Jackieisms

2012-01-01T20:27:00.000-08:00

Dino Duds

2011-12-17T16:23:00.001-08:00

I just had a close call.

We’re currently watching a woman’s chihuahua while she’s sorting out her current living situation. He’s a cute little guy, but he’s not nearly as house trained as our own k9’s. I just walked upstairs and I was barefoot as I had just come out of the shower. As I walked, I felt a little cold squish on my foot so I immediately took my weight off and averted an accident on top of an accident.

I went into the bathroom and grabbed some tissue to remove the offending nugget. But when I returned to the hallway it seemed to have vanished. Oh, it was there, but the fact is is that I’m colorblind so I was playing “Where’s Waldo” with what I assumed was a piece of poo.

Then I found it agin. Unfortunately, the way I found it was the same way I had found it the first time, but again, realizing what was happening, my reflexes reacted and the perfect sphere remained as such.

Picking it up, I gave it a quick look and wondered whether it was a true Dino dropping or a dropped Milk Dud that the kids were eating. “Well, there’s only one way to find out!”

As horrified as you may be, you shouldn’t fret because disaster was averted.

Funny thing about those Milk Duds. I’m not sure why the kids eat them. They taste like dog poop.

Book Group

2011-12-14T10:32:00.000-08:00

I’ve never been part of a book group before and to be honest I’ve always been a hit or miss reader. I spent most of my school years avoiding relationships with the likes of Arthur Miller, Charles Dickens and Chaucer, and instead spent my time in the picture filled pages of Creem, Rolling Stone and Hit Parader. For years I couldn’t tell you the characters in Huckleberry Finn, but I could easily rattle off the original line up of the Allman Brothers, Moody Blues or tell you who played lead on “You Really Got Me (it was Jimmy Page).”

Our book group has been affectionately referred to as “Gay Man’s Book Club” for no other reason that it seems strange to guys outside of our group to have a bunch of dudes sitting around munching on finger food and discussing the plot lines, themes, symbolism and merits of Toni Morrison’s “Soma.” When I mention the book group to other friends I always try to toughen our image up by letting them know that the books are really an excuse to imbibe good bourbon, drink beer, fart, and relive our days of past glory, but to be honest it never really works. I may as well be telling them that I’m part of a knitting circle. I always get questions like, “Does the best kisser get to pick the book”, and “is it a formal event or can you wear any old dress?” Why can’t we just all get along?

Speaking of dresses, there’s another book group in our neighborhood that has been organized, facilitated and attended by the women folk in the hood and their ever expanding circle of friends. They have had a consistent streak of reading, meeting and discussing for nine or so years. They appear to be very organized, prepared and they have a system that they utilize to pick their selections. There may be literary weighting and voting involved, and their discussions are probably far more thought provoking than we’ve been able to conjure up. I suspect if they wished to, they could channel their collective energy and intellect and change the world, but in defense of us guys and our meetings… we usually have chicken wings.

The thing about the books that get selected is that they seem to reflect the personalities of the guys who do the selecting. You can definitely pick out the differences between the picks of literary types and what I’ll refer to as the Average Joes. The literary types have provided deep meaning and dense offerings that are widely respected some receiving Pulitzer recognition, while the Average Joes offer tales of football players, private eyes and the occasional crazed zombie invasion.

A few evenings ago I satisfied my wife’s curiosity of our latest reading assignment and read aloud from the first chapter of House of Holes by Nicholson Baker. She lay quietly enjoying the warmth of the electric blanket while I delivered each sentence and paragraph. As the story began to unfold about the woman who found the detached arm, brought it home, fed it fish food and let it sexually molest her and her roommate, Deb grew anxious and stated, “Is this the type of crap you guys have been reading?” What the hell type of deranged book group are you a part of and who’s the sicko who picked this book?” Then she said, “Keep reading. I want to find out what happens next!” As I said, the books reflect the group.

To be honest, I haven’t been able to make heads nor tales of the artistic merit of what we’ve read or what any of it means. That’s why I’m also reading the “Stairway to Heaven: Led Zeppelin Uncensored.” Now that’s some good writing!

Gift Advice

2011-12-14T05:25:00.000-08:00

I ran into a friend of mine the other day while we were Christmas Shopping. During our brief conversation, she said she was thinking about writing a book about all the bad gifts people get during the holidays. Much of this was inspired by the countless horrible and ridiculous gifts she had been given by her goofy, off the mark husband. I thought it was a cute idea, so after a little thought I sent her along a top ten list of gift no no's:

10: Never buy anything practical, especially if it's something she can use on you. I don't care how badly you need a new vacuum cleaner, every time it sucks she'll be reminded that the gift did too. Steak knives are a particularly bad idea.

9. It may say it right on the card, but in a relationship, a gift certificate is not a gift, period.

8. Buying something for yourself and trying to pass it off as a gift for her will never work. No matter how cool she may think a plasma TV is, she doesn't want one for Christmas, her birthday and especially your anniversary. Buy it for yourself and take the heat you selfish bastard...

7. Lingerie is a dangerous area and should be avoided. If you go too conservative, she'll resent the gift. If you go too aggressive she'll think you're a pig (which of course...you are.) Feetie pajamas are cute and may work. Forget anything crotchless.

6. When mapping out your present shopping, avoid the following locations: Home Depot, Spencer Gifts, Radio Shack and Hickory Farms.

5. Chocolates and champagne are like broccoli and carrots. They're the side dish, not the present.

4. No porno, especially if you're in it.

3. No beef jerky, ever.

2. Unless you are a craftsman or a jeweler, avoid making gifts. No paper mache, no finger painting and no Play-Do.

1. If she tells you that she doesn't want anything and you find yourself on that special day with nothing but your manhood in your hand, get comfortable because that's how you're going to be for a long, long...Long time.

Good luck everybody!

The Gift

2011-12-14T05:24:00.000-08:00

I get sent a lot of stuff. Jokes, limericks, riddles and poems. Many of them aren't very good, but some make me laugh and they always bring an appreciated smile. Of all the funny things I've been sent, this one has always been my favorite. It's a little naughty, but it's nothing by today's standards. It's called "The Gift."

A young man wanted to purchase a Christmas gift for his new sweetheart, and as they had not been dating very long, after careful consideration, he decided a pair of gloves would strike the right note: romantic, but not too personal.

Accompanied by his sweetheart's younger sister, he went to Nordstrom and bought a pair of white gloves. The sister purchased a pair of panties for herself.

During the wrapping, the clerk mixed up the items and the sister got the gloves and the sweetheart got the panties. Without checking the contents, the young man sealed the package and sent it to his sweetheart with the following note:

"I chose these because I noticed that you are not in the habit of wearing any when we go out in the evening. If it had not been for your sister, I would have chosen the long ones with the buttons, but she wears short ones that are easier to remove."

"These are a delicate shade, but the lady I bought them from showed me the pair that she had been wearing for the past three weeks and they were hardly soiled. I had her try yours on for me and she looked really smart."

"I wish I was there to put them on for you the first time, as no doubt other hands will come in contact with them before I have a chance to see you again."

"When you take them off, remember to blow in them before putting them away as they will naturally be a little damp from wearing."

"Just think how many times I will kiss them during the current year. I hope you will wear them for me on Friday night. All my love.

"P.S. The latest style is to wear them folded down with a little fur showing."

My Tribute to Andy Rooney - First Date

2011-11-13T03:33:00.000-08:00

My kids are at an age where they are engaged with the opposite sex. I'd like to be able to convey great words of wisdom that may help them as they navigate through their various oncoming relationships, but the fact is, I don't have the "stuff". Case in point: here's my best advice regarding first dates:

When you're out to dinner on a first date it's important to consider the food you'll be eating in front of the person your trying to impress.

I would think of all the foods you'll want to avoid, French Onion Soup would have to be first on your list.

Just imagine yourself using your teeth to reel in that never ending string of cheese like some half assed illusionist.

When in reality, the only magic trick you've accomplished is making your second date disappear.

I don't know why, but this is the crap that occurs to me.

Anybody Got a Filter I Can Borrow?

2011-05-06T05:37:00.000-07:00

A Friend of a friend told me about a friend who's friend was looking through his father's iPad. There, he discovered that dear old dad was visiting web sites that were more than a bit shocking.

Knowing this prim and proper gentleman, I was amused by the story and shared it with Deb who responded with a gasp of disbelief, shocked at such a scandalous discovery. She was especially disturbed because the gentleman in question was a very clean cut upstanding citizen and just an all around nice guy.

Later that evening I was reading in bed and I gazed at my always beautiful but always practical better half. I looked her over and noted her favorite fuzzy and well worn slippers. Calling them fuzzy is somewhat inaccurate because the fuzz had been matted down and worn away. She was also wearing a pair of pajamas that I had purchased for her about a decade ago. They were tattered and torn with rips in the knees. Also, due to hundreds of washes they were a few inches too short in the legs displaying her mismatched socks. To keep herself warm, she was wearing my old fleece jacket that I wear around the house and to do yard work. It's about 10 sizes too big for Deb so the sleeves went well past her hands. The jacket had multiple burn holes from cigar ashes and camp fires.

As she stood there, she let out a sigh and said, "I can't believe that Steve was looking at that web site. He's so nice, I'm just shocked!"

To which I replied, "Well, some guys just have their little fetishes."

Deb barked back, "Oh yeah, what's yours?"

"Apparently, homeless women."

...sometimes I just need to keep my mouth shut.

There Goes The Neighborhood

2011-05-04T03:23:00.001-07:00

So picture this:

My brother Jimmy and I went to Florida, but before we hit the airport we stopped at Santarpio's for a little dinner since the airlines don't serve their sh*tty food anymore.

We were there with Jimmy's wife and his two boys, and we all squeezed into a booth with Jimmy's wife and two boys sitting across from us.

After a little food and a few beers we sat and talked in the crowded restaurant, when nature called on Jimmy's kids.

His wife Patty grabbed the two kids and brought them to the rest room. While Jimmy and I were sitting there, I noticed the last lonely slice that was sitting there in the traces of oil and corn meal.

I started kidding around trying to get Jimmy to eat the last slice and started to hold it near his face saying, "C'mon...you know you want it."

Just then two older Eastie vets walked by on their way out and looked at us with disgust.

That's when I realized that we were sitting on the same side of an otherwise empty booth.

We're Gonna Need a Bigger Boat

2011-04-25T04:48:00.001-07:00

There's a hole in the ground where the McDonald's used to be. It's not that Micky D's has packed up and headed off somewhere else, it's that they're building a bigger restaurant, if you can call or categorize McDonald's as a restaurant.

I drove by the fenced off hole and had a brief daydream about how this probably came about. It's a little silly, and it made me chuckle, but there's probably a bit of sad truth to it.

I pictured a board room of McDonald's execs who are in the midst of a staff meeting. It goes a little something like this:

District Manager: "We have a problem in our Dover store. The people there have gotten too fat to get into the restaurant. We need to come up with a solution and we need to come up with it quick. Who's got an idea for a possible solution? Johnson!"

Johnson: "Why don't we start offering more health conscious foods that have lower calories and lower trans fats. We could also reduce the size of the "sugary" sodas. I mean who needs to drink 64 ounces of Coke in one sitting?"

District Manager: Hmmm...That would make a lot of sense. Hmmm, Johnson?"

Johnson: "Yes sir?"

District Manager: "You're fired! Clean out your McDesk and get out of here. Okay, does anybody else have any bright ideas? How about you Smith?"

Smith: "Why don't we build a bigger restaurant with wider doors, wider reinforced seats, and ramps so people can ride their scooters right to the counter?

District Manager: "Smith, you're going places. Let's get your plan into action. Who's ready for lunch?"

end

Men's Large Contingent Weigh in #4

2011-03-24T05:30:00.000-07:00

Okay, things are beginning to get a little strange in this little competition. I’m not certain if it’s due to the fact that the clock is ticking and the calendar is dissipating faster than our contestants, but people are getting a bit whacky with their weight loss strategies. During our regularly scheduled weigh-in, our courageous calorie counting carbohydrate avoiding, cream puff filled contestants once again gathered in the small confines of my office to stand and be measured.

I was the first to be weighed and documented a suspicious 3.5 pound weight loss. The suspicion associated with the weight loss is due to the fact that I have been ill with a fever over the past three or four days. Ralph and company suspect that I contracted the virus on purpose, probably by going to various public places and licking door knobs, faucet handles, and any other “cootie” infested surface in the greater Sea Coast area. My wife dismisses the reduction as a mere loss of manhood, as she reports that I was such a pussy while I was sick, that I lost any ounce of respect she had for my masculinity.

Ralph came into the weigh in with a loss of a two pounds, this despite the fact that he is now questioning the accuracy of the scale we’ve been using. Apparently, wife Janine purchased a scale that puts Ralph a whole ten pounds lighter than he’s tracking on our official scale. Janine must have purchased the scale at the Disney store as the weight Ralph said he weighs in at home is straight out of Fantasy Land. Regardless, we all wish Ralph and his Magical scale the best of luck in the final two weeks.

Stephen was next on the scale and has obviously employed the unusual strategy of cutting away small pieces of his clothing that contribute to his overall body mass. This has to be the case, as I can’t imagine a grown forty five year old man showing up for a weigh in fully knowing that that he has to remove his shoes, and showing up with holes in his socks. I’m just thankful that we’re not stripping down to our skivvies, as I can just imagine what kind of shape his Scooby Doo underwear are in…and I don’t care to find out. I suppose that I can’t really fault him as he did log in a modest weight loss of 2.5 pounds.

Our only loser who is labeled as a loser, cuz’ he didn’t lose, is brother Tim. This despite the fact that Tim states that he ran 5 miles just the day before the weigh in. Tim looked sincerely perplexed and we were all a bit perplexed for him. Is it the fact that the 5 miles wasn’t enough to offset all of the beer, brats and bologna throughout the week? Looking at him, we couldn’t attribute the gain to him building muscle. Maybe the measurement tool he used to measure the 5 miles came from the same mystical place where Janine bought Ralph’s magical scale. The mystery continues and may be only solved by “Those Meddling Kids” on Stephen’s Scooby Doo Underoo’s.

With only two weeks left in the contest, our pathetic, pie eating, pizza indulging participants will have to really turn up the heat if they wish to attain their goal weights. Despite all of the bravado and kidding, we all do have our goals and dreams in this contest. It would be nice to look down and see my waist size 32 jeans again. Now that I think of it, it would be just nice to be able to see my feet.

Men's Large Contingent - Weigh In #3

2011-03-15T09:03:00.000-07:00

Like the 2004 Red Sox, the valiant members of the Large Men’s Contingent displayed great courage and perseverance with a stunning come-back in weigh in #3. Our trusty scale was greatly relieved and thankful to not have the carry the full burden of the prior week’s poundage as three out of four of our contestants came in under their previous documented and disgraceful “weigh-in” weights.

The recently slandered Ralph was apparently so distraught by the inaccurate reporting of his previous weight that he went on a temporary hunger strike and lost 1 pound. It would have been much more than that but when he heard himself being referred to as Gandhi, he thought we said “candy” and he ran to the corner store for some Mallow Cups. The Sunday trip to the casino for slots and all you can eat Chinese was reported to be an additional contributing factor. Apparently, losing at the casino doesn’t correlate to losing actual body mass. The "Big as a house" always wins.

Tim who was also a loser of 2.5 pounds this week credited his loss to time spent on his elliptical rider. He would have lost more if his wife would have stopped kicking him off of the damned thing. Tim has complained that his weight readings have been influenced by the additional weight of his wife “being on his back all of the time.” Tim has been so inspired by marriage that he’s taken to running away from home. Thus far, he’s only been able to get three miles or so before he gets cold, tired, hungry and missing his miss’s.

There’s not much to report about Stephen who was our only gainer this week, and only by a mere half pound. You would think that the only bachelor in the group would be able to excel past the competition, but Stephen is finding that abstaining from the pepperoni and sausage on his pizzas may not be enough to influence a significant loss. There’s a rumor that Stephen actually exercised last week, but those rumors turned out to be him merely passing by a PX90 infomercial while trying to find the Food Network. He did, however complain of soreness from this incidental activity.

I myself lost 2.5 pounds which is a miracle considering the trip to the Newbridge Café, the multiple Guinness at the Pogues show or the full on southern picnic we had at our house on Sunday. Jack History Month continues to take its toll on my progress and I’m hoping my weight loss will increase once the narcissistic, egomania that is Jack History Month comes to an end. There was some controversy by the other contestants that I had an unfair advantage because of the lack of hair on my head. Once I showed the boys my back hair, and once they stopped retching, they dropped their concern and offered their collective sympathy.

As we move into our weekly weigh ins, there’s more focus and an increased opportunity to challenge each other, as well as more opportunities to bust each other’s chops. For those of you, who have nothing better to do than follow this silliness, please remember that this competition is rooted in the spirit of nutrition, health, camaraderie and goodwill, so please, no wagering and no more sending in doughnuts.

Jack History Month - Frequently Asked Questions

2011-03-08T17:18:00.000-08:00

What the Hell is Jack History Month supposed to be? Okay, February is Black History Month and it just so happens that my birthday is the beginning of the following month and Jack seems to appear to rhyme with Black. no disrespect to the prior month and the dedication to a fine people, but Jack History Month is an opportunity to introduce a little levity and cure us of our seasonal affective disorder. It started out as a joke and a goof and spoof. Hey, it’s hopefully harmless fun and something to do, and I’m not asking you to help in my Mafia war, stock my farm or paste my post into your post if you have no post to post.

Are the stories real? Yes, the stories are usually rooted in some historical event, but they’ve been embellished to make them a bit more readable and entertaining, which is a nice way of saying that there’s an element of bull sh*t to them. Let’s call them “Historical fiction. Hopefully, you found some of them hysterical fiction. My wife just says I’m delusional.

Are you really that much of an idiot, I mean what’s wrong with you? The sad fact of the matter is that I’m a bit of a goof ball. Always was, and always will be, but my perspective of this is much like that of male pattern baldness. You can try to comb it over, but everyone still knows what you’re trying to hide. It’s better and far more liberating to embrace it and enjoy the advantages of it. Bald people who shave their head have no problem with the wind, running, or swimming. Self proclaimed goof balls can do goofy things and people say, “well, he’s just being Jack.” It is what it is.

You mentioned my name in a post, shouldn’t I receive royalties or some other form of compensation? More than likely, if you were mentioned, you run in the same social and intellectual category as me, which means at some point you’ll receive some type of government support or an honorarium from a scientific research foundation. Seriously, it doesn’t ever look like I’ll derive any income from this endeavor so, don’t hold your breath.

Do you have a real job? Where do you find the time to write this crap? Yes, I’m gainfully employed, but I do try to carve out a little time in the evenings to write. As you can tell, I’m not a professional writer. My process usually involves a little inspiration, a little wine, and a lot of spell checking. Contrary to public (and my wife’s) belief, I’m not actively on Facebook 24/7. I usually have it on in the background and refer to it when I have some free time.

Are you available for personal appearances or private parties? No, Deb says I can’t do this anymore. The last and only time I made a public appearance was at a local nursing home. I addressed some old ladies Red Hat society. Unfortunately, they kept whooping, whistling, and using their false teeth like castanets while they shoved dollar bills into the waistband of my pants. Thankfully, I out ran their walkers and Little Rascal scooters to safety. Thankfully, I only had to push a few of them out of my way. Actually, it wasn’t a total waste. The tapioca, strained spinach and whipped haddock were delicious!

Do you have any political aspirations or a plan for world peace? Actually, yes. I hope to vote in the next political election and maybe the one after that. As far as world peace goes, I think it would be really cool if everybody was just a bit nicer to each other. Those who have gravitated to these pages to share stories, pictures and communicate seem to possess the fundamentals of what a community should be. The boys from the band WAR said it best when they asked, Why Can’t We Be Friends? Well, why not!

Men's Large Contingent - Weigh in #2

2011-03-07T15:45:00.000-08:00

They say that what goes up must come down, and if this hypothesis is true, then it must also be true that what goes down must also come up, yes? Today was a big yes.

The learned gentlemen who are currently competing in the "Men's Large Contingent" weight loss competition proved today that we are far better sprinters than marathoners with each of our respective weight loss strategies sputtering out just past the starting line. Actually, given our dismal results, I'm not sure that any of us could be confused with anyone who sprints, runs, Zumbas or any other calorie burning activity other than the incidental calorie burning that occurs while eating.

Each of us gathered in my office this morning, some with their punitive $20 ready in hand to pay the penalty for losing ground and gaining mass, belly or ass. One by one we took our turns stepping on the scale looking at results that rivaled our SAT scores and wondered what we could have done to prevent the upward slide.

I went first and was disappointed to see that I had gained back a half pound. I wondered where I went astray. Could it have been the countless birthday celebrations, the week in Chicago complete with the classic Chicago dog, or maybe it was the two slices of Sausage, Onion and Ricotta pizza I had the night before the weigh in? It was a mystery thicker than the Fribbles that pulse through my veins.

Ralph went next and found himself two plus pounds from his last reading. could it have been the multiple slices of pizza that he ingested to counter act the many beers he had Saturday night? Maybe the multiple fast food stops on his way to Florida, or could it have been the Chinese food and Banana Split he had the night before he weighed in? It seems like a mystery worthy of those who dedicate their lives to investigating the Loch Ness Monster, Big Foot and Charlie Sheen's sobriety.

Tim and Stephen went next and had the same results and the same pathetic recollections of a nutrition plan that as Ozzy would say, was "going off the rails of the gravy train." We each sat in a circle and recounted our moments of weakness, sharing tales of beer, burgers, slices and vices. Our individual disclosures were like a half ass AA meeting, except that when someone offered their lapses, the rest of us made yummy sounds and salivated like an inebriated late night Beachmont Roast Beef customer. There would be no six month chips awarded today. Did someone say chips?

All of us paid our penalty, and felt great shame.

Men's Large Contingent Part 2 - Weigh in #1

2011-02-14T12:53:00.000-08:00

It’s the second Monday of the Men’s Large Contingent Contest which means that we had our first weigh in this morning. Once again I stole Deb’s bathroom scale, hid it under my coat and brought it into work, much like the records I used to borrow from my father to bring to school. I walked into our building looking like I was participating in some weird Show and Tell day.
Unfortunately, only three out of the four participating contestants were available for the 9:30 weigh in. Our fourth, Stephen was unavailable, and immediately the rumors and chop busting ensued. “He’s a bluff!” “He’s at IHOP” “He’s at a fried dough and Ice Cream sundae eating contest.” “He wants a third chin!” He’s fast food binging under some bridge in Charlestown.” Yes indeed, there’s a lot of love in this contest.

The weigh-ins is a somewhat critical component to our competition. In addition to helping keep us on track, for those who are not, means that their financial burden would be increased by $20 each time they weighed in over what they had weighed in previously. Basically, you pay if you lose ground.

This potential punitive action prompted our heroic contestants to employ various strategies which included, voiding the contents of pockets, (Something that hadn’t been done during the initial weigh in) and voiding anything else that potentially adds to our gravitational pull. I’ll let you use your own imagination, but the contestants seemed to appreciate having to get rid of whatever it was in comparison to the initial weigh in where they desperately tried to “hold it in.”
We each took our turn stepping on the scale, and much to our surprise, despite the overindulgence of the Super Bowl (Ralph’s texts were particularly entertaining, especially the one that stated, “I’m eating like I’m going to the electric chair!”) and our respective travel schedules, we each lost about 6 pounds.

It was a great start and we congratulated each other with great enthusiasm. Then we went to an “all you can eat” Chinese Buffet. I wish I could tell you that I’m kidding…but I’m not.

Off to the gym and something called the Sparticus work out. See you in the E.R!

Amtrak

2011-02-14T05:07:00.000-08:00

I'm riding the rails, travelling south
Listening to old R.E.M
Already, I'm missing the one I love

Does travelling by train still hold romance
Now that I can plug in, log on, download and Tweet?
Instead, I write long hand
A stream of consciousness recorded with each passing tie

Outside the salt caked cars are halted
Their early Sunday morning drivers impatiently wait while my adventure slowly clangs, clicks and rolls by

The snow blanketed landscape passes by my window,
cold, stark and pale like those early U2 videos when they really seemed to matter
The scene changes with each mile, from this and desolate woods to the small fishing shanty's spread out across a frozen drift

Rusted cars lay in a salvage yard much like the headstones that peek up through the accumulation
Long abandoned box cars and graffiti covered walls

does travelling by train still hold romance?
the bigger question is capturing it.
Every cliche' in the book.

Men's Large Contingent

2011-02-04T04:50:00.000-08:00

It's on! This past Monday, my friend's Ralph, Stephen, Tim and I agreed to a weight loss competition. Now that all of us are in our mid 40's we felt the need for additional inspiration and motivation. In what seems like yesterday when Ralph and I were in our 20's, we used to affectionately refer to some of the middle aged woman we worked with as the "Lady's Large Contingent" not realizing that the ongoing years, gravity and the influence of the Italian American (and just a touch of French) diet would unwillingly nominate us to begin a men's chapter. Such is Karma.

Our weigh in took place in my office, and we each took a turn stepping on the scale that I borrowed form our upstairs bathroom (Don't tell Deb). It's one of those electronic scales with the digital read out. I feared that when my turn arrived that it would read, "One person at a time, please." Unfortunately for me the actual read out didn't make me feel much better. Once we all weighed in and established our ground rules, our conversation moved on to the incredible amount of snow that has been hitting our area. There was some discussion of global warming and Stephen mentioned something about the Earth's axis being changed. Thinking about this and our collective poundage made me wonder which side of the Earth we were standing on and were we partially responsible for throwing things off?

Working out and eating right has been a recurring theme in Ralph and my friendship. I remember that when I first met him, he was just finishing up a diet plan that seemed foreign to me. He was avoiding carbohydrates and sticking to healthy proteins like, steak bacon, salami and gabagool. I also seem to recall our intent to begin "lifting." We had great plans to meet at the weight room located in one of the North End schools. We lifted for a few hours, then proceeded to eat the lasagna his mother Anna had made for us, and that's where our program ended.

We're now five days into our competition and things seem to be going well. I've hit the gym a few times this week and I've been using the Paleolithic diet to kick start my weight loss plan. If you're not familiar with the Paleolithic diet, the basic concept is that you eat like our ancestors did for thousands of years. It's also referred to as the Cave Man diet. My friend Dave has had great success with this and he's taken off quite a few pounds. Funny though, that when you think of the Cave Men, they may have been thinner, but wasn't there life span like 34.5 years?

Sports Bar

2011-02-01T08:42:00.000-08:00

I ran into an old friend at the airport the other day.
We were both travelling a great distance to attend to our respective business.
It was a brief encounter, but we agreed to meet somewhere in the great city to spend time and narrow the distance between us.
There were no ill feelings, but the passage of time had wedged itself between our friendship.
Long ago there was none, and we were joined side by side on the beach wall with other friends, having great adventures while another and unknown life awaited us.
And in an illuminated corner of a sports bar, it all of it came back, if only for just a moment.

My Brain is Turning into Chumbawamba

2011-02-01T06:56:00.000-08:00

Just a quick post to convey a pre-Alzheimer's incident or more likely, just another example of an unfocused wandering mind. I was alone in the house this morning as Deb and the kids had already left for school. I was getting ready to leave and for whatever reason I rattled of my checklist out loud to ensure I wasn't leaving anything behind. It went a little something like this:

I have my wallet
I have my cell phone
I have my building pass
I have a whiskey drink
I have a vodka drink
I have a lager drink
I have a cider drink

Now, I don't know why my checklist evolved or more likely devolved into the 1997 Chumbawamba classic, "Tubthumping", but I don't like it. If you happen to run into me and I'm singing this, please feel free to knock me down, and if I get up again, don't ever stop keeping me down.

P.S. Enjoy the tune that is and will be stuck in your head for the rest of the day!

Snow Day

2011-01-12T03:17:00.000-08:00

The house is dark and quiet except for the pulsing gush of the percolator.

The family sleeps soundly, while notices of liberation scroll across the screen.

I peek through the window, barely able to see past the front yard.

but I can see my immediate future.

Feel Free to Rinse

2011-01-11T09:47:00.000-08:00

There are a lot of words in the English language that can be mentioned that prompt little to no reaction from people. Two such words are, "root" and "canal." "Root" which refers to the under part of a plant or the encouragement for an individual or team, much like all of New England will be doing as the Jets take their well deserved foot fetished beating this coming Sunday. Then there's the word "canal", which immediately inspires visions of panama hats, big ships and malaria. As stated, speaking these words individually is a harmless endeavor that you yourself can try as a fun little experiment. Walk up to a complete stranger and say, "root!" The reaction you receive will be somewhere between disinterest and "buzz off, whack job!" You may even get a little spare change out of it in the process. Now try stringing the words together. Go ahead, try it with anyone. Walk up to someone and say "root canal" and you'll immediately trigger sighs, grunts and groans like you just kicked them in the crotch. The two words root canal have struck more fear in Americans than uncle Osama, four dollars a gallon and the true ingredients in bologna.

So where does all of this rambling lead? It leads to the fact that I had my first root canal today. I hate to use the word first because it indicates that there may be a second or more on the "You're going to feel a little pressure here," horizon.

I suppose I deserve the procedure. I remember when I was a kid chomping on the hard and gooey candy I was relegated to due to my allergy to chocolate. I earned my fair share of cavities when I was a kid. I had so much silver in my mouth that when the dentist would shine the big space ship looking lamp in my mouth, the reflection off of my silver fillings would bath the room in little points of light like a giant disco ball.

As I grew older I learned to take better care of my teeth. But with time and age come issues, and thankfully, I've had few, but I certainly had one now. My dentist explained that a root canal is necessary when the root becomes irritated by bacteria and causes pain. He also told me that the root really doesn't have much to do with the overall health of the tooth itself. He went on to say that the root was like a tenant that rented the space inside of the tooth. If this is true, I need to speak with the realtor who leased my number 13 tooth, because the pain I was experiencing leads me to believe that I had a bunch of college kids with no references or credit checks living in there, partying, bumping into the walls, and breaking all of the furniture.

To be honest, the procedure wasn't all that bad. Before we got started, I asked if I could listen to my iPod, which I was told was okay. I ran through the waiting room out toward my car with my little bib on. Most of the people in the waiting area probably thought I was trying to escape, and I'm not sure if they felt any better when I returned with my aforementioned coconut half headphones. I got back in the chair and started looking for the right selection. Maybe something soothing, but something that was loud enough to kill the sound of the drill. I thought about watching a video, but the only thing I had on my iPod was a YouTube video I uploaded of some dude getting a root canal.

Just prior to the procedure, they gave me a pair of tinted protective sunglasses. I don't know why they were tinted. Maybe the dentist thought the site of me crying would be distracting. He also placed a medieval metal and rubber thing that looked like something out of a Marylin Manson video. After 45 minutes of Drilling, filing, and filling I was sent on my way, short one root and a fairly hefty co-pay. I headed of to the office for a staff meeting where I would stutter and stumble through a project plan presentation with a mouth full of Novocaine and drool, hoping that the root canal would be the difficult part of my day.

Back to the Gym

2011-01-09T12:37:00.000-08:00

Fair warning that some of the language in this post may be questionable. I'm not sure just yet how questionable it will be because I haven't written it, but some of the things floating around in my head probably justify the disclosure.

I'm happy to report that I've turned into a gym rat, which means I've managed to drag my lazy ass to the gym two days in a row. Yesterday, after a slow start, I managed to do a fair amount of lifting. My favorite moment came when I asked one of the over inflated muscle dudes for a little assistance with something that was questionably too heavy for me. He asked me if I needed a spot. He was a nice enough guy and together we moved one of the weight benches into place. He did chuckle a bit as I picked up the 25 pound dumbbells for a little bench pressing.

This encounter was not unusual for me as I'm not a good gym guy. I don't dress in the proper attire(if there is such a thing), I wear big "coconut half" head phones and I have a tendency to sing out loud. In a past post I've discussed the questionable etiquette in the men's locker room, but I have to admit that singing out loud in the men's locker room isn't particularly cool either. I should at least monitor my play list a little and grunt a little Metallica instead of "Wake Me Up Before You Go Go." If you're getting a vision of me prancing around the locker room shouting, "Jitterbug", then you're on the right track.

Yesterday, as I was on the treadmill, I decided that I would kick it up a few notches and start running. All was cool and I was jamming while running to a little Pearl Jam when the guy next to me flinched. It seems that the "way too long" cord from my iPod was smacking him as I was swinging my arms. Swing your arms, you say? Yes, my mechanics aren't the best. My running is somewhat reminiscent of a one year old being attacked by bees while chasing after the ice cream man. Anyway, I shouted, "Sorry" at him over my music. He was not wearing headphones and didn't require my screaming, but I'm sure he appreciated the sentiment.

As far as different exercises go, I prefer some of the ab work. It's not so much that exercises are fun, it's just that for a lot of them I get to lay down. I always try to catch a few quick Z's when I'm down on the mat, but Deb says that it's way too obvious. Maybe I should switch to an actual exercise position instead of the fetal position. The drooling and snoring doesn't help either. Speaking of drooling, I find it a little annoying when I walk by the ladies doing the thigh exercises. I swear, I'm not looking at you, so save your dirty looks for the actual perverts that cruise the machine area. I'm tired of the scowls of the eighty year old geriatrics doing the Thigh Master, so step off Grandma Moses.

I also find it a little distressing that at least one of the televisions in the cardio room always has an infomercial about some crazy work out routine. If it's not PX90, it's some other program called "Insanity, or "Push Till Death." It's frustrating seeing a bunch of cut and ripped people working out harder than I am, plus it distracts me from my People magazine. One other thing about the machines in the cardio room; I know I've done this a bunch of times and you may have as well. Have you ever gotten off a machine to grab the stuff to wipe down the machine and forget which one you were on? I have no doubt that my fellow runners, walkers and joggers have seen me wiping down a random treadmill and questioned their own work out buddy as to what I was doing. I imagine the typical response is something along the lines of, "Do you see his head phones, he's obviously a little slow. Just leave him alone and don't touch his ears."

The steam room and sauna are my reward for working out and they are the things I really look forward to, but they're not without their issues. I still can't understand why guys insist on going into the hot tub naked. I mean if we were all away for a guy's weekend and there was a hot tub at the hotel or house, we wouldn't be naked in it would we? The same goes for the steam room. I'm proud to report that I always go into either of these things with a swimsuit. That's not cool you say? Well, I say tough shit! I'm not sitting in your funky, gross, hairy guy ass and ball bag broth. Quite honestly, I'm considering purchasing a wet suit.

The other thing that I do in the steam room is bring my own aromatherapy. Due to the unpleasantness that I just mentioned, the steam room smells just a little funky. I picked up a small bottle of eucalyptus oil the last time I was in Australia. I pour a little on a paper towel and hold it near my face when I'm sitting there. It's probably a funny site seeing this big pasty guy with his face in a paper towel. I think some of the old dudes think I'm huffing chemicals as part of some hippie homoerotic adventure, but I don't really give a crap.

Yesterday, while I was in the men's hot tub which is in the far end of the men's locker room, pretty much away from anything else, I had a visitor. An old gentleman brought a stool over and sat next to the hot tub. He never got in, he just sat in the corner on this little white plastic stool. I thought to myself, "Great, this guy is going to want to talk to me. Another Calgon moment goes bye bye." And of course I was right, straight away, the guy started babbling. If that wasn't enough of an issue, I couldn't hear a damned thing he said over the water jets. He was talking and talking and I just sat there smiling and nodding my head. He was probably asking, "Hey, you want to go into the steam room and check my prostate for me?" I kept smiling and nodding in the affirmative.

As this was happening my mind started to wander. I was temporarily transported back to the many days, or should I say nights where my buddies and I would go to dance clubs to meet girls. I couldn't hear the damned thing there either. This was a real disadvantage for me because I didn't possess the looks or the style that my buddies had and I had to rely on dialogue to make any headway, without it, I might as well have been wearing my goofy headphones.

Shopping with Bukowski

2010-12-29T04:22:00.000-08:00

I'm up early. The coffee is on and I'm reading some of Bukowski's short stories. If you're not familiar with Bukowski, he was a writer and poet that is associated with the Beats, but to me he doesn't really fit into that association. He possesses far less of the hippyness and more of the drunken, gambling, lecherous loser category that would seem to ridicule the Dharma Bums sooner than he would embrace them.

I like his stuff because there's a rawness and honesty to it. He puts it all out there and he tells it like it is; boils, warts, shit, puke, and all. He's a controversial figure in the writing world and probably more so, from a poetic standpoint. He's misogynistic, rude, crude, dirty and incredibly funny.

I, myself have to be careful as I'm an easy mark. I have a tendency to be influenced by the influences around me. Just because Chuckie boy got away with speaking his mind, doesn't give me license to do the same.

Yesterday was a good case in point. I stopped at a corner store, as if there is such a thing anymore. I bought a paper and as the cashier rang it up, asked me if I had my rewards card handy. My mind immediately raced with flurry of one liners and rude responses, one of which being, "Does Big Brother really need to know that I do the crossword in USA Today?" But I smiled, said "no" and kept my comments to myself.

I have to remember that I'm not Bukowski...but I'm slipping.

Christmas Morning Bed In

2010-12-28T06:53:00.001-08:00

We stayed up later than usual this Christmas Eve. Deb and I finally decided to turn in around 2:30 am, but we didn't stress because our kids, now 17 and 16 would not be up at the crack of dawn begging us to go downstairs to see what Santa had left. Those days are over.

I clearly remember long past Christmas Eves where Deb and I, like many other parents would be up until the weary hours of the night, wrapping, and assembling the kids booty. My most favorite and equally horrifying memory is that of opening a Fischer Price remote control car and track we had bought for Zach. I was relieved and elated when I opened the huge four foot long box to find that there were only a small number of pieces to assemble. My happiness turned into horror when the four foot long sheet of stickers slipped out of the box. Every flag, every wheel cover, and even the white lines on the road had to be affixed with the corresponding sticker. It was like some evil half assed sobriety check, but I digress.

Our kids now would more likely have to be woken up around 10:00 or even later, so we slept soundly with no need to arise and no need to travel. It was Vanessa who stood over our kig size bed at 7:20. Not too early, but I was certainly not ready to step out. I asked her to wake Zach and have him come in to our bedroom. Zach came in and joined Vanessa, Deb, myself, not to mention dogs Bean and George.

The six of us laid in the king size bed under the covers and talked. No television, no phone, no texts and no distractions were present as the four of us shared stories of Christmas days' past. We smiled, giggled and laughed for the next 40 minutes or so, then we sprang into Christmas action. There were presents to open and a house to prepare for the throngs of friends and neighbors that would share our day, and a great day it was, but it couldn't and wouldn't equal those first minutes where we hung out together under the covers.

It was an unplanned magical little moment that has earned a place in the Calabrese Christmas Memory Hall of Fame and I think it was the coolest thing ever.

"Ms. Calabrese, Please Come Claim Your Lost Child"

2010-12-22T03:03:00.000-08:00

I'm lost. Well, I'm not really lost, I'm just separated from my wife. Not relationship wise. I'm not living in some crappy apartment with pizza boxes and dirty underwear strewn about the place, I just can't seem to physically find her. I'm somewhere in Target and so is she, but I haven't seen her in what seems to be hours. I search up and down the aisles, partially blinded by the bright fluorescent lights that illuminate the vast "Made in China" sea of merchandise. Every time I think I see her, I rush over to find that it's some other shopper. She's dragged me along shopping again.

This is all my fault of course. I have the attention span of a gnat, and I wandered off early in our trek. Actually early inaccurately indicates that I was actually on track at some point. The reality is, as soon as we entered the store and found ourselves in the women's apparel section, I was gone. At least in my head. Oh, I offered my usual comments when we passed by the woman's undergarments section, but immediately after I drifted. Just a little bit at first, but then just a tad further, much like a new swimmer drifts just a little bit further into the deep end of the pool, but at some point can't see the rope that keeps we kiddies safe and accounted for.

Maybe this is her fault. I didn't want to come shopping and I didn't buy her comment that it would be a great way for us to spend some time together. We're not together. I didn't want to come here. This doesn't make me happy, and what's worse, I haven't seen her. I'm still wandering and I'm frustrated that I can't find her. There's a good chance that she's pissed that I've deserted her and I'm anticipating the scolding that I'm about to receive, "No wonder you got lost. I told you to stay by my side!"

Eventually, I have a flash of brilliance and reach for my cell phone. I call her, but much like the deep dark depths of the South American Rainforest there's no service. I keep moving up and down the aisles with no success and I eventually end up in the far reaches of the store where the damaged, discounted and out of season items are displayed. There are no women in this part of the store, just damaged lawn furniture and unsold gas grill replacement parts. I'm scared, cold and lonely. The only source of comfort is that there's a handful of other lost husbands, each of us sporting glazed over eyes, trembling and fearing the scolding that awaits us. Each of us awkwardly look at each other, but eventually I build up the courage to speak. I talk about us banding together and forming our own society of Lost Boys where we'll run across the country side causing havoc, eating pizza and drinking beer. Then our conversation abruptly comes to an end. Deb's standing at the end of the aisle. Her arms are crossed and she's tapping her foot. I bid my comrades farewell, "Uh, guys my wife's here...I have to go."

Deb has a handful of stuff that she's balancing because all this time I've been walking around with an empty shopping carriage. She smiles, pats me on the head and promises me a cookie if I stay with her. Finally we shop together. I start out strong but it's not long that I begin yawning. My feet start to drag and eventually, I assume the husband position of resting my weight on the handle bar of the carriage, dragging my feet. At some point I realize that the bottom panel of the carriage make a cool noise so I start to kick it with each step. I develop what I hear as a cool little rhythm until Deb stops and say, "Will you please stop doing that?"

Deb tries to enlist my help by asking my opinion on grab items for her co workers, this despite the fact that both of us know that she doesn't need my input. "What do you think about this for Ms. O'Neill? I offer a quick, "Yeah, that's great, but in my head I'm saying, "I don't really give a sh*#."

To Deb's credit, she keeps her composure and does her best to keep me engaged and entertained. Then she has her revenge. We still have other shopping to do including groceries, and I offer to stay in the car while she finishes her holiday shopping, then we can do the groceries together. She says, "I have a better idea. I'll go to TJMAXX alone, but I'll drop you off so you can do the food shopping, then I'll meet you there. It'll save us time." I sigh, but I agree and she bets me to see who will finish first. We part, and I rush around the store with my list filling my carriage as fast as I can. I proudly proclaim to myself, "I'll show her how to shop!" I weave in and out of the other shoppers like a man on a mission and I quickly empty my list as my carriage becomes full. When I get to the last aisle, I see Deb walking toward me. She's smiling and says, "I beat you. I win." I correct her and proudly state, "Uh, uh. I'm finished. I win!" Or did I?

Just Another Day in New York City

2010-12-19T14:36:00.000-08:00

We met Jen and Geoff at the Cascade Diner after a long night of holiday overindulgence and dancing. George and Denise's dance mix kept a good portion of the Brooklyn revelers moving throughout their spacious brownstone and we were all feeling the effects our moves and the various concoctions that lubricated, not so much our joints but our inhibitions. This morning we were moving a little slowly, but our pace was assisted by the anticipation and excitement of spending the day running around Greenwich Village and Midtown Manhattan.

After a bright and brisk walk over the Brooklyn Bridge where I continually fell behind the rest of the group. I, like the other hundreds of digital camera toting tourists, aspired to capture an image of the great bridge that would probably pale in comparison to the many photos and postcards sold at the many souvenir stands around the bridge. My friend Eric's comments rang in my ears, "Oh yeah, your picture will be different."

It was Eric who sent a text to sister Jen and suggested Walker's Bar where we could get a much needed Bloody Mary, a sort of Hair of the dog thing. The bar was small and busy, but Eric's recommendation was spot on, in that it met the quaint, almost seedy, but not too seedy atmosphere we desired.

The Bloody Marys were spicy and immediately hit the spot. We made small talk with the gentleman that sat to Deb's right. The same man who offered to move to accommodate our little group. Jen was lured into a strange conversation with a young man who stated he was working, yet was drinking at the bar and went on to tell her an unsolicited tale of how his friend was "date raped" the prior evening. Typical small talk between strangers, right?

The coughing came from our fellow patron in the corner. It wasn't a productive cold type of cough and it initially sounded like the man had taken water down the wrong pipe, but it was immediately clear that his wind pipe was blocked by something more substantial. The man was in trouble and we all knew it. I jumped out of my chair and worked my way toward him, first by telling, or I should say yelling at Deb to get out of the way. As his eyes rolled back in his head and he lost consciousness, I got behind the man, picked him up and pulled my clenched fists up into his abdomen. Quite honestly I didn't know what I was doing and it occurred to me that he may die in my arms. This thought scared me and made me pull even harder. Then he slid off of the chair and I was now carrying his full dead weight. I called to Geoff to help me lift him, and after another a few more forceful squeezes the guy regained consciousness. Like a light switch he went from limp, pale and rolled back eyes to the animated life he was just a minute or two before. He asked if he had fainted. He was confused and embarrassed, but he was alive.

The once interested restaurant crowd saw that the man was breathing and back on his bar stool. None of the folks offered assistance or called 911. When it was over no one clapped, validated or acknowledged what had just transpired. The event had happened and now it was over. They returned to their eggs, mimosas and conversations. It was as if this type of thing happened often and it was only our little group that found the experience beyond the routine routine.

After Debbie's numerous requests, the bartender finally came over with a glass of water. He placed the glass on the bar and used the same hand to pull the guy's plate away from him with a snide, "I assume you're done with this." The man didn't resist. We spent a little more time in the bar and finished our drinks. We declined the man's kind request to the bartender, "Get my medical team another round." We made sure the guy was okay, said our farewells and went off to seek out new adventures.

So, You Want to Make Meatballs?

2010-08-29T06:02:00.000-07:00

So you want the recipe for meatballs? Just the recipe? Sorry, you don't get off that easy. Oh, you'll get the recipe but you'll have to endure the mindless rabble that comes out of this meatball. Maybe you should just make sausage.

My grandmother made the best meatballs in the world. Actually, we didn't call her grandma. We called her Margaret, which wasn't really her name. Her name was Cosima or something like that, but she disliked that name. I'd like to tell you that there is some story behind our calling her Margaret, but to be honest, I haven't got a clue.

Margaret's recipe for meatballs are deceiving simple, and I've made them a number of times, but I've never been able to make them like her. Like I said, her recipe is simple. Mine is not.

Off to the market you go, and make sure you go early. There's a few reasons for this, but the biggest is that in years to come your kids will fondly remember waking up to the delectable aromas of Italian cooking and hopefully will forget all of the goofy stupid things you did as a parent.

When you get to the market bee line it to the bakery department and grab some day old bread. Country bread works great. Cinnamon and raisin does not. If there isn't any out on display, ask the nice lady behind the counter if she has any. Make sure you're polite and ask her how she's doing. Maybe she'll give you a cookie.

Next, head over to the deli counter. Grab a number and wait with all of the other folks in line. If you're bored ask people what kind of cold cuts they're going to order. No matter what they say, respond by saying, "You're not going to really eat that are you? Do you know how they make that? "

When your number is called, ask the person behind the counter how their day is going. This is a nice thing to do, and it's really disappointing to see their stunned face as most people just shout their order at them. We need to make the world a better place. Why not start at the deli counter?

Tell the person behind the counter that you have bad news and good news for them. The bad news is that you need a half pound of Prosciutto (they hate having to cut the paper thin slices) but the good news is that they only need to cut into two thick slices.

Proceed to the meat counter and grab equal portions of ground pork, ground veal and ground beef. I usually use chuck. a lot of the time there isn't ground chuck out in the cooler so I select a chuck roast and summon one of the meat cutters. As always, say hello and ask how they are doing and maybe you'll get a few bones for your dog or for making stock. Ask if they have any ground chuck. When they say that all of their ground beef is chuck, ask if they'll grind the roast for you. They'll happily oblige.

the reason for using chuck is that it has the best lean to fat ratio for making meatballs. Don't substitute with turkey. If you feel that you don't want the red meat or the fat, make something else.

Proceed through the aisles of the market and make sure you say hello to your fellow shoppers each time you pass them especially if you see the same person over and over again. While going through the aisles, select the following items:

eggs

whole milk

fennel seeds

chili flakes

precorino romano cheese

flat leaf parsley (Don't grab the cilantro by mistake)

dried oregano ( I have fresh in our herb garden but oregano is one of those rare exceptions where the dried version is better)

salt

pepper

One other key ingredient is ricotta cheese. Ricotta cheese is something that most people don't use in meatballs, but adding ricotta brings additional richness and keeps the heavenly spheres light and moist.

When you get back home pre heat the oven to 400 degrees, pour yourself a glass of wine and select some music that is suitable for your task. Pearl Jam works nicely.

Cut the prosciutto into small cubes and do the same to the day old bread. Avoid using the crust if it is too, well, uh...crusty, I guess. Add about a cup of milk and the rest of the ingredients of which I can't offer the precise amounts, ratios or proportions. I know this may be frustrating to you, but I really don't know. If it's any consolation I couldn't get Margaret to tell me proportions either as she did everything by taste or feel. The one thing she did offer is that you should use one egg per pound of meat.

Mix all of your ingredients together with your hands, but don't over work it or the meatballs will be a little tough.

Take a break from mixing to tell your spouse that you love them and want a hug. then chase them around the house with your disgusting meat caked hands. Deb loves this!

Roll the meatballs and place on a lightly greased pan (I use olive oil.) Cook for about 10 minutes or until they brown. Then drop them into the gravy (are you a gravy or sauce person?) and let them braise (braise? Guess who's been watching the Food Network?)

Let the sauce and meatballs simmer at a low heat so your kids can come by and pick at them throughout the day.

So there you have it. People seem

to really like these things and I generally receive praise for the flavor and texture, but still, they're nothing like hers.

Thanks, Margaret.

Fencing with Deb

2010-06-23T05:42:00.000-07:00

Deb has been asking me to have a fence installed in our back yard for 11 years, and for 11 years I avoided it, as I found the whole idea offensive (Speaking of offensive, how about that pun?) I use orate to Deb about our migration from the cold hard city to enjoy the open rolling spaces and the natural God given gifts that the Granite State offers. "Shouldn't our dogs be like the people of our state who proclaim to Live Free or Die? Why would we want to deny our children the Walden like wilderness, unencumbered by the urban trappings from which we came? What about the freedom that our forefathers fought so hard to secure? Remember the Donner Party!" "You're an idiot," she would say. "We live in Downtown Dover and our house is surrounded by a neighborhood that are as close to the other houses when we were in Somerville or Winthrop.

After months and months of debate, tap dancing and utilizing all of my skills or persuasion, I finally convinced Deb, and we bought a fence. You see Deb's desire has been to protect our two dogs from the neighborhood traffic. Not that we have a lot of it, but like all of you New Englanders who need to reeducate yourselves on how to drive in the snow, our dogs have to reacclimate themselves to the dangers of the street each spring. There's always a few close calls and Deb loses her...well, let's say she becomes, animated. The reality is our older dog Bean hasn't been on a leash in our neighborhood since we arrived some eleven years ago. She's had a few brushes with the K9 Grim Reaper, but the fact of the matter is that she's more proficient at crossing the street than most of the goofy kids on our street. Deb has always had this dream of letting the dogs out to the backyard where they could roam free and she'd be free from the anxiety of them wandering off.

Last week I was looking out our kitchen window and saw Bean attempting to escape by gnawing on one of the wooden pickets. I just smiled and continued looking out at our dog's new $3,000 chew toy. Also, during the same week, I was working in the yard and our Chihuahua escaped through the gate a neighbor neglected to close. When realizing that George was missing, Deb, let's say again became animated and blamed me for being an accomplice in the escape. Zach hasn't quite learned how to mow in and around the fence and can't seem to do the edging.

As I contemplate spending the summer weather proofing the fence, I sit back and smile. It's a beautiful little picket fence and it really seems to be working out well. Not sure why I avoided it all these years.

Travelling Through Time

2010-06-22T03:06:00.000-07:00

It’s a very early morning in Belfast and I’m up early with it. As I awake I try to figure out where I am. There is no clock in my room and I struggle to read the hands on my wristwatch. Is it twenty five or six to four? Am I in Chicago? Does anybody really know what time it is? I As I lay here, I’m thinking about the trip over. It was an unremarkable flight with no issues, so I have no complaints with the exception of the Nazi flight attendant who kept waking me up for the meal I told her I didn’t want. I do however, smile and chuckle at one of my favorite aspects, not so much about travel, but of life in general. That is the absolute fun in meeting new people.

One such person is an old gentleman known to me only as Mr. Schaeffer. I had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Schaffer while I was connecting through the Newark Airport. The interesting thing about Mr. Schaeffer is that he is currently One hundred and six years old. “Actually, closer to one hundred and seven” he said. Mr. Schaeffer was born in 1903 and emigrated to the states after surviving the holocaust. The remarkable thing about the man is that he walked without the assistance of a cane and he was sharp, very sharp. He was heading over to Israel for the 10th time. He began to list the dates he had visited in the past, “My first visit was in 1967. Then I was back over in ’73, then again in ’76, then in the summer of 78. He told me that he had travelled everywhere because of the import export business he was in.

I couldn't help but tease him about his Members Only jacket and I almost made mention that he was probably the last member, but I realized that there was real truth to that statement. As you would expect, I had a number of questions for him. “What products did he import and export?” “Feathers,” he said. “I filled every pillow in the U.S. Army for forty years.” I asked him where he liked to travel best, and I was not surprised to hear that he liked to visit his beloved Israel. Then of course I asked him what was his secret to a long life? He told me that as a child he was blessed by a Rabbi who told him that he would enjoy a very long life. This was a bit of a disappointment to me, this because I am not of Jewish faith and the only Rabbi I know is me, but that’s another story.

We talked for a short while and my travelling companions were entertained, not so much by Mr. Schaeffer , but by my face which was glistening as I was listening because the old coot was spitting all over me.
The other group of people I had the pleasure of meeting were the finalists in the Miss Northern Ireland Pageant. They were staying at the same hotel as I and I had the pleasure of speaking to a few of them. It was an interesting exchange. They were very young and very beautiful and I asked them questions about the pageant, life in Ireland, and what interesting places I should visit. In turn they seemed interested in me and asked me questions as well. “What are the States like? Have you ever been to New York and…What’s the secret to a long life?”

Getting in Shape - Garrison Hill

2010-04-05T17:01:00.000-07:00

Balance. That's the one thing that I strive for. Work and home life, friends and family, debits and credits, Beatles and Stones. Life is best when there's balance. So how does one follow a month long celebration complete with dinners, nightly libations and assorted treats? Balance. Balance that comes with sensible eating a dramatic reduction in all things alcohol and increased activity. My next adventures are going to be those that involve different types of physical activity. Some will be formal and some not. I've set goals for myself as suffice it to say that I'm in need of a tune up. I won't bore you with the details, but when I got on my electronic scale this morning it blurted out, "One at a time, please!"

I was suppose to start on April first, but the fact of the matter is that I had to delay my start due to illness. I was travelling back from Calgary and a sinus infection reared its ugly head the morning was to head back. I ended up being the sneezy, drippy, leaky, watery eyed Ebola infected passenger huddled against the window filling tissue after tissue while coughing, grunting and snorting my way across the country. I tried my best to contain myself on the filled to capacity plane. Early on I tried to covertly pull a tissue out of its pack, but the sun shining through the window of the darkened plane illuminated the "tissue lint" and created a huge swarm of tiny fireflies. the woman next to me was horrified. When the plane finally descended into Boston, the depressurizing of the plane caused ear pain that was reminiscent of the ice pick scene in Basic Instinct. Ultimately my hearing was completely blocked and I found myself in a silent movie for the next few days.

So it was only this morning that I was able to get my start and begin my quest toward whatever it is I'm shooting for. I figured I'd start out simple. There is a hill near my house that has a fairly immediate and significant incline. I brought my old dog Bean along for the trek. My goal was to scale the incline three times at a brisk pace. The first time up was not pretty. Halfway up my breathing became labored and my steps inconsistent. I let Bean off of her leash and she trotted around investigating the mysteries of the woods. Bean seemed to look over at me and she seemed to be snickering, stating "Holy crap, you're pathetic. Heal, heal!"

I finally got to the top of the hill and started to scale Garrison Tower. I took in the panoramic view of the immediate area while enjoying the colorful graffiti that lined stairway. Apparently, if you're looking for a good time, you need to call Janie Hebert or be at the Tower at precisely 9:00 PM and she'll "Rock your world." Jimmy Schoenfeld is a big giant scumbag and depending upon who you believe Weezer either rocks, or sucks ass.

I started back down and Bean followed. I got to the bottom of the hill and turned around. Bean looked confused. "Hey, bald guy. We were just up there. Where the hell are you going?" She loyally walked along side me but her expression was clearly indicating her displeasure. She seemed to be saying, "You know, I've peed all over this city and there are a ton of places I haven't marked. We don't need to go up there again." But up the hill we went.

The second trip actually seemed much easier than the first trip, and as I started my third, Bean just sat there in disbelief. "Really? After a cold and wet winter, this is the walk you take me on? I can't wait to get home and sh*t in your shoes." Part of the way up Bean jumped up and grabbed her leash out of my hands, ran into the woods and dropped it in a pile of leaves, much like a loyal friend who takes the car keys from an inebriated buddy, saying "You can't be trusted with these right now." When Bean and I finally descended for the third time, she kept going, not wanting to risk a fourth climb.

When we got back to the house she walked just ahead of me and stopped at the door. She looked at me as if to say, "Hey mountain boy, how about opening the damned door?" When I let her in she ran up toward my bedroom I think to fetch my dress shoes. What a good dog!

Bad Parent Story #36

2010-03-16T18:37:00.001-07:00

With all of the "Jack History Month" crap I've been writing, I've been thinking back at all of the goofy stuff I've said or done and the people around me have been doing the same. My wife Deborah reminded me of this story, so I thought I would share it.

My two kids were born a year and nine days apart. I like to joke with my wife saying that I had two good years and then nothing! I pretend that she thinks it pretty funny but I'm sure she really doesn't, and it doesn't really have anything to do with this story anyway.

As you would imagine, when you have two kids that were born toward the end of October, their birthdays would naturally have a Halloween theme; and so they did. During their first years we use to have a party right in the middle of the dates, combining Vanessa's October 18th birthday friends and Zachary's October 27th birthday friends. One year when Vanessa was going to turn seven and Zachary six, they requested, or should I say, demanded separate parties. Although I saw no logic in separate parties, Debbie having grown up with a sister whose birthday was only days from her own, empathized, sympathized and agreed to hold separate celebrations, and of course, each of them would still stay true to the Halloween tradition.

Vanessa's party was first and held all of the trappings of a seventh birthday. A crowd of kids, mostly girls with ages ranging from two to seven ran through the house screaming and laughing and having a great time. We played the usual party games including musical chairs and pin the tail on the donkey, and at one point gathered all of the girls in our living room, lowered the lights and let them tell spooky and scary tales. Now, I'm no writer nor do I possess any skills as a literary critic, but these stories were horrible. There was no character development, the plots were weak, and they possessed no redeeming themes. What was worse is that every story ended with them being at some horseshit ball wearing a white gown and a tiara. The party eventually ended and was deemed a tremendous success and a highlight of the Florence Street Social season.

When the next Saturday arrived it was Zachary's turn to party. Much to my surprise, Debbie informed me that since this would be a testosterone filled macho goon fest, I would be in charge of overseeing the event, and she was right. Zach's friends tore through our house like a Texas Twister. there seemed to be an ever moving mass of arms and legs moving in every direction that left a wake of destruction worthy of a call to our local FEMA office. There was one point where I looked out the window and I'm certain that despite them being too young to know about it, they seemed to be recreating the Rodney King video, beating one unfortunate kid as he cried, "Can't we all just get along?"

I tried the pin the tail on the donkey game as well as bobbing for apples, but they kept sticking each other, throwing apples and spitting in the water. In an attempt to calm them down I brought them into our living room, turned off the lights and began the ghost story time. I said "It's scary story time, and to get you started I'll tell the first tale." Now, before I move on I should tell you that I prepared a prop for my story. I grabbed a small white cardboard jewelry box and cut a hole in the bottom of it just large enough to fit my middle finger. Then I lined it with cotton and put some fake blood in it. Then I put my finger though the hole and covered the box. Then I proceeded to tell them this story:

You know we live in a very old house and we were not the first to live in it. Prior to us living here there was an old man, Old man Johnston who lived here for many years. Now Mr. Johnston was a mean old guy and he hated anyone near his property, especially kids. He hated children, and the kids in the neighborhood didn't like him. They would taunt and tease him.

Now Mr. Johnston not only hate kids, but he use to go out of his way to hurt them. He had a workshop in his basement where he would create and invent devices meant to keep kids off of his property and hurt them.

One day when he was in his workshop he was using his table saw to create his latest kid hurting device, when some neighborhood kids banged on his basement window to scare him. Mr. Johnston was startled. He jumped, jerked back, and in the process he cut his finger off. What's worse, he couldn't find it. He spent the rest of his life in the basement looking for his finger. and the finger...was looking for him.

Eventually, Mr. Johnston died, and we bought the house. On our first day here I was moving some boxes into the basement, and guess what I found?

A this stage the kids are completely wide eyed and engaged.

"Do you really want to see?"

Now, I pull the box out and hold it in front of them.

"Are you sure you want to see?"

The kids all move even closer calling out, "Yes. We want to see! We want to see!"

I slowly tilted the box toward them and slowly lifted the cover to reveal my bloodied finger laying still in the stained cotton. The kids are completely wide eyed with mouths open but there's not a sound in the room. Then I flip my finger up and scream...First the kids freak, then it's my turn.

I'm not sure if you've ever seen 12 kids ranging from four to six uncontrollably crying sobbing and freaking out, but it's not pretty. I panicked pulling my finger out of the box and showing the kids, "look, it was my finger, it's only a hole in the box!" I looked toward the doorway at Debbie for some assistance, but she's just standing there with her thumbs up, mouthing the words, "good job."

The kids eventually calmed down and I even had to come up with a game to decide who would get to keep the "trick box." Throughout the past number of years, the kids would occasionally bring up the story which means that in my own way made an impression on them. Maybe someday they'll tell their own kids about the time when they were young and old man Calabrese gave them the finger.

I Take a Shot at the Electrical Field

2010-03-14T08:33:00.000-07:00

I've been writing different memories throughout the month of March for Jack History Month. My friend Timmy reminded me of this story. Not sure if it's one of those, you had to be there stories, but it entertains the Hell out of me.

I was hanging out with friends in front of the Pizza Center in my hometown of Winthrop Mass. contemplating the evening’s entertainment when I was asked by by Michael “Tiny” Christopher if I had any interest in making a little money working for a company called Ideal Electric. I told Tiny that I had not a clue about anything electric beyond wiring speakers or plugging in my hairdryer, (neither of which I do anymore.) I had concerns that I'd kill either myself, a co worker or some unsuspecting family by incorrectly wiring something. But with no other serious prospects, I agreed.

Tiny told me to report to the shop on Bates avenues no later than 7:00 the next morning. Now, a smarter man would have gone home to rest and prepare, but this was not to be the case as I stayed out for the better part of the evening and just a tad bit of the early morning doing whatever it was we did back then.

The next morning, I awoke, showered and groggily stumbled to Bates Ave. When I arrived at Ideal, I was relieved to see my best friend Johnny Gillis, his brother's, Owen and Jimmy as well as Bobby I. and a guy appropriately named, "Nick the Prick." Bobby I turned to me and said, "Are you Jack?" Then he looked me over and asked, "Is that what you're going to wear today? You know you're going to get dirty on this job. " Then he said, Okay, whatever, here's your first job. I have an "effin" squirrel that is living in my attic. See that hole up by the roof? We're going to flush him out, when he comes through that hole, you shoot the f*cker!" Then he dropped a nickel plated .38 caliber pistol in my hand. Needless to say, this was not the new experience I expected, but like I said, I had no other serious prospects and at least I couldn't electrocute or hurt myself.

So there I am on my first day of the job with high hopes of learning to use new cool and visions of wearing one of those cool tool belts and the potential of a new career, but instead I'm standing in a driveway pointing a gun at a house. To make matters worse, kids began to walk by on their way to school many of them staring in disbelief at my appearance. To a few of them I smiled and said, "It's okay, I'm an electrician."

Just then I saw something stir in the opening. I nervously cocked the hammer, raised the weapon and aimed, but I immediately halted when I realized it was not Rocket Jay Squirrel, but Owen Gillis' furry head popping out while yelling, "Don't Shoot, don't shoot!" I thought about popping off one round in the air, just to see his reaction, but I didn't think anyone aside form myself would be amused. Fortunately, the furry rodent, The Ideal crew were better at wiring than hunting, and I didn't get to prove myself during this unintentional hazing ritual or bizarre initiation. There were a lot of people back then that liked to play Mafia wise guy, including Bobby I. too bad for me that I didn't get to prove myself on my first "hit." I would have to do it with my work ethic (it was nil back then.)

You know, as time goes by, the details of old memories begin to fade and the specifics are lost or embellished. I ran into Johnny Gillis at our 25th high school reunion and after a few drinks and a bunch of stories, he asked, "Remember your first day at Ideal Electric?" Then he told the story to Deb and I from his perspective. I was tickled to know that it had actually happened the way I remembered.

As for my career as an electrician, it never materialized. I didn't have the knack for handy work so I was relegated to bull work with "Nick the Prick" partly because he liked me but it probably had more to do with the fact that no one else could stand him. Occasionally, Bobby I. would pull me to work with him, but most of the time we would just cruise the beach where I would point out different the women that I knew and that he wanted to meet. I've heard that he has found religion and knowing him back then, I can tell you that he needed it. I think my staying power at Ideal was largely attributed to my ability to keep them entertained.

So that's what happened on this or some other day in Jack History Month, March 14th 1984. If you'd like to know more about Jack History Month, please ask your teacher or visit your local library.

Happy New Year

2010-01-01T10:56:00.000-08:00

Despite the discussion and confusion of who was doing what for New Years Eve, it was yet again a great evening of friends and family. There was much debate over who's house would be destroyed by the neighborhood revelers, but in the end we "ended" up outside for the end of the old decade and the dawn of the new one which we all hope will bring continued health and happiness.

The fire rings burned until the wee hours and there was much banter and laughter. The smell of the burning poplar still remains on my coat, clothes and body lingering like the good memories of a classic evening.

One of my favorite parts of yesterday was a brief discussion that took place in the kitchen of Mark and Michelle. Tim and Maggie were there as well and we were talking about what constitutes art, the conversation prompted by a visit to the MFA in Boston. Mark pulled up a few short poems from the Internet, (The Red Wheelbarrow) that illustrated the simplicity in which art can be created and appreciated.

Inspired, I'll pass along my Ode to the Neighborhood.

Choose any one of the open doors

Lift a pint, spirits, or even a fridge

I like it here.

The Life of a Rock Star - Puke' in the U.K.

2009-12-08T17:04:00.000-08:00

Hey, who hasn't wanted to live the life of a Rock & Roll star and go on tour? A lot of guys fantasize about such things, I have a friend who not so very long ago had a card board cutout of a guitar, a Fender if my memory serves me correctly. He used to Jam out, rock out, and freak out with that thing so well that it actually looked far cooler than it sounds now. I wonder if he still has it. I imagine it would qualify as "vintage" now. Hey, wouldn't it have been a great idea to take that wooden guitar and put different colored buttons on it, make it electronic and turn it into a video game where you played along to rolling notes and music on the screen? We could call it "Wooden Guitar Guy", or "Six String Simulator." Ah well, maybe someday somebody will put it together.

The simple fact of the matter is that one of the worst things that can happen while your travelling, has occurred, (aside from a million other things, like terrorism, kidnapping, or losing your passport) I'm sick. The nausea came on this morning and has increased in intensity and discomfort.

So where does the Rock Star thing fit in? Watch any heavy metal episode of "Behind the Music" and they'll feature a guy, usually the stupid bass player who got hooked on something or another and tried or was forced to go cold turkey. That's how I feel. I'm in a dark and dismal hotel room and I keep having to get up and have my upper digestive system throw bits and pieces of British cuisine into the loo while I sway teary eyed calling for my mommy, or more appropriately Deb. I can't get warm, I'm itchy all over, I can't sleep, and I'm kind of climbing the walls. Even with it being 1:20 am. I'm still intent to try and work tomorrow...uh, later today.

If and when you find yourself in London, avoid the Extra Mature Ploughman sandwiches with Rocket and Pickle. Especially avoid any sandwich that is prepacked like you see in 7-11 or any establishment that is your local Newspaper and Scratch ticket.

I suppose I could continue with the Rock Star thing by throwing the Television out of my window and trashing my room. Unfortunately, the flat screen is bolted to the wall and I don't have a wrench with me. I also lack the strength or motivation to do it or clean up after my self. I'm no Keith Richards.

I'm going to head back to bed and try to catch a little shut eye, but more than likely I'll end up tossing and turning while watching Snooker on the "telly." I guess, "IIII have become Comfortably Numb" (More like Comfortable Dumb.)

What is the relevance of the image? It's taken from the room I'm hoping to working from in a few short hours. "Say Goodnight Gracie."

Save Ferris

2009-12-05T13:13:00.000-08:00

It's a weird thing to leave all that you know to go away on business, especially when it's longer than a few days. I've been doing it for years and it's always a strange mix of excitement and adventure that is offset with a longing to be home. Eating dinner in different places is right up my alley, but after a few days away, I just want to be home on my own couch watching Seinfeld and eating a tuna-fish sandwich with all of the kids and dogs and chaos that is Case de Calabrese.

You do what you can to keep yourself occupied and I did just that today. Here's a rundown on my Ferris Beuller"ish" day.

I woke up read the paper and worked out. A little strength training and a little running on the treadmill. I can't really tell you how many miles I tracked because everything here is metric. I ran a bunch of kilometers which is appropriately titled because it nearly "kilo'd me." After a some time in the steam room I showered and headed out to explore. Sorry no locker room stories to report.

My first stop was Borough Market which is almost literally under London Bridge. This was my destination for breakfast. My intent was to go from stall to stall and sample a little of this and a little of that. This is the precise place to do such a thing. The food options were endless and interesting ranging from Ostrich Eggs to fresh oysters, mulled ciders and wines as well as the freshest produce, breads and local cheeses. I almost stuffed myself on free samples of this and that, much like I've seen my father in law does at Sam's Club, yet there was a difference. No one was offering bits and pieces of Hot Pockets, Chimichangas or Pop Tarts.

I settled on a few items. I bought a baguette from a friendly french woman and a ball of real buffalo mozzarella. The texture on the outside was much like you've probably tasted, but the inside was very soft and creamy. It was kind of like the cheese version of Freshen Up gum. I also bought the most incredible Spanish ham that I'm sorry to admit surpasses the best Italian Prosciutto. It was called Joselito Gran Reserva and definitely lived up to its name. One thing that you can be sure of is that I represented U.S. consumption by sitting on a bench and eating a whole ball of cheese, not to mention all of the other aforementioned culinary goodies.

My next stop was Taylor of Old Bond Street which is a very old and classic gentleman's shave shop. A friend and colleague of mine had told me that they give incredible shaves done the old fashioned way with hot towels, Badger Hair brushes and a straight edge razor. I've only had this done one other time. My good friend Geoffrey and I were treated by our wives to shaves on one of our classic "circuit" trips in Boston. Geoff and I walked through the door looking like two guys that just came out from behind the counter of one of those Greek pizza places that are always called, "insert city or town name here House of Pizza." You know the places I'm talking about; Greek style pizza served by 5 different guys behind the counter all wearing red and white striped shirts, Soccer (or more appropriately football) posters up on the wall, every one of them with a perpetual 5 o'clock shadow and every one of them referring to you as, "Hey Joe, Hey Buddy, or Hey Guy." I love those places. Anyway the guy that was to shave us took one look at Geoff and I and immediately knew he was in for a long ride, especially with Geoff. Now it's important to know that because of Massachusetts state law, barber shops and shave shops can't use an actual straight razor, this because of the potential spread of certain diseases. What they use is a modified version of a straight edge that has a replaceable blade. Now the guy told us that it's not unusual to go through one or two razors on someone who has a tough beard. He went through 6 with Geoff. He said it was like trying to shave a Brillo pad. I swear when I looked over I saw little sparks coming off the blade as it passed over Geoff's Iron filings. When it was my turn things went no better. As we left the gentleman that shaved us looked like he had run a marathon. He was slumped in the corner looking distraught and covered with one of those aluminum foil looking blankets while holding a Dixie cup of water. I think he was either contemplating a new career or getting a portable sand blaster for the shop; But I digress.

My experience at Taylor of Old Bond Street was far better, at least it was when I finally found the place. You see, Taylor of Old Bond Street isn't on Old Bond Street. What's worse is that in the general the General Vicinity of Taylor of Old Bond Street, which again, isn't on Old Bond Street there is Bond Street and New Bond Street each of which I visited from end to end. If you ever find yourself in London and you want to visit Taylor of Old Bond street, You won't find it on Old, new or or even James Bond street. It's Jermyn Road. So much for truth in advertising and so much for a relaxing shave.

Actually it was a very relaxing and a great experience. I got the works: the hot towel, the hot shave cream lathered with a fine badger hair brush, the icy burn of the after shave with a Witch Hazel bouquet that reminded me of my grandfather, and the cool, soft and soothing moisturizing balm that smelled of almonds and honey, all facilitated with a delicate care of my man George. I never thought a man could be so, so...gentle.

After I left the shave shop I walked just a few doors down to the Davidoff store for a fine hand rolled cigar. I spent a good hour in the huge walk in humidor admiring the selection of Havanas and at the same time being horrified by the prices. In the end I purchased just one cigar that I would savor as I peacefully strolled through Hyde Park.

Unfortunately, or fortunately for me there was to be no peace in Hyde Park. What there was in place was a full blown carnival to celebrate the holidays, and this was like no other carnival I had ever seen. Not to imply that it was improper in anyway, but I've never been to a carnival that had beer gardens and Jagermeister booths. I walked around and people watched. I hung out at a haunted house feature and couldn't believe how scary they made it considering it was geared toward kids. Regardless I had fun taking pictures of people getting spooked by probably a Jagermeister influenced German wearing a menacing looking costume.

I jumped back on the Underground or "Tube" and headed to the National Gallery where I moved form room to room admiring the paintings by Renoir, Van Gogh, Degas, Rembrandt, and one by Leoanardo da Vinci. This one blew me away. Even though it was only a drawing or a "cartoon" prep for a painting, I couldn't believe I was looking at it.

From there it was back on the Underground and back across London Bridge. A quick nap, and a quick shower and I was back out and having dinner at a little bistro' across the street from my hotel. It's a great little place with interesting food. I sat at the bar, first and foremost because I was alone, but also because I could watch the chef and staff work. I also had my book club reading with me. I read a few pages while I dined on spiced tuna carpaccio with sliced fennel and mandarin orange slices. Then an order of fresh roasted partridge, fingerling potato and banana shallots. I've never had partridge before and I was surprised how difficult it was to eat. I tried using a fork and knife but it was too unwieldy, so I started picking it apart with my fingers. This must have been wrong, because the waitstaff came over to me with a finger bowl full of water and sliced lemon and not one but three cloth napkins. Again, America is represented!

Now I sit, write and reflect while I listen to the new Tom Waits release. Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could might miss it! Smart guy that Ferris. Hope he gets better soon.

Olive to Hate the Garden

2009-11-21T20:39:00.000-08:00

I've tried to avoid it for years, but it finally happened. I was dragged to the culinary equivalent my own personal of Hell. Even now it hurts me to even say it, but last night I ate at the Olive Garden. I don't know what I did to deserve this. I think I'm a nice guy, I live a relatively clean life, I give to charity, I don't cheat on my taxes and I try to make sure I leave the seat down. So why, why was I punished so? Why did I have to endure what truly must be the tenth circle of Dante's journey.

My day started well enough with a nice simple breakfast of peppers and eggs. It's amazing how food can bring you back. As I fried the peppers and scrambled the eggs I was immediately transported back to my grandmother's little kitchen in Belmont, The origin of some of the most amazing Italian food I've ever had. Lasagna, Canoli, and the best meatballs you've ever tasted. I still remember her teaching me to make the peppers and eggs. I remember her telling me, "You have to add just a little water to the eggs so they're fluffy, and add just a little onion to give it some extra flavor." Food doesn't have to be complicated to be good. My breakfast made me happy because in a way, I got to spend it with "Margaret" even if it was only through fond memories.

Lunch was great as well. After Deb and I hit the gym and we stopped at a local place called Fiddle Head Market which is a little co-op of different food stands including a wine and cheese shop, a butcher and a decent fish monger. I grabbed a bunch of stuff for lunch including some nice smoked salmon, mission figs, french cheese, grapes, duck trufee, and some baguettes. It was a lunch that would make and ADHD chef proud as their was no rhyme or reason to the various textures and flavors. It was all over the place, but it was delicious and fun. We sat in our kitchen listening to music and enjoyed the different tastes and flavors of our little picnic. I enjoyed it so much that I actually took a picture of it, (I take pictures of everything, don't I? )

As our day passed Deb and I went back and forth and it appeared I might actually escape the 50th Birthday party we were invited to attend at the dreaded Olive Garden. Not that I didn't want to celebrate our friend's celebration, but I couldn't bear to even think of the horrible horrors that awaited us, all under a thick layer of gooey Mozzarella cheese. I've heard that given the choice, the incarcerated inhabitants of Guantanamo Bay prefer water boarding over the Olive Garden's Chicken Picatta.

Unfortunately, plans were changed but mine remained. Although Deb told me I wouldn't have to go, I knew from experience that not going would be viewed as a lack of support and would be rewarded or more appropriately not rewarded and truth be told, I felt I should stay true my marriage vows and try to protect and keep her from harm. Unfortunately my best wishes and best efforts were not sufficient to keep Deb's taste buds from being violently assaulted. She may be Irish, but she has good taste (Okay, maybe not in men, but nobody's perfect.)

We drove to the stretch of land that now is represented in every major suburb throughout our once diverse and local offerings. You know what I'm talking about. Go anywhere and you'll see that stretch with the Home Depot, The Best Buy, Kohls,and all of the other places that litter our newspapers, Internet and television. They're all there. The Outback, home of steaks and the Awesome Blossom, (Their steaks taste more like awesome possum.) The Chili's which believe it or not, doesn't have chili on the menu. Fridays? TGI "F" that place. It stinks. "

When we got to the "Garden" I couldn't believe how packed the parking lot was. We circled the lot looking for a space and when we got toward the far back lot we spotted two young guys standing by their vehicle. I rolled down my window and asked, "Are you guys leaving?" They said no, they were just having a smoke while waiting for their table. I inquired why they would eat at such a place? They looked confused and Deb quickly drove away before they could answer.

The place was absolutely packed which supports my theory and response to those people who claim that if Pizzeria Regnia's Santarpios, or anyone of the other "hole-in-the-wall" places that if relocated or expanded to NH, they'd make a killing. The people up here don't know any better. They don't want good pizza. They want the "cheese in the crust" offerings of Dominos. They don't mind an Italian sub being made from Danish ham, Greek Olives, and jalapenos. Look, New Hampshire is a lovely place to live, the people are amazing, and I get the whole "Live Free or Die" thing, but if I didn't still occasionally get a taste of decent bread and pizza, I'd choose the latter.

We waited close to an hour for our table even though we were a larger party with a reservation (at least I think we had one.) Once seated and hydrated, the food started coming. This is where our night took an unpleasant turn. Ask anyone who loves the Olive Garden why they like it so much. They'll respond, "The salad and the bread sticks are awesome!" Okay, I'll concede that the salad is a fine mix of greens and vegetables with a pleasant Italian style dressing, but the bread sticks are a few steps below Pilsbury and lack any real flavor, texture or body. In terms of flavor, they're more stick than bread.

Looking at the menu, I was temporarily encouraged as I read that all of the meals were prepared to order. I think this must be a loose term because the food was horrendous, and if You go to McDonald's and ask for a #2 with no ketchup, I guess technically your food was cooked to order as well.

When I got my risotto, I was horrified. I immediately demanded to see the warden, but I was encouraged that I could utilize any leftovers to Spackle a few rough spots in the house. Deb got seafood Alfredo that looked like the noodles were cooked in the same waters where the Exxon Valdez spilled all that oil. It didn't look creamy. It didn't look rich. It looked, well...wrong, and it tasted much like it looked. Remember that kid in 3rd grade that had a taste for eating paste and play do? He's the head chef and food consultant for Olive Garden.

As I'm writing this post, I'm simmering the Sunday Gravy. I guess it's kind of like when you fall off the horse you get right back up on it. I just want to have some decent Italian food. By the way. When the OG chefs fall off of the horse, they turn it into cutlets, bread them and and make it one of the specials.

Look, if you like the Olive Garden, good for you. But I'm never eating there again. My kids have never seen jarred spaghetti sauce in our house and I intend to keep it that way. I may not be 100% Italian and you may not hear me discussing politics or even fighting for my convictions, but I'm holding on to this one piece of culture. My integrity goes only so far though. Seeing how many people frequent the place; I may not want to eat there, but I'd be happy to own one.

Flu Flu Platter for Two

2009-11-20T12:09:00.000-08:00

Just a quick note to thank the Portsmouth dining establishment for their heightened awareness during the current H1N1 outbreak.

A friend of mine and I stopped at this usually clean establishment for a sushi lunch. The restaurant was fairly crowded as it's Friday and people are in a more casual frame of mind. A woman whom I often see there and assume is the owner or manager was standing in the middle of the crowded dining room. She saw us as we came in but quickly turned away and sneezed into her upper arm. My friend said in his best Rain Man impersonation, "Oh, oh!" She then motioned to us and said, "two for lunch?" then she motioned to a table in the center of the dining room, turned away and sneezed into her hands. My friend once again mumbled, "Oh, oh." Then without breaking her momentum picked up two menus and placed them on our table table. I giggled, but my buddy looked a bit freaked out. I didn't think it was a big deal as I didn't need a menu anyway. My opinion was quickly changed when she immediately reappeared and handed me my napkin and silverware. We both started laughing and quickly left the restaurant.

I'm not generally queasy about this types of thing, but if the leadership of the place is that careless, what about the underling who is handling my raw fish and seaweed? Is wasabi paste a disinfectant?

Masters of War - Viewer Discretion Advised

2009-11-18T04:51:00.000-08:00

Deb and I have always tried to balance what our kids were exposed to in terms of the media, especially when it comes to sexually explicit or violent programming. We're not too different than many other parents, although I've always found it interesting to hear or see what other parents' threshold is. A good example of this is when Zachary had a few friends from the neighborhood sleep over. The three brothers were all relatively close in age and they used to run around our neighborhood in the heat of the summer dressed home made superhero costumes constructed entirely out of felt. I used to refer to the two older brothers as "Feltman and Ribbon."

We didn't know the parents particularly well at the time and when the mother dropped her kids off she said, "I know your son is really into Godzilla right now. I'd prefer it if you didn't show any of those movies while my boys are here. I sent them with a movie that's more appropriate for their age." Being a parent, I could certainly understand her wishes and I certainly respected them. I could defintely see th elong term damage that could be caused by exposing her kiddies to the guy in the rubber monster suit stepping on a paper paper mache model of Tokyo. I was, however perplexed by the movie she sent with her Caped Crusaders. Did she send over Thomas the Tank Engine, the Wizard of Oz, or a Sesame Street Compilation? No; she sent the Karate Kid. A movie where the main characters kick the living crap out of each other. I was particularly impressed by the scene of the kid smoking dope in the boys room. now it was clear why her boys were always painting the fence and waxing on and off and sanding the floor with each other.

A few things made me think of this contradiction. The first was my experience at the Bob Dylan Show I attended Friday night. The show took place at the beautifully designed but terribly named "Wang Center" (there's a ton of jokes I could stick in here, but it's just too easy and I'm sure you can think of your own.) Anyway, I had the good fortune of being relatively close to the stage and I was horrified to see the aged hippies trying to capture a small piece of their days of peace and love all the while being almost violently corralled back to their seats by the Nazi like security down front. They repeatedly wabbled out of their seats and wondered toward the stage only to be screamed at by the part time security team. Quite honestly the groovy and mellow character of these characters seems to have disappeared with age, this represented by the guy two seats over from me who was asked to sit down by the tie died gent just behind him. While "Bobby Mumbles" was singing about "the Answer Blowing in the Wind", this guy was blowing on the middle finger he was pointing at his neighbor.

The other thing occurred last night while I was at the gym. If your health club is like mine or the many others that are avoided by our obese society, the cardio room has an entire bank of flat screen televisions with various programming. The television directly in front of was showing CNN and had a story of the Tennessee Titans owner Bud Adams who was exchanging unpleasantries with a group of Buffalo Bills fans. I'm sure these two sides were intelligently debating the pros and cons of the current health care bill and the economic consequences of passing it or not. At one point in the exchange Mr. Adams was expressing himself by thrusting each of his middle fingers toward the group. The interesting thing is that the grainy video that accompanied the story, Mr. Adams' fingers were digitally blocked so any viewers wouldn't be offended, especially young kids, which seems appropriate when you think of all of the 7 year olds who love to relax with CNN just before bed time. I chuckled at the image and then glanced at the television to my right which was showing CBS and what I believe was one of the thousand or so CSI shows. At the moment I was watching the opening scene showed a bloody gun battle, digitally enhanced explosions, wounded and dead everywhere.

Is what we see on television a true reflection of our hypocritical values? They could be. I've seen Zach rough house with his friends and I've caught them using foul language. He's certainly broken more things around the house than I care to mention, and each time he was reprimanded accordingly, but if he ever gave me the finger, he'd be in real trouble.

U2 can call me a goofball.

2009-11-03T18:15:00.000-08:00

It's been far too long since I've posted anything and I'm not sure what to attribute it to? How does someone who does not write claim to have writer's block? Things have been incredibly busy and much has happened since I last logged into this site. Let's see if we can get the creative juices flowing by catching up with a number of quick hits:

U2 Squared - Yes, I've maintained my idiotic passion of seeing U2 every time they roll into town. On night one, I went with Vanessa and our neighbors and friend Mark and daughter Noa. We drove down early and waited in the general admission line for what seemed to be hours, which it was. We were rewarded with a close vantage point about 15 feet from the stage. To my wife I stayed true to my word and closely kept an eye on Vanessa in the General Admission Sea of people. Of course, one "Bono Head" did manage to spill an entire beer on my 15 year old daughter. I was wandering around with my camera at the time. Nice Job!

On night 2 I knew better where to go and once we were through security I pointed to my friend Jennifer and said, "run!" Knowing where to go, we ran past the other middle aged concert goers and cleared a path literally ending up in the very front leaning on the barricade next to the stage. It's an interesting and cool thing to have 60,000 people standing behind you. The crappy thing is that when the show is over, there's 60,000 people that will be in the parking lot before you.

All in all the band delivered and the shows proved to be right up there with the other 23 times I've seen these non island owning rockers. It started 26 years ago at the Orpheum Theater where Deb and I first saw them. No, we weren't seeing each other at the time and as a matter of fact we didn't even know each other. She was only thirteen, it was her first concert and she takes great pride in the fact that she had better seats than I did.

Sick Man, Child, Baby...

2009-09-11T04:13:00.000-07:00

It doesn't happen often, but when it does it's usually a doozy, well at least it feels that way to me. I'm home, on the couch sick which means that I'm being a big giant baby. It started last night when I got home from work. I felt a bit off all day, and when I got home it was all over. I immediately got into my sick uniform which consisted of an over sized sweatshirt, over sized sweatpants, Zachary's old football socks and an old knit cap. I may as well be in feety pajamas.

So there I am on the couch in the fetal position making the occasional grunt and groan. Deb in her own maternal way checks on me but rolls her eyes as she leaves my side. I tell her to carry on without me if the end should present itself. It's been a good life and I have few regrets. Deb says, Please!"

I offer to sleep on the couch to mitigate the chance of spreading my infection and I spend the majority of the evening watching bad movie after bad movie while I fall in and out of consciousness. As a result of this I never really get to see what happens to Harold and Kumar.

About 2:30am I throw caution and Deb's health to the wind and head upstairs where it's more comfortable. Thankfully, I've never really had to sleep on the couch. It's a bit like camping isn't it? Once the novelty wears off, you want to be in your own bed. As I head upstairs I chuckle to myself as I find myself walking upstairs like a toddler who's being punished. I lift one foot on the step then the other before I proceed to the next one. It takes me ten minutes to go up 14 steps. When I finally reach the bedroom I promise Deb that I'll breath away from her. I build a wall of pillows between us, partly to keep the germs away and partly to keep her away from me, because I know in my state and attire, she finds me irresistible.

I finally fall asleep, but my rest doesn't last long. Deb's alarm goes of just before 5:00 and then every 8 minutes for the next 40. Doesn't she realize my condition? she offers a number of suggestions that will improve my being. I turn them all down preferring to wallow in my own whiny way.

So here I sit, trying not to work and watching even more bad television. I'm watching the Food Network where all of the dishes being cooked look disgusting. I'm feeling a bit better and it does appear that I may just pull through to return to the manly man that I am.

On the Road Again, Insisting Life Goes Our Way

2009-08-24T17:14:00.000-07:00

There's no better way to get to know someone than to go on a good long road trip. As the different state license plates anonymously pass or get passed by and as the miles recede the more opportunities present themselves to reveal who we are. I looked forward to these moments as Zachary and I traveled to Toronto otherwise known by this writer as "Boronto" or "Generica" to see the legendary Pearl Jam. There wasn't anything particularly different about this performance or venue and we could have waited to see them if and when they come to New England. No, what I sought was not the destination, but the journey with my not so little traveling companion.

Before we hit the road we had to load up on provisions. You have to do these things when you're going to be sleeping outside of your own space. We loaded a small cooler with ice and mini cans of soda. We bought some candy and beef jerky for the road and a cribbage board and some Aviator playing cards for the quiet times where we could count cards and count on each other for a little simple entertainment and company. We didn't pack a tent or a hatchet and flint because the Marriott would provide adequate shelter from the harsh weather that presents itself when you're out in the wild.

I also made sure that I offered instruction and took advantage of those moments when a father can teach his son about how to take care of things that men are supposed to take care of on road trips. It's important to check the fluids in the car, make sure there's enough oil and ensure the tires have the appropriate manufacturers recommended PSI in each of the tires. I made sure I tipped the gas station attendant when he finished doing all of these things and I felt the masculinity that comes with doing something Deb told me to do.

We left Dover with excitement in our hearts and conversation on my mind. We cranked Pearl Jam and hooped and hollered like bachelors heading toward a wild weekend in Vegas. Zachary was asleep by the time we hit 495. For the next few hours I admired the scenery listened to talk radio and old blues and imagined what it must have been like to be Kerouac or Waits living on the road. Zach finally awoke and immediately responded to my static, romance filled road tunes. He immediately put on his ear buds and listened to his iPod.

After many miles the conversation started flowing. The upcoming school year and the excitement of high school, the family, girls and the classic father and son talk. I asked if Zach if he knew the mystery of the birds and the bees to which Zach responded, "Yes. Scientists are wondering where the bees are disappearing to."

We stopped in Syracuse and had dinner at the Dinosaur Barbecue. Loud music, loud people and bold flavors. Zach stepped out of his shell and tried things I never thought this somewhat picky eater would try. Fried Green Tomatoes, Barbecued Beans, Cole Slaw and Portabello mushroom soup. He tried everything and really opened up to experience the different flavors that he road has to offer.

I won't bore you with all of the details because there wasn't any conflict, trouble or tragedy. Everything went as planned and we had an amazing time despite me questioning it from time to time. One example of this was during the concert. While I was fist pumping, singing and high-fiving the guys next to me, Zach stood quietly with his arms folded watching the show. He rarely displayed any highs or lows and truly lived up to his football nick name, "Breeze."

throughout the trip I realized that Zach isn't me. He's a laid back but very cool kid who does things in his own way and in his own time. He's really an amazing kid that is well on his way to travelling the road to manhood.

Empty Nesters? Watch Where You Sit!

2009-08-06T05:22:00.000-07:00

The Hamilton House is an 18th century mansion that majestically sits along the banks of the Salmon Falls River just off the coast of Southern Maine. Deborah has wanted to tour the house since we discovered it while hiking in the nearby Vaughn Woods. For almost nine years she has been unsuccessful in visiting the house while during that same nine year time span, I have successfully avoided it much like someone would avoid the dentist for a mild toothache hoping that in time it would go away on its own. The truth however is regardless of the multiple doses of verbal Orajel I've applied, the pain didn't go away and Deb got her wish.

This past Saturday I woke with intentions of spending the day as a family, but my dream was quickly dashed when Deb informed me that both of our kids already had plans which did not, and would not include their questionably cool parents. Zachary had been invited to spend the the next few nights at a friend's family beach house to surf while Vanessa would be travelling to Six Flags amusement park with a car load of friends.

If you haven't seen them, Six Flags have commercials that feature this creepy old guy who dances and proclaims, "More flags, More fun!" In these commercials they'll show some goofy activity like watching cats play and the guy will say, "One flag!" Then they'll flash to a bunch of young kids on a roller coaster screaming and laughing and he'll shout, "Six flags! More Flags, More Fun!"

With no kids to consider, a long overdue beautiful sunny summer day, and an unspoken agreement to abandon our long list of house projects, I was excited by the prospect of doing something really fun with my best buddy Deb. My excitement quickly evaporated when Deb stated, "We're going to the Hamilton House!" Now, externally I showed interest, but internally I thought, "The Hamilton House? One Flag!"

We drove just a few miles north of us to South Berwick and travelled up a long dirt road that cut through soft rolling fields that were littered with wildflowers, their petals exploding with every bright color you can imagine and some you probably you couldn't.

We walked by the big Georgian estate that is the Hamilton house, but we weren't quite sure how to get inside to look around. We noticed an "open" sign on a small brown building that appeared to be the garden house. The small quaint building was appropriately located by the estate's formal garden. When we entered we found a large open room that was solely illuminated by the natural light pouring through the large multi paned picture window.

The sun cast a small shadow of a woman who was sitting silently and meticulously but contently working on her needle point. Without stopping or looking up she smiled and said, "Hello, are you here to take the tour?" I said, "Why yes, we've admired the house for quite some time and we're eager to explore the house." She said, "That's lovely, Our tours start on the hour?" "On the hour? We're the only people here how about just letting us take a look see for ourselves?" She continued to work her needlepoint, smiled and said," You can wait at the front of the house. The tour will start at 2:00."

We left the garden house in killed a little time by walking through the gardens exchanging different ideas that we may be able to incorporate into our, uh, estate? We strolled to the front of the house and were awed by the incredible view of the Salmon Falls River. It was spectacular. I sat on a large stone stoop and began to envision the two of us owning such a place where we would work or more appropriately, putter in the garden. But alas, the big real estate purchase will have to wait until the increased car insurance and college tuition begins and subsides. I sat and listened to Deb's vision while I took in the warmth of the early afternoon sun, finally enjoying the heat of this summer that never was.

I was startled by the loud and long creaking sound of the massive wooden door behind me which was being opened Dracula style to reveal the small pale woman who only moments ago was working in the garden house. "Good afternoon. Welcome to the Hamilton House. I'll be your guide for the 2:00 tour."

As I got up and stepped out of the sunlight and into the coolness of the house, I immediately noticed that one body part seemed significantly cooler than the rest of me. I reached behind me and felt the dampness caused by the weaved straw foot mat that was on the stoop. This mat, or more appropriately, sponge had been soaking up the rain for weeks only to relinquish a few storms worth to my behind. To say my backside was damp is an understatement. I was soaked. Jack an adult? Uh, I don't think so.

Our tour guide started to tell us about the house and her script was well rehearsed or well repeated from the many years she worked at the house. She told us that John Hamilton was a self made man who earned his fortune in the shipping business as well as owning many docks, warehouses and land. Then her voice trailed off as she added "...and slave trader." Now, I'd like to say that I was offended and demand that we immediately leave such an evil place, but the truth is that I was too busy plotting my strategy to get through the tour without the tour guide or Deb thinking that I had what most kindergarten teachers call, an accident.

Just then a man popped his head through the front doorway and announced that he had another two couples for the wildly popular 2:00 tour. He asked Madame Tour Guide if she was too far into her spiel or could these stragglers join us. She agreed and they stepped in. The first two were an average middle aged couple with the wife bright eyed and interested while the guy had the look we husbands get when we're sent to the store to purchase feminine products on our wive's behalf. The second couple consisted of a man in his early sixties and a woman who I assumed was his mother. She could of been his grandmother, as she couldn't have been younger than one hundred years old. I must say she looked very natural standing next to the 200+ year old antiques. This was great. Now I would have to hide my faux pee pee pants from a whole group of wild and wacky historical thrill seekers.

I stood listening and I began swaying to the gentle rhythm of my boredom when Madame Tour Guide broke character and lunged toward me gently but sternly scolding, "Please don't lean up against anything dear." Deb also lent a hand in moving me away from the door frame. The group, including Deb looked at me like I had intentionally desecrated sacred ground. The cold stare I was getting made me feel like I may have well have been carving the Van Halen logo into the wood work. I didn't touch anything and I felt wrongly accused and embarrassed. To rectify this, for the remainder of the tour every time Madam Tour Guide wasn't looking I lightly touched everything and anything I could like the bratty pee pee pants kid I had become. What does it say about your maturity if your wife is forced to slap your hand away from touching the drapes? Anyway, we hadn't even left the first room and I was already in trouble.

The tour moved on, but now with mother time in our group and Madame Tour Guide making sure I didn't steal anything, my plan of lagging behind to hide my wet spot was significantly more complicated. As much as I tried, I couldn't walk slower than Mother Ice Age. I ended up matching her pace and gait limping along like George Burns did in Oh God part II.

As we walked I heard the low murmur of a rolling creak that I assumed was the old wide pine floor boards beneath our feet, but this was not the case. It appeared that my new walking partner was in the latter stages of digesting her senior citizen lunch special. She was passing something and either did not know or did not care who heard. One bright side to this is that she occasionally moved quicker as her shuffle was now intermittently gas powered.

For the remainder of the tour Miss's "I Came Over on the Mayflower" and I limped along, lagged and were tagged, at least by me as Mr. and Mrs. potty pants. We both walked at a snails pace. Her stride and gait impacted by the affects of aging and mine affected by cold, wet, chaffing stupidity.

When the tour finally finished, my beautiful wife thanked me, knowing that I had taken one for the team. When I revealed my damp secret she laughed and said, "Let's go home. I'll change you into some nice dry jammies and give you some cookies and milk."

Is this a foreshadow of things to come? I certainly hope as we get older that depending upon each other doesn't actually include Depends. But if we're fortunate to grow old and spend time together, even if it's touring some boring old house. I say, "Six Flags!"

Nobody Walks in L.A. Swimming with the Paparazi

2009-07-21T15:11:00.000-07:00

Growing up in and around Boston I'm still overwhelmed by the vast urban sprawl that is the city of lost angels. I lived out this way a while back but I resided in the suburbs some 35 miles north of LA and only a few times was I able to get into the city. On one occasion I had the displeasure of literally knocking Leonardo DiCaprio over while I was trying to get out of the rain. It never rains in California? Uh, yes it does. We lived there during El Nino' and saw more mud than a Woodstock hippie. Even after my encounter with the famous door rafting pro, I didn't realize who he was. A guy at the cigar counter said, "Do you know who you just knocked over? You just clobbered Leonardo DiCaprio." I guess you could score it, Jack one, King of the World zero.

Last weekend I had the opportunity to revisit the city. I had meetings early Monday so I sacrificed a small part of my weekend and got into town the day before. After yet another long flight of paperwork, nodding off and struggling through the Sunday crossword, I jumped in a cab and went to my hotel which was located in L.A.'s financial district. A not so interesting thing about the financial district of many cities is that once 5:00 hits and especially the weekends, these places are desolate mazes of concrete iron and marble. Unless I was intent and content to eat room service and hang out at the hotel lobby lounge I would have to venture out and explore.

The first order of business would be to find a place to dine. L.A. is world renowned for its culinary offerings and is host to a bevvy of celebrity filled restaurants and celebrity chefs. Would it be Wolfgang Pucks, Morimotos, Nobu, or maybe the Asian fusion restaurant Roy's? Would I feast on Kobe beef, Wild salmon ceviche' and Paparedelle with wild boar ragu? No, not this time. This time I will eat at one of L.A.'s oldest and well respected dining establishments. I jumped in a cab and headed to PINK's, as in PINK's hot dog stand established 1939.

As you can see, there is a constant line of people awaiting their turn to order. There are clear ordering instructions ala' the Soup Nazi although the people there were far nicer. I'm not exaggerating when I tell you that I waited in line for well over an hour and half just to order. There were numerous signs offering the different types of hot dogs. The classic chili, the 10 inch stretch chili, the Mullholland Avenue, the George Clooney and the All American which may or may not intentionally included Mexican Jalapenos. Remember, I was in L.A.

Just like L.A. itself, there was just too much and too much to choose from. I progressed through the line and mentally changed my order 9 or 10 times, and by the time I got to the front, I still hadn't decided and choked, spouting, "I'll have the Chicago Polish with everything." I have to tell you that after the ride, the wait and the carnival like atmosphere, this hot dog tasted, well, like a hot dog. Granted it was far better than the cold floaters you get at Fenway, but it was not much different than you get at a classic New England "Bah Ba Cue." On the bright side, my entire meal cost me $8.50, but my value meal also required a $23 cab fare, not too mention I was now stranded in the middle of nowhere. Genius!

With nowhere to be and plenty of places to go, me and the bowling ball that was now rolling in my stomach started walking. My new destination would be Hollywood Boulevard and the tourist traps that had eluded me when I lived out this way. I wanted to see Grumman's Chinese Theater and the Hollywood Walk of fame.

As I walked, the neighborhood and the nitrates running through my system both threatened my existence, but finally I found myself on the Walk of Fame which to be honest looks like something you'd see in front of any Hard Rock Cafe.

As Ray Davies of the Kinks once sang, "You can see all the stars as you walk down Hollywood Boulevard" and you can. It goes on forever and you can see some legendary names like Bogart, McQueen and Will Smith, but there are also a lot of questionable stars as well. Ansen Williams form Happy Days, The Original 5th Dimension, Jimmy JJ Walker? Really? I seem to recall that celebrities can actually buy their won star. I figure this is what Gary Coleman did with his cash instead of invest it.

As I walked I found myself at the foot of Michael Jackson's star and make shift memorial. There were a bunch of flowers and tokens of affection placed around his star. I admired this showing of affection but not as much as I admired the industrious person who recognized the marketing opportunity knowing the site would be photographed by thousands and strategically placed a bottle of orange Gatorade to gain free advertising.

I walked on and photographed a bunch of concrete with people's hand prints and foot prints in it. Isn't this illegal? How do they expect to thwart the rampant vandalism in this town if they're letting every Tom, Dick and Marylin defile public property? I walked on.

Just past the theater and at the foot of the Nokia theater there were a bunch of people gathered and crammed together. Looking across the street there was a red carpet and a lot of lights. I worked my way into the crowd which was now restless and yelling. As I looked at the street I saw a bunch of well dressed people coming our way with people in dark glasses and ear pieces around them. I realized that I was now in the middle of a swarm of live paparazzi in their natural habitat.

As the elite came closer the swarm became more active with cameras and lights, Sharpie markers and 8X10's to be autographed. They all started lunging forward to get a better shot and I began to get pushed and shoved from every direction with my only defense being short and deadly belches of Pink's coming every minute or so. I was pushed out of the way and completely missed Nicholas Cage. A cop yelled at me to get back and one of the photographers looked at my camera and wondered why I had such an amateur rig. I was out of my element.

I recognized and called out to John Voight who looked my way with disdain pegging me for one of those who regularly hide in his bushes hoping to catch him in a compromising position. Jon Favreau, Zach Galifianakis also walked by as did some young kid who I didn't recognize. No matter. I snapped 10 shots of him anyway thinking my daughter or someone under the age of 20 would know who he was. By the way she didn't and I still don't.

As quickly as I stumbled upon this scene it ended. Once again I was left stranded alone, cold and thirsty on a busy street. Man, I wish I'd had a Gatorade.

Okay so I haven't and will probably never climb Mount Everest. I haven't been to the Great Wall of China and I'm not planning to run with the bulls of Pamplona, but how many people do you know swam with the paparazzi and lived to tell about it. My only regret is that Sean Penn wasn't there to punch me in the face and Leonardo wasn't there to get his revenge.

"Surfing Safari, Bruises Tamari"

2009-07-15T05:29:00.000-07:00

Surfing is a sport that many embrace and claim a spirituality can be reached as you become "one with the ocean." This past Sunday Zachary was invited to go surfing and Deb and I tagged along as well. I didn't know then (or maybe I did) that I would end "up board" myself. Here's a few quick thoughts:

"Surfing allows you to be as one with the ocean." This is true as I was part of the ocean more than I was on top of it. I also drank enough salt water to fill up a small aquarium. I think I may have swallowed a lobster as well.

"Surfing is spiritual." Also true. I prayed more in the hour I was floundering than I have in many many years. There was a lot of "Oh God help me, and Oh God please don't let me drown."

"Surfing prompts a calm and laid back attitude." This was immediately apparent after my so called lesson. I was definitely outwardly mellow, but laid back? It was closer to complete exhaustion.

Surfing is a low impact sport that can be done from ages 8 to 80. Really? Come on by and let me show you the bruises I have on my arms and legs. By the way, when I was in the water I looked like I was 8 and the next morning I felt like I was 80.

"Surfing has inspired many songs." This is also true, but none of the Beach Boys really surfed except Dennis Wilson, and he drowned.

"Surfing makes you look cool." Probably, but only if you can surf. My wife watched me fall, slip, roll over, scream, slobber and spit up a good part of the Atlantic. Plus the classic surfer look is a lanky bleach headed blond dude. I look more like the guy from Sling Blade. There would be no romance on the shore. Maybe I could get her to make me some biscuits and mustard though.

The truth of the matter is that I really enjoyed it even though I had limited success. Our friends Neil and Rene were really patient and supportive and we all had a great day. Zach went back the next day and enjoyed far more success just as Neil and Nick predicted. I suspect that I'll end up back there as well. It'd be nice to "hang ten" at least once (insert your favorite joke here.)

The Old Man And The Sea (and Me)

2009-07-13T10:47:00.000-07:00

There's a man that lives in my neighborhood that has been here many years. He's seen the neighborhood turn time and time again, and I imagine has gotten to know at least to some extent the families that have come and gone through the many years. The latest wave of Florence Street inhabitants, meaning us have had the opportunity to spend a little time and get to know the Day's, both Vicki better known as Miss Vicki and...and, uh, I can't believe it but as I write this I'm having trouble remembering his first name. I've always known him as Mr. Day. Honestly I don't know if not remembering his name is a lack of respect or is the fact that I refer to him as Mr. a sign of greater respect for a man who values such things.

Mr. Day and I went fishing this morning along the Maine coast. An appropriate place for this classic New England soul who once seemed to refuse a neighbor who asked to borrow a match. When the neighbor inquired why he couldn't borrow a match, the pipe smoking Mr Day turned and responded with the classic New England accent, "Nope, you can't borrow a match. You can have one, but I don't want it back."

We started out early. Early morning fishing to Mr. Day is very early. This means 4:00am to us or o four hundred to him. I grabbed my gear and headed outside to find he and his gear waiting outside of his house. I wondered if there would be anyplace to grab a coffee and a bagel on the way, to which he responded, "Miss Vicki already gave me my breakfast. Eggs, bacon, muffins, and fresh coffee." I expect If I inquired where my breakfast was at 3:30am all I'd get is Deb's finger. And I wouldn't blame her a bit for it.

As we made the short drive north to the Maine coast Mr. Day offered his direction and provided commentary and history of the different places we passed. He suggested both that I look to the field on my left for deer and also keep my eyes on the road. He told me a few details of the time that he served in Korea, but he he was more conservative with them when I inquired about his experience at Pork Chop Hill. All he offered was, "It was critical and strategic, and things got a little hairy when we ran out of ammunition. The Chinese weren't happy about it either as they feared Americans with bayonets and rifle butts. They preferred the comforts that come with engaging from afar with guns."

We arrived at Nubble Light House and set up our gear. I got a strange look from Mr Day when he saw me also setting up a tripod to hold my "Not Made In America" Camera. We made our first cast and in no time we were pulling in fish. Not keepers mind, you. It was mostly small Pollock, but we were getting bites and having a little fun. Two strapping lads out near the high seas bonding like men should. My masculinity took a bit of a breather when I asked Mr Day to help me get my first fish of the hook. I was delicately trying to unhook the fish from the three pronged (or is it barbed) contraption. He took it from my hands and forcefully ripped the hook out and tossed the fish back into the drink. It was also nice of Mr. Day to refrain from laughing when I slipped and fell on both the rocks and my backside. He simply turned toward me, removed the pipe from his mouth and said, "The rocks are slippery. Try not to hurt yourself."

Mr. Day continued to cast out, reel in and remove fish from his hook, while I continued to cast out and untangle the mess I made of my line. When my rod finally bent forward, I pulled in a good handful of sea kelp. Mr. Day said that I had a good start and that all I needed was something to go along with my sea salad." After an hour of fishing Mr. Day sat down on the rocks and took a quick cat nap as the surf crashed around the jetty. When he awoke, he took a good long look at the sea and sky and proclaimed, "Today's not our day. There won't be any mackerel or stripers." I agreed though I wasn't quite sure why. I had no choice but to concur as Mr. Day has been fishing this spot for sixty or more years. If he had told me that only the Swedish Fish would be biting today I probably would have agreed. We were back in our neighborhood before 7:00 am.

It's a good thing to have a guy like Mr. Day and his so called, "Catch of His Life" lady Miss Vicki in the neighborhood. They're a welcome fixture that represent the values and lifestyle of days gone by, yet they tolerate and even welcome the chaos that is Florence Street. The early morning Rebel Yells, the late night scrabble games, The Margarita porch nights, not to mention the summer ritual that Kick the Can has become. If our kids running through their yard is a problem, they've never said a word. I think that they appreciate the fact that we are neighbors and we're interested in having them around. It will be interesting to see if many years from now that one of us will be the couple that link the new and old. If Deb and I are lucky enough to be in the running, I'll make sure I finally learn to properly bait a hook.

Live Post From The Barley Pub

2009-06-29T14:22:00.000-07:00

A good friend of mine just drove his camper, Winnebego, or RV into Dover and promptly jumped into another vehicle to head to the local pub. I was contacted and immediately proceeded to meet he and a few of my neighbors. My good friend Mott handed me a laptop and insisted I post something, "Live From The Barley Pub!" This could end up like the sketches that they tag onto the end of Saturday Night Live that have no merit, no business at the beginning of the show and no sign of comedy.

The Barley Pub is a great little place that features small batch brews. Their biggest claim to fame is that when it rains or snows, the Guinness or Snowblower stouts are 99 cents. This is when every UNH student comes out of the wood works clutching handfuls of change for beer within their price range but with some real color and flavor.

(Mott takes control of the keyboard) This post is dedicated to all the teachers and students out there who just started their summer vacations. We're drinking a few stouts here with our friend MHS who is a middle school language arts teacher. He's going to need severe therapy this summer to correct the damage that YOUR CHILDREN have done to his self esteem. If you are the parent of a middle school age child then you owe Jack twelve dollars to cover the tequila shots it took to get MHS to like himself again! MHS doesn't need this crap. He could be dusting off barbells at The Works where he'd make more money and get a free gym membership.

And on behalf Jack's wife Deb who is a teacher during the day and student in the evening --- Any kid who gets Deb for a teacher better pay attention because you only get a teacher like this ONCE. You're lucky little kids. And to Deb's professors - Debbie could run circles around you in the classroom - piss off!!

Alright I've wrestled both this laptop and Mott's car keys. Sorry about that all. Anyway the Barley Pub is a bit of a throwback. If you like dark walls, dark humor and dark beer, this is the place for you. They even allow dogs. Many a night I've told Deb that I'm taking the dog for a walk and came back four hours later. It's a much longer walk home than it is to get here. Gotta go. Cheers, y'all.

Farewell Childhood Friends

2009-06-26T06:48:00.000-07:00

Early yesterday I heard the news that Farrah Fawcett had passed on. It was no surprise to know and feel a little sad about it. She was an iconic figure and a part of my childhood and her image helped facilitate a transformation from Hot Wheels, Evil Knieval dolls, and GI Joe to an interest in the opposite sex. Unfortunately for me any return interest would have to wait until I grew out of my awkward stage and began bathing on a regular basis. I think I'm almost there.

Yesterday afternoon I was waiting for Zachary to finish a music theory class. I was sitting outside of a local coffee shop reading the newspaper when two young girls walked by. One of them was on her cell phone and said to the other, "Oh my God. Michael Jackson just died!" At first I didn't quite believe it, first because of the source from which I heard it, but also because there was and always will be so much misinformation and controversy surrounding the former King of Pop. Zach finally made an appearance and we went home. Along the way I told him what I heard. We scanned the radio but there didn't seem to be any confirmation. No news reports, no tributes, and no Michael Jackson songs which is not an easy fete.

OF course when we got home and turned the television on, the news of his death was starting to spread. There wasn't the outpouring that I would have expected, but it was still relatively early and I believe the networks and outlets were just not expecting to report on this tragedy.

This one hit harder. Like him or not, hero or villain, Genius or tragic figure, he was and will be an icon. I still recall the day that my mother and father taking me to the Singing Cricket in Winthrop Massachusetts where I picked out the "Ben" album which would be my very first of many hundreds of records I would buy. I actually think that the first 45 I owned was "Rockin Robin" by the Jackson 5. I can still recall holding it with the dark blue and white Mowtown label with the small map of Detroit and the location of Mowtown. I played both of those records a lot, as I would with many of his records, cassettes and CDs.

I was also one of the many millions of people who watched stunned as he "moonwalked" his way on Mowtown's 25th. Do you remember where you were when Reagan was shot, or when the Challenger exploded? This was one of those moments albeit and obviously much less tragic. I was with a bunch of friends in John Farmer's basement playing darts and drinking beer. He had a little television with lousy reception and when Michael did his thing. We were awestruck. "Holy crap, did you see that?" I never got to see the Beatles on the Ed Sullivan show. For my generation, this was its equal.

I was back at the gym last night and I heard a lot of the guys in and around the weight area making jokes about how all the kids in the world are now safer now that the plastic, monkey toting, Elephant Man buying, Beatles music stealing freak was gone. True, the man was surrounded by controversy and if he did the things he was alleged to have done, then I'm equally disgusted, but there was a time when he ranked among the heroes of the day. Celebrity passings also make me think that if such larger than life individuals are susceptible to their own mortality, then we'd better make the most of our own time.

Not the greatest or funniest post, but it was a strange and heavy day.

No Pain No Gain? I'll Take Two Helpings!

2009-06-24T16:09:00.000-07:00

How's this for a double threat? After work I went to the Dentist then hit the gym.

A few weeks ago I had my routine 6 month cleaning and heard something I never thought I would hear. After the usual probing and picking my dentist said, "Your teeth look pretty good, but you have a couple of really old fillings that are leaking." Leaking? what the Hell is that supposed to mean? What are they leaking? Is it Mercury? Am I going to get Alzheimer's? Holy Moses! (For those of you who didn't catch that, that was Charlton Heston joke. Poor taste? Yes, but if I ever get sponsors for this blog I doubt it will be the NRA.) He went on to say that one of the old leaking fillings was pretty big and would probably require a crown. A crown is appropriately named as they cost a king's ransom.

Today was the day that I had to get prepped for the crown. It would be a fun filled hour and a half of Novocaine shots, drilling, fitting and probably more drilling. I'm happy to report that my dentist did not let me down. Allow me to digress for a few seconds and attempt to make all of the usual jokes that you hear about the dentist office. It was all there; the funky reclining chair, The little squirty guns, both air and water that even after 44 years, I still would like to play with. I had the bib on, and I'm not sure if my dentist is cheap or big into recycling because mine had a lobster on it. There was also the big overhead lamp that has always reminded me of the martian periscope on the War of the World space crafts. The lamp seems to have a personality all its own staring down as if to say, "holy crap, look at those choppers! Big fan of rock candy when you were a kid?"

It's never a good idea to piss off someone who is going to be working on you. I should have paid heed to this, but the truth is I was late for the appointment. If that wasn't enough, while the hygienist was setting up some of his tools, I asked, Is he any good with those things?" She thought he would be amused if she shared that with him, but the truth is, he wasn't. He immediately called for his precision tools that had medieval looks and medieval names such as, the probe, the scraper, and the explorer. Thank God this wasn't a proctology exam!

As my dentist (who is a really a great guy and a good technician) did his thing with the hygienist and the martians looking on. He would drill, stop, ask me a questions then fire up the drill before I could answer. Occasionally I would have to rinse. The little shot glass of liquid and my immediate drooling brought back fond memories of my clubbing days at the Palace.

After an hour and a half of this I finally got to follow the Dr. who left me stranded at the check out counter where the receptionists scheduled my follow up. As they always do, the gave me my choice of new tooth brushes as if to say, "Maybe you'll use this one." I responded with my Novocained paralytic mouth and sounded like that guy on Fat Albert when I said, "Iba Abpreciate ut, seeba ya laber!"

After leaving the dentist I figured I would kill two birds with one stone and hit the gym for a little strength training. You know, most guys walk around the gym with this strut which is supposed to show the other guys how tough and intimidating they are. I'm not immune to this and today I was particularly effective until I noticed that I was still wearing my blood soaked lobster bib (just kidding.)

The combination of the Novocaine and my lack of food did not make for a good work out. The Novocaine inspired stroke face and drooling kept my usual female admirers at bay. The weights seemed particularly heavy, and I definitely have to work on my endurance and my motivation. The whole time I was lifting I was looking forward to the crunches. Not that I like crutches mind you, I just wanted to lay down.

All in all it was a fun filled afternoon. Maybe tomorrow I'll have a colonoscopy and scrape some wallpaper.

And IRAN, Iran So Far Away

2009-06-22T19:43:00.000-07:00

I'm watching the news and they're showing the Iranian protests and violence that's occurring as a result of the latest controversial election. The newscaster offered his opinion and stated, "This is why America is so great. We enjoy a peaceful transference of power." I suppose to a certain degree the newscaster was correct. We have demonstrated to the world that even with controversial election results, even with our highest elected office we can maintain a certain amount of civility. But wait a wait a minute, weren't we just burning cars and fighting with the police when the Lakers won the Championship? I guess we're just passionate about other transfers of power.

Can you imagine the riots that would ensue if there were a controversial American Idol ending?

Memory Lane Is Just a Click Away

2009-06-22T18:33:00.000-07:00

Facebook is one of the all time great electronic time wasters, but I can't argue with the results. I, like many others have reconnected with some great old friends who are now, well...great old friends. Recently I got together with my buddies Sammy, Eddie, and Eddie and it was an amazing experience that has left me nostalgic for the old days but content that we're all where we're at.

We met as we have many times before but unlike the old days we were able to pay for our Guinness' with actual $20 bills instead of the singles and handfuls of change and no one ordered Tequila, Sambuca shots or "Woo woo's. Like the old days none of us approached any of the women in the bar which means not much has changed over the years. I recall the days of having to have a few drinks in order to build up enough courage to talk to girls then wondering why they showed no interest. I clearly recall thinking these women were stuck up or worse as I slurred my pick up line then staggered and swayed away to face the humiliation and heckling that would soon ensue from the peanut gallery.

Our reunion marked the first time that all of us have been in the same place in 16 years, and it was amazing to see that despite the marriages, children, distance and years that not much had changed. A few more pounds here or there and a few less hairs where they should be. Notice I said where they should be. None of us has lost any, it just relocated from the city that used to be our heads and migrated to the remote suburbs of our anatomy, living quietly in the ears, nose, backs and the other nether regions that will not be mentioned here, but I digress.

We picked up right where we left off and we continued. There's nothing that melts the years away like a good get together with old friends. The stories were many and the details and accuracy were definitely softened and mellowed with time. It was a great afternoon.

Will our next meeting be 16 years from now? I hope not and I don't think so. But the fact we did reconnect demonstrates that it doesn't have to be a wedding or funeral to get together. It's amazing how difficult it can be to go and have a beer. Regardless, I'm hopeful we'll continue to make the effort. I look forward to the day years from now when we'll we'll be able to gather in the same or a similar place and take another legendary stroll. The Guinness will flow and we'll be able to chat without interruptions as the Depends will eliminate the bathroom breaks.

Dave Matthews Band Poster Art

2009-06-20T21:22:00.000-07:00

It's a well known fact in my neighborhood that I'm a big fan of the Dave Matthews Band. The fact that I like a particular band should prompt no need for words and shouldn't constitute enough interest to warrant a posting, but I have to tell you that it perplexes me to know that almost no one else in the "hood" digs these guys. My good buddy Geoff is convinced that both Dave Matthews music and the night time sleep aid Ambien are created in the same factory. It confuses me because they're absolutely huge and have an enormous following.

This fact was recently demonstrated when the DMB played two sold out shows at Fenway Park. Yes, I attended both nights and was lucky enough to sit in the front row for night two. It wasn't your normal front row seat as somehow I ended up with a "companion ticket" which is intended for those who accompany an impaired individual in the handicapped section. Regardless it was right up front. True, no one around me was up and dancing too much but I don't think it was because of a lack of danceable beats and rhythms.

I'm almost embarrassed to let you all know that aside form the CD's and concerts, I've also shown my support by being an active member of the DMB fan association known as "The Warehouse." Membership has its benefits. I do get to purchase tickets before the general public and there are other amenities that are offered. The Warehouse is an electronic gathering place for the legion of DMB fans who trade tickets, live recordings and stories. To say that people are dedicated is an understatement. they all have DMB influenced vanity license plates, tattoos and children named after their hero.

A recent Message Board thread showed various members Concert Poster collections. The DMB, like many newer bands create interesting and sometimes beautiful silk screened prints that are produced in very limited quantities. They're all hand made (or at least I think they are) and are signed and numbered. All of the pictures of the framed posters appear to be hanging in the basements of these 35 and 40 year old members parent's houses. How cool it must be for them to proudly show them off when they're sneaking a girl in.

For the record, mine are hanging in my office. Men will be men and boys will be boys. What that means, I have no idea, but let's face it. We guys just aren't that bright.

Finally, My Blog is Educational! Yard Sales 101

2009-06-15T13:03:00.001-07:00

I'm sure there are those who would disagree with me but I feel comfortable in stating that New Hampshire is the Yard Sale capitol of the world. Each week as the days progress the signs start going up. Some are big and bright while others are created with less care and less information. They litter the trees and street signs advertising their pre-owned baby clothes, furniture and tools.

Now, I am not opposed to "Yard Sailing" and have actually done my fair share. I've found a few treasures in my time and I've also seen a lot of trash. It's like these people are not interested in selling quality products, it's like they're just trying to get rid of the crap they don't want. I don't get it.

There's a real art form and a whole culture associated with the Yard Sales. If you're Yard Sailing in your own town it's always a good idea to dress down. Wearing a business suit or high price outfit will make your bargaining and bartering far more difficult. Get some old beat up stuff. You can pick them up...well...at a yard sale.

Bring plenty of cash but make sure it's divided into two separate piles with one consisting of only one dollar bills. This is your bargaining roll. Telling someone that you only have $4 for that top hat then pulling out a wad of $20's is bad form. Make sure you bring some change as well. People will be happy to sell books for a nickel but they get really pissed if you try to pay for it with a $20.

As stated there is usually a whole culture dedicated to yard sailing who drive very quickly from one yard to another seeking bargains. these little ladies will not hesitate to elbow their way past you or to push you out of the way. You have to pay close attention to what you're doing. If you're pondering a purchase and put it down, the veteran yard sailor will grab it faster than David Carridine grabbing a pea from an old marble eyed Chinese man. There's a bad joke in there somewhere but it's too recent and too easy.

Be prepared to see a lot of junk. It had to have happened somewhere and at sometime, but someone intentionally purchased that microwave cook book, Simpson's margarita glass set or George Foreman grill brand new. Now they're nickel. What a bargain. The box with all the free stuff is not actually free as it will you cost you money to throw it out later.

If you're looking at records, you really need to know what you are looking for. You'll see alot of easy listening albums, and you'll definitely see copies of Michael Jackson's Thriller, Billy Joel's The Stranger, and Fleetwood Mac's Rumors. Be careful when opening any double album from the 60's or 70's as the seeds that will roll out may get you into legal and financial trouble, especially if you're going near any drug sniffing dogs. Open a Frampton Comes Alive album? Those aren't tomato seeds buddy.

It's a matter of debate in the way you approach the people running the yard sale. When walking up you may feel a bit awkward and will say something to break the ice. this makes it harder to leave when you realize that you don't want any of their crap. If you buy something just to leave without feeling awkward, what your doing is basically stating, "I'll throw this out for you."

You should never but clothes at a yard sale especially if you are in your own town. Nothing would be more embarrassing to come into work on Monday with that suit you picked up on Fisher Street and having someone from work ask you, "Hey, where did you get that suit?" "I don't remember" you say. "Well I do. You bought it at my ex wife's yard sale Saturday. That's the suit I wore to my father's funeral." "No, you say I got it at the Men's Warehouse." Uhh, buddy, the $.25 price sticker is still on your lapel. This could and will limit your professional upward mobility.

A good tip to remember is that if you're yard sailing and you run into someone you work with, Tell them that you are looking for old Jazz 78's and ask them if they've seen any Thelonious Monk or Coltrane discs around. They'll think you are cool and eccentric. Just make sure they don't see the Chinese throwing stars you're going to buy.

All in all the phenomenon that is the yard sale will continue especially in these tough economic times. Best of luck to you all. I'd write more but I'm driving to the big Bernie Madoff, AIG, Citi Bank rummage sale. Hope they have that Fondue set I've been looking for.

"Boronto" and the Joys of Business Travel

2009-06-15T09:49:00.001-07:00

Toronto is a great city with beautiful and friendly people. Ask anyone that has ever been here and they'll tell you that it's really nice and very clean and it has all of the trappings of any major metropolitan area. But for some reason and I'll concede that it must be me, the largest city in Canada has yet to touch my heart or move my soul. Yeah, it's nice, but to date I've found it uninspiring. Maybe it's too clean, maybe the people are too nice. I have formed some good friendships here and undoubtedly they will not be happy if and when they read this, but I'm hoping this current trip will convert me.

I flew here yesterday which forced me to leave the family on a Sunday so I know I'm already in trouble. The only thing that curbed this was the fact that the weather was absolutely dreadful. We spent the morning as a family piling a chord of wood. Deb thought it would be a good bonding experience for the kids to log off and pile logs on. The kids weren't amused but they stuck it out and we put a good dent in it.

Like me previous trips to Toronto, my drive to the airport and my flight were uneventful. When I got my luggage I realized I had to get some colorful and playfully named money, but the not one, but three ATM's were either out of order or out of cash. I started to question whether my card privileges had been terminated. Would I be stuck here?

I stood on a curb and hailed a taxi. "Where to?" asked the cabby.

"I'm going to the Marriott Renaissance."

Where?" he asked.

"The Renaissance, downtown. You know, it's connected to the stadium."

"I don't know where that is sir."

I thought he must be kidding. I said, "You know where the Blue Jays play? MLB? Baseball? You know next to the CNN Tower?"

"I don't Know that place, sir."

"Listen, you have two tourist places in this city and they're right freaking next to each other. Look. See that big tall thing? Take me there. "

He was actually a very pleasant man, and after he intentionally took me to the Residence Inn, and I corrected him. he kindly corrected me in saying that I shouldn't have incorrectly stated that Marriott because the hotel at Rogers Stadium was a Renaissance Hotel.

When I finally got the the MARRIOTT RENAISSANCE I was greeted by a very pleasant woman who checked me in. She informed me that the Blue Jays were out of town so the rates were a little lower. I already knew this but having even an empty baseball stadium as my view would still be pretty cool. When I got to my room the blinds were closed. When I pulled them open, this, and I'm not kidding here, was and is my view:

Laughing out loud, I left my room and headed out in search of food. Once again I spoke with the nice lady at the counter who told me that I wouldn't find much on a Sunday night but I should head to the harbour to a place called Pier 4. I found my way there and saw a festival happening with a lot of interesting food choices, none of which I could take advantage of because all I had was Uncle Sam's Green Currency of Evil. I passed by the West African and Indian Cuisine and went into the Pier 4. I then immediately walked out of the dreary cheap, establishment which should have been named Pier 70 thus reflecting the decor and the average age of their patrons.

At long last and after wandering through the city I finally stumbled toward my hotel which, again is conveniently seated just below the cabby elusive CNN Tower. That's where the remainder of my evening was spent. A little food, A cold beer. A good bartender. The NBA Finals and a local music rag. Maybe this place isn't so bad after all...

By the way, the shot glass wasn't mine.

Sales Is All About Getting People to Like You!

2009-06-10T14:26:00.000-07:00

Ever wonder how your kids view you?

I used to train sales people on the many disciplines that are selling skills. During training sessions I used to coach people by providing them with real life situations and giving feedback. I would tell my sales reps that the feedback they received was a gift and would help them improve their skills their opportunities for success and ultimately their wallet or purse. This past Sunday I had the opportunity to assess a sales person and in the process I received candid, honest and direct feedback.

I was enjoying my day of rest by working in the back yard with my favorite nemesis the weed whacker when Deb let me know that we had to pick up Zachary from yet another sleep over. We both jumped in the car and headed off as we were going to grab some vegetable plants for the garden. We were also going to buy a new "old style" porch swing. After grabbing Zach we headed up to the furniture place which was not and would not open until noon. We had some time to kill. Deb suggested we swing back by a car dealership that we passed. There was a car that caught Deb's eye.

We were barely out of our car when the young salesman appeared. He started off with the used car salesspeak without hesitation and without stopping. He gave me the, "If I can make the numbers work for you, can I put you in this beauty today?" He said, "This car is cleaner than a baby's bottom." This guy obviously never had kids.

We took the car for a ride and then we were led into the interrogation area where the battle of wits would ensue. Without going into all of the details, I can tell you that I held my ground and didn't an inch of ground. He threw everything he had at me and resorted to insulting me in front of my wife and son, but ultimately I escaped without a new car and without a new monthly obligation. I wanted so badly to tell him my profession, but I didn't want to embarrass him. I really wanted to say, "look kid, I know what you're doing..." Regardless, I escaped.

A few nights later we were having dinner and when we were finished with the school and work discussion I asked Zachary what he thought of the experience. He said, "You mean the car? It was really nice!" I said, "No. What did you think of the exchange between the salesman and I?" Zach replied, "It was kind of wierd, but I always know when you want to leave or get out of something. You act smart and start making those faces with that goofy smile, and you act like a dick!" The rest of the family erupted with laughter!

"Dustin" the Wind or "Urned" Run Average

2009-06-08T19:11:00.000-07:00

Forgive me readers for I have sinned. It's been one month since my last post. There's no question that I've been crazy busy, but the blog thing hasn't been far from the forefront of my mind. I honestly believe I've been suffering from a slight case of writer's block. This isn't to imply that I think I'm a writer, but I have been struggling to put something together. Over the next few days, I'll try to get caught up on a few of the recent adventures in an average guy's life.

About a month ago I had the opportunity to see the Sox play. Now I don't usually need a reason to hit Friendly Fenway other than to pay the $7.25 for a watered down and warm Miller Lite but this trip actually did have a purpose. My buddy Geoff's grandfather passed and their close relationship inspired Geoff to distribute his ashes at some of his favorite landmarks including the House that Ruth rented. Now I envisioned Geoff casually and quietly releasing the ashes as we walked around the park, or maybe even by his grandfather's favorite seats in the boxes or bleachers. Geoff had another idea in mind. The ashes had to go on the field and no other place would do. There were a few problems with this idea: First, our seats were in the roof boxes. Any attempt from this spot would result in the people below and their Fenway Franks being covered with a fine coating of grandpa. The second and probably more important thing is that unbeknown to either of us, spreading ashes in a privately owned property is a big no no and is actually a crime in some states. Geoff and I plotted like Ralph Malph and Potsie and came up with a plan. He would sneak down and distract whoever he had to and lean right over the field, and I would remain above and document the event with my camera for the court case or to show the doctors how Geoff got all of his injuries. I'm sorry to report that I have nothing to report. The whole thing went without a hitch. He snuck down and was only held up by one usher. He went to a different section and told he usher that there was a friend that he wanted to say hello to. He went down, sat next to a total stranger and told him what he was about to do. He made his move and in front of 33,000 plus, leaned out over the small wall and shook the little baggie onto the field. There was no fuss and no muss.

So the next time you're watching Pedroia, Big Papi, or Veritek up at the plate and they're tapping the bat against their cleats, that little dust that comes off may just be someone somebody loved. And for the record, when I die, I'd like to be cremated and I'd like my ashes to be spread all around my house so Debbie can clean up after me one more time.

Virginia Is For Lovers, But We Went There Anyway...

2009-05-06T13:24:00.000-07:00

Deb and I let ourselves be lovers and we've certainly married our fortunes together. And, yes, we did count the cars on the New Jersey Turnpike and did come to look for America. This is a reference to a Simon and Garfunkel song which to my great disappointment, in our relationship, I'm Garfunkel.

The kids and Deb had spring break a couple of weeks ago so we packed up a car and headed south for what was our first real family road trip. Not to say that we haven't traveled as a family, but this was our first real classic family road trip complete with an over-packed vehicle, zero rear view mirror visibility and all of the "Are We There Yet" inquiries to last a lifetime.

I have to say that I had mixed feelings. We were looking at a 16 to 18 hour road trip in total with a stop over in Colonial Williamsburg. I've never driven that long or that far and I wasn't sure how our 15 and 14 year old kids would tolerate being on the road through a good part of the east coast. Would Zachary and Vanessa kill each other? Who would strike first? Would there be collateral damage? When would I lose my patience with Deb's driving instructions and constant directions? Speaking of my own personal driving instructor, for those of you who don't know, Deb has bestowed a Yiddish name upon me. In the Car I'm called, "Shoulda." She says, "Shoulda taken a left, Shoulda slowed down, Shoulda gone the other way, Shoulda gotten gas." To keep things equal, I've given Deb her own special road name. When she refers to me as "Shoulda", I respond with her nick name of "Frey-Cue. " We're so cute.

The first leg of our trip would take us through New England, New York, and New Jersey with our final destination of Williamsburg Virginia. Why Williamsburg you ask? The very first week and maybe our first date, Deb told me that she'd always wanted to go to Colonial Williamsburg. For nineteen years I was able to avoid this but now it was time. Speaking of timing, ours stinks. We waited until our kids became an unamused 15 and 14 before we stole them away from their friends to take them to a town where people lived through hard times and little comfort. "You mean they didn't have wireless, and Hot Pockets?"

Colonial Williamsburg is a special place that offers a glimpse of colonial times and all things revolutionary. You just don't get to see things like that here in New England. You know, places like Strawberry Bank in Portsmouth, Salem Massachusetts, Plimouth Plantation, Sturbridge Village, Lexington, Concord, or that nothing of historical significance town Boston. Don't get me wrong, Colonial Williamsburg is nice, but how many freaking candle stick makers, blacksmiths, and silver smiths can one see in a lifetime? "They used cinnamon, creme of Tartar and licorice root to brush their teeth? Whoa, You're kidding me? You wouldn't happen to have a small pox story in you, would ya buddy?"

Speaking of the blacksmith. I watched in awe as this artisan worked his craft. I took picture after picture as he kept the fire hot and hammered the metal until it started to take its final shape. Intrigued, I begged his pardon and asked what type of treasure he was making. "Nails", he said. Nice.

We walked around the grounds for a while admiring the reconstructed architecture and the authentically dressed reenactors complete with period dress and Ozzy Osbourne tattoos. We eventually got hungry. We stopped by one of the many taverns which didn't seem to sell tavern type drinks, and I was disappointed that I couldn't get a meal of authentic colonial fare. There would be no mutton, and no roast venison, but I could relive ye days of old with an authentic Colonial corn dog and a Puritan Pepsi. No wonder George Washington's teeth were in such rough shape.

Much to the kids' disappointment we left Colonial Williamsburg and headed out for a decent meal. We passed many fine looking establishments because of our desire to keep our family spirit and reach some type of consensus. This strategy led us to not speak to each other, and exasperated I eventually pulled into a decent looking non chain or franchise restaurant. The place was called Jefferson's steak house which was designed to give diners a taste of the past. No, the decor had nothing to do with the 18th century and there were no real references to Jefferson. The connection seemed to be with the diners as most of them had obviously been there at Thomas Jefferson's inauguration ball. I should have went with my instincts and turned us all around, but then I wouldn't have gotten to enjoy the blended sirloin steak which was so good that I was tempted to use a fork, but instead I used a spoon so I could get every drop. We were there for what seemed an eternity each of us watching the Titanic survivors eat their rice pudding and drinking their Manhattans. When our Eugene Levy looking waiter finally brought the bill, we scooted out of there and headed for our hotel. It was only 4:30.

Stay tuned for part two...

Please note that I am embellishing the Hell out of this story but not as much as you'd think. We really did have a great time together. Also, I let Deb read this before I published it. She laughed at a lot of it but mostly at the Garfunkel comment. Maybe I should have brought her to Scarborough Fair...

Leg O My Ego

2009-05-03T08:11:00.000-07:00

Last week a friend of mine sent me a link to a community 5k road race organized to raise money for a local children's museum. I've never run in a road race, but made the mistake of expressing interest. I thought, "What the Hell, it's only 3.1 miles, I can definitely swing that." I went out and bought new running shoes and special no friction, non binding, heat resistant, no moisture, extra cushioned running socks. I've never paid $14 for a single pair of socks before and I suspect I'll lose my mind when I see Zachary wearing them without shoes outside in the yard.

All of us runners gathered near the starting line yesterday to check in and get our numbers and timing chips. The participants varied in every way you can imagine: young, old, male and female, skinny, fit and those who are gravitationally challenged. I sized up the group and wished only to complete the course not finish last, and not look like a goof. This last wish was quickly dashed as I noticed people who were listening to iPods with arm bands and ear pods, while I was standing with my full size iPod and Jimmy JJ Walker coconut half headphones.

We all lined up at the starting line awaiting the signal, and with a blast of a starting pistol the race began, well it at least began for the people up front. I was well in the back of the pack and began bouncing up and down because everyone else was bouncing up and down. I had no idea why any of us were doing this but I suspect it's part of some ancient running ritual. So there we were "pogoing" while the more seasoned and competitive runners sprinted away. As the crowd thinned I finally found myself with enough room to move forward. For those of you who have never experienced a road race, the beginning is kind of like a travelling WHO concert with a thick crowd bouncing then collectively rushing a stage that is some 3.2 miles away.

The course began with a steady incline toward the center of town and I immediately knew I was in trouble. First I was already breathing heavier than expected, but to make matters worse, I felt a pop on my left heel and was experiencing a bit of pain. I figured I could run through it, but I felt every step as if someone was repeatedly taking a bat to the bottom of my foot. Boy what a fun experience. Is this the runner's high everyone talks about? I guess my body is like Nancy Reagan's 1980's wish about highs. My body "just Said No!"

Believe it or not even with the pain, I was running at a pretty good clip for me, but here's the thing I learned about running in a road race. There are a lot of people around you. I was frustrated by the slower people in front of me and the congestion of people that prevented me from getting around them, probably as much as I was frustrating the people behind me. The freedom of running was stifled by being aware of the crowd around me. I felt the need to spit and almost let it fly until I realized that the folks around me would probably catch some of it. Not a good thing to do especially in this time of all things swine.

I should mention that my beautiful wife came down to the race with our good friend Jennifer and cheered me on with a home made sign and a few blown kisses. the limits and length of their eyesight would be the quickest I would run.

As I continued running my mind started to wander: "How far have we run so far, would I make it all the way through and what the hell was I doing here?" I came back to reality when I noticed a lot of movement, people falling behind me and certainly many passing in front of me. These people consisted of fit looking athletic types, men, women, the very young and old, the infirm, and the occasional mother pushing kids in a stroller.

At mile two in my head I came up upon a sign that broke my heart. It said, mile one. Holy Crap! I kept going but contemplated stopping at the yard sale that I passed by. Maybe they would have an old oxygen tank I could try out. If I had had the foresight of carrying a few bucks, I may have dropped out of the race and relaxed looking through the family's old microwave cookbooks and Frampton Comes Alive album.

Now, I don't know who the sick b*st*rd was who created the course, but he or she had both a wide sadistic streak and a penchant for hills, and I mean hills. Every time we took a turn we seemed to be on an incline. One steep grade after another. I half expected we'd be collectively planting a flag to claim a new uncharted peak for all mankind.

At one point I came upon the classic marathon scene where volunteers held out small cups of water. I swung over and successfully grabbed a cup and drank while still maintaining my pace. I was unsuccessful in dispensing of the cup. Instead of throwing it on the ground, there was a young kid holding a large green trash bag. My throw was off and I hit the kid in the neck, dousing him with the half filled cup of cold water. He seemed really appreciative.

I had to stop once or twice to temporarily relieve the pain in my foot, but by this time I was well away from the starting or finish line and knew that I had to press on. Any desire to clock in at a decent pace had now waived bye bye. I was however inspired by the guy who I spoke to before the race who came up to me while I was walking, seeing that I needed a lift and inspired me to keep going and offered to run with me. It wasn't long before I waived him bye bye.

There was one part of the course that had us running through a cul-de-sac which seemed all up hill of course, and had a island that turned us back toward the finish line. Long before I reached it, I saw runners who had already made the turn. "Great", I said, the turn is just up ahead. To my disappointment I could not and did not find this point for another mile or so. I had these visions of finishing the last mile while the seasoned runners relaxed in their homes having already finished the run, the cool down, the award ceremony and the first two discs of the Godfather trilogy.

As I approached the last half mile of the course, I was inspired by the local supporters who were rooting us all on, especially the few who said, "C'mon buddy you can do it." These folks apparently inspired by my gate, pace, tears and drool, and must have thought I was a highly functioning, yet impaired individual.

The finish line finally came into view which didn't have me pick up my pace nearly as much as the sight of Debbie, Jennifer, my buddy Geoffrey and their daughter LuLu. I crossed the finish line and walked over to them asking, "Hey, you guys thirsty?"

A 5K is nowhere near a marathon and at this stage or maybe any stage I will not be venturing near the other 23.1 miles, but I did manage to finish and complete my goal, this despite the injury and the mental challenge that goes along with these types of events. People run races to push themselves, to validate themselves and to learn about themselves. I guess I'm no exception, as I did have to dig deep and push to finish. I was and am proud that I completed the course, but prouder that I actually decided to do it, then followed through.

As far as learning, I've learned much. Training for races is probably a smart idea. Proper stretching would be tremendously helpful, and proper sleep and hydration would be nice. Now I'm learning something else. The fatigue and pain of a running injury warrant no excuse and no dismissal from household chores. Man, I wish I had a riding mower.

There's No "I" in team, but there is in IRON

2009-04-04T03:24:00.000-07:00

Personal achievement is measured in many different ways, especially when you are a little older. Long gone are the days of little league trophies and ribbons for the paper mache' volcano we made for the school science fair.

For the guys in my neighborhood, recognition for personal accomplishment hasn't come in the form of a golf trophy or being part of a winning softball team. We don't do triathlons and none of us has been nominated for a Grammy, Tony, or the Nobel Peace Prize. Yours truly has not and probably will not be receiving Pulitzer for the mindless rambling of the blog you are reading. We haven't received notoriety or accolades from the wives for our ability to swing a hammer or build home made furniture. Quite honestly I'm not sure there's a complete set of tools on the street, and the tools we do own have been borrowed and forgotten, left unused in one basement or another. As I write this I realize that I'm generalizing and neglecting to note the one or two gentlemen who have rebuilt their front steps. They look okay but don't put too much weight on them.

Last month we had our one real competitive neighborhood event. It's called Iron Chef, Florence Street. It's a concept borrowed from the Food Network. The competition basically pits one chef against another. Each chef is required to create 5 dishes using a secret ingredient that is not revealed until the competition begins. They then have one hour to create the five dishes. Once time has run out, the dishes are judged by a panel of three notable foodies.

Our version of this competition is a little more simplistic as none of us are chefs. We're meatball cooks with no real formal training other than some experience in restaurants washing dishes or putting cheese on a griddle full of Big Macs. Our version has the women in the neighborhood gathering to select a secret ingredient. This is a painstaking ordeal that apparently requires a few nights worth of mulling, motions and martinis. In the past three years they've come up with challenging ingredients such as Bourbon, Cinnamon, and Coffee. None of these were easy, but the ingredients forced us to push the boundaries of our creativity.

This year we gathered for breakfast at our house, had a little something to eat and waited for the reveal. The girls narrowed the secret ingredient to three options and had them placed in a hat. The first selection, Maple, was met with a collective groan and put aside. A second slip was selected and the secret ingredient was finally revealed. It was....beef. Oh, but wait. There was a twist. Each of the ladies then presented us with a $20 bill and stated that we had to create our one dish for under $20. These women are sick sadistic individuals who deserved some form of retribution, but my mind was already wondering how I could manage 14 servings of surf and turf for under twenty bucks. Would I be violating the rules if I went lobstering and slaughtered my own heifer?

It was amusing to see each of the guys head out to the various markets scouring the aisles for the right ingredients. We passed each other in the aisles and protected our ideas from the curiosity of our former friends and current culinary nemesis'. We stayed in our own kitchens working on our dishes which had to be completed and presented for judging at 6:00. We were able to use any available spices or condiments from our kitchens without having to deduct it from the allotted cash. Lobster tails are a condiment, right?

for those of you who care to know, here is a listing of the dishes. My apologies to the chefs as I'm doing this from memory:

Contestant #1 and the current Iron Chef for three years running prepared marinated flank or skirt steaks that were skewered with leeks. Very yummy.

Contestant #2 made home made meatball sliders with sauce and I believe micro greens. Also very tasty

Contestant #3 made a massive pile of meatballs with a few dipping sauces. Delectable, and not to take anything away from their immediate appeal, but these were even better as the night wore on and the drinks were flowing. I think I was eating them by the handful by the end of the evening.

Contestant #4 made marinated teriyaki steak skewers that were wrapped around mushrooms. A simple, but solid approach.

Contestant #5 made the classic Reuben sandwich (Corned beef is still beef, kids...) with a home made American Slaw and hand cut fries. Oy, was it delicious.

Contestant #6 made seared tenderloin and crimini mushroom appetizers placed on garlic crostini with a a horse radish Creme Fraiche and capers.

The dishes were completed and the judging took place. There were three awards given. the Iron Chef, The Meathead award (second place) and The Chef's Choie award which as the name implies was decided by the chefs. In the end My good man Mark HS took the title and Iron Chef platter for his Corned Beef Sandwich. Meathead and Chef's choice went to yours truly for the tenderloin and crostini thing.

The whole event is a blast and it seems to get better every year. This summer we plan to add a second event called Florence Street's Best Burger Bash. As you can see we are fiercely competitive bunch, but if you want to keep up with the Jones' on Florence Street, all you need is a good chef's knife and $20.

Karma?

2009-03-30T07:24:00.000-07:00

Like most guys I recognize and I'm disappointed to know that I can be pretty selfish, but I do believe that one good turn deserves another. My most recent pathetic example of altruism was displayed a couple of times last night. The first being my willingness to accompany Deb to see the iconic Morrissey at the House of Blues. Quite a sacrifice, huh? Even though the Jambalaya and bourbons were nice and the band was tight, I'm just not a big fan of his music, so this was labeled "a chore" in my book.

Like Deb hears similarities in most of Dave Matthews' songs, I hear no distinction in the whiny vocals of this legendary depression inspiring crooner. It was fun to see her singing, clapping, and shouting all while I swayed back and forth to the music surrounded by a fair representation of Boston's gay community. It was pretty cool to see the passion displayed by Morrissey's following. People pushed forward and crawled over one another risking life and limb to touch the man. I have to admit I was a bit stymied by the collective gasp and cheer when Morrissey pulled off his shirt and threw it into the audience. His bare torso was a fair comparison to that of a movie star. Remember E.T.?

When the show ended, we left the venue, got into our car and headed back home. We were traveling north on Route 1 and pulled into a brightly lit Hess Station to get some much needed unleaded. The quiet of the desolated filling station was disrupted by a large Dodge Caravan that pulled in on the opposite side of the pump I was using. A voice called out of the vehicle asking, "Excuse me sir, I'm hoping you can help me." He stated that he was out of work and was heading toward Augusta Maine where his mother in law was currently laid up in the hospital. He and his family were going to stay with her. Being a veteran of working in Boston I was cynical of his tale but reached into my pocket and gave him a five dollar bill. He thanked me and continued to tell me that he was a mechanic and could not find work. I peered over his shoulder and saw a few kids, and his wife sleeping in the vehicle along with a number of possessions packed in the back of the S.U.V. My heart sank. I reached back into my pocket and pulled out another bill, this time a twenty. I handed it to him and wished him luck. I got back in my car and told Deb what had transpired. She seemed surprised that I handed over that much cash, and her tone indicated that the man's tale was genuine. After thinking for a second, she said, "You're a good man, Jack." The truth of the matter is that we've both been in a situation where cash was tight, but nothing like what I believed he was facing. I regret not filling his tank. If I had caught him earlier in the night I would have tried to cheer him up by giving him a free Morrissey ticket.

This morning I headed out to work, but had to make a stop at town hall to register Deb's car. Like the other twenty or so idiots who waited till the end of the month, I waited in line for my turn to hand over more cash to Dover and New Hampshire. Live Free Or Die, but driving will cost you... As I got closer to the front of the line I became impatient and started to fill out the first of two checks I would have to write. The renewal form displayed one fee for the city and one for the state. I filled out the check for the $111 for the city then went to fill out $43.50 check for the state. When I flipped to the next check I my heart sank as I saw not a check, but the deposit slips that occupy the back of most check books. I looked up thinking, "Oh no" and saw the sign stating, "NO DEBIT OR CREDIT CARDS ACCEPTED." I immediately searched my wallet for the $43.50, then my coat pockets, then my pants. How much did I find? $42.00.

Hope he made it to Augusta...

Questionable Parental Influence? Pogue Mahone!

2009-03-22T08:47:00.000-07:00

I was away a good part of this week and Deb has been immersed in her schoolwork so we were both feeling the need to spend some quality time with the kids. We decided a little field trip would do the trick and allow us to reconnect. A trip to a museum probably would have been nice or maybe a nature walk would put things back in perspective. No, neither of these would suit our needs. What did we do instead? We took them to see the Pogues at the House of Blues in Boston. What better way to bond with Zach and Vanessa than to bring them to a loud crowded concert filled with Boston's Irish drinking and fighting elite.

If you're unfamiliar with the Pogues, you should give them a listen. They're a great mix of traditional Irish music mixed with a punk edge that bestow the virtues of a good drink, a good fight and a tad bit of profanity. If you take a look at their tragic, humorous, lovable leader Shane Macgowen, you'll understand why there aren't any songs about the benefits of brush, floss, and a consistent six month cleaning.

The show and the venue itself were brilliant. The Pogues walked on the stage to the tune of "Straight To Hell" by the Clash and once settled and tuned, broke into songs themselves with "Streams Of Whisky". Their set was paced just a bit south of a Ramones gig with the Pogues' hits coming fast and furious and without pause aside from the more than occasional libation by Shane Macgowen. He had a little table next to his mike stand which held a small cup of water, a glass of Tanqueray and a full bottle of what appeared to be Chenin Blanc. The glass of gin never seemed to get any emptier even though Shane was continuously imbibing. I suspect that the roadies for this band also must possess responsibilities in the area of mixology.

The hits kept coming: "If I Should Fall From Grace of God", "Pair of Brown Eyes", and the sing a long. "Dirty Old Town" were all played with precision and even our untoothed and unsober hero never seemed to miss a lyric or cue. They even played "Bottle Of Smoke" and "The Sickbed of Cuchulainn" with the one of my favorite lines, "Then they take you to Cloughprior and shove you in the ground , But you stick your head back out and shout we'll have another round." a great lesson for the kids indeed!

If there was anything more questionable from a parenting standpoint than the band it was the crowd. The place where we were standing was in line with the side of the stage and an exit behind us. Security continuously walked by us with bloody and sweaty stage divers, crowd surfers, fighters both victorious and defeated each covered with their own sweat, vomit, beer, and occasionally blood.

there was a small young woman standing in front of us who commented repeatedly how cute she though it was that we were their as a family. Then she repeatedly bumped and spilled beer near or on us as she danced, spun, kicked and occasional fell. Our kids thought it was so cute how she responded to her unimpressed boyfriend by calling him a "no fun prick" who was ruining her night as usual. I have to claim my share of embarrassment as she put her arm around my neck and pulling herself toward me to let me know how "f*ck*ng proud of me she was that we brought our kids here and we were keeping it real. " In truth I really liked this girl. She had great energy and was intent on having a great time regardless of those around her and their insignificant f*ck*ng opinions. I hope all goes as planned for her.

We stayed the entire set and headed home, all of us excited and satisfied. It was a classic night of Calabrese family fun. Deb stated to the kids that years from now the kids will be able to tell their friends that they saw The Pogues which I suspect will be met with, "Who?" No matter. The important thing to me is that they'll look back at the experience of the cool things we did as a family.

Birthday/Resolution Check In

2009-03-07T06:45:00.001-08:00

Happy Jack History Month! Yes, I celebrated my birthday on the 1st of March and I think it's a great time to check in and gauge how I'm doing on my New Year's resolutions, but first a few comments about turning 44:

I recall when my mother turned a certain age we sat together and she told me that although many years have passed she still felt like she was 18 years old. This is clearly the case with me although, 18 may be a bit of a stretch. Here's what I mean. The other day I was planning a very busy day in the office and I was about to embark on my usual journey of "adult stuff" (I'm referring to adult stuff as in grown up stuff, not like adult as in movies, magazines or bookstores.) Anyway, feeling very mature and responsible I began to get dressed and threw on a pair of pants. I could feel something in my pocket and upon investigating, pulled out a small wad of melted Starburst that had been left in my pocket, gone through the wash and were now stuck to the lining of my jeans. High powered insurance executive? I think not.

Despite the bleak economic outlook, the two wars, global warming and the whole world going to Hell, things are pretty good. Good job, great family, friends, and all the goodies that life has to offer. I don't owe anybody outside of the usual institutions cash and everybody's health is pretty good. In certain aspects I am feeling 44. I just got back from what I call "a cereal run". It's a loose term as there's usually some jogging, walking, limping, spitting and drooling. The "cereal" term refers to my knees and associated joints. In short, there's a lot of snap crackling and popping going on.

As for my progress on 9 in 09:

I've read 5 books thus far (the fact I'm counting is indicative of the fact that I don't read enough.)

9 pounds? I'm not doing too badly but I expect to have a big push once the holiday season is over...

U2 less than 9 times? I love the new album, but they're playing stadium shows instead of multiple dates so I should be okay. No promises though...

Charity and volunteering. I'm working on it...

Less T.V. and more interaction. Definitely less T.V. but not as many games so far. I did manage to play darts and cribbage a few times in a few pubs. I may have to rethink this one as I'm not sure this is an improvement in my character, health or well being.

Hiking and exploring with Deb? We haven't but walking around Ireland wasn't a bad place to start...

More time with the kids? Apparently, I have some communicable disease. This one has been much harder than originally planned. It seems like teenagers like hanging with their friends more than their dad. Strange, huh?

9 new bands? This one will be easy. If you haven't already checked them out, listen to the following:

Seasick Steve
The Hold Steady
Fleet Foxes
Neko Case
The Rifles
TV on The Radio

also, although not new... The new U2 album is a monster but it'll take you a few listens to get into it. There's a lot there and it's not as accessible as their last two discs. The Kings of Leon's last album is incredible and a worthwhile listen. I'm also still hooked on Radiohead's In Rainbows and the last Dylan Bootleg Series.

I'll check the list in a month or so and see how I'm doing. Remember kids, inspect what you expect.

Farewell Old Friend...

2009-02-25T04:25:00.000-08:00

It was a cold and damp afternoon standing graveside. The mourners were all bundled up, quiet and introspective. The color guard stood close to the family and I could see one of my best friends holding back his tears. His fourteen month old son was struggling and impatient. He began to cry. A soldier began to play Taps and a cool wind picked up out of nowhere. Now the little boy really started to cry. His mother could not comfort him and the boy was temporarily quieted when passed to his father, but he was not able to hold him long. The mother put the child down and he began to bellow. Sensing the frustration of the parents at this disruption during such an emotional time, I thought how I might be able to assist. I searched my deep pockets for some item that may feed the child's curiosity and calm him, but the only thing I could find were my car keys. I gave the keys to the boy who took them and immediately began to play with them. Relief was shared by all who were close. The boy then ran off and threw my keys into the newly dug hole. The family stood by in horror while I was in the grave digging by the casket trying to retrieve the keys.

No, this did not actually happen. Yes I was at a funeral and yes my friend was there and the Marines and the crying child, but the key thing happened only in the wide open spaces that are or is my mind. I can't explain why this passed through my head, but it just did. I actually envisioned it as a potentially hilarious scene in a movie. "Hello, could I speak to one of the Farrelly Brothers, please?" I admit, I'm a bit embarrassed by it, but maybe it's just a defense mechanism against the real emotions passing through me.

Just so you know, I asked my friend Bert for his permission to write about this experience as I'm fully aware that I'm skirting the line of good taste. He gave his blessing because his father who was an incredible man thrived on humor even though he endured more than his fair share of hardship in his life.

Bert Kline Sr. was a self made man who served in World War II and spent time in China, and the South Pacific. He put himself through school earning not one, but two degrees. He opened his own pharmacy and worked very hard to make it the success that it was. He lost his wife at a very early age and he took on the responsibility of raising his six children alone. He provided his guidance, loyalty, and his support, but he also held them accountable for their actions and some of the children learned or will learn the hard way. Bert was a man to be admired as he was classic in every sense.

I was given the honor of speaking at his funeral and I was told by Bert that my part would be to lighten things up a bit. I stood at the podium with the tiny Yarmulke covering just the tiniest part of my head and spoke for a few minutes. I struggle with hats as I think they make my head look big. the Yarmulke was just ridiculous on me. It was like I cut the ear parts off of my mickey Mouse Ears. Speaking of accessories, I once put on a pair of glasses and asked Deb if they made me look more intelligent. She said I'd need a full face mask for that. Lovely girl...

After I finished speaking they brought up Bert's aunt who was Bert Sr.'s sister-in-law for over forty years. Claire who is well into her eighties had a well prepared eulogy and she delivered it with great care and obvious affection. The trouble was that she is so small that she barely reached the top of the podium so all who attended were intently listening but seeing nothing but an empty podium.

Before we attended the service, both Deb and I were hungry, but could not find anyplace to eat aside from a mini mart located across from the funeral home. There we were sitting in the funeral home parking lot with our beef jerky and Pop Tarts. Yet another classy vision for you all to take in.

Probably not the perfect send off, but Mr. K would have approved. The man loved to laugh.

Ireland: Nice Place, But When Are They Going to Clean This Place Up???

2009-02-24T22:39:00.000-08:00

So we've been here a few days now and I can say that Ireland is an incredible country for all of the reasons you already know. It's absolutely gorgeous with the rolling hills and the amazing coast line. We've been taking pictures fast and furious and thank God for digital photography as we would have wasted an awful lot of film on the ruins here.

The first time you come across an old and crumbling castle or church, you snap shots like crazy because you don't generally see such things in the states, but then two minutes down the road there's another one and another one. The whole damned country is littered with dilapidated homes of former lords and ladies. Maybe someone over here should invest a little time and fix some of this crap. Maybe a hammer instead of getting hammered???

To be honest I've only gotten a little taste of what this country has to offer as I've been working over the past few days, but I'm off and "off" at noon today (Wednesday) and I'll have the opportunity to explore a little more. I'm sure there'll be more adventures to report, but until then, here's a few quick hits and observations:

The people are absolutely amazing here and I can assure you that "Irish Hospitality" is alive and well. They're all very friendly and almost too friendly. The biggest challenge is trying to understand what people are saying. They speak very quickly and their accents are as thick as a good pint of Guinness. It's even more difficult in the pubs. I find myself just nodding yes over and over. I've no doubt that someone if not multiple people have asked if I was a flaming arsehole. Nod, oh yes, Thanks!

Driving on the wrong or right side of the road ( depending upon your perspective) is a challenge. I've never been the most coordinated guy (ever seen me run?), but this is a whole new level. Driving on the right is difficult on many different levels but for me it's remembering there's a whole bunch more car on your left side to think about. I've come way too close to all types of immovable objects including but not limited to cars, pedestrians, signs, sheep, castles, and everything else they've got here. I have hit at least one curb where I was convinced I blew out a tire. Deb was smitten...

I have to be honest in as good as the Guinness is here the food is equally bland. It's not bad per se, but they don't season their food here. Everything needs salt and pepper, and I don't think they know what garlic is. Have you ever heard of anyone coming to Ireland for the food? How many famous Irish restaurants are there in the states? C'mon Ireland let's get going! A little little Turmeric wouldn't kill you and Tarragon actually sounds a little Irish, doesn't it?

Belfast is a tough city that's gone through some difficult times. All seems pretty cool now, but you don't want to mess about as you don;t know who's who. Deb and I were a bit lost coming into the city and we were probably travelling slower than we should have been. An obviously frustrated driver honked his horn behind which brought out the Sommerville in Deb. She responded and yelled, but quited down once we saw that it was a police cruiser. Nice...

Everything closes crazy early and it's difficult to find something to eat after 8:00. A lot of the pubs and restaurants stop serving food at 7:00. Of course, the McDonalds, Burger King and Subway were still open. I'd love to punch that Subway Jared kid right in his Terryaki Chicken Sub filled belly.

When you drive through the country you see sheep and lamb everywhere. After a long tour through the North Coast we finally found a place to sit and eat. While I was reading the menu I reflected on the cute little animals and thought about the cruelty in slaughtering them for my nourishment and enjoyment. I actually felt a little remorseful. In any event the roast leg of lamb was delicious, albeit a bit bland (see point 2.)

We toured the Bushmills factory which is the oldest licensed distillery in the world. The tour was cool and the tasting was even better. I tried their Anniversary Whisky and was surprised as I usually don't enjoy Irish Whisky, but it was very tasty. There is definitely an aspect of enjoyment that comes form the surroundings you're in. I tried the Anniversary Whisky when I got back to the hotel last night and it was terrible. It tasted like fermented barley, water and yeast...Gross!

I'm off to work, but we're heading south toward Dublin and Galloway today. More to come...

Home at Last, Home at Last. Thank God Almighty, I'm Home at Last!

2009-02-14T08:31:00.001-08:00

I'm finally home, but not before a marathon of a day consisting of meetings and a demo just before noon. Some of the Brits took a colleague and I to a pub for a few laughs, farewells and follies. This is never a good idea because it's very easy to drown a few pints in a matter of forty minutes or so. Not that this is a problem as it was a pleasant time, but far more pleasant than the ride to Heathrow with a bladder full of once proper English ale, now transformed through the digestive process into Miller Lite. I was in traffic, teary eyed, uncomfortable and dancing in my seat. I actually thought of putting my iPod to justify my "pee pee" dance to the driver.

I had a bit of a dilemma as I was on the same flight home with the CIO of my company. I knew she was sitting in business class, but somehow through mileage point status, I had been upgraded to first class. How should I deal with this? Should I be gracious and insist switching places , or should I wish her well in the lower class seats and politely ask her and the ruffians in her section to keep it down? My fears cooled when I discovered that American Airlines eliminated First class on their transatlantic flights, but a new problem emerged. I now was blessed with a seat next to my very senior, very intelligent, and very important mentor. What if I fell asleep and drooled all over her? would I be able to watch Sponge Bob on the in-flight entertainment, or worse, what if I watched a movie and they showed a booby or something? If I had to relieve myself in any way, would I have to sit in discomfort until we travelled the 3,000 plus miles home? What if she was behind me in customs and what if they checked my bags? This is exactly why mom insisted I keep my underwear clean.

In all seriousness, it ended up being a very enjoyable. We got a little work done and discussed my career aspirations. I had a couple of cocktails and relaxed. It was a long flight made short by a developing friendship. I also had the benefit of piggy backing on her status and had a limo ride back to my house, which was, as my luck would have it, was witnessed by absolutely no one. Remember that scene in Aurthur where Liza Minnelli had the chauffeur wait until Ms. Litman, her neighbor could see her come out of the Rolls Royce?

I had a great welcome home by the family, and received many kisses, especially from the dogs which seemed appropriate because after such a long day we shared similar breath. After the hellos and dispensing the gifts Deb and started toward bed and I got my first taste of being home. For the first time in two weeks I had to wait for the bathroom and ended up "conking" out on the bed, half dressed, teeth un-brushed and without relieving myself of the technically imported liquid again holed up in the aforementioned bladder.

I slept deeply, but dreamed about being back in the car to the airport until I forced myself to get up and wander into the bathroom. peeing the bed on the first night home would not have impressed the missus.

I did my duty and finally brushed transforming my Johnny Rotten choppers into minty pearly off white teeth. Unfortunately, I was now wide awake and it was only 3:30 in the morning. I thought reading would relax me enough to go back to sleep but decided TV would be much easier. Much to my disappointment, I couldn't find Cricket, Rugby, Darts, Sheep Herding or any of the other English television favorites. I returned to bed only to be awoken by an alarm clock at about 6:30 with Deb asking if I wanted to wake Vanessa up and take her to the chorus field trip she was travelling to at 7:30. Now here's where the whole perspective thing comes into play. From my perspective, I should be given a pass because I have been travelling and I was obviously tired. From Deb's perspective, she has been carrying all of the weight of the house, kids, work, and her schooling and she deserved a break. Recognizing this and the fact it is Valentine's day I did what I thought would be an example for myself and all men. I faked being asleep until she kicked the blankets over, got up, and drove Vanessa to her thing.

I now get to enjoy the trappings of all things home, at least until Friday when I jump back on a plane and head to Ireland for a week. The great thing is that Deb will be coming along. If anyone deserves the break and the trip, it's her. I imagine Ireland will present itself as a very beautiful place that will inspire much romance. Then will it be her turn to fake it...

Images of London

2009-02-12T04:19:00.000-08:00

Westminster Abbey is an awe inspiring place. Unfortunately, I wasn't able to get in on Sunday which I found odd, but there's much to see outside with it's incredible architecture, history, and art. One interesting is pictured here. Above one of the entrances there are a number of saints commemorated in sculpture. I was surprised and proud to see an American among the many other historical and religious figures. There in the middle was Martin Luther King Jr. As I looked closer at the statue I couldn't help notice that the pose the artist used to capture him seemed to have him dancing, or it at least appeared that way to me. Never the less, I was impressed just the same.

Later the same day I was walking through Leicester Square when I noticed in front of the National Gallery a bust of George Washington. Again, I thought it strange to see this embodiment of American history and the father of our country in such a spectacularly English location. I did notice, however an apparently English bird, a loyalist if you will, paying his own tribute to old wooden teeth. Uh, George, you've got a little something on your face...

I couldn't help but laugh when I saw this family of four driving through the city. I appreciate people wanting to save on petrol, but seriously folks, what time are you do back at the circus?

Subterranean Homesick Blues

2009-02-12T01:45:00.000-08:00

I've been on the road for almost two weeks and I'm dying to get home. Although this has been a very successful trip, admittedly, I'm a little homesick. For eleven days I've had a relationship with my wife by dialing the phone and typing on email.

When I get home I'll mistakenly think "it's all about me" and I'll expect all to smother me with affection. Undoubtedly I'll get hugs and kisses but it won't be long before Deb threatens to douse me with cold water.

Travelling is fun and eating out is cool, but I want a peanut butter sandwich and milk with real hormones and yummy chemicals in it. Is the Salmonella thing still happening back home?

I realize my days of leaving the bed unmade and throwing my clothes on the floor only to come back to the room to find everything neat and tidy are over. Deb has informed me on many occasions that there aren't any house maids at our estate. (Is this a comment about my laziness, or the fact that we can't afford a maid...actually it's all the same, isn't it?)

I want to have a bottle of water that doesn't cost seven dollars American.

I'm tired of flipping through only six channels on the television. I want to be able to not find anything to watch on three hundred channels like we do in America.

I'm eager to get back into my workout routine. I have been getting up to go to the gym in the morning but it's so difficult to pass up "Saved By the Bell The College Years." That Screech kid is a riot.

The people here are great but entertaining is actually work. You always have to be "on" when you're travelling. It's more fun hanging out with friends at home where I can call someone a d*psh*t without fear of repercussions outside of a retaliatory bald joke.

I like and miss the fact that I can just walk into anyone of my neighbors' houses without knocking. I tried that here but it didn't go over well. By the way, the security guys are really gentle here at the St Martin's Lane Hotel. The pepper spray is more Pablano than Habanero. It's actually quite refreshing.

I hear myself picking up some of the local dialect. Yeah, I know it's English, but there's a different way of speaking here. I even hear a touch of an English accent although I'm mangling it to death and sound like a "Bloody Wanker. "

The economic situation is very precarious here. I can't wait to get to the financial stability of the U.S.A.

We've done 22 training classes in 10 days and have received good feedback. I wonder if I'll inadvertently give Deb an evaluation form after our date night Saturday?

London weather is London weather. I wan to see the sun, even if the temperature is two degrees.

See you all soon.

Pappy Van Winkle or Sappy Scam Stinkle?

2009-02-09T13:52:00.000-08:00

I'm in London at the St Martin's Lane Hotel. The hotel and accompanying bar is the type of trendy place that literally has the whole velvet rope thing, keeping the poor and uncool at bay while the beautiful people of London's hip scene dance and Crystal the night away. I have to admit that it's a fun place to stay, and even though I am a guest here, it's quite obvious that I'm a casual observer and not a member of the "in crowd." But that's not what this posting is about and it's not what I'm about.

What I am about is friendship. Long enduring friendships that are meant to last a lifetime. I keep in contact with my old buddy Eddie Nowick who's father and mine went to high school together. My friend Bert and I speak to each other at least a couple of times a week, poking fun at each other, almost brutally, but with enough love to not take offense. If you recall the disgusting childish conversations you had with your buddies when you were in junior high school you'll understand what I mean. Although we've accumulated much in our lives, it's nothing compared to the accumulated and dispensed height, bald, fat, short, fart, poop and pee pee jokes.

I've been blessed once again with an incredible neighborhood that mocks the notion that only old friends endure. Mark and Michelle, Tim and Margaret, Dave & Christine are more than anyone could ask. And when I thought the neighborhood wouldn't or couldn't get better, along came Matt and Jess and of course Jen and Geoff. But this isn't what this post is about.

What this post is about is whisky and a mystery, at least it's a mystery to some. You see our neighborhood seems to go through trends. First it was beer. I recall a certain someone walking down the street with a stainless steel bucket filled with Coronas so cold that the condensation from the bucket would drip as he "tip toed" down the street. Drinking beer, making beer, and trotting through the falling snow to catch some of the 99 cent Guinesses at the Barley Pub, we enjoyed the brew and enjoyed each other. Then it was Martinis; Gin, Vodka, cappuccino flavored, it didn't matter. For months we had half filled jars of olives filled with pimentos, almonds, horseradish and anything else that would allow us to experiment with different flavors. You have to understand that it's less about the alcohol and more about the excuse, and I mean any excuse to hang out together. It's the neighborhood you see in old movies. Classic, and the classics never die.

Over the past number of years it has been bourbon. One family is "Sieked" about Knob Creek, another "Debellowed" about the merits of Wild Turkey, while another always seemed to be "Holting" a Jim Beam (Sorry about the lame attempt at humor, I realize it's not "punny.") This trend seems to have lasted, but I'm sure Scotch is not far away.

One day I was driving back from the airport and stopped at Kappy's on Route 1. I looked at the bourbon selection and noted a particularly interesting bottle with an old dude with a cigar that looked like what I suppose I'll end up looking like later, or sooner in life. It was more expensive than I would offer and I politely passed, but I was intrigued and had non buyers remorse. A few months later I found myself in Singapore at a cigar bar that featured this rare amber libation, and I tasted and I experienced it with a fine Cuban cigar.

Upon returning home, I told my buddies about Pappy's and I was told that the distillery apparently stopped producing it and that it had become rare, expensive and coveted. Being the easy sale I am, and always loving a challenge, I jumped online the next day found a website, and called the distillery. Fortunately, or unfortunately, they still make the bourbon, but only in very small batches. After calling a few places the distillery recommended and visiting a few more, I decided to go to the source of all bourbon. For those of you who do not know, it's Kentucky. This is where, and only where bourbon is produced. Did I call another distributor, liquor store or bar? No. I called my favorite, non swearing, non R rated movie viewing, and non drinking Christian friend Byron. Another most excellent friend, he enthusiastically did the leg, found our friend and asked his beautiful wife to do the purchasing, towel and bubble wrapping of not one, but two bottles of the amber treasure.

The anticipation grew on the street, which was made worse by the "Pappy Van Winkle Song" sung in high falsetto at every given moment. I'm embarrassed to say that even the kids got the goofy jingle stuck in their heads. With much debate and discussion, one wonders if we have over thought and over heightened our expectations. Will it be the best bourbon? Will we be let down? I got a glimmer this evening as the trendy place I'm staying at offers the very whisky you're reading about. I have to tell you that I was stunned to see it and taste it. It was unbelievable. Does that mean good, bad, average? I'm not saying.

In the coming weeks or months, the boys and hopefully girls and members of the "Friends of Florence Street will gather, eat, drink, and taste. Only then will the mystery of this posting's title be revealed. So stay tuned kids; Same Pappy time, same Pappy channel. Cheers!

Tony Bennett's Smarter Than He Looks

2009-02-07T13:33:00.000-08:00

I indeed left my heart and maybe a small portion of my liver (kidding) in San Francisco. What a fantastic city! I can't wait for the opportunity to get back and explore a little more. Here's a few general comments and observations from a weary traveller who enjoyed the 2.5 days in The City By The Bay:First, speaking of the Bay, I never really saw it, and apparently there's some famous bridge in San Francisco, but again it eluded me. No worries, I'll pay attention to the Tobin when I get home. How much different could it be?

San Francisco is a very crowded city and has some very interesting buildings like the Transamerica building pictured here. It seems like a nice place, but architecturally I don't get the point of it...

San Francisco has a huge Asian population that is the largest in the U.S. I believe, but to be honest with you if you've seen one Chinatown you've seen them all. The weird thing was an hour after I visited this one I felt like I hadn't and wanted to visit it again. One other thing; we were referred to this supposedly great Chinese restaurant, and yes, it was good, but to be honest it looked and tasted no different than the stuff you get at the old August Moon, Kowloon's, or Lucky Garden.

Speaking of food, San Francisco has a great Italian section in North Beach. It's your usual parade of restaurants, bakeries and coffee bars. If you ever come here, you absolutely need to go to Molinari's Deli. This place has been in business for a hundred years and probably doesn't look that different from the day they opened. They have great meats, breads and they even make their own Buffalo Mozzarella. Yesterday I had a sandwich ( Parma Prosciutto, Copa, Sun Dried Tomatoes, Buffalo Mozzarella, and Olive Oil) that if I weren't already married I would have dropped to my knee and proposed immediately. As you can see by the picture, I was simply awestruck by it's sheer yumminess.

Another must see and stop is the Vesuvio Cafe. A classic old bar opened in the 40's and played host to Jack Karouac and much of the Beats. Great decor, great classic drinks, and great people. I was in San Fran for three evenings and I managed to get to the Vesuvio each night.

San Francisco being the eclectic place it is, you can be sure that you'll meet some interesting characters, and I certainly did.

I have have to catch a plane. the next post will be coming from London, and I have a growing list of things to write about pertaining to travelling in First or Business class. I have to tell you that these are the most uninspiring, nasty, needy, lecherous, and entitled people ever.

Coolness? Fade To Black

2009-02-02T17:44:00.000-08:00

It appears to this writer that my status and days as the "Cool Dad" are numbered and dwindling, much like the follicles of my life. Like many of you I have tried to maintain a close relationship with my kids, but I've always tried to do things that moved us beyond the father son/daughter thing. This has been increasingly difficult. The harsh reality is that the once regarded funny guy that the kids lived with is now corny, goofy and quite embarrassing. Qualities Deb has endured for quite some time. I just don't think they get the complexities of my sophisticated comical stylings. "Pull my finger."

Recently, I took Zachary and a few of his buddies to see a triple bill of The Sword, Machine Head, and Metallica. Now, I'd like to be able to tell you that this altruistic gesture was purely for the benefit and development of Zach and his friends, but the truth is, which Deb was quick to point out, that I wanted to go. Me wanting to go to a concert? Not much of a stretch.

When we hit the road Zach plugged in his iPod and said, "Dad, you don't mind if we play some of our music?" This referring to the music they like, not their own original work. I laughed when the next few selections came on which included Zeppelin, PearlJam, Van Halen and of course, Metallica. I couldn't help myself and turned down the music to ask, "Why do you think this stuff is your music and not mine?" They responded by telling me that the music they hear around the house isn't "Crunchy." My cool dad status immediately soared when I informed them that I had seen everyone of these bands including Led Zeppelin. They asked where I had seen Zeppelin to which I told them that they played at Live Aid in 1985. Cool dad crash! "Whoa! How old are you anyway?" 1985? They made it sound more like 1885.

Once we got to the show I was quickly reminded of what a Metallica crowd looks like. Picture the largest shop class ever assembled. A sea of faded blue jeans and black T shirts. The whole place smelled like stale beer, dope, and B.O. As we walked on, all of us in faded blue jeans and black shirts and hit our seats. You should have seen the looks I got from the boys when I handed out the ear plugs I purchased. "What are these for?" "They're ear plugs. They're for your ears!" "They look like suppositories, dude!" Apparently it's difficult to be cool with fluorescent yellow marshmallows sticking out of your ears. "Hey, it beats hair sticking out." Uh, dad, you've got that too."

Metallica finally came on and played a blistering set. The four silver coffins suspended from the ceiling were a little silly ala' Spinal Tap, but they can still shred. During the song "One", I found myself really getting into it and started a little fist pumping and I actually yelled out. this caught Zach's attention as he peered at me with a look that said, "Take it down a few notched big guy. We don't want you breaking a hip."

The ride home was long and all of the kids were crashed, sprawled out all over the back seat. Finally I had the iPod to myself and played the music of my generation, you know, Buddy Holly, Eddie Cochran, and Otis Redding. I drove home feeling pretty cool. The Fonz of father hood, but I have no doubt Zach will, at least temporarily look at me as "Potsie.'

"Potsie, what the hell is a Postie? How old are you, dude?"

Canadian Cuisine. Gravy on Fries? Really?

2009-01-14T09:51:00.000-08:00

I was researching restaurants last night to try to find something that reflected the local culture here in Toronto. One of the places I saw listed their cuisine as "Canadian." I clicked on the menu to see nothing but steaks and fish. No special sauces, no indiginous crazy dishes. No elk, no reindeer, no moose and no goose. How the hell did this mix of steaks burgers and fish make it Canadian? Could I at least get Canadian Bacon on my burger? Upon asking some of the locals, they stated, "we don't have a cuisine per say, but if there is, it probably includes bacon and mushrooms." Bacon flavored mushrooms? that'd be a good start.

At the restaurant we eventually selected, I had a Canadian appetizer called "Duck Confit, Poutine". I was so excited and hey, it sounds pretty good, right? Wrong. When they brought me the pile of french fries with cheese, gravy and shredded duck I immediately thought they brought me the wrong dish. Actually, it looked like the discarded table scraps from another table. It didn't taste any better. Heavy, greasy and all out "ducking" terrible. I wept in my Molson Golden Ale.

This morning, just for the hell of it, I typed Canadian Cusisine into Wikipedia and got responses of such culinary delectables as, Beaver Tale, Maple Taffy, Smelts and Chicken Balls. I kid you not, there were even notations referring to Kraft foods and Jello. Planning on booking your next vaca here? Don't bother. It looks like Salt Lake City without the mountains. and if you do come here, pack a sandwich.

What do you expect from a country who's primary export is Moosehead Beer, Bacon and Celine Dion? A country that has currency called the Loonie. A place where the French population wants to cecede. I suppose we should, however give a nod for Neil Young, although the truth is he high tailed it south 40 years ago and hasn't returned. Sugar Mountain? How about Simi Valley.

Look, Canada is a fine place but one that seems to struggle with it's cultural history and cultural cuisine. They should take a lesson from their neighbors down south and partake in the delectable offerings of such American Culinary Mecca's as Chili's, The Macaroni Grille, Applebee's, or that salad and bread stick haven known as the Olive Garden. Look kids, we're not much better.

In all fairness, I've only just started to scratch the surface of what this place has to offer. The people are great and the place is really clean. The money is a lot of fun with their Loonies and Twonies, Purple $10bills and Red $50s. It's like being in play land. It's colder than hell, but not much colder than the climate I just left. As far as the food goes, Deb and Jen say I'm a picky eater and a food snob, which may be true to a certain extent. I can tell you that if I order something that sounds french and they bring me something with fries and gravy again, I'm going to snap and publicly insult Wayne Gretzky, Rogi Vachon, and Ken Dryden. I've never been kicked out of a whole country before...

The Naked Truth About Men and the Locker Room

2009-01-10T10:04:00.001-08:00

Alright, so far the resolutions are coming along. I finished my first book of the year called "Choke" by Chuck Palhaniuck. A disturbing little story about a disturbed guy written by an apparently disturbed but brilliant author. It's very graphic in terms of the content but I laughed out loud a number of times. I believe they've made it into a film which has yet to be released.

I've also managed to lose a few pounds, most likely water weight, but I also managed to lift and swim a few times and I'm intent to keep the activity up. This endeavor will be increasingly difficult next week as I'm on the road. Canada isn't particularly known for their culinary offerings but I'm sure I'll manage to find something interesting. "More carabo Mr Calabrese?" "Another Molson, perhaps."

While I'm on the subject of working out, I have to share the bizarre disgusting experience that is the men's locker room. Based upon recent occurrences, if you're a guy and you managed to convince some poor unsuspecting woman to be your girlfriend, wife, or significant other, you should thank your lucky stars you have somebody that can stand you, because we as a gender are the most grotesque, disgusting, stinky, undesirable beings the world has ever seen. If we were indeed created in someone's image I'm certain he expected we'd have the good sense to keep our fingers out of our butts.

Guys seem way too at ease in their own nakedness and nudity. I won't say buff, because there doesn't seem to be a lot of "buffness" happening with this particular crowd. It's a locker room of "before" pictures. Guys walk around with no pants, shorts or underwear. They can't even seem to muster the energy to wrap a towel around themselves. Confused about my sexuality? No, I'm just confused why guys can't speak to each other in the normal course of a day, but in the locker room, everyone wants to talk to me with their "little buddy" in the mix.

In any event, the locker room is one putrid petri dish riddled with crimes of human indecency. Here's a couple of long winded examples:

The Gaze:

Men are insecure, and we're terrible at pretending we're not looking. Just ask any woman that wears a low cut blouse, a high cut blouse, a turtle neck, a ski parka or a suit of armor. We get caught looking all the time. It's no different in the men's locker room. It's not a sexual thing mind you, it's a matter of comparison to see how we "measure up". Here internal comments vary from "Holy god" to "That poor bastard."

This also happens well beyond that one particular area. We want to see that we're in no worse, and hopefully better shape than the other guys in the room. Given that the age group is anywhere from 18 to 100 it's a physical perspective of where we've been, where we are and where we will be. The six pack may be gone but at least I can look forward to my manhood hanging to my ankles.

Yes, nakedness abounds in the locker room, but it's worse than you think. I've seen multitple guys use the urinals with nothing but a towel hung over their shoulder or nothing at all. It's disturbing to see some dude with his feet shoulder length apart, leaning back relieving himself with nothing on. It just doesn't look right. The more disturbing thing os that of you have a have young boys in the house, you know not only does with age come wisdom, but also aim. These urinal exhibitionists are usually standing in other guys inaccuracies. How does the rhyme go? "No matter how you sing and dance the last drop always ends up... well, on some dude's feet. "

The Hair Dryer Guy:

The locker room offers some great ammenities including a steam room, sauna, and a number of sinks and complimentary hair dryers. Most guys wash their hands, shave, brush their teeth while naked. I couldn't help but laugh when I was shaving the other day and this gentleman who looked old enough to have attended Lincoln's funeral and naked of course, took his position to my left. He grabbed the hair dryer and started drying his hair? no, he started drying ass. While I was happy to find a use for my long unused hair dryer, I was downright tickled when he turned to use the blow dryer on his front side. First straight on, then from the left, then right. Then he picked himself up and dried his undercarriage.

The Chair Guy

In one corner of the locker room there is a flat screen TV and a few chairs positioned in front of it. The other day there was a guy sitting in the chair watching ESPN with nothing but a T shirt. No pants, no undies. Just sitting back with one leg crossed over the other watching Lebron while scratching himself. By the way, the chairs are not plastic or wood, but upholstered cloth. Have a seat? No thanks. I imagine if I asked him why he was sitting there with just a shirt on, he'd say, "Of course, I'm wearing a shirt, not wearing one would be gross!" Yes it would...Yes it would.

All in all this place is one big carnival of scratching, burping, farting, snorting, all the while looking at everything and nothing at the same time. As much as I would like to change in the car or at home, I'm currently forced to use the locker room. I suppose I'd feel better about it if I didn't keep hearing guys whispering, "That poor bastard."

Reolution - Nine in 09

2009-01-04T17:26:00.000-08:00

Alright. Many people make resolutions at the beginning of the year and most don't keep them. I'm not much different but I have been thinking a lot about it and them. I have always liked tag lines and slogans so I figured I would do the same for my resolutions in 2009. I have put a little though into them and I already know I'm overshooting and setting myself up for a shortfall, but what the hell. Here it is for all of you who care is my list of things I'd like to accomplish in the year, the list known as nine in 09

1. Like most people I wouldn't mind getting into better shape. I did a pretty good job last year, but i still have some work to do. My priorities have changed a bit in that previously it was about looking better, not I'm just interested in staying alive. So, resolution number 1 is to lose 9 pounds. We're heading to Myrtle Beach in April so that's little more than than a few pounds each month till we head south. I'd give you the exact number and\or calculation but math isn't on my resolution list this year.

2. I will read 9 books that will help me in my career and or personal life. If you have any suggestions for me, I'm all ears. I'll also read at least 9 books for pure pleasure. Not a big number but twice what I read in 08.

3. Debbie and I have spent the past few years walking through Vaughn Woods in South Berwick Maine, and we've talked about hiking elsewhere. I plan to hit 9 different hiking trails in New England this year. I'm sure Deb will come along for the walk.

4. I will learn 9 new things on the guitar this year. For those whom have heard me play, know that my attention span prohibits me from making any real progress. Yeah, I can play, but only a little of this and a little of that. Jack of all trades and master of none? This is where it is most prevalent. If I had a band it would be called "Medley." The truth of the matter is that if I play a whole song, I'm obligated to sing, and nobody wants that...

5. I'll spend 9 days with each of the family one on one. I know this doesn't sound like a lot when you consider there's 365 days in a year, but with two teenagers it's hard to get them to say hello, never mind spend any real quality time together. The travel doesn't help either. Let's face it, these days are numbered, and I have to keep working on my "cool dad" status.

6. I'll average 9 miles a week. This may be walking, swimming, running or biking. Does driving count? The point is, I'd like to keep in motion and keep my jeans from being an ocean... I've bren swimming more lately, but it's not coming easy and it's not pretty. It's more of a controlled drowning.

7. I'll do 9 things outside of my normal work responsibilities to help people that I work with be more successful.

8. I'll try not to see U2 more than 9 times this year (kidding.) Actually I'll do 9 things around the house to improve it. This will be outside the normal maintenance. I'm talking painting, plastering, or some other thing I hate doing...Actually maybe I'll just hire 9 guys to do this crap for me.

9. I'll put time into these 9 things:

Become more technically proficient with my camera
Draw, sketch, or paint something and anything
Working on a craft with my kids or the kids in the neighborhood (I'm thinking of a paper mache dragon for our block party...)
Volunteering time for a local charity or community event
Avoiding television. Chess, cribbage, back gammon may be suitable alternatives
Finding 9 good new bands. these days it's harder than it appears to be.
Keeping up with my blog
Visiting my brothers and getting to know their families better
Reading the newspaper and being more informed globally, nationally and locally.

i know it's a big list, but what the hell else have I got to do... I figure if I cover half of the list, i'll be doing great.

It's The Simple Things That Make Life Great

2008-12-07T19:18:00.000-08:00

Is there anything as simple and amazing as sharing dinner with friends and family? We strive to do Saturday or Sunday dinners with friends and family, and I have to tell you there's not much in this world that I enjoy better, sans the occasional minute and a half excursion with the misses.

I have to admit however, that I struggle with one aspect the dinners; We're so blessed to have so many friends that I agonize limiting the number of people who can comfortably attend. I want everybody here and it pains me to have to exclude anyone. We used to do Soprano's Sundays with 18 to 24 people almost every Sunday for as long as the seasons lasted, but it got very chaotic and very expensive. I do have to admit that I loved every minute of it. I used to refer to it as memory making in hopes that the kids would think of the great times that occurred during their childhood week after week.

As you would imagine, many of the meals are Italian. Pasta and gravy, Arincini, sausages onions and peppers and then a few glasses of Limoncello or Sambuca with espresso, they are gastrointestinal marathons.

I'm not quite sure why the post, but I suppose the the purpose of the blog is to share, and the dinners are one place where we excel in sharing.

If you find yourself in the neighborhood, drop us a line and we'll put out a plate for you. I can guarantee you'll leave with a belly full of food that is sore from the laughing. Salute!

Timber!

2008-12-07T18:37:00.000-08:00

Some people call New Hampshire during the holidays, "God's Country." This reference is probably not because God likes to buy cheap cigarettes, cheap liquor or the other tax free shopping available in this "Live Free Or Die" state. It's more due to the fact that it's damned right pretty around here during the holidays.

Deb and I shared a special moment yesterday. For the first time in our relationship we sought out and cut down our own Christmas Tree. Now you may be saying that this should be a family event, but the truth is our children have secretly met and reached consensus that their parents are now officially the uncoolest people this, and any side of the Mississippi. They wanted nothing to do with getting the Christmas tree. It's almost like they believe the sole purpose of Christmas is to get presents and eat.

It wasn't a farm, but someone's actual residence that advertised "cut your own trees". We drove down a dirt driveway and found a quaint house with a quaint gentleman standing in his driveway. He had a saw horse with a tin tea canister that had a hand written sign that stated, "pay here." There was also a small selection of hand saws to choose from.

I have to admit that the 27 acres were scenic. It's probably corny to make reference to Norman Rockwell, but that's what it was like. We held hands as we walked by the pond and toward the selection of soft blue pines. Debbie asked me to imagine she and I retired in a similar spot with dogs, camp fires, and all the peace and tranquility that goes along with such places.

We browsed the selection of pines and found the sparsley branched tree that reflected Deb's vision. Again, the classic New England scenery, the hand holding, and the light banter all made for a very romantic atmosphere. Unfortunately this all came to an end when I cut down the tree and dropped it on my wife's head. If this wasn't bad enough, I bonked her in the head again when I was carrying it in the house.

It's the beginning of a Cristmas I'll never forget, and she'll never remember.

"Kids Say the Darndest Things"

2008-11-25T09:18:00.000-08:00

I remember a comedian once saying that kids are brutally honest. If a kid tells you you're ugly...you are. I had a similar experience last weekend.

I said hello to the kid in this picture, you know, just trying to be friendly. Her response? "You're bald!" Um, yes, I am... "And your teeth are yellow!" She then turned to Debbie who was laughing hysterically. Debbie asked, "Are my teeth yellow?" The little girl said, "Well, they're not too bad, maybe a little on the bottom, but they're not nearly as bad as his."

When you think you are all that, and you have the world under control, kids will intentionally or not, ground you. This is why we ground them...

I'd tell you more about my conversation with this little one, but she left stating she couldn't tolerate the "stinky" cologne I was wearing.

Shower to the People!

2008-11-25T08:07:00.000-08:00

Like most parents who have teenagers, we are challenged by usual things that kids do, such as leaving every light in the house on, or not eating anything that we make short of cheeseburgers and fries. The shower has recently been more of an issue for us. It's confusing. How can two kids who don't pick up after themselves, especially their rooms turn into clean freaks when they enter the shower? I'm talking about half hour or more marathons. They tell me that I don't understand because I don't have to wash my hair which is kind of a cheap shot and completely untrue. I do have to wash my hair, it's just that when a shampoo bottle says to pour a quarter size drop into your hand, I get fifteen cents back. More recently the kids have been using the long since abandoned bath tub.

On Saturday, Casa De Calabrese was enjoying a usual Saturday morning. I had my iPod on while washing the dishes. Zachary decided to take a bath. Deb was heading toward the shower. I was jamming away and scrubbing the breakfast dishes when I was struck with something. Debbie had gotten into the shower and started lathering when all of the hot water went bye-bye. She was immediately pelted with ice cold water. She literally jumped out of the shower and tried to get my attention. This was a challenge as I was "live in concert" and dancing in place. Deb reached into out pantry, grabbed a pack of bagels and let them fly. It scared the crap out of me, and by the way bagels have some weight to them. That's how things roll at the house.

Shower story #2

Before I got into the shower this morning I reinstalled the smoke detector in our back hall that connects the kitchen and downstairs bathroom. I did notice that there was no nine volt but the smoke detector is hard wired. No sooner had I jumped in the shower when the smoke detector let out a quick high picthed alert, this to indicate the battery needed to be replaced. Now I should tell you that the alarm on the smoke detector scares the living daylights out of our dogs, especially Bean. So it was no surprise ot me that after it had gone off, Bean was quickly at the bathroom door. She was frantic, so frantic that I had to step out of the shower and let her in the bathroom. I couldn't believe it when she ran right into the running shower. Picture me in all of my nakedness, (talk about your appetite surpessants...) trying to puch a fifty pound dog out of a running shower. After a second I gave up and just shut the door and proceeded to kill two birds with one stone. Bean and I emerged from the shower, both clean with shiny coats, and it was still shorter than the kids' showers...

2008-11-22T05:04:00.000-08:00

"Uncle" Bertie Kline clearly still distraught by what happened in 1985.

Christmas in London

2008-11-22T04:26:00.001-08:00

I've just returned from my latest trek abroad. I was in London this week. It wasn't the greatest in terms of finding "posting" inspiration as I was was incredibly busy with work type stuff. I did manage to get out with the camera a few times as is evident by the picture to your left. I found it really interesting to note how deeply the city is in the throws of the Christmas Season. While in the pub during lunch (which is still the coolest thing ever) I stated, "We usually wait until after Thanksgiving to put up lights etc." Um mate, we don't celebrate Thanksgiving here." "Yeah sure, you probably don't bother with the 4th of July either!" (note: they don't.) Another in a series of awkward moments while travelling to different places. So if you're travelling here's a few tips as represented by mistakes I've made.

In some hotel rooms you have to put your card key in a slot to activate the electricity in your room. I didn't know this. I was in complete darkness feeling around the walls and switches to get any kind of light in the room. The bellman who brought up my bag to find me deep in the room cold, lost and scared was quite amused.

There's no faster way of showing you are an American than by tipping. Everybody in America, whether it's the person behind the Dunkin Donuts counter to the local plumber expects a gratuity. This is not so in many places. I put a tip down at a pub and one of my mates immediately picked it up and told me not to ever do that again. Most restaurants already include a service charge. Don't pay double, we're in a credit crisis dummy!

While presenting to a large group of Brits, don't tell people they have two options by sticking up your two fingers with the back of your hand out toward them. Your essentially telling them to f*#k off. Insurance executives don't seem to like this. Also don't ever make reference to a "fanny pack" as it doesn't mean the same thing as it does here. This being said, if you are a guy and have or make reference to a fanny pack you probably deserve what's coming to you.

Soccer is football and like many people in the states, football is religion. Don't say it's a lousy sport, especially in a pub. Also, if you're going to spend any real time there, learn the teams. Go Manchester United!!!

Speaking of football, they wonder why we strong Americans need so much padding. They are also mysteriously offended by the Patriots (which they pronounce with a soft a.)

Also:

Learn the metric system
Warm ale is good
An ale or beer in the day is Okay.
Malted vinegar goes on chips, not Ketchup
If your looking left to cross the street, you probably should be looking right
Mopeds and scooters are not uncool here
People dress with flair and style. There are lots of fancy suits, lots of cuff links and most people wear scarves
People still listen to Uriah Heep, Status Quo, and Queen.The Kings of Leon are considered rock Gods here and fill 100,000 seat stadiums.
Don't be a dobber, don't drive whilest pissed, and don't ever toast with an empty glass

Cheers.

"Tom Waits For No One"

2008-11-22T03:20:00.000-08:00

You know you've had a fantastic experience if it the memory stays fresh and repeatedly creeps back into your thoughts. I've been blessed with many, but I've intended to write this one down for some time as it was a brief, but great father son moment.

Earlier this year I had the opportunity to see one of my musical heroes, Tom Waits (Please note for the record that I was turned on to Tom Waits by my lovely bride who has not let me forget this or anything else since. Thanks Deb!)

Tom being the nut that he is squashed my dream of Deb, myself and my buddies seeing him in Boston at the Orpheum theater. His tour omitted the usual "Big Market" stops like New York, Boston, Chicago or Los Angeles and took a different path to such thriving metropolitan areas as, Tulsa, El Paso, Mobile, Columbus, and Okay, Atlanta. "Screw it"I said, looked at the dates in terms of what would work and decided Atlanta would be the target. This would be the last stop on this brief tour.

The show was scheduled for July 5th. This was going to be tight, as we had concrete plans for the 4th and we were leaving for a 10 day family vacation on the morning of the 7th. My dad committed to not only coming to the show, but driving the 6 hours to get there. Deb opted out due to the impracticalities, the logistics and general stupidity of flying to Atlanta for one night to see a concert, (Thank God someone in the family actually uses their brain.)

I got to Atlanta fairly early, checked into the hotel and walked over to the theater. Amazingly, even though it was only 10:00 in the morning there were quite a few people milling about the The historic Fox Theater, home of many legendary performances including the classic Lynyrd Skynyrd live album "One For/From the Road." I spoke to almost everybody there finding out where they were from, where they were sitting, what TW disc was their favorite etc. I was not surprised to see that I wasn't the only loser who travelled to come to the show. There were people from the West Coast, Germany, Sweden, Spain, and even a far off place called Milwaukee. Again, it should be noted that Tom Waits does not tour often and when he does, he doesn't go far and he doesn't go long (sounds disturbingly familiar...Sorry Deb.)

I toured the theater and later met up with my dad and his misses. We had a couple of drinks and then dinner. Joyce opted out of going to the concert as the gravely whisky and cigarette soaked voice possessed by Mr Waits is an acquired taste much like Scotch or Moxie, (for those reading who are not familiar with Moxie, it's an acquired taste much like Scotch or Tom Waits music.)

To make a long story not so long, I'll state that the concert was all I thought it would be. Tom Waits is an amazing performer and someone, like Sinatra or the Stones should at least be seen once in your lifetime. I do however have to admit that early on in the show I tried not to look at my dad, this for fear of seeing him disengaged, bored or tired. I just wasn't sure if he was going to enjoy it and selfishly I didn't want to spoil my own experience. I was thrilled however to look over and see him into it. We met the people around us, yet again noting that people came from all over the globe. We all shook hands talked laughed and joked and created our own miniature, temporary community. Dad and I were a well oiled communicating machine with people probably remembering the guy with his bald father being a really fun part of the show(warning: This is an inside joke. Male pattern baldness skips a generation.) Anyway We were all in it together, that is until about three quarters of the way through the show when I couldn't resist the temptation to get a closer look. I abandoned dear old dad and the temporary U.N. to get a better look. Technically, it wasn't rushing the stage, it was more a moderate limp down the aisle, but I did manage to kneel and watch a song or two from about the second row(note: Tom looked better from the 26th.)

All in all a fantastic experience. I got up the next morning, had breakfast with Dad and Joyce. We said our goodbyes and I was off to the airport. Worth it? Absolutely! The show was great, the people were fantastic, but the time spent with the "old man" was great. It's weird in a way it was poetic justice. Deb may have turned me on to Tom Waits, but my father is the one who instilled the great love of music. Just look at his comments from the Buddah posting. He knows his shit. Thanks Dad.

Home At Last (at least for the moment...)

2008-11-19T02:04:00.000-08:00

I was warned that the momentum of the Asia Pacific trip, as well as the jet lag would hit me like a classic Mike Tyson punch once I finally got home. I started feeling the effect once I was en route and it was certainly amplified when I found myself stranded at Logan International (The Limo Company had me booked for the next day), but I was clobbered once I actually got home.

The last thing I wanted to do once home was to eat out, but I hadn't had a slice of pizza in three weeks. Halfway through eating I completely stopped talking. As much as I had missed the family and as much as I wanted to spend time with them, I just wanted to go to be and get some real sleep. Awaking the next morning I had high aspirations; running, doing some long neglected chores around the house, or even some work work, I was home and ready for the day. "I'll get started immediately, well after I lay down for just a minute..." A minute turned into an hour and an hour turned into hours. Jerry Springer, The Food Network, ESPN, and Oprah. I only left the couch to grab snacks, and use the clockwise flushing toilet. Over the next few days I frequently fell asleep, got nothing done and was generally useless. Deb didn't seem to notice any difference...

"Show Me the Way To go Home"

2008-11-04T00:52:00.000-08:00

Well I'm sitting at Heathrow airport awaiting the last leg of my journey. I started at 1:05 Hong Kong time and I'm actually feeling pretty good considering the trip. I have had the benefit of a shower and managed to brush my teeth which most here won't notice, but I can assure you if I hadn't, people would have started dropping spare change in my hands. My appearance, aroma, and breath were dreadful after the 13 hour flight. Kind of what you would imagine Keith Richards would have smelled like in the 70's. Now it's a four hour layover and a quick seven hour shuttle across the pond to Logan.

I hope you all continue to keep checking the site as I intend to keep writing. I'm eager to see you all very soon, especially you Ms Calabrese...

Speaking of Calabrese, can anyone provide the real pronounciation? When I was a kid I always pronounced the e at the end. My brother Jimmy never did, and I think my brother Billy bounced back and forth. Everyone I meet outside the country manage to make it sound more Italian by emphasizing the vowels and adding an Italian accent to it. It sounds pretty good to me. At this writing I'm considering a family vote, or I may elect to just go with the single name Jack, you know, like Sting or Madonna, but without the talent. Can't wait to hear the family comments on this one...

Heard About the Food Problems in Asia?

2008-11-02T19:50:00.000-08:00

Let's play a game. Take a good look at this picture and see if you can find what's missing.

I walked down a random street in Hong Kong and came upon stall after stall of local food vendors. Whether you're looking for fish, vegetables, spices, or meats, it all seems to be here. Despite a tremendous number of people, there seems to be no shortage of anything with the exception of...do you see it? There's no freaking ice! No cold packs, no cold air or refrigeration whatsoever. When I took this shot it was well into the afternoon and it was about 80 degrees. Being the only non Asian on the street taking pictures, I'm certain that if I asked, I would receive only the freshest choice cut imaginable. Hotel food? Yes please! Actually, I tried a bunch of things here, the majority of them strange and delicious. Indigestion or intestinal distress? It never happened. Here's a quick list:

Pork Cheeks with Spicy Chili Sauce

Chili Crab

Razor Clams

Giant Periwinkles (raw, of course...)

Fried baby quid (whole. If you told me I was eating fried scorpions I would have believed it)

Pork necks

Spicy Sting Ray

Cold Malted Barley juice

Smoked Eel

and a bunch of stuff, quite honestly I didn't know what it was...

These beautiful people eat every part of the animal. Pork Cheeks, you got it! Calf testicles? You can't eat just one. I can only imagine what my kids and most of their friends would do if they lived here. I can't get mine to eat asparagus, never mind something like sauteed fish livers...There are definitely fast food places here, but their food is closer to that nature intended us to eat, this being said, I'm dying for a tuna fish sandwich on toast...

Hong Kong

2008-11-02T14:55:00.001-08:00

When I was a kid my friend Greg and I would hang out in my parents basement and listen to my father's extensive record collection. We'd listent to all types of music including old rock and roll and soul from artists like, The Impressions and Gladys Knight and the Pips who were both on Buddah Records. Well, sadly, Buddah Records is long gone, but the symbol of that great label remains!!

At the summit of Ngong Ping sits the Tian Ten Buddah, popularly referred to as the, "Big Buddah." It's an impressive thing to see and worth the gondola ride through the mountains, and to be honest I can't believe how many people remember Buddah records. There were people from everywhere!

Seriously, the pictures do not do it justice. It's a very impressive piece, I'd like to say of history, but I was disappointed to find that it was completed way way back in 1993. Notice the right hand of th eBuddah is raised. This is to symbolize the removal of affliction. The many gift shops that sit at the base have vendors who raise their right hands and symbolze the removal of your cash.

"Big Ole Jet Air O Liner..."

2008-10-30T19:35:00.000-07:00

Of all the goofy, touristy pictures I've taken this may be the goofiest. This is the plane we took from Melbourne to Singapore. I was seated on the top level in business class which, to my disappointment did not have a bar. Once I was in my seat I was asked by the flight attendant if Iwanted to change into pajamas? Was he asking me to slip into something more comfortable? Is this the mile high club? Couldn't I just watch the in flight movie? Actually, I've considered becoming a half member of the mile high club but Debbie tells me I'll go blind.

anyway, I politely declined stating that I generally sleep nude and that I have a tendency to sleep walk. If you find me wandering through coach later on, please don't wake me up.

The flight attendant was not amused, actually, I thought it was pretty funny myself. People in business class need to lighten up...

New Friends

2008-10-29T23:43:00.000-07:00

Here's a quick shot of me with the IT Support department at a pub in Australia. We would have invited other people from the office, but they were all trying to get their computers working or something like that. As you can see, aside from my colleague Karrie and local Jacquelyn Kearns (Jack) I possess the follicular requirements of being on this IT team. Cheers lads...

Safety Travelling Abroad

2008-10-29T23:36:00.000-07:00

Here's a quick tip for you. When travelling to a different country it's best to try to blend into the cultural surroundings. Wearing baseball caps and Bruce Springsteen T shirts is not the best strategy when trying to fit in with the locals. Here I am looking very stealth like in Sydney. Wish'd I brought my giant foam finger with the USA #1 on it.

We Leave Tonight For Singapore

2008-10-29T14:48:00.000-07:00

Today's title listed above is from the Tom Waits song, "Singapore." It appears he had a very interesting time while he was here. Here's a few lines:

"Don't fall asleep while you're ashore."
(This is the first thing I did when I got here, but I slept at the hotel.Maybe I'll sllep on the shore tonight...)

"The whole town is made of iron ore." (There's construction across from my hotel that is incredible.)

"Fill your pockets up with earth. Get yourself a dollars worth." (Like many things here, I'm certain this is illegal in Singapore.)

"The captain is a one armed dwarf. He's rolling dice along the wharf." (Okay, Tom's not the most stable of indiviuals, but everyone I've seen thus far are blessed to have all of their limbs. also, dice seems a better choice than cards, shuffling with one arm must be a drag.)

Regardless of the mindless banter you just endured, I'm exited to be here in Singapore. It's a very clean and manicured city that I'm eager to explore. Singapore is also known for having great cuisine, especially out in the many food stands around the city. I'm hoping to experience new things and I'm intent to limit the meals eaten in an actual restaurant. I'm ready and willing to try just about anything and I'm armed with a full bottle of Immodium, so stay tuned...

Open Letter (Birthday Card) to the Kids

2008-10-27T18:56:00.000-07:00

One of the real bummers about this gig is that you sometimes find yourself on the road when something important is happening at home. In the past number of years I have missed the occasional football game, band concert or open house. It's fun travelling but there's always an emptiness that you're not sharing the experience with the ones you love. Anyway, yesterday was Zachary's birthday, and to be honest Vanessa's celebration took a back seat to both a neighborhood event and preparations for my current trip. With this in mind I'd like to convey a few words about these most special people.

You kids are a royal pain in the arse as they say here, but your our royal pain in the arses. I cannot tell you how proud I am of both of you. You are each special in your own way and possess the talent and ability to do almost anything. You have both proven to be very kind and considerate to people and it's always been commented that you are two of the most polite and well mannered kids people have seen.

Your mother will probably kill me for saying this, but years from now we'll laugh when we reminisce about your messy rooms, th eoccasional blunder in school, or the time the "F" word slipped out at the family function. This being said, try to stay out of real trouble. You're both at an age where you'll experience many moods and different influences. Choose carefully, and don't do anything you'll regret. In the long run all you have is your integrity, your reputation, and your self respect. you'll find yourself much easier to like and you'll be able to move much further ahead if you're not carrying the emotional baggage that comes with regret.

In a very short period you'll be driving, going through your high school years then off to college and a career. This is where the real foundation of your life is built. Make sure it's solid.

It's important to not only fill your life with people you love, but also people you like

If it's safe and won't hurt you or anyone around you, embrace as many experiences as you can. Just make sure they're positive.

Believe it or not, there's no such thing as bad music. There's just what you like and what you don't like. Don't be afraid to listen to music that's deemed uncool. If it it sounds good and touches your soul, then so be it. I can't tell you why I like Journey, Bryan Adams, Neil Diamond, or Barry Manilow, I just do.

Cherish each other. You are the only borhter and sister you're going to have. You choose whether you'll have a life long great relationship or one that is strained. It's a lot more fun to have the former.

Organize yourself as much as possible as you'll find work, play and anything you do easier. Take this from someone who is both obsessive compulsive and a huge procrastonator at the same time. I want all of those soup cans to be aligned perfectly, I'm just not willing to take the time to do it myself.

READ anything and everything. Give me the name of any real successful person and I can guaranteee that they are a veraciuous reader. This is especially true of your current interests in the arts. It's cool that you can act, sing and play guitar, but you need to have something to say if you really want to move people.

Stop not trying different food. There's a ton of amazing things to eat in this world. IF you're limiting what you'll try you're limiting the things you'll discover that you actually love. And by the way, you're driving your poor mother crazy. Vanessa, yes you do like pasta. Zachary, I'm sure you can eat mashed potatoes without actually gagging. Get over it.

Fish won't kill you
Fruit is yummy
Vegetables aren't gross
You can't live on Pop Tarts and Cheese Its
Despite what your uncle Jimmy and Billy say, I make the best Calabrese sauce. Your grandfather's isn't even close!

Find a career that you really want to do in life. If you truly love it, the money will come and it won't ever seem like work. Embrace your passions. I can only imagine the success I would have if I pursued the things I loved. At least I did this with your mother.

Speaking of her. Cherish your mother. She's simply the best of the best. Recognize this and help her where you can. The time you invest with her will bring returns for the rest of your lives.

love you guys a lot!!!! Looking forward to getting home.

New and Interesting People

2008-10-27T17:14:00.000-07:00

One of the great things about travelling abroad is that you have the opportunity to meet new and interesting people. Here I am sitting with an Aboriginal tribesman (He's on the left.) He's playing a Didjuridu and was playing what he called indiginous music. to be honest it sounded like the beginning of Aeromsith's "Sweet Emotion" but who am I to question him. Actually when he was taking a break I swear I saw him checking his Blackberry and drinking a Starbuck's Latte.

I should also mention that many people are incredibly interested in what's going on back home with the election. There is an overwhelming hope (no pun intended) that we elect candidate Obama. If you're interested in other people's perspectives, people outside of the U.S. still cannot believe we elected Mr. Bush to a second term. They think he's an idiot and has adversely impacted the country in so many ways that it will be decades before we recover.

There's a real hope that we in the U.S. can pull ourselves not only out of our current issues, i.e. war, economic downturns, but maybe gain a better perspective of how we live. I met one woman who stated that she loved people from the U.S. but feels sorry for us in that we live in a constant state of fear. She feels that our government and the special interests adversely affect the way people live and are robbing us of our personal freedom. I fear she may be right.

In the very little travelling I've done outside the country I have been exposed to people who display a certain confodence I don't see at home. They seem to value the quality of life and have a much better work life balance. Even the people in the occassionally stuffy and impersonal world of insurance seem to embrace one another in a way that I wish we would. Bosses and front line entry level workers mix at the pub during lunch or after work. Family and personal time is valued and embraced. It's an interesting and enlightening thing to see.

There's no doubt that as temporary visitor I'm seeing things with rose colored glasses. But for me, I'll take the positives from the experiences and try to implement them in my own life, and I don't just mean going to the pub more often...

"Holy Bat Sh...!"

2008-10-26T18:00:00.000-07:00

I'll finish this post later, but the bats I mentioned in a previous post don't live in cave or some far away hidden place. The hang in the trees of the botanical gardens right in the center of town. I couldn't help but be fascinated by them. I stood in the park for a good hour just watching them hang and fly from tree to tree. They do have this incredible shriek that would scare most kids. This is an amazing place...

A Few Words On Campari

2008-10-26T17:48:00.000-07:00

I had dinner at one of those revolving dinner places last night, but here's the only picture I took. My friend Tim is a big fan of Campari and he's been nipping at a bottle I bought almost 5 years ago. It's amazing that it still retains the same unpleasant, nasty, disgusting taste that it had 5 years ago. I think Campari is Italian for fermented sweat sock juice...Hi Timmy!!

Little Stevie Blunder

2008-10-24T14:47:00.000-07:00

Yesterday during lunch I had to run back to my hotel to get a few things. When the elevator opened Stevie Wonder and his entourage walked out. I said to the guy next to me, "Hey, that's Stevie Wonder, man I'd love to get an autograph." The guy said, "Yeah mate that would be splendid, but here's the thing, Stevie Wonder is blind." I felt like an idiot. Anyway, here's a picture of Stevie Wonder signing autographs. I'd like to report that I got one, but sadly when I stuck out a magazine for him to sign, he missed and signed my forearm. Just kidding...

Under The Bridge Down Town

2008-10-24T14:25:00.000-07:00

So here I am at the summit of the Harbour Bridge in Sydney. Our Guide said that it was built sometime during the 18 or 1900's and is something or other feet tall. To be honest I wasn't really listening (nothing new.) As you can see they give you these Ghostbusters type suits and everything you're wearing, hats, gloves, handkerchiefs, are all clipped. They also make you take a Breathalyzer and you have to remove all metal objects. You also can't take your own camera. They say it's for safety reasons but it's more likely to charge you $29.95 for lousy two pictures. I hated to do it but how many times do you get to capture a shot like this? It was really an incredible experience and Sydney at night is simply beautiful. The one thing that was missing however was the family. I especially wanted Zachary up there with me. I miss them very much.

One interesting part of the ascent was looking at the dozens of fruit bats that were flying around us as we were climbing, many of them with wing spans of up to 5 feet. Most people were creeped out, but not me. I didn't eat anything before the climb, so I was dreaming of the bats with the Colonel's seven secret herbs and spices. Mmmmm, battylicious!!!