MOST DANGEROUS MISSION

About a week ago TLW (The Little Woman) informed me that we had to paint #2 Son’s room. Of course I was frightened at the prospects but knew it must be done, and that someone had to do it.

My first inclination was to look for a paid volunteer, but even for money, no one would put his wellbeing on the line.

I went to the town for the necessary permits and to the Health Department for the necessary shots. A man has to do what a man has to do.

I told TLW I was going in. There was a tremor in her voice and a tremble in her lips as she tied a long rope around my waist and I kissed her goodbye for what I thought would be the last time. I told her if she didn’t hear from me every half hour to call 911 or the fire department to come and get me if it wasn’t too late.

Slowly I stepped over the threshold, measuring each step as I went, waiting, anticipating some horror to rear out at me and perhaps to swallow me whole. Slowly, step-by-step by step I threaded through the jungle of uncertainty and disconcertment that greeted me. Feeling my pulse quicken with each step I took, unable to sustain another breath.

Suddenly I came upon a pile of living breathing clothes, socks that were multiplying before my very eyes, pants that danced around me and shirts that laughed and defied me to take action!

Upon the walls were diagrams and cave like drawings, slogans and satanic verses that defied reason for any mortal to comprehend. I was at the abyss, the darkened hell of a teenage sons room: I was scared.

Slowly I pulled out my drop cloth, fumbling for my stirring stick, taking solace in my 5” wide brushes, I was going to overcome my fear, I was going to beat back the monster, I would come out of it alive!

A prayer was forming on my lips, as my courage came back to me. I had been here before, I was not afraid, having faced these very demons once before. I was facing the legacy of a ghosts past, #1 Son!

Well we painted, and I got out alive, and let me tell you that after 4 days of prep, painting and cleanup, maybe next time I’ll take the demons.

HO HO HOOOOO!

Last evening Santa came to town! He came in the form of an Italian guy from Brooklyn who visited the Association for the Help of Retarded Children’s annual Holiday dance. He does this every year, and every year he feels like a king, a hero, and loved by all, but mostly he feels like Santa Clause.

When Santa first enters the dance hall a murmur starts to roll throughout the crowd, people stop what they are doing and yell: “There’s Santa!” They come running over and immediately embrace Santa, one gave such a crushing hug that Santa’s glasses almost broke on his face. “Hi Santa”, “Hey Santa”, “I love you Santa”, some kiss him on the cheek, some hold his hand, bringing girlfriends and boyfriends and caretakers to get their picture taken.

The suit he wears becomes so hot his eyeglasses fog up, his body takes a beating from the hugs and squeezes of 6’5” men weighting about 315 lbs, kisses and arm tugs from women 4’5” and weighting about 75 lbs, some can walk, some can’t, so can dance some just sway to the music.

A troop of Boy Scouts come and distribute sandwiches to the party goers, Santa gives out candy canes, as he gets his picture taken more than 400 times. In those 400 times he hears many stories, many requests, some for themselves and some for others.

One little woman whispered in Santa's ear that she wanted a chance for her Mother who is very sick, and can’t get out of bed anymore to walk again. She asked Santa if He could do that, He can’t, couldn’t promise, and said that we would all hope and pray for her Mother.

One lady said: “Hi Santa, what’s your real name?”
Santa: “Why Santa of course!”
Lady; “No, what’s your real name.”
Santa: “Jolly Old St. Nick, and you better be a good girl or else.”
Lady: “Okay.”

There are a lot of volunteers that show up that night, giving freely of their time to these dances that are scheduled every month. All of them want their picture taken with Santa. One as old as 80 years old! There are a few little cuties in their 20’s that work at the various homes that come over and get their picture taken on Santa’s lap.

Boy, that Santa, what a guy!

THERE’S NO “WE” IN “I”

A few weeks ago TLW (The Little Woman) informed me that: “we have to paint #2 Son’s room.” This job that we have to do is very difficult, tiring, time consuming. It requires hiring an excavating Company, and an archeologist just in case.

The first thing to tackle is the ceiling, and because winter is coming, I thought I’d give it two coats. I started yesterday and finished this morning, and now we have to dismantle the walls. This will require removing a few “Workers” posters, pictures of Lenin and Che, Fidel and Mao, leaders of the “workers” world. I am hoping that #2 Son becomes a “Worker” and works more than 2 half days a weekend. It’s not the time you put in, but the fervor according to Hugo Chavez the Second!

Whenever I get to start on one of these projects, it usually means a whole lot of preparation, which includes: cleaning, dusting, vacuuming and moving furniture, it requires finding and placing drop cloths over the furniture and on the floor. It means not only the work, also the cleaning up and putting away, I mean, I hate this job!

I have to get the young revolutionary to pick up this workers cause, man the paintbrush and overcome the oppression of the upper class (TLW), and liberate me from the physical exhaustion.

When my Dad was dying, he called TLW to his deathbed and told her she had to carry on the tradition of “supervisor”, after all he would no longer be around to tell me what to do, and being how TLW is good at it, she could take on his responsibilities when ever I had work to do.

Last night was reminiscent of years gone by when Dad would leave me in charge and he would go get some coffee. He’d come back and start his inspection. Well TLW came home last night and did her check. I asked her how we did, and she said: “Good!”

Back in the early 90’s or maybe late 80”s TLW and I decided to have the house exterior resided. The siding was begun by professionals during the week and stopped for the weekend. I decided to have some fun with Dad, and told my parents to come over. He didn’t know about the siding and I grabbed a carpenter’s apron and a hammer and met him at the driveway looking like I was putting up the siding. He comes over and says to me: “What are you doing?” I tell him I’m putting up siding for the house, and he taps it with his fingers and says: “It’s too loose.”

I GAVE AT BEST BUY

Yes, every salesperson’s dream come true entered Best Buy this past Sunday. TLW (The Little Woman) and I are blood donors, and in exchange we get plasma.

Last week our 61” TV died for the last time. I certainly wasn’t going to give it more money to run, so we decided to buy a new one. We got a new fangled plasma 50” color machine.

Being a semi-literate consumer, I asked the young salesman who intercepted us, scratching his palms as he did, what the difference was between an LCD and a Plasma TV. Little Nicky explained the LCD, and then went on to explain the Plasma setup. It went like this:

Lil’ Nicky: “with a plasma, you get to go to our plasma exchange.”
Me: “What’s that?”
Lil’ Nicky: “You get a plasma TV in exchange for your plasma. You see, you pay and pay until we bleed you dry, and then you can take the plasma from the screen and have it injected into your bloodstream in time to catch one more commercial.”
Me: “Wow!”

Of course, I happened to mention this one model, which happened also to be the most expensive model he had on the floor and asked: “Would you recommend this one?” Lil’ Nicky said (and I’ve heard this before:) “I own one.”
HE owns one, so it MUST be good, yes sir lucky me!

When can you deliver this? I asked. Lil’ Nicky says: “ Now let’s see this is 2006, and with a little luck I can have it scheduled for the 34th Thursday in 2009, which by the way, there are no interest payments until then!” Wow, another lucky break, why do I deserve such good fortune God?

TLW decides we need a table to sit this baby on. We hunt around and tell Lil Nicky that we are looking for a table. His eyes light up to match the holiday spirit and says: “Take your time.” He now explains that we will have to turn the sound up full blast because we don’t have the proper speakers and that the speakers on the TV are really not the best way to have sound. We bite, he smiles, he is developing a rash in his palms as he directs us to a unit that you plug all your stuff, DVD, VCR, Cable, vacuum cleaner and coffee maker into. Now all I have to do is go to cablevision and ask for a HDTV box, or it will look like I need glasses to correct a very bad eyesight problem. Lil’ Nicky ask us to do him a favor, when we hang it on the wall, would we mind getting an electrician so that when the installers deliver the TV, the wires that will go into the wall from the hole they will make is up to code?

As we sign the contract, Lil’ Nicky asks if we would be interested in a universal remote, one that will run all the satellite operations such as the VCR and DVD or garage door. The remote costs only $250 down and ten years to pay for this convenience. We say: “NO THANK YOU”

It’s starting to get dark, and Lil’ Nicky has to get home soon or his Mommy will come for him. As we are walking out the door, one salesman stops Lil’ Nicky and asks him: “Did you play the lottery today?” Lil Nicky says: “Nah, I did better than that, I got the Del Bloggolos today!”

SHE’S A BEAUTY!

We test drove our new Tempurpedic mattress the other night for the first time, and let me tell you: she’s a beauty! After the headache of dealing with Poncho Villa’s gang when it was delivered, (See previous blog; "Carumba, Give Me The Damn Tool)) I needed to test drive the sucker and get my money’s worth.

Being how I like to read in bed books, magazines, and newspapers and do cross word puzzles, raising the head of the bed to the height it can go makes everything easier. The puzzle was great because the ink in the pen doesn’t lose the gravitational pull it needs to write. Also TLW (The Little Woman) can fall asleep while watching TV with her eyes opened or closed and never has to worry about gravitational pull either.

I like to rest my eyes, an old family tradition that dates way back to my Dad. So, although I never fall asleep, (I have to sooth the dog from the snoring noise TLW puts out or thunder and lightning,) the bed would naturally keep me from drifting off just as my recliner does while in a sitting position.

You can actually watch the TV without getting your neck tired from bending it on a pillow, and as for reading, the book relaxes in your lap as you can raise the knees from the knee riser.

The mattress is very heavy with its thick foam like density, but when you lay on it, it conforms to your contour as if it was cradling your whole body. (It will have a lot of cradling to do!)

The pillows that come with this sleep system, (everything is a system these days) weight about a ton, somewhat like a sand bag but once you lay your head on one, forgeddaboutit! Very comfortable!

Why am I telling you this?

I don’t know!

P.S. You also get a great night’s sleep on it too!

CHANGE HERE FOR MY CHILDHOOD

Saturday along with our forage into the heart of Brooklyn Heights, we also visited the NYC Transit Museum, that personally speaking as I always do, slammed me back into my childhood, growing up in the Bushwick and Bed-Sty sections of Brooklyn.

It seems the transit system trains and buses were so much a part of my childhood. More massive, lumbering and swaying back and forth, lights flickering or electrical sparks exploding in silence with generators pounding out a steady beat and a hiss that seemed to stop the noise, while they idled in the station, are all things I grew up with.

My Dad would take the subway to Canal Street every morning to go to work, with his fedora and winged tip brown shoes, returning at night with the NY Journal American folded under his arm as he climbed the steps after a long ride on the IND from Canal, filled with stories about Harry and Joe The Fin as we sat down to dinner.

The Elevated BMT would slide by my neighborhood at the end of Hull Street, and every once in a while I would look at the green and black industrial looking passenger freight cars, since that is what they were, and think about my Dad if he was working. I often went down to Fulton Street and waited for him to come home from the “City” as Manhattan was called (even though I lived in the “city” in Brooklyn.)

My Mom would take my on the trolley than ran along Stone Avenue until service was discontinued in the early 1950’s, and I remember how it resembled a subway car.

But the funniest recollection I had last Saturday was of my Mom’s old Olympia Typewriter, it was a portable non-electric, and when she typed it, I would watch it come down the track and imagine it was the “A Train” pulling into the station platform from the front. I must admit it is strange imagery, but I was just a kid of maybe 4 or 5 years old.

Then there was the smells of the old subway stations, with their tiled walls and dark grey floors, dark track beds and green or red lights that waited for the next incoming train to arrive. It seemed everyone dressed up in those days when they went somewhere, even to the doctor’s office, ladies in their dresses and hose, hats with flowers and laced covers and men in their fedoras and wingtip shoes, all milling about the station platform, doing a crossword puzzle, reading the newspaper or passing through the green painted turnstiles with thick wooden sections that held one person after another who deposited his nickel, or people exiting the station through the prison like bars of the revolving gates.

THE HEIGHTS 0F BROOKLYN HEIGHTS

Did you ever find something beautiful by accident, something so beautiful or wonderful that you didn’t want to let go of it? Yesterday was just such a find. Traveling into the city by train, TLW (The Little Woman) and I were heading for a day in first: Brooklyn; then NYC. Our primary objective was to visit the NYC Transit Museum in Brooklyn, then jump on the subway and head back to NYC for dinner and a little more sightseeing.

When we arrived in Brooklyn at the museum, we had a little time to kill before it opened and decided to explore the neighborhood a little. Now if you are familiar with this area of Brooklyn, you know what’s coming. As we were walking, TLW became excited and started to have the felling of deja vue. She suddenly realized she had been there before, on jury duty about seven years ago. The boy from Brooklyn was about to be guided from a girl from Baldwin on the hidden beauty of Brooklyn!

We started to explore to the neighborhood where she strolled seven years ago on her 2-hour lunch breaks from court. It seemed like we were in Boston or old Philadelphia or even Georgetown in the D.C. area. Beautiful old brownstones, with restoration everywhere, tree lined streets and churches that dated to the 1800’s, and tuck in the middle of this were wonderful old hotels, history was staring over us, from the old Dutch to the to the old English, from the 1600’s through the turn of the 20th Century. One could almost hear the clop-clop of horse drawn carriages, and smell the smells of life back then.

Complete families of grandparents, parents and children strolled the streets, children were laughing in the playgrounds and old people basking in the warmth of the sun. We stopped a very beautiful older lady and asked her for directions to the waterfront. She led us to God’s canvas, as we followed her guide and came to the Promenade, which is really an esplanade, but for some reason people call it “Promenade.”

The sky was cloudless, a wide expanse, greater than anything in Big Sky Country in Montana, a panorama of blue and cerulean magnificence, and under it lay the skyline of Manhattan, and out in the middle of the harbor: Lady Liberty, standing in the warm golden sunlight, and on the promenade hundreds of people, sharing this wonderful secret of God’s hand, strolling, and sitting on the park benches that lined the walkway. The people came from all over the world, and like the entire greatest city on earth, different languages could be heard, all smiling and laughing, with cameras clicking and posed smiles. And little children who will one day look back on their past, and lovers who both old and new, strolling hand-in-hand: will remember this day too.

A beautiful day, a beautiful woman, a beautiful experience!

A DIFFERENT KIND OF ANNIVERSARY

TLW (The Little Woman) must be something kind of special. Actually she is special, and yesterday was an anniversary that brought back very fond memories. Yesterday, the day after Thanksgiving, even though the date itself may not be the same, was the day I asked TLW to marry me. I mentioned it to someone yesterday and they asked me what her answer was.

I am a sentimental old fool. I even remember the date that I gave her the engagement ring, January 15, as well as the wedding day. The only day we can’t seem to remember is the day we met.

It all started on the Long Island Rail Road, one workday, when she got on the train and sat with her girlfriend and I saw her for the first time. I was sitting with a group of people that I sat with every morning, talking, or playing cards or just reading the paper. I had a few girlfriends in the group that I would date, and TLW would get on and put her Daily News in front of her face and listen to what we were saying! But I remember her beautiful face behind her very business like glasses and demeanor, and it was love at first sight.

One morning the trainman, a friend of mine came over to me before TLW got on and offered me a bag of homemade chocolates, which at first I refused, and thought about it and then got an idea and took them. These chocolates were my introduction to TLW. She got on, I worked up the nerve to go over to her, introduce myself and offer the chocolates. I asked her about some news that was current in the newspaper, which she couldn’t answer, and then I knew she was using the paper for a prop. It was love. Bells rang, there was commotion, and all the riders got up at once it seemed. It also seemed we were entering Jamaica Station.

Whenever we fight or should I say argue, I often think, why didn’t I just eat the damn chocolates, and realize that I got something sweeter instead.

What was her answer when I asked her to marry me?

She said: I’ll get back to you.

I’ll have to remind her to answer that question.

THE LOAN OFFICER

TLW (The Little Woman) is now a “Loan Officer”, (which means life has gotten harder for me.)

I now have to think twice before asking for a small loan from her, say for $5.00. It seems that if you borrow from her bank up to $20,000, you don’t need any collateral, but if I borrow anything from TLW over $1.00 will require her to ask for and secure collateral from me. She explained to me that this is to keep her sharp when she sees someone who she may suspect to be a risk or at least shady in character.

Her new powers also require that I request an appointment first. Not only do I need this appointment, she makes me wait in the living room! Now I guess the waiting could be bearable if I didn’t have to fill out all those forms, then get them notarized.

Living with a banker, one with “Officer” in her title is very intimidating, and I’ve been not sleeping well at nights, since I took out the loan. I can pay back the loan itself, or principle; it is the interest that troubles me. I swear I will never borrow money again, unless it’s from a loan shark, say #2 Son.

TLW is even starting to dress like a big shot. A long necklace, long hung earrings and long dresses, to remind the borrower that the payback is LONG, has now become the operating standard dress code!

This is a hard woman, suddenly!

BUON GIORNATA TACCHINO RIPIENO!

Happy stuff turkey day! May your stuffing be complete, both for you and the turkey.

I was thinking about the holidays and what this all means, and I couldn’t help but think of my grandparents and father-in-law. It seems to me we think of faceless and nameless pilgrims from the Mayflower, cavorting with a few Native Americans that also remain nameless, and we miss the real Mayflower.

It seems to me that we should be celebrating immigrant day. The day that our ancestors came here, for the most part not knowing the customs and language of their new home. My Grandmother came here as a 15 year old girl, and raised a family, grew a business and had many grandchildren, and we all owe her for that voyage she made. The same thing can be said for my Grandfathers, and Great Grandparents.

TLW (The Little Woman) too, has her Dad to thank for the same very reasons. Although he didn’t come from the same place, or share passage on the same ship, tomorrow should be the day we celebrate his courage, his journey and his sacrifices here in America, as we see the wonderful family he has.

So tomorrow, think of those who thought of the future, not only theirs, but ours, and preserve that memory every Thanksgiving day.

HAPPY STUFFED TURKEY DAY!

NONI AND HIS POLO BARONI

Every now and then as I rest in my retirement (Between chores), I think of people I worked with in the past and realize some of them are rich in character. One such individual is a gentleman named Noni. Noni worked for the print production team, and spoke a very difficult dialect of English. I could never really understand him, but like everyone else in the company who knew him, I loved the guy.

Noni was very proud of his Pilipino homeland, and often spoke of it. He would on occasion wear what they call in the Philippines: a “Polo baroni”. It simply was a blouse that resembled a tuxedo shirt that was worn outside the pants, never tucked in. It was considered dressed up.

One of Noni’s endearing habits was to be the first one at work, and the last one to leave, sometimes working on Saturdays. He had one complaint, that being when it was Friday, he couldn’t wait until Monday. Not to be judgmental, but boy, was that annoying! He also had a habit of parking in the same spot every morning, and I decided to have a little fun with that.

In 1991, the company acquired computers for the first time for the graphics department, and it offered me great opportunities for mischief. I decided to create a traffic ticket that I could post on his windshield under his wiper blade. I took great pains to make it look like it came from the Port Washington Police department, and the infraction was “Parking too close to the ground.” At some point me and a bunch of my cohorts, including Noni’s boss gathered around the one way mirror window that overlooked his car, and convinced him to go out to his car to get something. Noni sauntered out to the vehicle and immediately noticed the “Ticket” and grabbed it off the windshield. Reading the ticket, Noni starts to look at his car, and gets down on his hands and knees and looks at the distance between his car and the ground, and goes to the car next to him and does the same thing! By now everyone watching this from inside is in hysterics, screaming and laughing out loud. I have him totally convinced that he is in violation, and I decide to go outside and pretend I know nothing. He meanwhile is carefully folding the ticket in half to put in his pocket. He sees me and calls me over.

Noni: {poij v[aj q0j ka’p? (Hey Joe, can you figure this out?
Me: (after taking a while to figure out what he just said) sure Noni, you got a ticket for parking too close to the curb!
Noni: {P;okd jf;woij;kncp;ouh ;a? (How come I never got one before?
I look at his New jersey license plate and say:
Because you are from New Jersey.
Noni: Lpoiajvopaij po [ofje[oif. (Are you @*$%&$@(&$# me?)

It took Noni most of the day to realize at the bottom of his ticket that he should pay the fine in cash to: who else? But me.

FINDING MY WAY IS EASY THE SECOND TIME

I always like to practice, especially if I’m going somewhere I’ve never been before. Take yesterday for instance. I was invited to the newly weds apartment for the first time. The newly weds are my niece Annmarie and her new husband Greg, who I consider my nephew. There was some confusion over “next Saturday” as I thought she meant the immediate Saturday, but she meant the following Saturday. So TLW (The Little Woman) and I drove a good 15 or 20 miles to figure that out!

Well yesterday was the right Saturday, and greeting us at her door was my lovely niece with her famous smile and red hair, looking beautiful as ever. Her apartment was immaculate and spacious for the two people that live there. Also there were her mother and brother (The macaroni man), his girlfriend Kim and Nana the matriarch and equalizer. She has a boyfriend at 88 years old and I can’t believe it!

Well the diner was exceptional, the host and hostess great and I was feeling no pain. I was informed I was finally meeting Henry, Nana’s beau, on Thanksgiving Day and that I had to promise to behave, this coming from both Nana and TLW. I’ll try and see how long I last. But if Henry expects a different edition of Delbloggolo that the rest of the family doesn’t know about, there may be problems.

Meanwhile, great photo, no?

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MARYANN!

Or “Mary” as she likes to be called. We in her family, her Mother brother and sisters all call her MaryAnn. There is no other Maryann in this world quite like her. She can talk faster than a runaway tape recorder, she can move faster than a speeding bullet (sorry Superman), and can do the dishes so quick, you could lose a lot of weight if you live with her.

Mary has two wonderful children, Chris and Annmarie. Annmarie was married a year ago, this Thursday, to a wonderful fellow named Greg.

When I was growing up, there was a very squeaky wheel, one that didn’t let much get past her nose, one that could fight for her rights, yet was always graceful if she lost an argument. Of course she would explode, and rage like Mt. Vesuvius, but she was very much her own person. She never rated on me, always was compliant but did things her way, and God help you if you got in the way! With curly hair, and a freckled complexion, she was a beautiful child and now is a beautiful woman.

Having courage is something I admire, especially in a woman. Facing what life brings to your front door can be an ordeal, and Mary faced some tough stuff with more courage than I could find. Fortunately she has many friends, and her family loves her, so she could do battle and not lose.

Back in I believe 1975; Mary married a fellow named Carl, a genial and pleasant man who loved his wife and his kids very much. A few short years ago, he passed on, and Mary would face the challenge of her life, raising the bar for parenthood, as she insisted that her two children finish their education and stay in college. These two kids wanted to quit college and go to work to help her out, but she would not hear of it, and because of her and their hard work they graduated on the same day. It was the triumph that I personally witnessed, and it was my proudest day as a brother. I couldn’t take Carl’s place as their father, but I could help them celebrate the occasion as if Carl was still alive. As I witnessed the graduation, I kept thinking: “They should put Mary Ann’s name of each of those diplomas.” Whenever I see her kids, I think of that day.

Today we celebrate her birthday, and she is one of my personal heroes in my life.

Happy Birthday MaryAnn, we all love you.

CARRUMBA, GIVE ME THE DAMN TOOL!

Yesterday was the big day. The day Sleepys delivered the new bed to my home. Of course they were running late and didn’t arrive until hours after they should have. They told me that the delivery would be between the hours of 8 and 12 noon, but it was closer to 8 and midnight.

The bed arrives as three Mexicans or Hispanics jump off their truck and start opening up the back doors. They immediately start unloading the truck and little children and women are jumping out, and bring in the new bed, all the while looking over their shoulders! I try to explain to them they must take out the old bed first, since it isn’t the largest room in the house. No Comprende! Aye, aye aye!!

So they climb the steps with two heavy beds under their ponchos and struggle as they juggle and twist, dancing and stepping, looking not to bump into walls and furniture, all the while looking over their shoulders. They see what I’m talking about and sheepishly place the new beds into the hallway, blocking the stairs. They stand the old bed against the TV! I’m starting to get a little unsettled.

Zapata opens up the bag of nuts and bolts, while el Gato, (he did all the bending and twisting) took all the heavy pieces of bed frame and started to assemble, all the while looking over his shoulder. El Cabbeza Loco assists while periodically answering his cell phone that rang to the tune of “La Cucaracha”, all the while looking over his shoulder.

Zapata now decides to assist in the assembly of the bed frame. He pulls out this bracket and they all start conferring in Espanol, rattling off in low tones and rapid fashion what sounds to be a dilemma. What do we do with these strange brackets amigos??? All the while looking over their shoulders, they try.

They fiddle and position, referring to the assembly instructions, (which by the way did NOT come in both English and Spanish!)
They can’t figure it out, after 20 minutes! I’m really starting to loose my patience.

I tap on Zapata’s shoulder, he jumps, all the while looking over his shoulder. I take the instructions and tool, look at them and show El Cabbeza Loco how to do it, for not only are they on the wrong side of the border, they are on the wrong side of the bed, and are trying to fit the headboard brackets to the foot of the bed!

Immediately they all jump in and start to assemble. La Cucaracha starts to play again on the cell phone, and while El Cabbeza Loco does a Mexican hat dance around the room trying to answer, El Gato is checking for either the U.S. Border Patrol or the U.S. Dep’t of Immigration and Naturalization to see if they are looking for him. Zapata hands me the remote to operate the levels for the bed to raise the head or foot of the bed. He says: “Senor, see if it works.”

I open the remote to see if there are batteries, (there are) and position them so the remote works. I test the bed: nada! Nunca, nothing! NOTHING!! It doesn’t work. El Gato jumps under the bed, I tell them in my most diplomatic voice: You gotta program it. Zapata grabs the book and starts to do the work of three men, namely: Mo. Larry and Curley. He turns to the page on how to program a dual two remote bed, but we are a single remote. I instruct El Cabbeza Loco to plug in the bed, and Zapata to give me the book so I can program the remote.

I program the remote from the correct page and it works! I think to myself: “Maybe they should apply for unemployment and an English lesson to go with the new American first language, Spanish.

TLW AND I ARE SEPERATING!

Yes, it’s true! TLW (The Little Woman) and I are going our separate ways. After years of shopping together, we reached an amicable agreement to never shop together again. She will get control of the credit cards, and I will be named on the credit report.

It seems that we give off an aura of vulnerability whenever we enter a store together. A salesperson can sense it and immediately make a sale. Yesterday we were supposed to go to Sleepy’s and buy a bed frame for #2 Son, and walked out owning not only a bed frame, but a new bed, that you not only sleep in, but pay for over 36 months! This little beauty has everything you could ask for: it acts as a flat bed, it raises the head into numerous positions, as you like, and it raises the midpoint as well as the feet. We can actually be comfortable reading a book or newspaper, or watching TV. You are supposed to go from rest to deep sleep in 4.5 seconds. (Unless #2 Son is out after curfew.) And get this-it VIBRATES! The last time I was on a vibrating bed was in Paris on my honeymoon, and it cost me a coin, not 36 months of payments.

We had no plans to make such a purchase, but TLW cared enough about my comfort since I have been complaining about lack of sleep for about a year now, due to arthritis pain in the shoulders and legs at night.

The salesman asked an innocent question: “How old is your mattress?” We answered: “Over 20 years!” and the Bum whispers: “Thank you God.” All the salespeople we meet whisper that.

It isn’t enough to get a sales pitch, no, he had to have a scientific demonstration complete with a computer, a hard sell video, and complete knowledge of the skeletal system and “Pressure points” of the human body. According to him, the pressure points from my body as I lay on the test bed, shows considerable discomfort, and I should have died years ago, but forgot to lie down!

But first as does a small ship about to be overwhelmed by pirates, we have to fire one shot, or at least put up some resistance with the pirate across the table from us. Do we really need a new bed, the one we have is really in very good shape.

Pirate Black Bart: Every ten years or so you should get a new one.

Suckers: But it doesn’t even have an indentation.

Pirate Black Bart: Do you know that bed mattresses gain twice their weight in bed mites and dust and bed mite wastes?

Suckers: Is that so?

Pirate Black Bart: Yes, and besides; you deserve a new bed after 20 years, it more than took care of you.

We signed on the dotted line, and after we did, he like all salespeople we ever meet, took his bandana off his face, so we could see what he looked like.

MR. PALOWITZ, WE LOVE YOU!

Way back in 7th grade there was an art teacher of mine that really introduced me to the real world of kooks and odd balls. This was a crusty middle-aged man that was out of his element teaching 7th graders about art and philosophy of creativity. Mr. Palowitz was his name.

Mr. Palowitz was probably the reason I was inspired to enter the art field to begin with. He was my first experience with a bohemian attitude about life and the freedom of creativity and need to be free to express oneself. Although I never emulated his lifestyle, I often use it as a reminder to keep loose and not be afraid to speak or create what is on my mind.

The first thing about this man was his hair, which was falling out at an alarming rate, with dandruff showering out on art work as he leaned over to view each creation. This was complemented by his lack of a decent wardrobe, which consisted of a tweed jacket and knit tie that might not necessarily work together, but met the standard dress code for teachers that wanted to work.

Halfway through the school year Mr. Palowitz announced that we could no longer call him Mr. Palowitz, but instead must call him Mr. Paul. He had legally changed his name he said because he hated his old name! So Mr. Paul it was.

Mr. Paul. Or should I say the “New” Mr. Paul was a very honest man, very often making remarks about his wife and kids, or some teacher in another department, along with the physical traits of his victim for illustrative purposes. The one thing Mr. Paul hated was school. He once told the whole class that every morning, he would rise from his bed, go to the top of the stairs and yell down: “I hate school!” At Christmas time, Mr. Paul would take his kids to Abraham and Strauss, a store that sold all kinds of things, allow his kids to play with the toys, and leave without buying anything! Yes, Mr. Paul was a cheap old bastard.

The final thing that left an indelible impression on my young mind was the sight of Mr. Paul standing in front of the class with his tie cut in half! “What happened?” we asked, and were told that he was leaning over the paper cutter to cut some paper and his tie was under the blade, and he didn’t realize it. He said he refused to take off the cut tie because of the silly rule about wearing ties that teachers had to obey!

OK, I CONFESS, WHERE DO I SIGN?

Yesterday at breakfast, what I always suspected of TLW (The Little Woman) was confirmed. Yes, she is a naturally born private detective! By a series of deductions, careful observations and a keen eye, she can solve some of the mysteries that can perplex any ordinary mortal.

This raises grave issues for me, as now I must be squeaky clean and have childlike innocence in my everyday life style. There is NOTHING I can hide from her!

Every Saturday morning when I get up, I find TLW sitting in her chair, either reading a book or a newspaper with a cup of coffee in her hand. I get my coffee and join her. We sit and talk and finish our coffee and she gets up to get dressed. We leave our cups next too our chairs on the table.

TLW is a southpaw, a lefty, I on the other hand (figuratively and literally) am right handed. As she makes breakfast for us, she got our cups from the den to pour coffee, and being how both our cups are from a set, she paused, and weighted which cup was which. She settled on who was who and poured. I noticed this and said: “Just pour, it doesn’t really matter or get fresh cups.” Being the Jessica Fletcher she is stated: “No, you are right handed and I’m left handed so I just check on which side of the handle the little drip runs are.”

Once we were looking for my baby sister’s new house for the first time. It had rained hard earlier and we couldn’t be sure where the house was. There was a stream of muddy water running down the road and TLW said: “Just follow the mud stream, your sister doesn’t have a lawn in yet.” She was right!

I am talking about a devout fan of: Columbo, Murder She Wrote, Monk, Macmillan and Wife, and every detective show that comes down the pike including all your CSI derivatives..

There are other occasions where this has occurred in the past that is to numerous to mention, and now it has me thinking: What the hell did I do, marry my Mother? I got married to get away from Mom’s intuition and careful observations, not to mention her impeccable timing in nailing my sorry ass to a wall every time she suspected I was up to something.

Oh well, I guess it’s the straight and narrow here on in.

DEEP DISH OR NY STYLE?

I recently saw a report on the differences between Chicago Deep Dish Pizza, and New York Style Pizza. Three tests were conducted: one in Chicago, one in New York, and one in San Francisco, to determine which pizza was the best. The Chicago version is made with a pan that is about 2 to 3 inches deep, loaded with tomato sauce, and various items such as: peppers, cheese, onions or whatever else there might be laying around. The NY style is flat, on a shallow pan or tray, and is made with tomato sauce, mozzarella and parmesano cheese.

The results of the test in Chicago as in NY and San Fran were done by local fire departments. Chicago favored the Chicago style deep dish by a margin of 9-2, in NY it was unanimous 11-0 NY style, and in San Francisco the overwhelming majority approved the NY style pizza by I believe 8-3!

What does this all mean? It means being original, (NY style) is always best, being a copycat that tries to be original is sad (Chicago style), and geez, those firefighters in San Francisco sure have a culinary advantage over their brothers in Chicago!

I myself prefer NYstyle, which is really a Neapolitan round pie as there is a thicker version that is square, called a Sicilian pie. I think pizza has to have a nice blend in taste of crusts, sauce and toppings that make it an artful endeavor. Loading up too much sauce is never a good thing, because who wants to drink their pizza? Peppers and onions on a pizza in my mind is a no-no, and those people should be fined. The worse offense is putting either pineapple or cheddar on it and calling it pizza. Those practitioners should be shot. (Without a trial).

Tonight I will have my favorite: the Grandma pie, which is a thin crusted plum tomato and basil marriage, infused with chunks of garlic, and of course topped with fresh mozzarella cheese, oozing and stringing as you eat it. The flavor is enhanced by the very rich taste of extra virgin olive oil. I must admit, I never met any slutty olive oil.

One more thing, mozzarella is not a Jewish cheese to add to matzo ball soup, and should not be pronounced: “Motzarella.”
Now pass the parmesano cheese and let’s eat. Oh, don’t forget to bring some napkins and dry red port or beer.

THE CURTAIN CAPER, OR ANYBODY FOR HOT CHIPS?

Last evening I discovered that TLW (The Little Woman) uses me as a model for her lessons in her religious class. She teaches little 7 year olds about God and the opposite, namely me.

Many years ago, when I was just a pre-teen, my parents went to the city to bring my little Italian Grandmother home for a few days for some occasion or other. My sister Fran and I were left behind for a few hours and in the days of black and white TV; things could get boring in a hurry. It was this very occasion that TLW used for one of life’s lessons.

As that evening progressed, I became hungry, or should I say hungrier. I decided to make potato chips, and my young and able assistant, my sister Fran would help me, whether she wanted to or not. We got some potatoes and sliced them up, pour some oil into a frying pan and dumped the potatoes into the pan. Not looking crisp enough for my liking, I jacked up the flame all the way. Suddenly, the pan caught fire, and an orange-yellow flame began licking out of the pan, and I decided I would just carry it over to the sink, and pour tap water on it. Big mistake! The flame leaped out of the pan and onto the curtains that draped over the sink! I quickly ripped off the curtains, and did a Mexican hat dance on them until the flame went out. Surveying the damage, I noticed that only the middle of the curtain was burned, so I decided to cut it away, and sew it up.

My assistant Martha Stewart and me laid out the curtain on the floor, and using my Mother’s sewing kit cut and sewed. When we were finished, we decided it looked pretty good! We hung them back up and reasoned that my Mother would be so unhappy about having her Mother-in-law in the house for a few days, that she wouldn’t notice a thing.

We waited anxiously for the return of my parents and I was suddenly overcome with a religious furor that I could not begin to describe. We heard the car pull up and the doors slam. A little bit of Italian told me they had indeed arrived. My heart started to beat faster and faster, as the voices in Italian got closer and closer. Suddenly the door opened, I crossed myself and made a mental note to change my underware as they entered the kitchen. “WHAT HAPPENED TO MY CURTAINS!!!”

Fran the stool pigeon revealed all.

The lesson TLW taught?

Well boys and girls, when you do something wrong, you should say you did it, and say you are sorry.

Of course it helps a hell of a lot is you are out of range of my Mother’s backhand.

I’M DELBLOGGOLO AND I APPROVE THIS MESSAGE

Well today is Election Day, and the sooner it is over the better. I can’t stand politicians from any party; they are all sanctimonious phonies, who will steal us all blind before we even know it.

I don’t know what is worst, the guy who got his hand caught in the till or the screeching woman who tries to paint a more human side to her persona.

Local politics are the worst. Here we have a few school districts who have not only mis-managed the money entrusted to them, but are also caught stealing. To further complicate the matters at hand, they give jobs out to family members, who also take advantage of the opportunities to steal from us. It would seem to me if you are a politician, you shouldn’t be allowed to give out patronage jobs to family members. If the politician is a crook, why wouldn’t his wife and family be one also?

The Congressmen run and when they do, the only time you hear from them is when they need your vote. There is one in particular that states in his re-election ads that he is working for this and that, but I haven’t seen him or heard him do anything. I guess the check is in the mail.

I will on occasion cross party lines and vote for someone that has a message, or has indeed demonstrated that he or she is a doer, and there is proof. Most I will hold my nose and pull the levers.

Well, I don’t know who I’ll vote for today, either Jessie James or Bugsy Moran, but be sure my nostrils will be pinched together.

CIAO, BABY

No, I’m not leaving, that is the name of the restaurant TLW (The Little Woman) and I visited yesterday. My nephew, the macaroni man gave us a gift certificate to the place. (See my blog on “My Nephew The Macaroni Man. April 8, 2006)

It sits in a very busy strip mall and when you enter, the first thing you see is the bar, populated by young people (anyone under the age of 30), looking at you like you are naked. I checked my fly and continued on to the young lady that stood behind the desk and asked for a table. She said: “Walk this way”, and although I tried, it wasn’t working for me.

We were seated at a table that was squeezed into a long line of tables that almost touched. A young fellow came over with aspirations of becoming a living Henny Youngman, opening up his act by asking me if I had ever been to Ciao Baby before. I said “No” and asked him how long it was around. He said 7 years and I said “No wonder I never heard of it before!”

It’s not enough to have one waiter: we have to have two! One would take our main course and appetizer order, and one would take the drinks and desserts. They start off by reading the “specials” that take about 1 hour 20 minutes. Interceded by jokes about the physical appearance of the new Henny Youngman. This is followed by an explanation of the printed menu, and the fact that you can ask for anything you want, and they will try to make it.

We decided by ordering what TLW wants. It is a meal for two, and a “great” dish, I mean great in that it is a huge platter for about 6 people! But to order it, we have to get by Henny Youngman again, exhorting us to order it. “Oh, I order this myself, and love it.” Says Henny. Well that is good enough for me.

The problem with these places is the help wants to please, like every mouthful they ask “And how is everybody doing here?” after six mouthfuls I was ready to make Henny join his idol, the real Henny Youngman!

Dessert time and Henny’s sidekick appears, and as we look at the dessert menu, suddenly a beautiful young lady appears sitting next to me, which causes me to jump out of my skin, because she must have come down from out of nowhere to encourage me to order anything on the menu, which comes in a 3-dementional format, tossing around all the fake desserts and really making me want to order now.

As we drive home, I feel like I had just sat down to eat with an insurance salesman who happens to work for the mob, and better push the food.

The food was great, the ambiance wonderful, and the gift card was really appreciated, as well as the help that tried.

Thanks, Macaroni Man, I had macaroni, and like you it was great!

HELLO, I’M MR. FIXIT, BUILDIT, OR IMPROVISE IT.

Yes I am a man of many hats, that all fall under the guise of “Husband.” My job is to bring my truck for large purchases, load them, assemble and throw out the old stuff.

TLW (The Little Woman) decides all the domestic issues such as: what we buy, what we throw out, what we eat, and what I say. I decide the more important issues such as do we support dogs or cats, do we like France, and do we wish to continue recognizing Red China. As you can see I am very important.

Yesterday I put together a new coffee table for our den, something not too expensive that we could mess up without feeling bad. TLW went off to work and I proceeded to erect this thing of domestic beauty, which weights about as much as the rest of the furniture combined, and has enough parts to recreate a rollercoaster.

I took out the instructions, laid out all the pieces and took a rest. (No need overextending myself). To successfully complete this task I realized I would need a dish, a spoon and a box of cereal. Once this was accomplished, I decided to take a break and eat what was in the dish, as I pour a little milk into it and in a cup of coffee. (No need to overwork myself.)

I was really ready to begin when I decided that I needed to go the bathroom. I figured that since I was going there I should grab the morning newspaper and read it to catch up on the day’s current events, being fully prepared to have an intelligent conversation with even Senator Hilary Clinton if need be. (I can multi-task with the best of them.)

That completed, I looked at the instructions again and decided to take an aspirin since my hair hurt, and I like to rest after all the bad news in the morning edition. (Being up on current events and physical comfort are all-important to me.)

As I figured out all the tools I would need, calculating it all on paper so as not to waste any time, (I’m a stickler), I got a Philips screwdriver and sat in my easy chair so I could read the first instruction to begin. Then it hit me, I better get this down on my blog!

Well it’s all your fault that the damn table isn’t put together yet! Thank you very much.

MY SISTER WAS AN ONLY CHILD

The day I was born, the Brooklyn Dodgers were playing a game against the St. Louis Cardinals that the Bums lost. Although they lost, they managed to keep it close, losing 15-3. I was born right across the street from Ebbets Field, and my Mother could see the ballpark and the game from her room in the Swedish Hospital.

Being how I was the first and only son my father had, when he saw the score he kind of took his time coming around to visit me at the hospital. My much older sister Tessie was his good luck charm. Whenever he took her to the games, they won, I get born once and the Bums lose! Tessie could do no wrong, but I sure could. It took six years for my Mother to convince my Father not to put me up for adoption!

My Dad decided that he had to break the schnide, and decided to take me to a game. The game was a Friday night against the St. Louis Cardinals on June 18th, and it would be just him and me. I was hyper all week, going to my first game, seeing the team live for the first time. This was a great time, and marvelous moment in my young life! No black and white TV, no sir, pure live Dodgers!

We take the overhead El, change to and underground subway train and arrive, emerging from under the network of sewers, water mains, electrical and gas conduits. I immediately see the rotunda of Ebbets Field, as we enter and Dad gives his ticket, we climb the ramp and use the catwalk to our seats behind home plate. I’m immediately struck by the green expanse, magnified in color by the lights for the night game, the clean white chalk lines and bases, and most of all: my Dodgers, in their snow white uniforms, with the red numbers under the chest and the black shiny spiked shoes. Surrounding this magnificent edifice is a red clay substance to frame the field of play.

The game begins and before you know it, the Cardinals are pitching a shutout, Stan the Man Musial hits one over the right field wall onto Bedford Avenue, Jackie Robinson gets a hit, falls asleep at 2nd base and fails to score on a base hit!

We lose the game; it is a long and quiet ride back to the old homestead. Pop is not too happy, and I’m beginning to think maybe he’s trying to outrun me home, so I get lost and can’t find my way! But no, it was just that he was slightly perturbed and just wanted to get home.

Later that year, sometime in August he took me with some friends and found the solution to the schnide, bring Tessie! Yes, bring Tessie and my curse would be broken!

We play the Cincinnati Redlegs, with Big Ted Kluszuski tagging one into the left field stands where we were sitting.

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout
But there is some joy in Mudville—mighty Tessie has won out.

And so the curse was broken!

REWRITING MY MARRIAGE VOWS

“And do you Delbloggolo, promise to take TLW (The Little Woman) in weight gain or in skinniness, in enforced diet or guilt that YOU ARE EATING THAT! in laying around or off your butt and working around the house, as long as you both shall have to?”

The love stuff we already covered in the first 35 years, this is real business now. Marriage is a wonderful institution and I am committed. It is a lot like Halloween, in that after a time, you take off the mask and deal with the weight gain of the first 35 years of “candy” from all the tricks and treats. Of course I still love TLW, but now we have to deal with the realities of our lives, the children, the bills and the weight that claims us as we fight to stay younger, and try to protect our health.

I hate my doctor, not for any reason than he is the same age, but thin. He is giving me the medications, and once a year he gets really personal, without buying me dinner! I go and feel sheepish as he looks at my weight and doesn’t say anything. AT LEAST INSULT ME, DAMMIT, DON’T JUST LOOK AWAY.

One of these days, I’m going to be skinny, and so thin that you won’t be able to look at me without saying: “Please eat.”

I wish.

BOO!

Now when I was a kid growing up in Brooklyn on Halloween, my parents didn’t take me by the hand and go door to door with me while I was dressed in some silly little costume yelling: “Trick or treat.” Nope, we went as we were, little bums, with maybe someone rich enough to own a mask. We got our parents old cloths and wore their hats and ties and sometimes the girls would wear gobs of lipstick, with their Mother’s hats. We went with nothing to hold the loot in, just our grubby little paws and pockets. If you wore the mask you were the leader, to be admired, and you did the talking, because no one knew who you were, after all, you were wearing a mask!

Many a time we would get old socks without holes in them, fill them with flour and a heavy piece of chalk to weight them down, tie a knot to close them at the end then tie a long cord to the knot. We would spin the sock over our heads and like a lariat let it fly against someone’s person, leaving a big powder look and pain from the chalk as it crashed into a victim.

Door to door was really stoop-to-stoop, ringing the bell for each floor and yelling out: “Trick or treat,” and waiting for the occupants of each floor to toss down the loot, through the stair well. There really weren’t any tricks, just treats, as we all knew each other. The treats were mostly pennies or nickels and fruit, yet sometimes we actually got candy. Once in a while we got advice such as: “If you little bastards don’t get the hell out of here, I swear…”

There were some mom and pop stores that were very kind and there were mom and pop stores that were unkind. Loretta the produce lady was good to us, always gave us candy, while sloppy John, her competition just chased us and swore in Italian as we sped by his fruit and vegetables, looking to knock something over if we could.

The fun started right after school, as we ran home to change our clothing, and getting into our “costumes.” It would be starting to turn dark, with the air nippy and biting our cheeks, no one questioning what you were suppose to be, we were all bums, period.

The thing about this tradition was it was repeated on Thanksgiving day, where we went again door-to-door, or stoop-to-stoop looking for treats and yelling as we pressed each door bell: “Happy Thanksgiving!”

THE CELL PHONE, JUST ANOTHER FAÇADE

Since the introduction of the cell phone, the phone is getting smaller and smaller, yet more and more important than ever before.

The users of cell phones seem to be taking on an air of self -importance that is greater and greater than ever before!

In the midst of all this, I am becoming less and less important than ever before. It seems no one ever calls me on my cell phone any more. If you don’t get at least 3 calls an hour, you are no longer relevant to the world at large. There is nothing like the swagger I see when someone speaks into his or her cell phone, for the entire world to hear.

I was thinking of going to the mall tomorrow, holding the cell phone to my ear, talking into it out loud. But not only talking loudly, but also saying something that makes me sound important.

For instance:
“ Yes that’s right, one million dollars into pork belly futures” or
“ Get Trump on the horn and tell him we have a deal, but only under MY conditions” or how about “tell Steinbrenner I’m willing to make a deal if he can fly up to New York today to sign off on it.” Of course I could throw in an FBI reference, or even a Presidential line or two.

Using the cell phone requires that you be able to carry it on your hip or belt, making it look like a gun or some kind of important instrument. How you wear it is just as important as how you us it. I notice that a lot of young ladies can walk, chew gum and reach into their pocket book, pull out the phone and dial all with one hand! Of course they would be talking whether or not they had a phone in their ear.

I carry my phone just for show or emergencies. A flat tire, or hunger, and I want to be able to call for AAA or Pizza Stop on a moments notice.

Men seem to be the biggest abusers of the phone in a public place. Using some of the yuppiness of the past, looking so in, that they must make everyone sick as they speak up, swinging their elbow for punctuation and emphasis.

If I was to give you my cell phone number, would anyone of you call me, say tomorrow at 10:00 am while I sit in the middle of the mall? Please, I need the importance.

THE TIME HAS COME, BACK IN TIME

This is the time of the year when we set back our clocks and hopefully not revert to old habits too. When I got up this morning,
TLW (The Little Woman) said:

“You forgot to set the clocks back.”

Me, being the shlub that I am, took it in stride and buried my head in the sports pages. It wasn’t going to end there.

TLW: “I had to reset all the clocks this morning.”
Me: “Wow!” “Sorry”
TLW: “That’s OK.”
Me: “Did you do the one on my night stand?”
TLW: “No, and I didn’t do the one over the TV, because I’m too short to reach, and also the one in #2 Son’s Room.”
Me: “So actually, you didn’t do ALL the clocks, just some.”
This last statement was greeted with her usual appreciation of my quick wit, stoned silence, and ignoring my very being.

There is a lesson here for all you guys out there who are either just married, or married a few years, or about to get married.

Shut up whenever possible.

THIS IS THE WAY WE WASH OUR FLOORS OR DESPERATE HOUSEHUSBAND

Last night we happened to be talking about some of the people in TLW’s (The Little Woman) place of business. Someone asked TLW if she gave me a honey do list everyday.

From that the conversation moved to cleaning the floors. I sweep the kitchen and hallway everyday, and on Friday I wash the floor. Apparently the conversation got out of hand, and before I knew it, I had advice on how to better wash the floors, and find the dirt only TLW would see!

The thing that scares me is I’m eager to get started on her suggestions! The problem is she really got into the suggestion mode, and I can’t remember all she had to say.

TLW started to take out mops and brooms and cleaning fluids that she suggested I use in certain situations. I decided to get my golf club bag and fill it with the brooms and mops as I play my way through the kitchen floor, Sweeping and swabbing, scrubbing and rubbing as I try to use less strokes and more elbow grease to ace each floor. Yes, I will keep a scorecard.

Well I guess I’m becoming a bit of a nut case, looking for dust and spots and dirt and trying to erase it all away, and don’t forget dinner, I still have to make dinner! Who knew retirement would be so much work?

Actually what I really like is; if I don’t want to do something, I don’t and no one makes me.

As for that honey do list - there isn’t any.

HIPPIES VS. THE MAN!

By #2 Son

It’s 5 o’clock in the afternoon. Walking around Southern California, one might notice the faint odor of patchouli in the air, as a strange creature is awakening from his sleep. We are in the natural habitat of the Hippie, a hairy, mostly nocturnal creature that wanders about freely without even the slightest hint of shame.

One thing we know about hippies, is they want to be naked all the time. This is because Southern California is a very warm place to live. This fact is interesting, yet potentially dangerous. For instance, some hippies (like Tommy Chong) are slightly unattractive and shouldn’t be naked.

We also know the hippies smoke marijuana all the time. Based on scientific evidence, we are now able to know that cartoon-watching is a direct result of marijuana use. This leads many hippies to become hungry and have the munchies. It is interesting to note that hippies never get fat because all hippies are vegetarians.

There are two types of hippies. Orthodox and primitive hippies have quite a few differences. Orthodox hippies are hippies that use technology. It is therefore easy to classify anybody who drives a Prius, anybody who uses wind energy for their homes, or anybody who uses solar power, as an orthodox hippie.

These people are the most hip. They are against the war, but are more concerned about saving the environment and tend to live in areas like San Diego and Los Angeles. These hippies hold a vegetarian diet, but still eat cheese and drink milk. Also, they eat sushi every chance they get. Since they eat fish on occasion, they are considered “vegiquarians.”
Primitive hippies are people who live on their own. Primitive hippies are usually ex-members of Hare Krishna and never drive. If you do see a primitive hippie in public or on the road, he’s probably using public transportation and not wearing shoes.

The diet of primitive hippies is always vegan. They refrain from consuming all products that come from animals. They don’t wear leather, they don’t drink milk, they don’t eat cheese and they certainly don’t eat meat.

The primitive hippie never needs exorcise because he is always hiking barefoot. It is important to note that walking barefoot is an exercise in itself and requires a lot of energy.

This type of hippie is allergic to politics, so he tends to stay out of that particular realm. Usually, the primitive hippie lives in the desert in a mobile home. He has fourteen dogs, twelve cats, a rooster, two lizards and a hamster that all run freely around his property. He bathes with them.

Right now, a hippie is kayaking in a local lake, where he is soon to meet his predator: The Man.

There arte two types of the man. One species lives in the northeast of the United States, and one lives in the south. The man who lives in the northeast is called a neocon, and the man who lives in the south is called a redneck.

Neocons tend to have more monetary assts than rednecks. They wear expensive suits that are produced in Bangladesh for the price of a bowl of rice and a jug of milk. They are usually businessmen, and tend to be outnumbered in places like New York, New Jersey and Conneticut.

One thing that is common among neocons is that they always drive sports utility vehicles. These people tend to believe that all poor people are poor because they deserve it, and they can really become rich if they wanted to. When they hear the Nike has shipped their textile factories overseas, and are paying their workers in beans, they consider it a favor on behalf of American corporations.

It is true that neocons eat meat, but it is also a fact that they choose choice cuts and more expensive types of food. The Neocon is usually seen eating filet mignon while his next door neighbor has no health insurance.

Then there are the rednecks. Much like the primitive hippie, the hippie also lives in a motor home. However, he tends to live in places like Alabama and Georgia, or basically anywhere in the bible belt.

Rednecks are almost always religious fundamentalists. They consider everything written in the bible as fact. They are convinced that homosexuals, liberals and people who have sex outside of marriage are all going to suffer in hell.

They are usually seen worshipping people like televangelist Pat Robertson. The redneck moves around in an old Ford pickup truck. Sometimes, he paints a confederate flag on the hood of his car. However, he doesn’t believe he is going to hell for it.

Rednecks listen to gospel music all the time. They usually aren’t very fond of immigrants A neocon from New York would not be able to understand the language of a Redneck from Georgia.

They usually dress in flannel shirts and work boots. Most rednecks have mullets and listen to Lynard Skynard. They also tend to be slightly overweight, but that is always burned off with a hard days work.

However, all types of hippies and all types of man have one thing in common: they are all avid supporters of freedom of speech. Though we may disagree, and sometimes would like to shut each other up, we consider each person’s right to speak a fundamental necessity. With this state of mind, it could be possible for hippies and the man to live in harmony and come to a compromise to create a new generation of polar opposites.

IT’S GRAND TO BE GREAT, OR IS IT GREAT TO BE GRAND?

Yesterday TLW (The Little Woman) and I went to a funeral parlor to say goodbye to a sister of a friend we know. As we were sitting with the family, we were talking about relatives who had come from Buffalo to mourn the passing. The conversation turned to great aunts and uncles, and someone or course had to throw in a curve ball and mention “Grand” nephew, and what the difference was between a great and grand nephew. No one seems to be sure, including TLW what the differences are!

This is one of life’s questions that always go unanswered, and are best saved for just such occasions as funeral parlors, where they can be left behind. I mean, who really cares, unless something is stipulated in a will with my name attached to it, then I care.

If you met some of my relatives, you would say: “Great, ^%$@*&I&^ great!” When I didn’t see them, it was: GRAND! I had great uncles who couldn’t wait to see you, they were grand, I had great uncles who didn’t know you, and I thought that was great. Am I confusing you? Well, why not, it qualifies you to jump into the conversation.

My Grandmother was “Grand”, and so was my Grandfather, so what did it make my aunts and uncles? If they slipped me a few bucks when my parents weren’t looking, they were not only “great” but “grand.” If they didn’t they were “Cheap.”

Where am I taking you with all this? I don’t know, but it was great writing to you, and I had a grand old time doing it.

Thank you.

THE RITE OF PASSAGE, OR OH THIS HYPERACTIVITY IS KILLING ME!

Today goes down as a proud day for an 18 year old that “resides” in one of my bedrooms. I don’t want to say “lives” because no one could possibly live in that mess.

A used 2006 Tan Nissan Altima now occupies space on my curb as #2 Son has his first car, and I have an “I spent over $100 on something” headache. Between the cost of the car, the insurance, the inspection, the photo inspection, plates and money I gave him for gas, not to mention the brake job he needs, it is indeed a large headache.

#2 Son was very hyper the whole day, busting my chops, tip tapping his pen on the car door and on the wooden seats in the DMV. His mouth was in over drive, as I finally had to beg him to “Shut up.” Today is the most he has spoken to us in years! Happy as happy can be.

I felt like a real father today, going to the seller, the DMV and back to the seller to get the car. You would think he’s take care of the little details, but no, he was so sky high, I had to put a leash on his neck so he wouldn’t float away. As we walked from my car to his to attach the plates, he says: “WE NEED TOOLS!?”

Old Dad, the one he barely tolerates, the one who is not to be told anything, whips out his “Mr. 7 Hands Apollo Screw Drivers with built in flash” and proceeds to put on the new plates. “Wow, you come prepared”! says the young prodigy.

Not for THIS headache.

PARANOID-OR THE PUBLIC REST ROOM DILEMMA

Every now and then I must use the public rest rooms for reasons that are quite obvious. A little makeup refresher, maybe to rest a while, even to wash my hands or face, or perhaps because I’m just tired of dancing.

Whenever I enter one, I immediately make an assessment of the place, and decide if I want to continue to use it. Often the place calls me, if I am about to embark on a long trip via plane or train, or even by the horseless carriage.

Many times the Little Woman will automatically wait for me to go as she knows I will, before stepping out to the car! 35 years with the same woman, it gets so she knows my every move. She has of course never gone in 35 years that I have known her as my wife!

It is when its time to leave the room that trouble starts for me. I get the Monk or Howard Hughes complex, grab a paper towel after I have washed my hands and stare at the doorknob or handle and insulate my hand with it to prevent germs from contacting me. I don’t think it is unreasonable, and think it IS practical.

One of my children when he was little would enter with me and immediately make a loud vocal assessment of the place, especially if it was smelly or filthy. If he didn’t like it, I took him out, not because of health reasons, but because I was just embarrassed to stay there any longer!

I had a friend who worked for me, and on a company “Take your child to work” day brought his 4-year old son to work. He took him to the rest room and the little fellow used the urinal. After he was done, he started to gyrate his hips and his father getting curious asked: “Why are you doing that?” His reply: “Whenever I go to the bathroom, and I finish, Mommy says I should shake.”

AN EDUCATED WASH AND DRY, OR FOLDING SLOGANS

Every now and then I have to do the wash, and consequently, take everything out of the dryer and fold. It has become a real education. Almost a serial of readings, and I find myself running out of time as I take the time to read.

What am I reading you ask? #2 Son’s T-shirts of course, spread across every one, all in different colors are the various causes he supports. Some of these shirts are purchased to push my buttons, (I pay to have my buttons pushed,) some are statements designed to disagree with me, some are to show his independence from conformity, and some: I have to get back to you about.

It all started with his buying stuff from the Old Soviet Union store, on line of course. Red with a big golden hammer and sickle, the T-shirt comes in the mail from Russia, written in a strange looking strained calligraphy, addressed to “Comrade #2 Son” who has the foresight to get Mom to charge it to Dad’s account via a charge card. Some have pictures of Karl Marx or Lenin, and so far none of Joe Stalin. But all praise the “Worker’s Paradise” and wail against the inequities of capitalism toward the workers of the world! At my expense, on my charge card, mailed to my capitalist address. One shirt is for the Working Party, with a slogan about some kind of bad thing that must be happening to workers somewhere in the world.

Comrade #2 Son was recently rewarded with a used car that he needs for school and his social life, and my sanity. He has very strict requirements before I could purchase it. Does it have a CD player, because after all, he can’t use his $250 Worker’s I-Pod while driving one of his little comrade girlfriends around? You’ve seen them: long purple hair, tight jeans and paper jewelry all designed to attract the masses of workers.

Parents of the Workers of the World unite, you have nothing to lose but your endless chain of charge card bills for commie slogan T-shirts! LONG LIVE CAPITALISM-MAKE HIM PAY FOR HIS OWN STUFF, AND WHILE HE’S AT IT, HE CAN WASH THEM TOO.

LOOKING FOR A USED CAR

Yesterday and the day before were spent looking for a used car. Taking #2 Son in tow, we drove out to a used car lot and started looking. Kicking tires is not my favorite pastime, and asking suspicious looking characters questions about cars is no fun. Granted the media has made these people suspicious looking, and probably unfairly, but you can’t help but be suspicious of them anyway.

If my Dad had decided to buy me a used car, especially my first car ever, I would have been so happy, I would have pushed it uphill if need be, and stuck my foot out the door if I had to, to stop.

#2 Son has certain criterion for purchasing with my money. For instance, if it doesn’t look like a staff car for the mafia, it doesn’t work for him. If it doesn’t have a CD player, forget about it. If it is within reason of my affordability, we are aiming far too low.

My first car was a very convenient mode of transportation. It was attached to other cars on tracks, or it gave off emissions that could choke a bus, in fact it was a bus.

Today I have a hot lead-given to me by my trust worthy mechanic whose has vouched for this lead and its owner. I spoke with my trusted mechanic over the phone, so I assume it was him on the other end. The blue book value is $1,000 more than the asking price and if the trust worthy mechanic recommends it: I think I should bite.

I got strict instructions from the donee, #2 Son not to buy anything without his approval first! Talk about your quilliones.

RE: 2006 METS-
R.I.P. but “Wait till next year!”

HOLD MY BREATH AND HOPE HE ASKS FOR HER CAR

The moment I was dreading arrived.

I can’t say it came on unexpectedly, but it still struck me by surprise. Not 24 hours after earning his license, #2 Son says to me: “I need a ride to Thompson’s house.”

Coupled with the knowledge that he was going to the movies that evening, and was using one of the cars for that, I summoned up courage that I didn’t know I had and reluctantly lent him my car. I gave him some very definite instructions about what he could do and not do, and advice on the physical consequences of any damage to my car, including his smoking in it, as I gave him the keys and he drove off.

I wondered how many times he was going to bring it to a car wash, how many times he would fill it up after using it, and how many times I was going to wonder: “How many times?”

Letting go is very difficult. I have heard of empty nest syndrome, but never experienced it before, but as I gazed out into my driveway, and saw the emptiness of the space occupied by my car, a tear started to well up in the corner of my eye.

Pray for my car, please.

THE JOY OF VICTORY- THE AGONY OF DEFEET

Today I have to buy a used car.

You can’t buy a better day than yesterday. If you are a father, yesterday stood out with the best of them. #2 Son got his license! Yes, despite some let downs, he overcame all those disappointments and did it. Not only did he do it, he did it like a pro.

When your kid runs into a rough patch, it seems to hurt you more than your kid, and when the kid handles it better than you can, you are really proud of him.

I treated him to lunch, right after the road test, and we both really felt good about him. He has a heart bigger than the great outdoors, and I hope he remembers to thank his Mom for all she did for him to get his license. The small joys of our little victories make us all 10 feet tall. What makes me feel great is that #1 Son who is a few thousand miles away, I know was with him in spirit, and encouraging every step of the way. I really have a great family, and we hang together. They can make jokes about me, but I love that and wouldn’t have it any other way.

After the driving test, I had to go to a doctor’s appointment about my Daughter, who was happy and surprised to find me there. She took me by the hand and walked me around the waiting room for one whole hour as we waited for the doctor. By the end of the visit, my feet were aching, but I wrote it off because #2 son made the day glorious.

Forgive my pride, but #2 Son is coming on strong

WAIT TILL NEXT YEAR!

You are probably wondering: “Where did I hear that before?”

No, it isn’t what I’d tell my parents after every report card, but the mantra of a Dodger fan growing up in Brooklyn in the 40’s and 50’s.

It looks like “next year” is indeed next year if the new Bums of Queens don’t get it together soon, and why are there little red pubic hairs growing under the lips of all those Cardinal fans?

Not being a bad sport, I will give the Cardinals credit; they are playing way over their heads, roughly around their waists.
I for one do not care for their rowdy penchant for screaming and waving those stupid towels, and wish they would put them away, in their proper place, roughly somewhere between their cheeks.

My Mets played great all year, and one lousy slump is not going to ruin it for me, no sir, I will hate the Cardinals no matter what, chin pubic hairs and all.

So all you Met fans out there, get out from under the beds, behind the sofas, and in the trees and …

WAIT TILL NEXT YEAR, if we must!

SUMMER SOLDIER, SUNSHINE MET FAN

TLW (The Little Woman) was awaiting me this morning, asking if the Mets won, as I trudged down the steps to the den, with a cup of coffee in my hand. I was exhausted from the night before, as I rooted for the Mets against the St. Louis Cards, into the late evening, dying and sighing over every pitch, holding my breath at each swing, keeping my heart in my chest at every line drive and dribble that occurred at the baseball palace known as Shea Stadium.

I am in a very serious point of my life now, as I have successfully urged on the Mets through the 2006 season, carrying them to this point. A lot has gone into it, much angst, pain and sorrow, along with elation, gratification and special spells I cast upon opposing teams throughout the 2006 season.

Being a fan is difficult, it requires much baseball fan savvy, rooting techniques that have been refined for over 55 years, first with Brooklyn, and now with the Mets. This is not done lightly, one must completely cleanse ones mind of outside distraction and concentrate. As a fan you must be able to think ahead of the manager, make decisions that affect the outcome of the game, and be able to call the manager a “Blockhead” when he doesn’t make the right move.

Since this is the playoffs, I’m thinking of opening up a press conference after each game to discuss my decisions and the outcome, but since I need my sleep, I will not.

As I sat down to have my cup of java, I responded to TLW’s question with an unqualified “YES!” No I wasn’t quoting Marv Albert, (Besides I don’t own a dress,) but expressing my elation and glee over my job well done the night before.

After answering her question in the affirmative, and seeing somewhat of a sense of satisfaction on her pretty face, I decided that I could do that too! Why go through all the physical and mental abuse when I can just wake up in the morning, look at the paper or TV and get the results. After all, while I was rooting, dying, and sighing, she was upstairs asleep!

I’m telling you, TLW is using me! Playing me like a team of old Cards!

I KNOW WHAT I WANT-JUST ASK TLW

Hardly a day goes by that I don't stand corrected. Standing corrected means getting it straight from TLW (The Little Woman), and not disputing it.

Without checking out facts, without any confirmation of any kind, without a kind of corroboration, TLW can give me the scoop. I on the other hand have a pooper-scooper to pick up the pieces as she knocks down the theories I may have, one at a time.

Being right all the time was never my inclination, although I do from time to time get it right! Just recently I said it was raining, and TLW concurred.

A few days ago the local nut case in the neighborhood seemed too have disappeared. I noticed his car was gone, and the house darkened. This was a whole day of observation on my part, so I knew I would be correct when I announced the news to TLW. The moment was ripe, the setting perfect, I would spring the news on her, and be credited with a major scoop. So I thought.

ME: “Guess what.”
TLW: “What?”
ME: “The Nut Case moved!”
TLW: “How do you know?”
ME: “There was no one there all day, the car is gone and the house is dark!”
TLW: “No he's not, I just know he didn't.”
ME: To myself: “We'll see smarty pants.”

The next day, the Nut Case was watering his lawn and his car was parked in the driveway.

I think the Nut Case and TLW set me up, but pass me my pooper-scooper, please.

GRANDPA RALPH

I only had two grandparents that I ever knew: both were from my father’s side, his Mother and Stepfather. We called my Father’s stepfather “Grandpa.” Once in a while we called him: “Grandpa Ralph”, my Grandmother called him Rafael. She wanted me to be named after him, but dear old Mom would not hear of it.

Grandpa was my real Grandfather’s best friend, when Grandpa Joe died from the Spanish Influenza; Grandpa Ralph married my grandmother and her three children. He must have loved her a lot because who would marry someone with three children?

Both my real and second Grandfathers were pals who went into the U.S. Army together, with Grandpa Ralph serving in the Calvary during World War I.

All the years that I knew my grandfather, he never worked, but retired from construction, the very same construction crews that built NYC. He was at home all day, would work in his garden, pruning fig trees, grape vines and a large healthy vegetable garden. All of this in the middle of Brooklyn on a small plot of land, while also repairing and maintaining a three family apartment house.

He would take the grapes from his vine and make wine, the tomatoes and basil from his garden and make sauce, and I would take his figs from his fig tree and eat them without even washing them!

When Dad was young, he would get up at 4 in the morning and go to the Bronx on a horse and wagon, my Grandfather asleep at the reins and the horse stopping and going according to the lights, all the way to the Bronx, then back to Brooklyn!

Grandpa Ralph was a slender man that stood about 5’8’ or 5’ 9” and had a white moustache and wore a grey fedora all day long. Spoke perfect broken English, and perfect Italian swear words, that I picked up on.

In the afternoon, right after his lunch with wine would find Grandpa asleep in his kitchen chair, with his leg crossed. He could sit that way for hours without it ever going to sleep!

Around late afternoon, he would sit with the little kids in front of the TV that sat in the kitchen and watch the entire kiddy’s shows, and I often wondered if he did that to learn English a little better.

He followed orders like any good husband, whatever Francesca wanted, Ralph got her, before the snap of her finger was ever completed.

When He died in 1956, there was a funeral and wake that included all of East New York, Bushwick and Bed Sty.

Ralph was nobody’s hero, no one ever really needed him, but he was universally respected. The respect came from his willingness to marry a young widow with children he loved, and a penchant for doing everything with ease and perfection.

OH WHAT A BEAUTIFUL DAY!

Well, the Yankees are ready for their next opponent in the 2006 ALDS. Good old George Steinbrenner has guaranteed a World Series this year. Yes indeed, he even stated when asked if he was concerned about playing the N.Y. Mets after they had just beaten the L.A. Dodgers in the first game of their series: “No, not the way they played today”

What! The Yankees are eliminated! Are you sure?? Can’t be! But George said…!

Yes, I read the papers with eagerness this morning, savoring the Mets sweep of the Dodgers, and the Yankees loss. Then to enhance my enjoyment, went to the Yankee Network, called the “Oh No! Network” home of N.Y. Yankee Baseball. Of course I had made sure to watch the Yankees lose their game to the Tigers, and then follow-up by watching the Mets beat the Dodgers in three straight last night, so I knew today was a glorious day!

Since 2001, the Yankees have spent over 1 billion dollars ($1,000,000,000,000) in U.S. dollars, not winning one World Series! Tsk, Tsk!

God bless George Steinbrenner. I just feel sorry for Torre, Jeter, Posada and Bernie Williams, the rest, well, too bad.

HOW BOUT DEM METS?

HOW BOUT DEM YANKS????

The season can be over for all I care as of today. It was indeed a great baseball year for DelBloggolo and NY Met Baseball.

To all you Yankee fans: This is to you and your arrogance, especially to that wise guy I met in the supermarket the other day: See blog (Thursday, October 05, 2006,“I’M PITTIED.”)

METS stands for: My Entire Team SWEET.

Pardon me for gloating, but this may never happen again.

My Mets are a mix of everything that IS New York. Hispanic, Black, White and mostly poor people, working hard to make a living and trying to win, they never show up in a limo at work, and play their music loud enough to allow each other to hear.

I DON’T CARE WHAT YOU THINK, BECAUSE I’M OLD

Now that I’ve gotten older, all the decorum of the past has been thrown to the wayside. I don’t get embarrassed at all anymore, and frankly speaking, Ii don’t give a damn. I can easily make fun of myself, including my looks, body functions and tastes.

As you get older, its kind of fun to say what you want, whenever you want to say it, without fear of repercussions. There are no taboos, noting is sacred except my private life. It’s getting so that even TLW (The little Woman) is getting the same way! Imagine that!

If you look at the history of older people, anyone over 55 years of age you notice they are all the same, with the same attitude. Get behind one on the highway, doing 20 mph in a 65 mph zone.

Have you ever tried to pass one in a crowded supermarket? They tend to block the aisles, and look annoyed if you dare to bother them.

Remember Senator John Glenn, going off into space in his 70”s? The joke was that he would be orbiting the earth in a capsule, doing 20 mph circling right while his left blinker is left on.

The one lesson I learned from getting older is that when you are finally old enough to give advice, you don’t!

If you don’t agree with me, to hell with you.

MY MAGNETISM KNOWS NO BOUNDS

This morning I departed from my usual routine and decided to shave in the bedroom with my electric shaver. I usually do this in the bathroom, but today decided to change the venue. My bedroom door has a full-length mirror attached to it, to capture my long face on Monday mornings when I used to go to work.

I left the door slightly ajar and proceeded to shave, looking for all the missed spots, and going into the crevices and deep valleys that now appear on my mug. I shave on occasion now, since I don’t always have a place to go, and I enjoy not shaving. Being how my face was made for radio and photo-less blogs, I feel some maintenance is in order.

While deep into the process of shaving, the door suddenly lurched toward me and I jumped back, startled (doesn’t take much, just doors and #2 son getting up when I call him) I looked around the other side but didn’t immediately see anyone. I looked down and there was my Cocker Spaniel nosing around to see what I was doing.

I went back to the task at hand when sure enough, the same lurch, the same startled reaction, but this time with an Italian swear word my Father taught me at his knee. Unlike the last time, this time a hanger with clothes appeared with this lovely little hand that looked so familiar. It was the Little Woman bringing ironed clothes into the room.

It seems that wherever I am in the house, it is the wrong spot to be in. If I’m in the kitchen, sure enough someone needs to be in that area too. I have to side step, or stick my rear end out for a drawer opening, or twist away while someone goes into the refrigerator. The kitchen is pretty good in size, and I can do a lot of dancing.

The kitchen is not the only place this happens. If I’m in the bathroom shaving, an arm reaches in to take the laundry basket, or some item out of the medicine cabinet, while I’m trying to follow my razor across my face! Let’s not forget the urgent knock and dance ritual if someone is in need immediately.

Even the garage has it’s moments, and I’m beginning to think my family, including the dog think I’m into some covert activity, and need watching.

Excuse me now, I need to move again.

I’M PITTIED

This morning I went to the supermarket to get a few things for dinner tonight and as I was on the checkout counter to pay, the lady taking the money made some comment about what I was buying (a joke) and the fellow behind me says: “For the Yankee game this afternoon?” “No said I, I’m looking forward to the Mets tonight.” Mr. big shot says: ”They ain’t goin’ nowhere without El Duque” “I’ll take my chances,” I said, and the lady says: “They’re both playing, what difference does it make?” Mr. Bigmouth says: “The Yanks will win, the Mets won’t.” With that comment he pats me on the back, while I wanted to pat him on the head with my fist.

Being how I always root for losers, I’m used to wanting to pat people on the head with my fist. Walking out of the supermarket feeling humble over a ball club is pretty silly, yet I feel humbled watching the Mets, Jets, and Islanders every year. Being a loser does not mean I’m a loser, just unlucky in my choice of teams. The Yankee fans can gloat, but I tried to watch the Yankees this very afternoon, and found even though they were losing at the time, and I hate them, I just couldn’t stand the boredom of it all.

HOW, IN THE NAME OF GOD, CAN ANYONE WATCH THOSE ROBOTS? There is nothing human about them, all you here are Derrick Jeter, and the most annoying phrase: “THE YANKEES WIN.” Never do you hear: “THE YANKEES WIN!”

The Mets are my kind of team, always drama, and surprise over a win, always a hardship to overcome, always trying to turn a clear, clean victory into a very close call.

When the Amazens lose a game, we Met fans wet our handkerchiefs and go on, when a Yankee lose occurs, the fans wet their pants and carry on.

I’M DRIVEN IN THE DARKNESS

The sun set early last night, as I swept around the final curve and into the parking lot at our local community college to collect Son #2.

I nervously sat in the darkness in lot #5 with a few minutes to spare and decided to get ready for the big event. As the moment I was dreading was about to begin, as I slid out of the driver’s seat and circled around behind my little truck, I kept thinking: “Do I want to do this?” I wondered if it was even legal, but took a deep breath and sat in the front seat next to the driver’s side.

The last few minutes ticked slowly by as I kept checking my watch and waited, keeping my eyes peeled for the familiar figure to descend the staircase that leads to parking lot #5, with his familiar gait, his legs and feet almost tumbling as he rolled down and approached the car.

This was it! He was going to drive in the dark for the first time, and I was going to wet my pants for the first time in 60 years. God, I wish I had a cigarette now: what ever made me quit? #2 climbed into the driver’s seat and turned the ignition, and as he did, asked me: “Why are you letting me drive now?”

We pulled away from the curve and slowly drove through the parking lot. Each turn was taken with confidence, almost professional like in approach. Every curve was navigated like a teamster, and the more relaxed I became in his confidence as he negotiated the lanes of Nicholls Road. He has arrived! My pants are clean! We have made it! All we need to do now is pass the damn road test.

SUMMER IS OVER-GET OVER IT

Those crazy hazy lazy days of summer are gone. They came quickly and left just as fast. I WILL NOT MISS IT AT ALL.

Yes, I know you think I’m crazy, but I don’t like to sweat, and the heat slows me down. All day long I walk slow, trying not to even jump to conclusions.

A goodbye ceremony was held at RFK Stadium in Washington, DC for the manager Frank Robinson of the Washington National’s baseball team. A Hall of Famer, with 51 years in baseball, and I thought that I should have a retirement ceremony for the 2006 Summer.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I present you with the end of the 2006 Summer. Mr. Summer, you have done so much for the people of the Northeast this year, allowing us to sweat, having to buy clothing that reveals we are indeed getting fat, and most of all the high price of gasoline that you subjected us to. Endless bar-b-q events, eating the same salads and hamburgers, franks and beer that we ate every week, frantic rushing around to co-ordinate a cookout filled my heart with joy. The countless lawn mowing, yard cleanups and watering have left us ever mindful of your presence. The joy of raking, sweeping and bagging full our hearts with eager anticipation as we bid you a fond farewell. And who can forget the men and women in their shorts and short dresses, tank tops and muscle shirts, revealing ugly tattoos and rolls of fat that helped to keep us from overeating as we gazed upon their presence. Not to mention the endless sound of rudeness as people chit-chatted on their cellular phones to the annoyance of everyone around them. The stores, office buildings and public places, all at sub-zero temperatures that caused all the ladies to wear sweaters in July, complaining it is too cold. Like a hot car seat, maybe burning your palms on a steering wheel? All that has to wait until next year.

I can’t wait for the next person to say: “Gee, I can’t wait for summer.” I have a pointed object I’d like to acquaint them with.

ATTENTION THIRD WORLD SHOPPERS… (OOPS

TLW (The Little Woman) and I decided to begin a new quest to spend down my financial security. She wanted to buy a new coffee table for the den, and thought Ikea was the place to look.

Fending off the crowds of people and herds of off-spring that make up the clientele at Ikea is a major job! The most astonishing thing was the fact that with all the chatter that goes on, NO ONE SPEAKS ENGLISH! I overheard a sales clerk with an Asian sounding accent trying to explain to a Spanish-speaking lady about a product she was holding in her hand. Both looked confused, with the sales clerk looking a little exasperated also. The joyous little children were screaming at the top pf their lungs in Espanola as they played on the shopping carts, and a little guy with a big head about 40 years old, shorter than TLW was running around the store, kicking the bottom of beds and looking at his watch! I thought that maybe he thinks he’s in a car show room. We were going to ask where the coffee tables were but were afraid that we wouldn’t be understood.

After looking at some tables and deciding nothing works for us, TLW got hungry and decided we should eat in the Ikea Café, a trendy little spot on the second floor, featuring good old Norse fare just like Mom used to make. Salmon, cucumber and shrimp dishes, all in dill, with Swedish meatballs and sour cream pervaded one’s eye and appetite. The people behind the counter selling and preparing the food were your typical Swedes: short, black hair and speaking Spanish.

A very tall blond fellow, sporting a huge smile that said: “Ya-this is good to eat, just like Sveden” was triumphantly carrying his tray of Swedish meatballs, salmon and sliced cucumber to a table.

Among the multitude of diners was a Chinese lady imbibing upon a concoction that Sven would envy. I thought it strange that there was an announcement that stated that: “Attention Third World Shoppers: If you purchase more than $100 in merchandise, Ikea will validate your green card or passport!”

HOBO CHAVEZ

I usually don’t get political in this blog, and can’t remember if I ever did before, but today I have to make a commentary about that bum from Venezuela, you know who I mean, the flake that blesses himself like he’s a good Christian, then before the whole world to see, acts very un-Christian like and insults my country.

I don’t care who the President of the US is, I’ll criticize him if I like, and if you live in this country, you can too, but no foreigner has the right when we host the stinkers at the United Nations. Throw the whole stinking bunch the hell out, we will have more parking spaces, less traffic scofflaws, less criminals, and a better percentage of quality people walking around.

He is giving oil at 40% off the price he inflates it to, to the people of Harlem. If he wants to help, let him help the poor in his own country, I’m sure they are not all millionaires. If he is so concerned about America’s poor, why doesn’t he help them all, sending money to Watts or the Ozarks, or the poor of Miami? Who is he kidding? Only the gullible, who love to knock their country, the politically naiveté would buy into his crap. Charlie Rangle should be outraged that he needs help to heat the homes of his very own people in Harlem, who by the way are our people as well. If you remember the 9/11 tragedy, you may recall all the people fleeing the scene, all were a certain color, grey ashen, with red, white and blue in their veins. Hobo Chavez and Fido Castro be damned. And while I’m at it: screw Osmelly Bin Laden.

Part of the problem is some don’t like the results of the past two elections, and the first of the last two in particular, both in this country and outside our borders. I think our system is flawed to some degree, but we all went into it playing by the same rules. Let’s get over it, turn the page and get on with making money, feeding our own poor. Let’s think about higher education and how we make it more affordable. Look for a better way to care for the elderly in the good old U.S.A. Maybe it’s time to stop helping the rest of the world if they hate us so much and wait for them to start killing each other again, begging us to come to save their sorry asses once again.