like a creepy old man checking out adolescent girls with my son. But he would always follow it up with, "She's cute, but she wouldn't like me."

He thinks he's a nerd, which in some ways, he is. And that's something else I don't see as a bad thing. Like me, he's not into sports. He loves to draw, like me. He's got a creative mind, like me. He has his own tastes in clothing and music and doesn't care what everyone else likes...like me. He's smart...like his mother. Yet he sees all this as a detriment in winning over the opposite sex. I tell him that someday he'll meet women who don't see it as a negative. He'll be the creative, sensitive guy who isn't planted in front of the TV every time a game is on. He'll be the guy that can carry on an intelligent conversation, and has interests beyond the mainstream. And he'll attract a woman who appreciates all that. And from experience, he probably won't find her on Match.com. But now, he's still only 12 years old and forward-thinking isn't in his vocabulary. Plus, according to him, most girls his age don't get it. They still think the jerks are cool. You know, the kids with the long shorts and baseball caps on sideways, who listen to rap and call some quarterback their idol. The same kids who will be running numbers and detailing other people's cars when they grow up. So he continues to see himself as a nerdy kid with girls on the brain and no chance of finding true love.

I like to think that everyone, no matter how privileged or beautiful, has at one point in their life, been through some sort of awkward period. You know, a time when you might have thought you were too nerdy, too fat, too dumb, too smart, or just not good enough at something. I pretty much went through all those things. Just last week, in fact. I've always been self-conscious, but now, I try to wear some of those things proudly. Yes, I'm a nerd, a geek. But I find it suits me well. Just because I love movies, comic book conventions and retro toys doesn't necessarily make me a loser with the opposite sex. I'm not the creepy, sweaty, dress-up-like-a-stormtrooper for the new Star Wars movie premier type of guy. So, I like bowling shirts and standing in line to see the latest superhero flick the weekend it opens. Is that so weird? I guess to some people it is, but they are the same people who find painting your face and screaming at a football game normal.

I've learned some things about women, and I try to impose this on my son. The good ones want to know what's inside you. If they're not looking on the inside, then they're probably not worth hanging out with. I know, most guys are shallow, and only look at appearance. But, I've discovered that some women can be that way too. I am who I am, and I'm not going to change because I "need" to be in a relationship. I've also taught him that what's most important when obsessing over girls is respect. Something my dad instilled in me. I remember as a kid, my dad asking me if I looked at his Playboy magazines. I told him I had. He said that those aren't the kind of girls you marry. I was really frigging disappointed. I loved my dad, but that advice was not very good. A Playboy Bunny could see the real me and love me for who I am. All while posing naked on a fuzzy faux polar bear rug. And I could look beyond the perfectly airbrushed body and see the real woman inside. Besides, my dad would have fallen all over himself if one of his sons showed up for Thanksgiving dinner with a Playboy model. But that's beside the point.

Someone said that I should be happy knowing that at least my son's not gay. I guess it would be weird if he were elbowing me on the boardwalk checking out boys. But I would love him just the same. I just want him to be himself and never worry about what other people think of him. I'm sure the whole "no girl will ever like me" thing is just a phase. I'm sure he'll get over it and find some self-esteem. I did. Several months after running screaming from my nightmare second marriage.

They say that men think of sex every seven seconds. I don't know if they've ever done studies on that, but maybe they could start with my son, after all, he's got a lifetime of seven seconds to look forward to.

PDQ: 20 Years of Rockin' the Free World!

2008-08-03T22:22:00.006-04:00

My musical career was pretty short-lived and didn't make me an international star. But it was damn fun. In fact, this past April was the 20th anniversary of the beginning of my band. We didn't put out a special two-CD set to commemorate the event or anything, so don't bother rushing to your local FYE or hunting on iTunes or Amazon to find it. In fact, we never put out a CD. I'm sure there are some bootleg videos of us around somewhere. Actually, we were just a cover band that played at weddings and such. Not that cool. And we haven't played together in over ten years. But, as I said, it was damn fun while it lasted.

The band was called PDQ. Not after the "pretty darn quick" line, or after the chocolate milk mix. It was after the names of the guys in the band. Pomeroy, DiMeo, Quatrone. Pretty clever, huh? So, my two brothers were in the band, one on drums, the other on bass, two Pomeroy brothers, both guitar, and one Quatrone who played keyboards. I sang. Oh yeah, I was the lead singer. Which meant, I got all the chicks. Actually, it would have meant that if I was really good looking and in a real band.

As I said, we performed at weddings and assorted parties at church halls and Knights of Columbus events, for people in their 50s, 60s and 70s, playing songs from the '50s, '60s and '70s. Oldies that old people could dance to. Or at least shuffle to. Sometimes we would play something that would send the seniors clamoring for their nitro pills. I'll never forget the time we threw "Expressway to Your Heart" into the mix at a Holy Name Society Valentine's Day dance. I'm sure there were a few Depends that needed changing after that. From the looks on their faces, you would have thought we were playing Ozzy Osbourne or Metallica or something. Of course, it never failed, the geezers would arrive early, as we were setting up, and even though they had the pick of the whole place for seating, they would place themselves right next to the speakers. So you do the math: old person + seat next to speaker x live music = old person complaining that the music is too loud.

At the Christmas party we played every year for the same Holy Name Society (Oh, yeah, we got the big jobs) there was one guy who always came up and requested "Jingle Bells" in Italian. I don't speak Italian. For the couple Italian songs we did, I had the lyrics written out phonetically, like "Vo-La-Ray...Wo wo. Con-Tar-Ray...wo wo wo wo..." So this old guy would get on the mike and sing "Jingle Bells" in Italian. People in the crowd began holding up their lighters and swaying. It was awesome.

Okay, maybe not.

Truth is, we didn't just play to the geriatric crowd. We actually became very popular in South Philly for our serenades. Lately, the tradition of serenades has kind of waned, but back then, we were the serenade band. We played dozens of them. What is a serenade? Well, for those of you not Italian from South Philly, a serenade takes place the night before a wedding, when the groom hires a band to play for the bride at her home. It would become a huge block party, the bride's family serving scallopine, beer and cannolis, streets getting blocked off, people getting drunk. It was a blast. We would have the guests, neighbors, and passersby dancing to "Hang on Sloopy," "Twist and Shout," and "The Mummer's Strut." We had to know that last one or we would be blackballed from ever playing in South Philadelphia again.

We had a regular playlist we would try to stick to, because it worked well. In that playlist was nestled a song called, "If you wanna be happy." If you're not familiar with it, the lyrics went something like, "If you wanna be happy for the rest of your life, never make a pretty woman your wife, so from my personal point of view, get an ugly girl to marry you." It goes on like that through the whole song. Sure, not the most PC tune to hit the airwaves, but a fun song that people generally liked and danced to. Except at this one wedding where the bride looked like a five foot bowling ball with the face of Curly from the Three Stooges. I remember singing the song and looking out over the crowd. You might have thought I was stomping on a puppy's head while singing. It was as if they all were very aware that the bride was as ugly as a donkey's ass, and we were making fun of her. It was uncomfortable, but we pressed on...singing "Don't let your friends say you have no taste, go ahead and marry her anyway..."

We didn't make a whole lot of money, but we had a great time playing. That's what music has always been for me. Fun. Even if it meant scaring a few octogenarians along the way. Hell, they needed to lighten up anyways.

I miss those days of singing with the band. It was a great outlet for my wannabe singer personae. Nowadays, I get my kicks singing out loud in the car or the occasional karaoke night. The guys from the band are all a bit older now, some in their 60s, just like the people we used to play for. But then again, so are the Rolling Stones. Paul McCartney knows what it's like when he's 64. And The Who are very far from Teenage Wasteland. Okay, I know how ridiculous it is comparing PDQ to The Who. I doubt if Pete Townsend ever windmilled in front of a bunch of blue hairs in a church basement. Or Mick ever pursed his lips in front of the home of a human wrecking ball the night before her wedding. But a reunion would be most welcome. I know my brothers would be into it. I haven't talked to the other guys, but who knows. You may soon be reading about a PDQ jam session, I hope.

In the mean time, those old people will just have to complain about something other than "Runaround Sue" being too loud while trying to gum their baked rigatoni at the St. Patty's Day Social.

Rock on, PDQ, wherever they are now.

The Angels Wanna Wear My Red Shoes...Screw Them.

2008-07-16T13:28:00.011-04:00

This past weekend, I bought a pair of old school red Converse sneakers. I have a black pair that I got at Target, the best store in the universe, and found the red ones on sale at Hot Topic. At the risk of sounding totally "Sex and the City" gay, I had to have them. In just three short days, they have become my favorite footwear.

Currently, Converse are hot, so naturally, they're overpriced. So getting my red pair on sale at half the regular price was a real coup. I wore them to work this morning, proud to show off my red Converse, with their blinding white laces. And people noticed. A woman I didn't know commented that she liked my sneakers because they reminded her of the Keds she used to wear as a kid. She had to be around my age. I know that because most of the people wearing Converse today didn't wear them as a kid. When they were kids, their sneakers had silhouettes of Michael Jordan on them, or the famous swoosh that told them to "Just do it." Now, Converse All-stars and Chuck Taylors are fashion statements, worn by the creative community and pissed-off rockers who give the finger to paparazzi. I'm not wearing them for any of that. I have no plans to flip off any cameras pointed in my direction, or to show that I am a card-carrying member of the "creative community." I've always wanted a pair, but they were hard to find. But like that woman this morning, I like them because they remind me of my past.

They feel like my childhood, running around the streets of South Philly in my awesome new sneaks. Playing stickball, riding my bike with the banana seat, butterfly handlebars and sissy bar in the back, and chasing the Mr. Softee truck. Of course, back then, we called similar sneakers "bobos." There was even a song, sung to the tune of "The River Kwai March" that went: Bobos, they make your feet feel fine. Bobos, they cost a dollar ninety-nine. Bobos, they're worn by hobos, so get your bobos, your bobos today." What a shining moment in music history.

You actually could buy them in five and dime stores. Yes, we had five and dime stores when I was younger. If you don't know what they are, picture a smaller, homegrown version of Wal-Mart, where you would ride over on your sweet Huffy, walk around in your canvas and rubber sneakers and buy cheap candy, cool Six-Million Dollar Man t-shirts, the latest 45 RPM singles, a new goldfish, and Revell monster models, all for the change in your pockets.

The sneakers remind me of summer days when it was a daily occurrence to disappear from the front of your house until lunch, then again until dinner, then once more until curfew. And never once did my mother call the police to report a missing kid or worry about strangers leading us off to our doom. They were on my feet when it was perfectly acceptable to play with toy guns and shoot imaginary bad guys, like Nazis and VietCong, not in a video game, but out in the street. I used to have sneakers like this when I would ride over to Annamarie Martino's house to see if she was outside playing. I remember attaching those metal skates to the bottom of my Converse, using that key that you always managed to lose, and rolling on metal wheels up and down Colorado Street. In fact, by the end of the summer, my pair usually bore the scars of those metal skate grips up at the front. I was wearing them the first time I snuck a peek at one of my dad's Playboy magazines. And when I first discovered Mad Magazine and Archie and Batman comics. All of these things helped shape who I am today and why I do what I do. So, I might consider these sneakers my personal time machine, leading me through the path of how I got here.

I pity the people who see these sneakers and just don't get it. I understand if they're just not your style. But some people just consider themselves too mature, too sophisticated, too conservative to wear them. And they consider anyone my age wearing them to be too old and immature to be wearing such frivolous things. They chuckle when they see people like me still wearing them, as if I must be crazy. But, let's think about it: if we lose those slivers of fun and creativity and simplicity we had in our youth, it's time to hang it up. If you can't get up and dance around your house to a song you loved as a kid, even when you're alone, or name a toy you loved as a child, then you probably have a little soul-searching to do. I'm not trying to recapture my youth, just embrace it. I'm comfortable being different, moving away from the mainstream white sneakers that scream "Corporate America!" Hell, mainstream isn't just boring, but it saps the youthful innocence out of the world.

Oh yeah, you could say that they're just a pair of sneakers I got on sale. But they will keep me dancing to cheesy hits from the '60s and '70s. In them, I'm once again roller skating on my street, running home to get there in time for Prince Spaghetti night, and checking out my dad's Playboys. Okay, that last one has changed somewhat thanks to the Internet. But, I'll enjoy my time in red Converse without flipping the bird to any paparazzi. Because, after all, I am constantly being pursued by the gossip rags. I'll save that for another posting.

By the way, this is a first for my Live Musings Nightly. The photo is an actual shot taken by me, not some stock image downloaded from the Internet. Wow, technology doesn't always suck.

Where there's smoke...

2008-07-09T11:04:00.006-04:00

I know it's coming. Soon. The kids will ask me if I've ever done drugs. And then the dilemma hits. Do I tell them the truth or do I lie? Do I tell them that I did a lot of pot, but I didn't try it until I was in college, but man, do I have tons of hilarious stories about being high with the guys. However, that doesn't mean they should try it. Or do I just say that I never did drugs? Their mom can honestly say that to them, I can't. Not that I haven't lied to them before, I mean, hell, the Santa/Easter Bunny/Tooth Fairy trifecta is one big fat lie that millions of people perpetrate upon their simple-minded kids. Or the one time I told them that all the beaches in the country were closed for cleaning, just so I wouldn't have to take them all the way down there. But this is a bigger issue. I assume my kids look up to me. So telling them the truth could be bad in two ways. They could lose (more) respect for me, or they could figure that it's okay to go out and experiment with drugs. Yeah, I know, a little pot never hurt anybody, but it's still disconcerting to know your kids are doing it.

So, that's my dilemma. And while my last attempt at smoking pot a few months ago left me with a massive headache and a lousy taste in my mouth, I'll never forget some of the stuff that took place when I was younger and the stuff had a much more enjoyable effect on my brain.

I'm sure everyone out there who has ever taken a toke has at least one really friggin' riotous story about while they were stoned, dude. So, at the risk of sounding like a pothead pining for his youth, let me share a couple of tales with you. Call this, "Cheech and Chong's Nice Dreams, only without two Hispanic guys, and a bunch of South Philly imbeciles instead." Oh, yeah, these stories in no way condone the usage of marijuana cigarettes.

So my brother once saw Jesus. Oh yeah. He was wearing all white and he was behind a tree. He saw him as we smoked in our car, parked behind some tennis courts at the local park. My brother freaked out. We told him Jesus wasn't there. He swore Jesus was there. We told him to calm down and we would go get him $40 worth of Chinese food. He wouldn't calm down, because Jesus was watching him from behind a tree. We watched the tree in question. Suddenly he appeared. Only it wasn't Jesus. It was a homeless guy in an old t-shirt taking a leak. We left the Son of God in the park and went to get $40 worth of Chinese food.

A lot of stories like this revolve around my younger brother and his friend, who shall remain nameless for the sake of his privacy, and because he's bigger than me and could kill me with his big, hairy Italian palms. You see, he was the guy that could get the stuff, and my brother was neurotic and nervous to begin with, so it was always extra funny to get him high.

When I lived in North Jersey, these two boneheads decided to come and stay with me on their spring break. Oh, what a great idea. For them, it was one long week in stoner heaven. For me, it was one long week of having two fat, high gavones farting in my apartment and eating everything in sight. I went to work one morning and warned them not to eat the ice cream my roommate had in the freezer. It was like talking to two glassy-eyed Saint Bernards. They looked at me with their tongues wagging and assured me that my roommate's favorite chocolate ice cream would be safe.

I came home from work to find the kitchen covered in chocolate handprints. There was chocolate ice cream melting across the table, mixed in the Chinese food, and dripping down the sink. Again, they assured me that the ice cream was safe. So I smoked a fattie and broke the news to my roommate. He wasn't happy. But he smoked with us, and all was better. Pot has that effect on people. Bad blood can go away pretty quickly. After all, no one will remember why the other was pissed. Whether it's chocolate ice cream or acts of terrorism, maybe if everybody just smoked some pot, it would all be okay. Everyone except my kids, that is.

Okay, so anyway, there was this other time when the bunch of lugnuts I like to call friends headed to our favorite summer weekend destination, Wildwood, New Jersey. There were about 6 or 7 of us, and the majority of us were pot smokers. All but Anthony. He didn't want anything to affect his tennis game, so he stayed far away from the stuff. Until we decided to bring it closer to him. As he grilled burgers out on the back porch, we sat inside working up an appetite. And I don't mean exercise. It just so happened that we had a lot of extra stuff on hand. So we called Anthony inside and one of us went out and sprinkled some buds into the coals. By the time Anthony got back out to continue his grilling, the coals had a good buzz going and he went to work flipping burgers. The smoke engulfed him as we sat inside laughing our stoner butts off. Before you could say "well done" so was Anthony. For the very first time in his life, he was stoned. And it was the funniest thing we had ever seen.

Of course, just about anything you see when you're high is the funniest thing you've ever seen. It could be Caddyshack. It could be a person falling out a 15th story window. It could be a dog on a leash. It's friggin' funny.

None of this will help me decide how to answer the inevitable question from my kids about my drug use. They would find the stories about their uncle very funny. But that doesn't make any of it right. Some people have said they would lie. Some told me they would be honest. And some are going through the same dilemma as I am. I'd love to get your comments. What would you do? And can I buy some pot from you?

Jose Can You See?

2008-07-03T12:33:00.004-04:00

So it was the big Fourth of July holiday weekend, offering every American the freedom to sit on damp grass to watch loud, colored bombs exploding in the sky, to wear cheesy t-shirts with eagles and flags on them, and to eat meat that's been burned over coals in the backyard. Such amazing freedoms are denied people in many countries throughout the world. For example, I understand that open-aired grilling of pig by-products in Armenia will get you locked up in an iron mask for 35 years. It's the one weekend of the year where Republicans, Democrats and Ralph Nader can sit down together to commemorate the founding fathers' spirit of independence. Not that any one of them would ever really comprehend the immensity of such a feat, nor would any of them have the heart to strive through such a struggle. Especially after the seventh or eight can of Bud.

I thought about what freedoms we have here and realized that a lot of the things that are considered freedoms for some mean taking away freedoms from others. For example, in many parts of the country, smoking is banned indoors. In bars, restaurants and other public places, smokers cannot enjoy the freedom of lighting up. Not that I disagree with that, because trying to enjoy a bowl of wings and a cold beer in a bar while someone is puffing toxins my way is not fun. However, there's an example of a one freedom outweighing another. I have the freedom to enjoy a smoke-free environment, while smokers have been stripped of something that 10 or more years ago was the norm.

For me personally, I think the freedom to park wherever I want has been crushed by the freedom of "handicapped" people to get special "handicapped" parking signs in front of their homes. Okay, some may actually be handicapped, while others are just friggin' lazy but happen to know someone who can pass paperwork though. In South Philly, parking is at a premium, much like finding a gold nugget in a can of Campbell's soup. But there must be half a dozen of these privileged parking spots on every block, and I know that some of them are stealing my freedom to park there.

How about the freedom to get early doctor appointments so that I can get to work being usurped by the freedom of seniors to take up the early time slots? I mean, really, what do they have to do all day? Just because their internal alarm clock doesn't allow them to sleep past 5:30AM, does that mean I can't get an early appointment? It sure does. So my freedom to get my eyes examined before work is gone so that some 80-year-old can get there and get home in time for their 9 AM bowel movement. Freedom, denied for me. Not for them.

Finally, what about the freedom to enjoy a movie that I paid 10 bucks to see without some annoying jackass either talking or having a rotten brat with them? Okay, so that means their freedom to yak away or bring a noisy rugrat into the theater outweighs mine? It happened to my son and I once. We went to the movies and right before it started, a group of youngsters with their grandmother sat right next to us. They wouldn't shut up the whole time. Finally, I turned and shushed them, and got angry words from the grandmother. How dare I shush them? She wanted to know. I dare because it's my right to enjoy a movie that I paid good money to see, without your ADD little spawn that shouldn't even be in a PG-13 movie, making like it's a Saturday afternoon at the ballpark. That's my right, my freedom. So it was my son and I that had to move seats to enjoy my freedom. Not fair, but such is the case.

My point is that for every freedom, there's someone to dispute it. There's always someone to say that one freedom takes away theirs. From the upper echelon of the Supreme Court down to the fifth row of the theater during Batman Begins. It doesn't matter. Freedom is really only true to those that think it's theirs, and no one else matters.

Oh say can you see?

Holy Crap.

2008-06-22T19:59:00.005-04:00

A recent relationship ended because I wasn't the right religion for her. Now, I'm not going to hold it against the woman who ended the relationship, because that's her prerogative. She's a nice, sweet person, and we got along really well. It's just that once things looked like they might be getting more serious, she felt it couldn't go any further because I wasn't the same religion. It was a first for me.

It wasn't because I have a large ceramic bust of Elvis in my living room that she found creepy, or my Rocky impersonation got stale, or I showed her the video of my friends and I performing as the Village People, or my goatee scratched her...chin. Everything about the relationship was pretty good. She ended it because I used to pray to Saint Anthony whenever I lost something, and she would pray to God. No middle man for her religion. She's not Jewish, which can cause some logistical problems as far as who's holiday is better and all. No, we are not complete opposites, it's still the same God and all, just different approaches to how you appreciate the Big Guy.

Okay, I'm not a holy roller or anything. (In fact, does anyone actually use the term "holy roller" anymore? What the hell is a "holy roller" exactly? Christ on skates? Ouch, sorry.)I'm very willing to compromise on the religious beliefs of the woman I'm with. Hell, she can worship Ishtar for all I care(the god or the movie), as long as she's willing to watch "The Big Lebowski" once in a while and enjoys dancing naked. Although, allegiance to Satan is pretty much out. I was married to the Dark One's minion and it was far from a rewarding relationship. Biting the heads off chickens and sucking the blood may be fine for some, but it doesn't get me horned up, thank you.

My faith is basically rooted in nuns slapping me silly, serving mass as an altar boy for narcoleptic priests and paintings of the crucifixion that freaked me out from this big old Bible my parents had. But for the past 44 years, it's worked for me. I have my faith and my beliefs, which are personal. I'm not out to convert anyone to the Catholic Church. I have no plans to find an Amazonian tribe and get them to switch from eating people to eating wafers that represent a person. And I'm not the kind of guy to go around helping neighbors in the name of Jesus. My neighbors often take up two parking spots, so they can go to hell for all I care.

Of course, there's the whole thing with the pedophile priests. It never fails to come up when I mention I'm Catholic. You know what? There are pedophiles everywhere, so there will be priests who like little boy nookie, just as there are waiters, teachers, rabbis and ministers who like it. Sick and twisted all. Bottom line, the church was wrong. But I don't believe in my church. I have a belief in my faith. The church is run by humans. Some humans steal wallets, some kick puppies or drive like selfish pricks, and others cover up mistakes by other stupid humans. I don't have faith in them.

The thing is, I just don't think I have the capacity to relearn 44 years of Catholic conditioning and embrace a new religious direction, no matter who I'm with. I have a hard enough time believing man really landed on the moon, so how could I possibly believe in an all-knowing, all-forgiving Being who molded the moon with lint and sand from His belly button?

Well, I don't necessarily believe all that. Some people hold the Old Testament as a non-fictional account of the world. Again, I have a hard time with that. I get the message those stories are trying to get across, but, I mean, come on...Adam and Eve? Noah? Samson? Okay, Hedy Lamarr was freakin' hot as Delilah in that movie, and I would've cut off my hair for her. But show me proof that those things really happened, and maybe I'll start to believe they're true. Dinosaurs? Yes, millions of fossils found. They existed. Cavemen? Yes, hundreds of thousands of pieces of proof. King Tut? We have a body and lots of mummified cats. Noah's Ark? Not even a hunk of wood. Good story though. So, then why believe that Jesus rose from the dead?

Personally, I don't think that's what it's all about. Whether I believe in that or not is kind of irrelevant to my point. I believe what I believe because it works for me and it gets me through the day, sometimes the night, often through bouts of stomach viruses. It definitely got me through a hellacious second marriage. It keeps me from doing the really, really bad stuff. It's often my conscience when Jiminy is off busy banging lightning bugs. It's not for everyone, and I don't expect it to be. That's not my job.

And if I meet a nice Jewish girl who digs me even though I have a cross hanging in my apartment, that's fine with me. My mother probably wouldn't approve, but then again, she would never watch "The Big Lebowski" with me.

Amen.

Mandals.

2008-06-18T21:06:00.003-04:00

Now that the weather is warmer, I see guys walking around wearing mandals (you know, men's sandals = mandals), their big finger toes out in the open, those hairy foot digits displayed to the world. And while I understand the desire to keep your feet cool in the hot weather, do I have to be subjected to them?

There are basically three places sandals on men should be allowed:
1. At the beach. And I'm talking about on the sand, by the water. Makes sense, right? It actually looks silly walking on the beach in anything other than sandals, or bare feet. Unless you're from South Philly, then white sneakers are okay anywhere.

2. Around a pool or in a sauna. Not that I've ever been in a sauna, nor do I have the desire to share a sweat with other guys. No, sitting in a steamroom with a towel draped over my naughty bits with a bunch of fat, clammy men is not something I have ever wanted to experience. But I can understand wearing sandals in there. No bare feet in hot rooms where men perspire. It's a good rule to live by.

3. In a movie about Jesus or ancient Egypt or something. For the sake of historical accuracy, I don't think Moses would have been seen parting the Red Sea in a pair of Italian loafers.

Other than those things, guys should be wearing shoes. It's pretty casual where I work, and some guys show up with sandals. I find it very disconcerting seeing your coworker's or boss's almost bare feet in a meeting. With those little leather toe g-strings between each digit. Kinda nasty. I don't mind women in sandals, of course. It just seems more natural. Not that I'm a foot fetishist or anything, but most women have pretty nice feet, especially when they put the nail polish on them like colorful little hats on each toe. Cute. On guys, not so.

I will never wear sandals anywhere but the beach, unless, of course, I get a bit part in the remake of "Samson and Delilah". First off, I don't want people seeing my feet. Secondly, people don't want to see my feet. And third, I don't want to see my feet.

Would I say that I have bad looking feet? I would. I have bad looking feet. There, I said it. I won't get into any details, because someone reading this may be eating corn on the cob or beef jerky or something, but let me just put this out there: Remember how Fred Flintstone would start his car by putting his boats out the bottom and running over gravel? My PT Cruiser may not actually require this kind of power, (not yet anyway, but soon) but by the looks of my feet, it might as well have.

Yeah, tough, leathery and just as big as Fred's. Yeah, I could wear the shoeboxes instead of the shoes.

So, no. I won't be wearing sandals. But even those guys who get pedicures and care for their feet as if they were newborn babies shouldn't wear sandals. Especially to work. Or the mall. Or restaurants. Or on the streets.

I'm looking forward to the fall, when the mandals get put away and feet get completely covered in leather or suede again. For now, I'm just gonna have to get used to looking up.

What's goin' on?

2008-06-06T13:57:00.002-04:00

Yo! I'm back after a long blogless hiatus. And I'm tired of not writing fun stuff. So here I am.

So, what's been going on with you since our last communication? Not much? Are you kidding? Have you looked at the friggin' news even once over the last month or so? Damn, some crazy shit going on out there. Which is why I'm glad I live in my little nihilistic cocoon, safely surrounded by my DVDs and bobbleheads. Do I need to peek out and be part of all that nasty shit that's happening outside my door or in another state or across the ocean? No, of course not. But at least I know what's up.

For example, there were two, count 'em, TWO natural disasters in the past month. I'm sure you've heard about them when they first happened. They're not so newsworthy anymore. After all, Ashlee Simpson being pregnant is far more happening than several thousand Chinese people being killed in an earthquake or a couple hundred thousand dying in a cyclone in Myanmar. Hey, Myanmar wasn't ever mentioned in social studies, so why should we care, right? Besides, it was basketball playoff time. I gave to a charitable cause. I can't do anything about the money actually reaching there. But at least my conscience isn't stabbing my brain with a pitchfork.

Ahhh, I'll never forget the day I spent $4.00 on a gallon of gas. It's a moment I will always remember. But is it me, or are there still lots of SUVs on the road. Smart choice there. I'm sorry, if I have to feel more adequate in life, there are a lot of other ways to do it rather than buy a gas guzzling yacht on wheels. And people still drive like imbeciles too. I read about something called "hypermiling" which is basic driving techniques to save gas. Coasting, driving the speed limit, no hard breaking. So I'm trying to coast more and stay at the speed limit, but that's damn near impossible, because everyone else around me drives like gas is as free as piss. I guess everyone else is making a hell of a lot more money than me and has no problem supporting the big fat oil company a-holes.

Oh yeah, the economy is failing, Hilary is out of the running, finally, and Obama knows how to fist pump with his wife. More important news coverage. Good for him, I'm sure that if he becomes president, that fist pump will help him solve all the country's ills. First, he'll take his magic dust of change and sprinkle it over the economy and the war and global warming and all will be better, just as he promised. Fist pumps all around! Honestly, I'm not a very political person, and I don't think any candidate will make any bit of difference. But it's disconcerting when half a nation can drink the Kool-Aid of a guy who has no experience at all and believe him when he preaches about change and hope. Yeah, we all want change, Mr. O., but I don't think a bunch of well-spoken words are going to get us very far. Where's Ross Perot when you need him? At least he had charts.

Oh, and another season of American Idol has come and gone. And now that it's all over, America can go back to not giving a damn about who won. I mean really, when can that madness stop. Idol, "So You Think You Can Dance?", "America's Got Talent", "Look At Me, I'm an Idiot, But I'm On TV". I know I'm not the only one annoyed by the hoopla that surrounds these shows, but most can avoid them. My 9-year-old daughter is hooked on Idol. I had to watch whenever she was here. Ouch. Well, it's over, until next year. Maybe she won't be into it as much next year. One can hope, right?

Finally, Iron Man was awesome. Speed Racer loses torque about 25 minutes in, and Indiana Jones was just missing something. Summer movies are here with a wallop. There are still a few I'm looking forward to, and none of them star Adam Sandler. I saw the recent Patrick Dempsey entry into the Hall of Shitty RomComs, and man, was it sad. I can't believe that there are screenwriters and directors and producers and actors out there willing to commit to a project like this. Every cliche and inane plot device you can imagine, thrown onto a steaming pile of celluloid. For example, he's trying to get to the church before the woman he really loves but could never tell gets married to someone else. The only way there is to go around a lake. There's no time to run! What to do? Well, thankfully, a guy with a horse trailer shows up. Does he borrow the truck or ask for a ride? NO. Guess...yeah, he rides the horse. Oh, sweet Mother of Mercy. I threw up in my mouth a bit on that one.

Did I ramble enough? Sorry. I have to run. One of the highlights of my summer is here. I picked up the special edition of Dirty Harry on DVD. "Do ya' feel lucky? Well, do ya', punk?" Oh yeah, it's gonna be a good afternoon.

Daddy's Little Girl

2008-04-28T15:32:00.003-04:00

I always hated that song. When I was in a band, and we played the big South Philly serenades or weddings, "Daddy's Little Girl" was always on the request list. Watching those squat, balding fathers-of-the-bride dance with their big-haired, over-made-up daughters, while their bouffant-headed mothers and grandmothers cried on the sideline was just all too much to stand. How sappy and annoying, I thought. "You're the end of the rainbow, my pot of gold...The star on my tree..." Oh, give me a break.

Then, I had a daughter.

Suddenly, it all made sense. Yes! I get it! A precious gem! The pot of gold! Sugar! Spice! Everything nice!

Now, she's turning nine. And she is still my little princess. She's still the Cinderella-watching, ringlet-haired, wide-eyed angel. Even if Cinderella has been replaced by Hannah Montana, ringlets are now waves, and wide-eyes are, well, still wide-eyes. Of course, she always will be my little princess. Just as I know I will always count my son as one of my best friends, or my couch as a good place for my butt.

I know that my mission in life is to protect her, to show her what a good man is and what a decent man should be to her. And despite being divorced from her mom, I want her to know the importance of responsibility, love, devotion and most of all, respect.

When she puts her hand in mine - something I know she won't want to do too much longer - I feel like she is putting her complete trust in me. That her daddy won't ever let anything bad happen to her. That I'm her protector, her hero, even, at times, her big huggable teddy bear.

Sure, there are the assorted bonds between parent and child. The mother/son bond, the mother/daughter, father/son, Michael Jackson/spawn of some twisted union bond. But this bond between father and daughter is probably stranger, more difficult, more heartwrenching and more amazing than all of them. Why? I think it's because fathers see their daughters as forever innocent, a girl who will someday be a woman, yet always a little girl. And as men, we know exactly how guys think. And never, ever should a guy think that way about our little girls. As men, we look to be that protector of women, that hero in their eyes. It's even moreso with our daughters. No man should ever match the strength and sanctity of The Daddy. And even when they are married and pregnant, we still don't want to think of them as ever being touched by a man.

Having a son and daughter will be difficult enough with the double standards that exist. I don't want to be the dad who's high-fiving his son if he scores with a girl, but locking his daughter in a closet until she's 30. So now is the time that I'm trying to teach her what to look for in a man. A man who respects women, is kind and gentle and funny. I want her to someday say, "I want a man like my dad." That would be the ultimate compliment. Of course, with all the stuff I put the family through in the past (See: divorce; satanic second wife), I hope I can make amends and be that hero in her eyes.

Last night, for her birthday, we had a father/daughter birthday date, as we've been doing for the last several years. I take her to a nice restaurant where the waitstaff sings opera and the napkins are linen. She acts like such a refined little lady, folding her hands and thanking the people around her for their compliments and birthday wishes. I asked her if she thought we'd still be doing this when she's older. She said, "Of course, but, like, when I'm a teenager, I'll be talking about who I'm dating and all." Oh. My. God.

The ultimate realization that my baby isn't such a baby anymore came last night when she put her hands on the table, looked right at me and said, "So, dad, tell me what's going on in your life."

My little girl is definitely growing up and it's scary and wonderful at the same time. And even when she decides she's too "big" to hold my hand, or too "old" to call me daddy and would rather just go with 'dad' instead, she'll always be the "end of the rainbow, my pot of gold."

I totally get the lyrics now. I just wish I liked the damn song. But hopefully, I'll have many years to pick out a different one for our father/daughter dance at her wedding. Where I'll be the squat, balding father, and she won't need to be wearing too much make-up to be the most beautiful girl ever in my life.

Jumpin' Job Jive

2008-04-23T10:49:00.005-04:00

So I got a new job. It was a good offer, seemed like a great firm, and the timing was right. I've done the job switch thing about a dozen times in my career, and while most of them were pretty smooth, sometimes the transition takes a little more time. For example, when no one acknowledges you exist for the first couple of weeks. Or there's sometimes that moment when you realize you may have gone from the frying pan into the fire. (Sorry for the use of the tired cliche. I hate cliches. They're just so, I don't know, cliche.) And then of course, there's always the chance that you will be completely lost and have no idea what the frigg you're supposed to be doing or how to do it.

Anyway, thankfully, none of those things happened at my new place. Everyone has been great and the job seems like it's going to be an interesting challenge. Cool.

A few good things about starting a new job:
- All of my old material is brand-spanking-new! Old jokes? New to these folks! Rocky impersonation? Totally new! My leg lamp from "A Christmas Story?" They love it! Goofy iTunes music collection? Complimented! The whole South Philly Italian shtick, works again! For a while, I totally rock as the new guy.

- You have the "I'm the new guy" excuse for a few weeks.

- You can scope out your own stall in the bathroom. For guys, this is the equivalent to a woman finding the right pair of slingbacks, on sale. That stall will be your daily companion, a place for rest and comfort, to find solace. A place to poop. And for most guys, bowel evacuation is next to Godliness.

- If it's a managerial position, you can establish some guidelines that suit you. Not to say what they have going on is bad, but here's the opportunity to make it your own. Shirtless Fridays, anyone?

- The first paycheck. If you've ever switched jobs without getting a salary increase, shame on you. (Unless, of course, the last job included a lot of unwanted sodomy and beatings about the head and shoulders with a blunt instrument.) So, you get that first paycheck and you see what your new salary amounts to, after taxes, healthcare, child support and other assorted deductions. But it's still nice.

- People are usually looking to be impressed with you out of the gate. So you try to impress them early on.

Okay, so a few not so good things about starting a new job:

- You may finally realize that all that material you've been using over and over actually sucks big time. The iTunes selection is lame. The leg lamp is cheesy. The South Philly Italian shtick fails to impress. Time to come up with new stuff, which I'm just too damn old to figure out.

- The "I'm the new guy" excuse gets old real fast.

- Someone else may have an affinity to your stall. And he could be someone with nasty hygiene.

- Your guidelines are just plain stupid. "Deodorant-free Thursdays" anyone?

- You may be surprised by your first paycheck. And not in a positive way.

- You may work with people who are not easily impressed.

- Oh yeah, and you've got to find new places to eat lunch, after getting used to the same places near your old office.

- There's always a learning curve. Some places more than others. Right now, besides learning the procedures and digging into the background of all the clients, I also have the added joy of figuring out a PC. I have never used a PC, being a Mac guy since I sat down at a computer. I mean, literally, I have never put a finger on a PC. Now I know why. Generally, PCs suck. After using the intuitive, user-friendly, elegant Mac for so many years, I can not even begin to fathom how anyone would rather use the cumbersome, ugly PC. But, I have to figure it out. Ugh.

Well, it's an adventure and I'm looking forward to it. In the long run, what I do has gotten me through. I'm a creative writer guy and I enjoy writing. So I'll write. Hell, it's saved my ass more than once.

Now, I just hope some guy with a love of eggs and Mexican food hasn't also claimed my stall.

See ya!

MIA

2008-04-14T12:57:00.004-04:00

Sorry. I know it's been a while. And I'm sorry.

A lot has been going on, okay? Give me a break. I know, I know, it's getting less "Live Musing Nightly" and more "Live Musings Seldomly" than ever. But I'm back on track. Hopefully. Might as well fill you in on the goings on, right? Hey, you're here, so let's chat.

I'll begin with the whole health thing and my series of tests...

When last I wrote, I was prepping for the ole' scoperooni in the patootie. (I believe that's the correct medical term for the procedure.) And I've gotta tell you, the whole prep thing was nothing like I thought it would be. It was freakin' worse. Oh, man. I'll spare you from the nasty details, but let me just say that if you've ever wanted to be wrung out like a dirty sponge you've been washing your car with, then have I got the stuff for you. Three and a half ounces of pure colon cleansing dynamite. I could have swallowed a bulldozer and a fire house on full blast and gotten the same effect. By the next morning, when I had to take the second dose of this atom splitting liquid, I already felt like I was ready to curl up in a ball and cry to mommy. A second dose was like pouring mercury into a burn wound. Try this: take a thawed chicken, with all the guts out, turn on your spigot and let the water run into the top of it. Where does the water go? Yeah. You get the idea.

Anyway, the good news is my test was normal. And I managed to drop a few pounds in the process. Along with finding a little plastic G.I. Joe gun I lost in 1969. Hmmm, I was wondering where that went.

Then I had the stress test. I was really nervous about this one. Why? Oh, I don't know, but something about the thought of a blockage leading to my heart just makes me feel a bit tense. So I went through a week of panic attacks. Honestly. It was the first week of my new job (more on that later), and here I am, under the weather and imagining the lining of my heart looking like a month old peanut butter and roofing tar sandwich. Not a good week. So I didn't eat much. Hardly at all. I actually lost a few more pounds. Okay, I never read on the Weight Watchers website anything about panic attacks helping weight loss, but hell, I'll take it any way I can get it.

So, I went last Monday for the first part of the stress test. Easy. They injected me with some nuclear imaging stuff then take pictures of my heart at rest. Key words: At rest. Nice. Lay on the table, no treadmill, sweating or heavy breathing. That is to come a couple days later...

I go back for the second portion of the stress test which is far more of a stressful stress test. First, the woman uses something like a dull car window ice scraper to shave some of the fur off my chest. Oh, did I mention that frigging hurts? And now, almost a week later, and my chest looks like I was shirtless and locked in a closet with a bobcat. Plus, it itches like crazy. But, I guess the EKG sticky pads wouldn't stick to my chest, since it would be like trying to get Scotch tape to stick to a bear's ass. Which I've tried, and it doesn't work.

Anyway, I'm injected again with the same nuclear stuff as the other day, and now I'm wondering if I'll ever need a nightlight again, or if I'll just be able to find my way in the dark by opening my mouth. I'm put on the treadmill and begin my heart pumping workout. Basically, it's a treadmill from Hell. It speeds up and increases the incline every minute or so. So by the sixth or seventh minute, it's like you're having a walking race up Mount Kilimanjaro. Fun for the whole family!

I'm sweaty, heaving, and ready to puke out the granola bar I ate three days earlier, when the masochist running the thing tells me she's got my heart at the right rate and I can slow down. Super. I'm glad I could get my heart to the rate you want it, before dying.

I then get the imaging of my heart and I'm allowed to leave. Thanks! See you guys in the emergency room.

A few days later, I got the call that all is normal in CardiacTown. I guess it was worth it.

So, yes, I also started a new job, which means all my old jokes are suddenly new again. Yessss...I have material! I'll save that for the next post, which will be very soon. I promise.

Once again, sorry about the delay. Now get off my butt, I had a rough couple weeks.

Eschewing the Fat

2008-03-25T11:56:00.009-04:00

I'm overweight.

There. I said it. I'm not ashamed of it, nor am I particularly proud of it. It's just what I am. Always have been, as long as I can remember anyway. First of all, from birth, I was destined to be forever among those who claim "big boned" as a reason for needing bigger sizes. My birth weight was ten pounds, four ounces. Chubby? Yeah. But cute as hell. By the time I was in school, I was also in "husky" sized pants (which I guess isn't as bad as the heavier girls having to wear the un-PC "chubby" sizes, as they were called back then) Among my friends, I was always the funny, roly-poly guy. I was the likable, "teddy bear" type among the girls in high school. All the '80s teen movies had the guy like me. The funny fat guy who never got laid. The one who always wound up with the chunky girl with glasses. Because, according to those movies, if you're overweight and wear glasses, the only women who are attracted to you are nerdy, overweight and wear glasses. Unless you're Peter Griffin, and he's a cartoon. Or Fred Flintstone. Yeah, Wilma was pretty hot. Not Betty-hot, but hot for a guy like Fred. Again, though, a cartoon. Although, King of Queens isn't a cartoon, and his wife is hot. But it's not real, it's a sitcom. Thankfully, some women enjoy my sense of humor and think I'm kinda cute, despite my chubbiness.

Okay, enough about that.

Who's to blame for the blubber? Oh, I could blame myself, but that's too easy, isn't it? I think it was my upbringing. Yeah, that's it. Hey, I'm Italian, we like to eat. And my mother liked putting butter on everything. Everything. So I inherited that butter-loving gene. Butter on graham crackers. Butter on Melba Toast. Butter on biscotti, on bread, on Stella D'oro treats, on butter cookies, on margarine, on low-fat snacks, because those things taste like shit if they're not slathered in butter. (I just love the word 'slathered') Okay, I will blame myself too. I was on a regimen of walking. (See: http://livemusingsnightly.blogspot.com/2007/11/fat-squirrels-and-other-distractions.html). But once the weather got too cold, I gave up walking for sleeping in an extra hour, and somehow, it doesn't have the same calorie-burning effects. Too damn bad. So, the calories needed someplace to go, since they weren't being burned by my powerful thighs rubbing together while I walked. They decided to take up residence in the flesh under my neck, along with assorted places around my body. Like my gut, my ass, and my thighs.

Okay, I'm not horribly slovenly or sloppy fat, but I have extra poundage. Probably about 40 or so pounds extra. I have decided that I would like to live for a while longer. After all, I've been smoke-free for two years this month, satanic second-wife-free for two years this month, and butter-slathering-free for a couple days (It was Easter, and we had dessert at my mother's house, so sue me.). If I want to do all those things on my bucket list (see previous post), I need to drop some of the weight that could crush my already overworked heart.

Hell, I even visited my cardiologist. You know what he told me? That I'm overweight. Oh, ya think? Gee, thanks for that completely surprising insight, Mr. Cardiac Care, Degrees-on-the-wall, $60 a visit, top heart doc. He wants me to have a stress test. I told him I had one already, It was called a second marriage. He wasn't very sympathetic. He still wants me to have one. I've had them before, and they're not fun. A lot of grunting and sweating, heavy breathing and leg cramps. Kind of like sex, without the big payoff.

One thing I don't get, and I'm sure I'm not alone here, is why I always weigh more on the doctor's scale than the one I have at home. Okay, so their scale is a finely tuned, medically certified, $400 piece of equipment. Mine was four bucks at IKEA. But come on, it's a difference of ten pounds! TEN POUNDS! Christ, that's a lot of weight. Which one do I go by? Sure, I'd choose my scale, but is theirs more accurate? I weighed myself at home before going, just to compare. Did I mention it's a TEN POUND difference? That's a whole ass cheek right there.

Today, I'm kick-starting a diet and exercise program. Why today? Because besides seeing my cardiologist yesterday, I also went to my gastroenterologist. Yeah, I'm like an old hypochondriac lady with time on her hands. He suggested that I'm at the age for a colonoscopy. Having something shoved in my butt was not on my "to do" list for that day. I told him about my second marriage and how I got screwed everyday on that decision. He wasn't sympathetic either. I'm having a colonscopy tomorrow. So I have to fast all day today and do some, shall we say, "prep" cleansing tonight. The perfect way to start a weight loss program is after you've completely emptied your bowels of everything that's in there. I'm sure in the middle of the night, I'll finally get back that penny I swallowed in first grade, and the bowl of cheddar cheese I ate as a dare in freshman year of college. So far, it's going well. I haven't eaten anything since the Dunkin' Donuts bagel and coffee almost four hours ago, except for some Italian Lemon Ice. Tonight is really going to suck. I'm not Ghandi for crying out loud. I'm a healthy male who needs food, not some already malnutritioned do-gooder in a burlap smock.

So, I'm fasting today, pooping a lot tonight, and being probed tomorrow. I'm hoping that after all this colon probing, (which I'd really prefer to have done by an alien abductor; at least I'd have an amazing story to tell afterwards) I'll start my walking regimen and watching the diet. Then I go for the stress test, and hopefully, I won't need my chest cracked open and all sorts of plastic stents and balloons and such to keep my aorta from choking like Michael Hutchens in a self-inflicted asphyxiation game.

And I guess what's most important is that I get healthy. I can do without the extra helping of rigatoni or that chocolate cupcake if it means a few extra years with the kids, a few more years to complain about crappy music, another decade or so of nut-scratching life. I don't think I'll ever be trim and svelte, but it'll be nice to once again see what I'm scratching.

Wish me luck on my adventure.

My Bucket List is rather pail.

2008-03-18T14:34:00.007-04:00

I'm at that point in my life where I've been thinking about all the things I want to do before I die. You know, like that movie with Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman that was in theaters for about 35 seconds.

I know, 44 isn't that old, but my dad died at 60, and hopefully, age of death is not a genetic trait, but if it is, that gives me less than 20 years to do a bunch of shit that I've always wanted to do. It's not a crazy list, because I'm just not that kind of person. For example, skydiving, bungee jumping and generally anything else that can kill me is not on this list. Nor would it be on any list I ever make. Personally, I seriously just don't understand the thrill of doing something that could potentially end my life. Paratroopers over Nazi Germany in WWII had no choice. I have a choice, and I choose not to fall thousands of feet, a piece of silk tied to my back or not. I'm not planning on eating poisonous blowfish or swimming with sharks or walking through West Philly wearing a pointy white hood over my head. No, my things are all kind of boring actually. And that's just fine with me.

So here are ten things I hope to do before I'm planted 'neath the old oak tree. I could probably come up with more than ten, but, I'll topline for ya, just to make the whole idea digestible.

1. I could probably make a list of dozens of places I want to see before dying, but there are a few standouts. I will go to Italy. Sure, I could get on a plane and go, right? Not that simple. I have bills and kids. Not necessarily in that order. But I will get to the country that spawned pizza, great art and the DiMeos. And I'm not going to wait until I'm so old, I have to take the escalator when I visit the Spanish Steps in Rome. Oh, and England. Why merry ole' England? I like the way they talk. And maybe even France. I know, the whole ugly American thing they have for us, but jeez...Paris? Lautrec, Moulin Rouge, Amelie! Oh, and get back to Graceland. Thankya, thankyaverymuch.

2. Walk my daughter down the aisle. I hope to live that long. She's eight, so I'm guessing another 20 years before that happens. Okay, kind of a sappy thing, and there's all those psychological Freudian implications of handing my little girl over to another man. Things I never, ever want to even think about. But to see my princess dressed like one, and dancing with her at her wedding will be a hell of an emotional rollercoaster. Of course, I want to see my boy happy as well, which doesn't necessarily mean 'married."

3. Sing with a band. I'm talking, a big, Vegas-style orchestra. I'd do the whole black tux, scotch on the rocks, rat pack thing. Maybe swing some Sinatra or Bobby Darin. I've done the poor man's version, on a karaoke stage, and done the band thing for several years with my brothers. But nothing like a cabaret revue. "Swing it, baby..."

4. Get published. Seriously, soon. I've started a few kid's books projects, and have some illustrators who have expressed interest, so this one could actually happen soon. I have one book that's about a kid who is too fat to do stuff other kids do, but finds his real place in life...yeah, it's a bit autobiographical. Another one is about a little girl tormented by her own finickiness. Have I mentioned my daughter would live on macaroni and cheese and chicken nuggets if we let her? Hmmm.

5. Find true love. I know, I'm a sappy wuss. Sue me.

6. Make the perfect pot of gravy. And for you non-Italians, I mean tomato sauce. My grandmother made a kick-ass gravy that no one has ever matched. My first wife made a really good gravy. My brother makes a good gravy. I make shit. And the problem is, there's no real way to learn it, because it's all trial and error. There's no careful measurement of ingredients, there's no heat level or secret stirring technique. It's a pinch of this, some of that, turn up the heat, turn down the heat, cover it, don't cover it. One thing I have learned is how to make store bought sauce tolerable. Maybe I'll share that with you sometime. But it's just not the same as the homemade stuff. Now, I want ravioli.

7. Learn to swing dance as good as my dad. He was Mr. Rubberlegs. It was a spectacle to watch. The upper half of his body was smooth and straight, while his legs would whip around the dancefloor like a tornado. He could spin his partner, twirling her like a dervish, and pull her back into his arms like nobody's business. I watch movies like "Swingers" and the urge hits me again. I want to dance like that. Thankfully, I did get some of my dad's finesse, but it's the moves that elude me. Anyone have the number for Arthur Murray?

8. Go to a real movie premiere. Red carpet, celebrities, paparazzi, the whole glittery, Hollywood, spotlight cheeseball thing. And hopefully it won't be some crappy movie. I'm just a sucker for this kind of thing. God, I'm such a friggin' geek.

9. Find Nicole Brown Simpson's real killer. Oh, wait, sorry. That's O.J.'s list.

9a. Own a really nice car. I'm not that into the big showy automobile thing, but most of my cars have been used, or small, or a minivan. I just want to own something that I really love and feel comfortable driving. I'm not talking expensive. It doesn't need to be a Mercedes or a Jag, and definitely not one of those big SUV glacier-killers, just a car that's me.

10. I want to wake up, feel completely comfortable in my life. Not worry about money, health, or work. Now THAT would be something that would allow me croak happily. Hopefully both not on the same day. I've heard stories about guys that die the day after their retirement. My dad was just starting to really enjoy life when he was diagnosed with cancer. Not for me, thanks.

So, maybe now I can start getting to work on some of these things. Right after I do number 11 on the list, which is to stop procrastinating.

Agita! The Conclusion.

2008-03-10T14:00:00.002-04:00

It is now a week or so after the TV shopping debacle with dear ole mom. And I can look back on it and still not laugh or reminisce fondly. Maybe after I get the whole story written, only then, can I move on with my life. And so, I give you part two, and the conclusion, of the "New TV for Mom" saga: The Hook-Up.

I arrive with my mom and the TV at her house. My brother, Mike, is already there. We carry the television in. The box is a bit dented, but since it was the last one in the store, we took it with the salesperson's assurance that the set itself was fine. If not, we could return it. Yeah, that wasn't happening in my lifetime. That TV could have had human feces smeared across the screen and I was shoving it into its spot, plugging it in and going home to a large vodka tonic.

My brother had already removed the infamous "black & white picture" set from the infamous entertainment center. The dust was as thick as a mink stole. So my mother comes over and pushed the gigantic dust gophers around with a fuzzy duster. Well, that was pretty useless.

We open the box and inspect the TV.

When you were a child, did you ever have a dog that died? Did you ever lose a favorite toy? Did you ever shop for a TV with your mom, only to find a crack in plastic console of it when you opened it?

Yeah, all three of those really sucked. And the last one happened that day. A crack in the TV. Thoughts of packing it up and driving back to Best Buy clouded my head and sucked out any bit of life left in me. My brother spoke up first, "I think we should put it in the center, make sure it works, because that crack will be unnoticeable once we get it in there." My mother agreed. A small sliver of light pierced through the window and gave me hope that maybe the ordeal would be over soon. My mother asked if her cable remote would work the television. I told her that I'd have to program it in, but I need the cable remote instructions.

To my mother's glee, and our thankful predictions, the TV fit just fine in the entertainment center. In fact, it was perfect. You couldn't see the small crack in the plastic at all. And so we begin the confusing job of "what wire goes where." To compound the confusion, we were also going to hook up the new DVD player my brother gave her for Christmas, that my mother so vehemently opposed getting. Too bad. We're hooking up that sucker, and going home for a tall rum and Coke. My mother asked if her cable remote would work the television. I told her that I'd have to program it in, but I need the cable remote instructions. That's two.

After some unscrewing and screwing of cables, wires and whatnot, the TV flickered on to a beautiful picture. My mother asked if her cable remote would work the television. I told her that I'd have to program it in, but I need the cable remote instructions. Yeah. Are you keeping count? She tells me the cable guy left no instruction book. I tell her that I'll check mine and next time I come over, I'll program it. In the meantime, she'll have to turn on and off the television and raise the volume with one remote and operate the cable box with the other remote. My mother's medulla oblongata explodes.

Mike and I figured out how to hook up the DVD player, since we couldn't do it directly through the cable box, it had to go directly into the TV. A minor inconvenience that would make my mother more confused if she ever watches any one of the six disk set of musicals I bought her for Christmas. You know, that really expensive box set of musicals? The really expensive one, that is. My mother asked how long she'll have to use two remotes to work the TV and cable. I remind her that next time I come, I'll bring a book and program the one remote. But for now, she'll have to turn on and off the television and raise the volume with one remote and operate the cable box with the other remote. My mother's cerebral cortex explodes. I'm ready for a pitcher of rum and coke and vodka and tonic.

We start putting away the packing materials and trash, and my mother is still quite confused about the two remotes. Mind you, for about 10 years before the last TV, she was using TWO FUCKING REMOTES. Finally, the pressure cooker that is my mind goes off. The lid explodes sending beef stew all over the kitchen cabinets and ceiling. I grit my teeth and speak to her as if she's a 12-year-old who can't tie his shoes, or a 70-year old who just asked five or six times about the remote. Oh, yeah, she did. I loudly, slowly, deliberately remind her that next time I come, I'll bring a book and program the one remote. But for now, she'll have to turn on and off the television and raise the volume with one remote and operate the cable box with the other remote, just as she did for the 10 years before the last television.

I go to the bathroom, splash some water on my face, go back down, apologize and wish her much happiness with her new TV. She asks if I'm coming over tomorrow with the instruction book for the remote.

Looks like I picked the wrong day to stop beating the elderly.

Agita! In Living Color.

2008-03-04T14:27:00.009-05:00

Italians have this word we use for certain occasions. It's "agita." If you've never heard it, you've either been under your rock too long, or have never seen an episode of the Sopranos. So, if you don't know what it means, the next sentence should sum it up pretty well.

I took my mother shopping for a new television.

Okay, so here's how it started. A couple weeks ago, I got a desperate phone call from my mother, in the middle of my work day. She sounded very upset. I had thought that maybe someone died or she was sick or anything other than the fact that her TV picture had lost color. Maybe one of my brothers had an accident, or her roof caved in. Anything. But not that her color TV was now black and white. Stop the presses! Call the fire department! Dial 911! All My Children is monochromatic! And thus, her world stopped. Life suddenly came to a screeching halt. Nothing in the entire universe would matter now that my mother's television set HAD LOST IT'S ABILITY TO PROJECT IMAGES IN COLOR!

At first, she blamed the cable guy who recently installed a new cable box. Once I assured her that cable would not affect the color of the set, she put that idea away in her mind, until she was ready to mention it again on the next distressed phone call and the next. She asked if she should call a TV repairman. Now, in my mind, a TV repairman in this day and age is like the Fuller Brush Man showing up at your door, or a second anus on a fish. In other words, completely anachronistic and unnecessary. Both of my brothers told her not to get a TV repairman, because when a TV goes, it's time to get a new one. BUT some 85-year-old woman, farting dust and dying her hair blue at the hairdresser (my mother doesn't go to "salons," she goes to a woman's basement to get her hair done...every Friday.) gave her the number of a "reliable" TV repairman. Because, after all, a repairman would NEVER take advantage of a woman old enough to have banged DaVinci and living alone to boot.

So naturally, my mother listened to the logic of those who know what they're talking about. She called the TV repairman.

$95 and two visits later, the television still has no color. Too bad my brothers and I didn't tell her not to get a repairman. Oh, wait, WE DID TELL HER. So, it was time to get a new TV. And I, the single son, volunteered my services. Did I mention I'm into self-mutilation and mentally torturing myself?

TRIP #1. (Oh, yes. It took two trips. Two trips. Did I mention, it took TWO TRIPS?) I pick her up, first, carefully measuring the space in the entertainment center. She's got a 27" screen which is fine for her. Good so far, but somewhere in the back of my brain, I know that it won't all be this easy. We go to Best Buy. She is completely thrown into a dizzying whirlpool of disbelief at the prices of the flat panel TVs. No! There is no way she is spending that kind of money on a TV. Now, manufacturers are pretty friggin' smart. They know that if they convince the "U.S. consumer lemmings waving credit cards with massive debt" that the only TVs worth having are the more expensive flat panel, flat screen hi-def, high-priced sets, they can do away with the outdated monstrosities called tube sets. SO, they only make a few of these models for people not quite ready to spend a couple grand on a TV, namely me (I have a 32" tube TV that suits me fine), my mother and probably the old bat who convinced my mother to get the repairman. So, we go look at the few dinosaurs in the tube TV aisle. There's a flat screen tube TV by Best Buy's brand for $300 and a rounded tube Sanyo TV for $270. To me, both viable candidates. She's not happy. She's never heard of Insignia. I measure them. Either will fit in her entertainment center. She's still not sure. I tell her the flat screen would be perfect, and it's a better picture for a few bucks more. She's still not convinced. After all, it's a whopping $300 for a brand she hasn't heard of. She asks a sales person if there are any sales going on. Like he's going to pull a perfect 27" inch TV out of his pocket and say, "Oh, yeah, here's a top of the line Sony and it's only $25!" He looks incredulously at her and tells her that anything on sale is marked. I assure my mother that if there are any sales, Best Buy is not hiding them from us. She's worried they look too big to fit. I measure again, and assure her they will.

We go home empty handed.

After a week or so of her commenting on how she has to watch everything in black and white, and wondering if it's the new cable box, which I assure her again it isn't, I tell her we'll go shopping again. Did I mention I also like anal fissures and drill bits shoved in my ears?

TRIP #2. (Yeah, two trips. I said that before didn't I? Two trips...)I picked up my mom and we drove over to Jersey to first visit the Best Buy there. She is completely thrown into a dizzying whirlpool of disbelief at the prices of the flat panel TVs. No! There is no way she is spending that kind of money on a TV. Wait, didn't I already say that in the Trip #1 story? YES! But that trip was a week or so earlier. Surely, the prices on those flat panels wouldn't be as ludicrous as before. Surely, they would have dropped hundreds of dollars. Surely, she's a 70-year-old woman who heeds the advice of living fossils in basements turned into beauty parlors. Anyway, Best Buy in New Jersey has the same two TVs as the one in Philly. Still, she's not sure. There must be some TV out there better. Maybe we should look to the skies and follow the star. We'll find the perfect TV somewhere in a manger.

So we head over to Circuit City. She is completely thrown into a dizzying whirlpool of disbelief at the prices of the flat panel TVs. Yes, I needed to repeat that again, because it's exactly what I fucking heard. It's all part of the experience, you see. Oh, and by the way, I had taken a laxative the night before, due to a little constipation I had been having. So in between the TV discussions, I'm running to the bathroom with the squirts. Somehow, it all made sense. Shopping for a TV for my mother and stomach distress. Yeah, all good.

Well, she's not impressed with the selection at Circuit City. Of the massive collection of two tube TVs they have, only one is a brand she recognizes, and she's worried it won't fit into her entertainment center. Oh shit. I forgot the dimensions. I forgot a tape measure. Suddenly, I'm in full panic mode. Oh dear sweet Lord baby Jesus, my world is collapsing around me. I can't measure it to assure her that either one of these will fit. They will FIT!

My mind is slowly disintegrating into a powdered substance. "Let's go back to Best Buy and get the $300 flat screen tube TV," I say. She's not sure it will fit and she doesn't know the brand. She's almost in tears on the ride back to Best Buy. I'm not kidding. She's crying over the decision to buy a $300 TV. I assure her it will fit, because it's the SAME TV I MEASURED THE WEEK BEFORE! We look at it again. From every angle. I tell her this is the one, and to buy it now. She's still a bit unsure. I call my brother and tell him I think we're close to buying one and ask him to meet us at her house to help carry and hook up the TV. First, he has to assure her that it will fit. I tell him to bring a hammer. Not for the TV or the entertainment center. But to hit me on the back of the head as hard as he could.

SHE BUYS THE TV. Oh, thank you God.

If you think it's over, it's not. In the next blog, I'll tell you about hooking up the TV.

So now you know what agita means.

Ode To My Belly

2008-03-03T09:42:00.004-05:00

Every once in a while, I look through a folder of stuff I wrote or worked on years ago. Well, I was going through an old portfolio of work I did way back in the late '80s, when hair was still big and movie popcorn was still made with heart-stopping oil and real butter. One of the things I found was a folder of short stories and poems I had written for a creative writing course I had taken for fun. And so, in the interest of sharing the pain, I've decided to release one of the more tolerable poems to you, my dear readers. Of course, while others in the class were writing poems about nature and love and pain, I was writing about Marilyn Monroe, buses, bills and this; my belly. I decided not to share the short story about the voyeuristic psycho. Some things are better left in a folder, buried under junk. (I was in a weird place at that time.) Enjoy.

ODE TO MY BELLY

Is there any part of me more obvious than you?
Hiding my buckle under your bulk,
And straining to free yourself from the confines of buttons.
Your firm roundness, ever salient,
Becoming more and more difficult to hide under the bagginess of a sweater.

An insufferable breadbasket,
Basking at the beach.
Flaunting your prominence,
And quickly contracting for the bikini-clad beauty.

Just a rotund tummy are you,
Prodding me to the larger sizes,
The way you forced me into the husky section,
When we were both young, but just as prolific.

What a cantankerous protuberance,
Making your presence known at the most inopportune times.
A romantic tryst, a job interview, or a quiet moment
Is not the proper place to sing your song,
My dear gurgling gullet.

You are my meal clock,
Alerting me to feeding time.
And I, your slave, generously oblige.
With wine and ravioli,
With pizza and beer,
or a thick slab of Italian cream cake.
And only rarely do you complain afterwards,
Gripping my innards with your sinewy fingers
As the rest of you flops and flounders.

I look at you, my grand belly,
Thinking of the wondrous buffets we've shared,
Of the hearty laughs that left you all a-jiggle,
And the smoothness of your skin laid upon hers as we love.

You, the buttoned maw of my jolly rotundity,
That, by a life sustaining cord did you unite me to a mother,
You that delegates the vital nutrients to the proper parts of me.
Would it be fair to diet you with Tofu and cottage cheese?
I should say not.

Do you care for fries with that Whopper?

by Steve DiMeo

P.S. The picture is not representative of my current belly, nor should it be considered as anything but a photo illustration of the title of this blog. Thank you for your consideration. -The Management.

Blogalicious!

2008-02-27T22:35:00.004-05:00

I started writing posts for several different topics, but then realized none of them were working for me. So, I thought, screw it. I'm just going to write whatever comes into my head.

Underdogs.
Hey, I just watched the movie, Invincible, in which some regular schmo from South Philly, who plays football with his buddies on weekends, tries out for the Philadelphia Eagles and makes the team. Not only does he make it, he becomes one of the team's all time favorite players. It's the whole underdog from Philly makes good story, made so famous by that other Italian guy. You know, the one with the boxing gloves and the cement skull. Sometimes these stories make me think about my own life and how I never really wound up as the victorious underdog. If I was the underdog in something, hell, I lost. So I try to avoid those underdog situations. Although I do like Underdog cartoons.

My Ears! Damnit! My EARS!
I have to endure American Idol every Wednesday night, because it's the night I have the kids, and my daughter loves it. Last night, the 10 female singers mangle classic songs from the '70s. Some frightening Lily Munster looking chick completely embarrassed herself singing Kansas' "Carry On My Wayward Son." I prayed the electricity would go out just to spare me the pain. The night before, I flipped it on only to see a few of the men slap on their incredibly annoying histrionics to such great songs as "Imagine." Okay, why can't anyone just sing anymore? Just sing the song. I don't need to hear every single note you can hit throughout the song. I mean, the kid sang well, but the song lost every single ounce of real feeling. John Lennon sang it with such simple conviction that it really meant something. This performance reduced the song to a series of voice exercises. Elvis actually shot the TV because Robert Goulet was on it, singing, as the King put it, "With all technique and no feeling." Too bad I didn't have a gun. Or a crossbow. Or even a water pistol.

Weather or not.
What is it about old people and weather? Where are they going that they need to be constantly interested in what it's doing out? While I'm on my old people thing, why do they insist on taking all the early appointments at doctors or dentists? I have somewhere to be, Rip Van Winkle! I have to go to work. You have to pass wind, eat saltines and watch the Weather Channel all day. Give me a break!

I like beer.
Really, I do. It's good. But not Bud. Bud gives me the winds. I avoid getting the winds as much as possible. Just as I spend most of my awake hours making sure no sharp objects come near my eyes and groin. Oh, and I like vodka too. Vodka tonics, vodka martini (a wee bit dirty), vodka vodka, White Russians. I'm no alcoholic, but I know what I like. And I don't like getting gas from Bud. Although farting can be funny.

Hold me closer, tiny digits.
I once took out this woman who had a really small fingers. Like, so small, they reminded me of those little cocktail wieners. But she had the nails manicured and perfectly painted with a bright red color. I wondered why she would want to draw any attention to those stubs stuck on the ends of her hands. If my fingers looked like that, I would try to keep all eyes away from my hands. I know, I'm no long-fingered godly-handed man, and she was very nice, and I guess I was being very mean and petty, but the fingers were just really creepy. I did try to call her for a second date, but she said we weren't a good match. She said she couldn't wrap her fingers around a reason why, it just wasn't there for her.

Ring-A-Ding-Ding!
My place of employment is doing some work for a local/regional snack cake company and we have samples of other brands all over the office. I am now eating a Ring Ding. Oh yes. And I've gotta tell ya, I haven't had one of these chocolate enrobed (love that word) cream filled goodies in a dog's age, but they have not changed at all. Not one bit. You know how Count Chocula and Alpha Bits and Coco Puffs all kind of changed their recipes to be a little more healthy or something. Well, those swell folks at Drakes gave the finger to the fat fighters and said, "We're not changing our ass swelling, gut growing goodness for you namby pamby joy killers. Our Ring Dings will stay exactly the same as they've always been!" And God said, Ring Dings are good. Going back for a Yodel. Let's hope they didn't fuck with those...

Until next time, when I'll have one topic to stick to, enjoy the weather before you get old and start complaining about it.

Sweet Jesus.

2008-02-18T15:16:00.004-05:00

For Valentine's Day, the kids gave me a big Reese's Cup shaped like a heart. It's about the size of my fist and weighs about the same as a couple inches of ass fat. Of course, I'm eating it. Slowly. Eaten in one sitting, something like that could send a perfectly healthy person into permanent diabetic shock, and clog every artery in and outside of my body. Not only would my heart stop beating, and my brain stop functioning, but highways would be tied up for miles and the Hoover Dam would stop producing energy.

As a kid, chocolate was one of my four basic food groups, along with sugar-infused breakfast cereal, spaghetti, and Pixie Sticks. I remember licking the bowl and the mixer blades after my grandmother mixed the batter for her chocolate cake. Oh, crap, was that freakin' good. Except for the one time when the mixer was still on.

The family would pile in the car every summer and head out to Hersheypark, in Hershey, Pennsylvania. A whole damn town dedicated to the ideals and worldwide contributions of chocolate. Sweet Jesus! Yeah, they had one of those, too. You could eat the head off it, like the bunnies at Easter. Anyway, you would get within a mile of the chocolate factory and the air would be thick with the glorious scent of cocoa. The sweet, beautiful perfume that attracts pimpled-faced teens and flabby housewives from all over the country. Oh, sure, there were amusement rides and shows, but that all took a backseat to the tour of the chocolate factory. Pools of chocolate being mixed in giant vats. I imagined myself being Augustus Gloop, diving into the Willie Wonka's lake of chocolate. Okay, so I was a weird kid.

Easter was always a good time for ODing on chocolate. Even that cheap, waxy, imitation chocolate flavored chocolate they make those Dollar Store bunnies with would do in times of choco-crisis. I mean, it kind of felt like chocolate in your mouth, and there was a taste resembling chocolate, but when the Hershey's and Reese's were gone, a guy's gotta do what a guy's gotta do, right?

Today, chocoholics are trying to find any possible way to ensure that chocolate isn't relegated to the list of "stuff that's so bad for you we have to get the government to issue laws changing how you make it." I would hate to see chocolate go the way of movie popcorn, fried chicken and trans fats. So now, they've found that dark chocolate provides anti-oxidants, and it's good to have a little each day. I would have loved to be in that room when they came up with that one. What's next? Milk chocolate with almonds can help urinary tract infections? Baby Ruth bars restore hair? Mounds relieve gout?

So, I will go on enjoying this gift from my kids for as long as I can. A little in the morning, a bite in the afternoon. And probably will be done it just in time for the Easter candy to show up. Oh, sweet Jesus. Mmmmm, really sweet.

Life in a Wintry Mix.

2008-02-13T14:34:00.003-05:00

Last night, the area was hit with what the faux-expert imbeciles we know as "weatherpeople" call a "wintry mix." What it consists of is snow, ice, sleet, freezing rain and kicks in the head with a steel-toed boot. It also comes with a heaping helping of brain-loss from every driver on the road. Suddenly, it's like no one behind the wheel ever took a driving lesson in their life. I really think that driving instructors should take the time to teach people how to drive in bad weather. If you can't pass the "wintry mix" driving portion of the test at the DMV, then hand over the keys and get your dumb ass back to driving school, schmuck.

My PT Cruiser has 93,000 miles on it, and frankly, I doubt if it will make it to 100,000. What with the vigorous commute everyday, I really think she's trying to tell me through osmosis that it's time to pull the plug. "Just stop the nonsense, Steve, and put me out of my misery. Why are you doing this to me? What did I do to you, other than provide a means of getting where you need to be...Damn you!" But she muddled through the slushy mess last evening at two miles an hour, and that was in the good spots. It was like I got the extended DVD edition of my commute. Usually 45 minutes, it was expanded to the complete two hour-45 minute director's cut, complete with deleted material and never-before-seen footage. Oh, and plenty of bloopers. If there was a bright side to the whole evening's festivities, it was that I wasn't on the other side of the road, where a tractor trailer was jackknifed across the highway, blocking all the lanes, with traffic at a complete standstill for miles. Nice going, good buddy. Should've put away the Carmen Electra hand-puppet and worried about driving instead. Of course, there was the whole rubberneckin' thing happening on my side of the road, but since traffic was back up anyway, it just made the whole thing more laughable.

So, how does one keep sane when puttering along, while the heavens spew the icy diarrhea down upon the area? Well, here's a quick diary of my commute:

Hour One was just dread. Okay, not that I had anything to do on this particular evening, except make some dinner, chat on the phone, go over some papers from class, watch Family Guy, throw a load of laundry into the wash, and pee, but there's nothing on that list that says sit in my car and wait for some jackass to hit me from behind because he doesn't understand the phrase "safe distance." I have the news channel on the radio, until I get tired of hearing about the traffic that I'm sitting in and the shitty weather all over. Why do I need weather updates from people on the scene in other parts of the area? It's a crappy night wherever you are. There. Report done, move onto the more pleasant shooting, robbery and extortion stories. So I put on a CD, but I don't feel like singing yet. I did yell a couple times. I curse at all the people around me and want to know what the hell makes them think they're allowed on my road to home. Stupid bastards. Oh yeah, and I have to pee, and it's getting worse with each press of the brake pedal.

Hour Two. Slowly, clarity takes over. I'm moving toward the light. I begin singing whatever I'm playing on the CD. Sinatra, Tony Bennett, Bobby Darin, Elvis, William Shatner. It doesn't matter. My mind has become a sloppy bowl of tapioca pudding. All I'm seeing are red brake lights and Jesus. I begin to laugh at the senselessness of it all. The utter insanity. I throw on Amy Winehouse, hoping some talented, yet coked-up wacko's cool music will bring me back to earth. It doesn't. And I still have to pee. I'm tasting uric acid at this point. And then, my low gas light dings on.

The final 45 minutes. My mother calls. I don't answer. I can't. My one hand is on the steering wheel, the other is on my crotch. If I move one, I crash. If I move the other, I pee myself. My mother has this uncanny ability to know exactly when the absolute worst time to call is, and she never fails. I've gone through most of the CDs in my car. I'm back to the weather reports and traffic updates. There is now traffic where there aren't even streets or roads. There is traffic going up the sides of buildings in Center City. There is traffic backed up down the cereal aisle at Pathmark. There is frigging traffic everywhere and my mother calls me. My bladder is the size of Idaho and the little gas light shaped like a gas pump on my dash is searing it's red light into my brain like a branding iron. Just then, a fat, bearded woman in a big gas-sucking SUV veers through two lanes of traffic and cuts in front of me. I wish I could hang my schlong out the window and spray her oversized Global Warming mobile with my piss, like a fire boat hosing down a burning tanker. In my mind, she's flipped over on the side of the road, because I'm Magneto and have the ability to lift even her monstrous vehicle and what I'm sure is a monstrous ass, and send them both flying into a mangled mess of twisted metal and broken bones with the waggle of my finger.

I get off the expressway, finally, and find that the two minute ride from there to my place is also backed up. It's another fifteen minutes to go three blocks. I grab the first parking spot I could find and make it into my apartment just in time to keep the urine from squirting out my eye sockets.

My car made it through. My bladder made it through. My sanity nearly intact. I sit down for a quick bite, and watch the news to see those poor bastards still out on the roads. Whoever said hell is hot never drove through a wintry mix.

Length and Girth.

2008-02-12T09:50:00.000-05:00

We've all heard that "size matters" or that "it's not the size, it's what you do with it that counts." I believe both. Especially when it comes to blogs. Yeah, I know, you thought I was talking about something else. That's a trick us writers use. It's called "Bait and Switch." You thought you were going to read a blog about one thing and here, it's about something else. Now that's funny.

Okay, maybe not. Anyways, I think one of my problems with getting a post up here regularly is because I'm really concerned with the size and quality of what I'm posting. I worry that it may be too short, or not top-notch, grade-A quality. (Pretty much the way I worry about size and quality of other things. Like dinner, for example. See, Bait and Switch again. I kill me.) I like to take my time. I started writing the last one on January 26th, but didn't post it until early February. Just when I think I'm done and ready to post, I read it over and decide to change a few things. Like the first three paragraphs. And the last two. And the one in between. I finesse and fiddle with the words until I'm really happy. Then I hit "publish post." I read it again when it's up and go back and edit it again and republish. Yes. I can be anal. Retentive, that is. But it's all to bring you the Live Musings Nightly you've come to know and love, at the absolute best quality you expect from yours truly.

Maybe someday, I'll write a quick post, just a few lines and publish it without proofing it. But it might be a while before that happens. Most of my daily work routine is to crank out copy with impossibly short deadlines. So I pick up some old copy, write a few new transitions, churn out some workable headlines, shove it all in a dirty sock, spin it around and slap it into Word. There. Copy done. Move on to the next piece of marketing mumbo jumbo.

I don't want that to happen with this blog. I care too much about my subject and about you, my dear readers. Oh, you're welcome. I'm just glad you like it.

Of course, it doesn't help that my life has been busier than a crab louse in an Italian's groin. (Not that I know that situation personally, mind you...) There's always something keeping me from writing. Like other writing. I do freelance copywriting, which can be really fun, because you can spend time doing interesting things, send it off, and invoice them. Nice work if you can get it. And then, there's my class. As I may have mentioned in the past, I'm teaching a Continuing Education class called "Copywriting: Writing Effective Marketing Materials" at University of the Arts. I always thought I wanted to teach, and now, I'm glad I'm doing it. I have a great bunch of students who actually listen to me. I'm not used to people listening to me. I was the middle child. I didn't get listened to. I got the little nod, as if to say, "That's nice, Steve, can we move on to something more interesting? Like passing the ketchup for the meatloaf?" But, if I can help people become better writers, that's totally cool. I've been doing this job for almost 23 years, and it's about time to share the pain.

Okay, back on track. So, there's class lessons to put together and assignments to go over. Oh yeah, in between all that other stuff and time with the kids, I try to squeeze in a little social life that I like to think I have. That life, up till now, has just been a series of online dating and beer swilling with the boys. Not bad for a guy. Although, not great for a guy of 44.

So what I'm saying is, be patient with me. I love writing this blog and plan to continue. I hope you continue reading. It may not ever be live musings that are actually nightly, but rest assured, they'll be timely. And of great length and girth. Just to keep the women happy, of course.

The More Things Change...

2008-01-26T10:11:00.001-05:00

A few posts ago, I mentioned that that I've been back in touch with friends from my high school days. Well, last week, we actually managed a major reunion. I can't even begin to say how much fun it was, seeing those guys again, a few of whom I hadn't seen for many moons. That's a pretty long time to you and me.

The memories came flooding back, and yes, I'm going to regale you with tales of my unbridled, uninhibited teen years. Actually, they weren't very unbridled, and other than the occasional bare ass moon out a car window, or heavy petting session on the bench seat of my dad's car, they weren't that uninhibited either. But, dammit, they were fun as hell.

We weren't much into drinking, getting drunk, smoking pot (until later, another post for another day), or anything like that. We were into girls. That was our reason for being, our sole mission in life. To meet girls, and get as far as you could with them. Hey, we knew what we were at the time. We were horny teenaged boys, succumbing to senseless hormones gone out of control. We were innocent victims of the savage rage of our own testicles. We armed ourselves with an arsenal of girl-trapping ammo, from our tight Gabardine slacks to our open shirts and gold chains, to our cologne that came in penis-shaped bottles.

We fought the good fight, learned the right dances, and said the right things. All to ensnare the unsuspecting female, with their big hair, gaucho pants, gold chains and perfume that came in vagina-shaped bottles. We would stand around at the dance, watch the groups of ladies congregate, and plan our attack. Rich would get the taller one, because he was tall. Louie would go for the second to tallest. Ant would go for the thinnest. I would go for the one with more curves. Matt would take the smallest, since he was a bit vertically challenged. And Angelo would just have his pick of the room, because he had the most hair on his chest, and enjoyed showing it off. And I usually struck out.

Mike supplied the music for our street corner serenades, "The Groove Line" being our adopted theme song, since it was first on the cassette tape, he liked that song and it was his boombox. That tape was in there for years, and had to be surgically removed. Mike would take out the tape and rewind it by hand, with a pencil in the spindle. It saved batteries, so we could listen to "The Groove Line" many more times while standing on the corner. And Jimmy would talk alot. Oh, yeah, alot.

Other friends joined the crew as we crept through our college years, and some guys slowly backed away, busy planning their brighter futures. Just as many crews of friends do.

But I'll never forget those days at the dances. Or the times we piled into Scott's little car, heading to the mall. The little auto suffocating with the stench of Pierre Cardin and farts. In the summer, we would head to Wildwood, New Jersey, to hang out at the beach, drinking pitchers of kamikazes and try to meet women, while also trying not to puke up warm kamikazes. Our arsenal changed somewhat, from tight slacks to tight jeans, from open collared shirts to pastel colored t-shirts under unconstructed linen jackets. But still the gold chains hung, with their Playboy bunny charms, gold horn, or dogtags. And I still usually struck out.

Then, some of us got girlfriends, a few of whom became wives. And we lost hair, put on weight, took off the gold chains. Okay, some still wear them. Me? I actually haven't had a piece of gold on me since the demise of my first marriage.

Anyway, it was really good seeing them all. The camaraderie was still there, with hugs and laughs, beers and Jimmy talking. A lot. Less hair on our heads, and more on our backs. Some are greying, some are putting kids through college. Some wear ties. Some will probably never get married. Some, okay, one, already did the marriage thing. Twice. But some things never change. Which is pretty damn comforting. And when we get together again in a few months, as promised, it will be like old times again. Hopefully, without the Pierre Cardin and farts.

Maybe I'll even dig out my gold chain with the Sagittarius charm. But definitely not the tight pants.

A Huggin' and A Chalkin' On The Disco Round.

2008-01-24T00:47:00.000-05:00

There was a song called "A Huggin' and A Chalkin'" by Hoagy Carmichael, or it could have been Kay Keyser, that my dad used to listen to all the time when I was a kid. I remember him asking us to listen to it with him. It totally cracked him up. The song is about a guy who is in love with a woman who is so big and fat that he has to mark where he started hugging her with chalk so he'll know when he gets back to where he started. Seriously. Oh, and one day, he's a huggin' and a chalkin', and he meets a guy coming around the other way. Oh yeah. I'm really serious. That's the song. Of course, it came out at a time when the most famous black person was Stepin Fetchit, and women either were dames with nice gams or barefoot in the kitchen. But my dad liked it. So I liked it too.

That was my musical influence as a child.

The first album I ever bought was "The Sugar Bears." I swear. It was an album by the character from the Sugar Crisp cereal box. I saved up to buy it, so it wasn't some foolish impulse purchase. Oh no, I really wanted it. And listened to it. Over and over. I was 18.

Okay, kidding. I was a little younger than that. But again, my musical preference was a group of cartoon bears who peddled crispy sugar-coated sugar breakfast nuggets. By seventh grade or so, I was so into John Denver that I used to beg my mom to let me stay up late to watch his TV specials. I would sit in the basement listening to his records, singing them out loud. Come on, 'Annie's Song' is still one of the most romantic love songs ever. His music is still a guilty pleasure. But again, not the most popular choice.

So, it should come as no surprise that as a young teen, I was a disco fan. A big, dago-fro, gold chain wearing, double-knit Sans-A-Belt slacks disco boy. My friends and I saw Saturday Night Fever four or five times. And that's when there was no such thing as DVDs or even VHS. Remember those days? When you had to go to a theater to see a movie. We went to the theater four or five times to see it. Oh, we were only freshmen in high school, but we were living the Tony Manero life.

We went to teen dances on Friday nights, Saturday nights and sometimes even Saturday afternoons and Sunday nights. Okay, there was no alcohol served or anything, but to meet girls, you had to know how to dance. Girls liked guys who could dance. And when we went over to Jersey to a teen dance, the Jersey girls would get all flustered because the Italian guys from South Philly were there to show them a better time on the dance floor than their rock-loving Jersey boys. Of course, there were lots of fights. But I never fought. I was a lover, not a fighter. Actually, I was a pussy. But a pussy that could dance! The hustle, the line dancing, the rock. I had a chiana shirt, with the wide collar and a silkscreen of a couple on the beach on the front of the shirt. Oh, it was friggin' hot. And I would proudly wear that thing, because I bought it with money I earned working at the local corner grocery store, delivering milk and Nilla Wafers to moldy old greaseball ladies. Just like Tony Manero worked at the hardware store and earned enough dough to buy his white suit. We were living parallel lives, he and I.

And the music went along with the lifestyle. "I love the nightlife. I've got to boogie on the disco round..." I always wondered what a disco round was, but it didn't really matter. I did love the nightlife. Even if teen dances ended at 11:00. I had a plethora of 12" disco singles. One of my favorites was "Knock On Wood" by Ami Stewart. I could shake my groove thing to that.

My brother would taunt me with "Disco sucks!" Yeah, right. That's why I was out meeting girls at dances and he was at home diddling himself with Led Zeppelin albums playing in the background. I didn't even like Kiss until they came out with "I Was Made For Loving You" and Ace did "New York Groove." The Village People, another favorite. Were they gay? To us it didn't matter. To us, they were gay, when it means 'happy and fun'. But they were disco. We even assembled a Village People tribute act and performed as them. In front of people. Not just a few people. Auditoriums full of people. I was the "hot cop." Oh, yes I was. And I could thrust my pelvis like a stripper who's having an epileptic fit on her pole. My tight white cop pants hugged my butt as I lip-synched "YMCA" and "Macho Man." It was truly a thing of beauty. It was a far cry from the sugary pop goodness of The Sugar Bears, and miles from my current iTunes list of eclectic choices. From Cake to Amy Winehouse to Arctic Monkeys or Southern Culture on the Skids.

But I still have some Village People tunes there, nestled between The Velvet Underground and Weezer.

Am I proud of my disco days? Hey, we all have things in our past we're not completely proud of. But I can say this much, we had fun. Not 'gay' fun. But real, memorable fun. I can still dance, which makes me feel good when I see all those guys doing the white-man shuffle at weddings or clubs. And girls still like guys who can dance. As long as they're not wearing wide-collared chiana shirts.

So, I listen to my eclectic stuff, mixed in with my Saturday Night Fever soundtrack, or Tony Bennett or Sinatra. (Hey, I have to like Sinatra. I'm Italian from South Philly. If I don't like him, my kneecaps get broken.)

Oh, and I just downloaded "A Huggin' and A Chalkin'" from iTunes. It's an obnoxious song, but it makes me picture my dad laughing. And that's music to my ears.

Then and Now

2008-01-14T11:10:00.000-05:00

I'm a child of the '60s (and '70s). Most of the people I work with are too young to remember the stuff I often reference. Many of them were sleeping in cribs around the time I was in college sleeping off hangovers. So things like H.R. Pufnstuf, 12" GI Joe figures (with Kung Fu Grip), Astro Boy, and Freakies Cereal are all completely foreign to these people. I try to introduce some of the things of my youth to my kids. Like Count Chocula (which isn't the same anymore) or The Monkees. I got my daughter the complete Archies cartoons DVD for Christmas. She loves the comics, and I fondly remember those toons from the late '60s. They had the same footage of The Archies band for every song they sang. The problem is, sometimes things that I remember being really cool and fun when I was a kid, just did not age well. (The Archies are still kinda cool though, in a cheesy way. Sort of like the comics. The jokes haven't changed in 40 years). So, what I wanted to do was put together a list of things I loved as a kid and try to find today's equivalent of it.

For example, The Monkees are basically The Naked Brothers Band and Hannah Montana, only funnier and with better music (c'mon, songs written by Boyce & Hart and Neil Diamond, shows directed by Bob Rafelson, of Five Easy Pieces!) Seriously, have you ever sat through an episode of Naked Brothers or Hannah Montana? I have. It was like a knitting needle being shoved into each ear and through my eyes, piercing my brain with a nasty 'pop'. Poor writing, painful acting, amateurish direction, and repetitive, pseudo-pop crap music. Were the Monkees much better? Well, no, but they're definitely a whole lot more watchable. Sheer silliness for the sake of being silly. No annoying wise-mouth kids, and you didn't bristle at the thought of Davy actually kissing a girl.

H.R. Pufnstuf was basically a Barney for older kids, without the annoying songs that make you want to scrub your brain with a metal brush, (okay, some of the songs were bad.) plus some Teletubbie type characters, a kid with an British accent and his magic, um, "flute." I believe the same amount of drugs went into each episode of H.R. Pufnstuf as an entire season of Power Rangers.

Speaking of Power Rangers, how about Ultra-Man? The ultimate import from Japan, it was a dose of giant monster every frigging day. The difference between Ultra-Man and Power Rangers is that you never wanted to see Ultra-Man die a horribly painful death like you do every single one of those Ranger teens. Plus, there was no licensing juggernaut making billions off cheesy toys. I used to use a fat magic marker as the Beta Capsule when I played Ultra-Man. Oh, yeah, and you can see zippers of the backs of the monsters in both shows. Oh, those Japanese. Some things never change.

G.I. Joe was THE real American hero. And I'm not talking about those crappy little 5-inch figures from the '80s. I'm talking about the big 12-inchers. Because when it comes to G.I. Joe, size certainly matters. I remember them when they had plastic hair, then moved to the fuzzy buzz cuts and beards. They were tough, they had tons of accessories that were big and rugged. Today's boys have action figures that fit on keychains. Basically, today's equivalent of GI Joe is, well, there's actually nothing like him on the market. All the pansy-ass liberals made sure that kids get positive role models, not war mongers. Like Jamie Lynn Spears. Yeah, there's a positive role model for kids.

Freakies Cereal was like eating a bowl full of sugar frosted sugar with sugar milk and sugar on top for good measure. And they had the coolest characters. These little monster things that lived in trees. And the prizes were cool. Freakies magnets, Freakies pencil toppers, Freakies cars that ran on the air from a little balloon you attached to it. Today, they're taking sugar out of cereals. Kids need to eat Life or Cheerios. There are no cool little monsters on the box. And no cool toys inside. Oh, my dentist loved us...

Board games were actually fun, interesting ways to pass the time with your friends. You actually had to interact in real life, rather than with characters on the screen. Life, Mouse Trap, Monopoly, Clue...all great games I grew up with. And then Pong came along and changed the game playing field forever. Not to say that video games don't help hand/eye coordination, but when I was younger, I found other things to do with my hand. Like roll dice, for crying out loud.

I know, I sound like an old fart complaining about the how things aren't as "special" as they were years ago. Soon, I'll be yelling at the kids playing ball in the street. As if they actually do that anymore...duh.

I'm going to put on The Archies, sing "Sugar, Sugar" with a nice big bowl of the Cap'n. If only you could still get Quisp...

Celluloid Heroes

2008-01-07T16:09:00.000-05:00

The other night I saw Juno. It temporarily restored my belief that something good can come out of Hollywood. If you haven't seen it, you should. I like seeing films that are clever, well-written and just a bit quirky. I saw it a week after going to see Alien vs. Predator: Requiem. Need I say more? My son loved the chest-bursting, head-exploding action. And I've got to admit, it was cool. But it was hardly inventive or creative. Unless you call a cheerleader being mounted to a wall with a Predator spear through her chest creative. I mean, she wasn't even naked.

The thing is, I love movies. All kinds. Eclectic, foreign, classic, you name it. Even some mainstream stuff. Especially if it features a naked cheerleader shish-kabob.

So anyway, I believe you can tell a lot about a person by the movies they like. I don't know what my choices say about me. It's a little scary. Which brings me to the actual list. Listen, I don't know if anyone is interested in reading about the movies I consider to be my favorites. But, hey, I like to share. It's not one of those "best of" lists, because that's all bullshit. But, like I said, it's a good way to get to know me better, and it's all subjective and opinion. Just as is your reason for including Titanic on your list. Other than lack of taste. Again, subjective and opinion. These are in no particular order, by the way.

The Big Lebowski. Dude, this aggression will not stand. Some of the best, most quotable lines ever. Quirky? Oh, yeah, just how I like it. You really have to watch it several times to let it sink in. I'm a total achiever—what fans of the movie have taken as a name. If you've seen it, you understand the whole "achiever" thing. And proud we are of all of them. Oh, and "fuck" is used almost 300 times (281 to be fucking exact) which is pretty fucking awesome, man.

King Kong. The original, of course. Why would anyone remake such a classic? Peter Jackson said the original was his favorite movie, he even owns original props from it. So why would he remake it into such a bloated spectacle? The original though, featuring the stop-motion monsters with the creepy lifelike eyes...awesome! Kong even fingers Fay Wray. Talk about jungle fever.

Plan 9 From Outer Space. Okay, they just don't make bad movies this good anymore. Maybe the most enjoyably bad movie ever. Today's bad movies are just plain bad. This is so impeccably bad, it's awesome.

Moonstruck & Fatso. One won an Academy Award for Cher. The other stars Dom Deluise. Both remind me of my family and feature great eating scenes.

The Nightmare Before Christmas and all of Tim Burton's films (except Planet of the Apes and Charlie and the Chocolate Factory). C'mon, Christmas meets Halloween, with a stop-motion skeleton in a tuxedo, and the best soundtrack Danny Elfman has ever done. Then there's Pee Wee's Big Adventure, Ed Wood, Edward Scissorhands, Mars Attacks! I love them for all their atmospheric, eclectic, skewed-world goopy goofiness.

The Seven Year Itch and Some Like It Hot. Marilyn at her hottest. Done.

Here's just a list of some of my other faves: Young Frankenstein, Annie Hall, The Godfather, The Godfather Part II (we never speak of Part III), Amelie, The Exorcist, American Movie (a really bizarre documentary about a redneck loser making a movie), The Iron Giant, and anything Chaplin ever did.

Okay, so now my geekiness has reared it's geeky head. Just wanted to get this off my chest. I could literally go on for pages, but I think I bored you all enough. Gotta go now. Showgirls is coming on Bravo.

Meaningless Q and A.

2008-01-01T19:43:00.000-05:00

My good friend and eclectic music fan, Mr. Josh Pincus Is Crying, sent me this meaningless e-mail fluff Q & A. And while I usually make fun of these, this is one that poses some pretty good questions. So, I thought I'd post it along with my responses. Hope you enjoy, and feel free to send it to a friend...or not.

1. Voted Most Likely to:
Perform self-trepanation.

2. Regrets:
Filling this out and putting it on my blog.

3. It’s a Monday, you are tired and don’t feel like working, so you:
Spend all day at the office answering meaningless Q & A e-mails and posting them on my blog.

4. You would prefer to have dinner with:
Andre.

(oooh, art film reference...)

5. If you were going bald, you would:
I am going bald. Just not getting balled. (Ouch!)

6. You lay awake at night, pondering:
I ponder, "Why the hell am I "pondering" and not trying to get some sleep?"

7. If you were forced to share a cubicle, the most important thing you look for is:
Foods that give me the most vile gas.

8. What is most likely to be found in the trunk of your car:
That depends on how the hit goes. Sometimes I have to go get a big butcher's knife from my mother to take care of that "deer who's paw got stuck in the grill..." if you know what I mean. So get lost. It's none of your fuckin' business anyways...

9. Favorite Spinal tap movie moment:
"we had a dwarf knocking over the Stonehenge..." And the mime caterers at the release party, who called their business "Shut Up and Eat!"

10. Based on your work history, the job you SHOULD HAVE right now is:
Held by someone with less experience and less talent.

11. Your imaginary band name is:
Foreskin Matadors

Top Ten of 2007

2007-12-28T23:22:00.001-05:00

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

2007-12-20T09:52:00.000-05:00

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?)

2007-12-12T10:55:00.000-05:00

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

2007-12-10T14:00:00.001-05:00

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.

2007-12-04T15:14:00.000-05:00

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

2007-11-29T11:22:00.000-05:00

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.

2007-11-19T20:17:00.000-05:00

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

2007-11-16T15:18:00.000-05:00

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.

2007-11-12T15:22:00.000-05:00

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.

2007-11-08T10:19:00.001-05:00

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.

2007-11-01T13:27:00.001-04:00

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.

2007-10-29T22:54:00.000-04:00

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

2007-10-22T11:23:00.000-04:00

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

2007-10-19T11:29:00.000-04:00

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

2007-10-16T11:16:00.000-04:00

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.

2007-10-15T21:39:00.000-04:00

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!

2007-10-09T12:12:00.000-04:00

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.

2007-10-06T22:57:00.000-04:00

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...

2007-10-05T10:27:00.000-04:00

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!