A Visit From Uncle Nick

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.