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.

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.

PDQ: 20 Years of Rockin' the Free World!

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.

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...

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?

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?