Bad Parent Story #36

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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.

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...

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

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!

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

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"

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)

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

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

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!

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.