Happy Holidays and all that crap.

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.

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?”

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.

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.

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

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.