Had a strange dream last night. Dreamt I was sitting outside with some other people I didn't like very much, just watching traffic go by, trying to ignore a woman who was asking us to tell about our recurring dreams. I didn't want to answer because I didn't want to talk to her, but I eventually told her about my recurring dream: in it, I was asleep... and dreaming... except in that dream I knew I was dreaming.

That and getting to school and realizing I forgot to put clothes on.

Anyway, that was the dream. Somehow I am reminded of a story my friend Andre told me back in our college years, a story involving two seemingly unrelated events. First, he encountered a man on the subway having a seizure, but no one would help. So Andre helped the guy -- but everyone around him pretended nothing was happening. It annoyed him, he said, until he got to his lecture hall and sat down for class. And fell asleep.

While asleep, he dreamt that he was falling down a mountain, almost in slow motion. And there were people all along the way who wouldn't help him. So in the dream, he just kept falling. And he screamed:

"Aaaaaggggghhh!"

Except the scream wasn't confined to the dream. He woke himself up to a professor who was upon him.

"Is there a problem?" the professor asked.

"No... I had a bad dream," Andre replied.

"You had a bad dream last night?"

"No, just now."

Life was always better when you had people like that in your lecture hall (in law school, there was an Antitrust class where the room divided into two sections: sleeping and just-yawning).

Another favorite pastime is Rooftop Trampoline, which involves climbing to the roof and leaping onto (you guessed it) the backyard trampoline.

I remember watching these gymnastics one warm evening, shaking my head solemnly, and making a famous comment to Uncle Joe:

"There's a lot of potential for liability here."

My learned counsel did not faze him; in fact, it seemed to energize him.

Shortly afterward we all piled into the house to eat chicken marsala. And as we ate, an extraordinary thing happened: a conversation that focused solely on food not only began, but lasted for no less than three hours. The meal itself was so good, so damned good, it reminded people of notable meals they'd eaten years before. People were describing bowls of macaroni they'd prepared and eaten as many as 30 years prior. It was amazing.

And then, unavoidably, as if to mirror the very process of digestion, the conversation moved to the bathroom. People described their bowel movements -- not recent ones, but notable ones from the ages. Bowel movements from as many as 30 years prior. Amazing. And wide-ranging.

A sample exchange went something like this:

Joe Fatone Senior [with an air of disgust]: "I made the mistake of using a subway bathroom and the stalls had no doors... And I looked into one and saw a guy sitting on a toilet facing the wrong way -- he was sitting on the bowl facing the wall."

Vito [without hesitation]: "Maybe the guy was a jockey."

By the way, Steve won at Rooftop Trampoline. Liability issues did not even apply -- he won it on his home field.

Steve,
I agree that Steve Fatone should be awarded the gold in the 7 Yard Flotation Device Dash. He was the most accurate and had the top speed. HOWEVER, I believe the silver MUST go to Hershey and Twinkie (Aunt Phyllis and Janine, The Dynamic Duo)for their synchronicity, grace and poise. A pure masterpiece on the water, if you will. And finally, Grandma Betty should be recognized for her effort. She was the only participant in 2 categories, 1) 70 & Up and 2) Toeless.

And even though she would just lay in the flotation device screaming names of different men in terror, ("Henry, Harry, Earl, get me off this thing"), we must remember, we all have our own strategies and techniques. This may have been Betty's.

This one's for you Grams. (...fade to "We Are the Champions")

It is axiomatic.

John your recall is amazingly accurate, except for one small detail. In removing the hydrant harness the perpetrator stole not one but two bent pieces of metal suitable for removing hydrant caps and turning the water on.

To prove the fragility of my memory: who was your sceptical 7th grade instructor? Can you say "sheltered childhood?"

Note the use of the colon in the paragraph above. I believe that you are all rubbing off on me, and it's starting to give me a rash in the shape of the State of Pennsylvania.

I'll never forget a fire in the apartment building on 16th Avenue and 39th Street. They called in the "Super Pumper." As Tim Allen said, "More power! Argh argh argh!"

As I blog the Yankees lead the Mets 7-3 at the top of the 7th in the Bronx. Thank goodness for ESPN. I was womdering what Ray Romano was doing tonight and they neatly provided the answer.

Yeah, the rubber chicken... I remember that thing. I remember all of it -- buying it at the novelty counter at the Avenue I Flea Market in Brooklyn. Grandly introducing it at awkward moments. Firmly establishing my geek-credentials even in the tender years of seventh grade.

That was the late 70s. There are television comedies today that focus on the ridiculous aspects of the 1970s. There should be a show about 38th Street in the late 70s. It would be more tragi-comedy. With a touch of noire.

Joey already mentioned the apartment buildings on the corner that seemed to be in flames every other week -- a community event like no other that brought out the whole neighborhood to gawk at the flames and watch the firefighter lazily battle the blaze.

Those weren't the only fires we saw. Stolen cars were rugularly dumped, stripped and torched on our street or under the tracks on 37th Street where we could still see the flames quite clearly.

Not completely unrelated to the fires was the fire hydrant, which was opened on hot days to allow delinquent teens to cool off even while lowering the local water pressure to dangerous levels. In more bucolic environs you can judge the heat of the day by how long the crickets chirp; on 38th Street we listened for the sound of tin cans scraping against the concrete (by shearing off both lids of a can, you'd have a tin tube that you could stick in the water stream and aim water at your cohorts). The city tried repeatedly to get the locals to use a sprinkler cap and even botled one on uder a thick metal brace. Neat trick: once ripped off, the brace became a handy-dandy wrench for turning the non-standard five-sided valve at the hydrant top).

And finally, there was the after-hours entertainment. Home grown acts included bongo-playing marathons; high-tech parties called for stereo sound systems. Remember: this was the 1970s, and the idea of portable hi-fi had not yet been perfected. So when the neighborhoos kids wanted to enjoy dance music al fresco, they rolled up a giant console-furniture style stereo system. It was indeed a curious site. And when we saw the behemoth arrive we wondered, briefly, how they would power such an appliance from the edge of a city playground.

But they were way ahead of us. These brave geniuses opened the service plate at the base of the lamp-post and cut the power to the light. They then plugged in their stereo and boom boom boom, there was disco all night. Really loud disco. All night.

Yes, living on 38th Street was an interesting experience -- one that others have a hard time appreciating. In fact, I remember starting seventh grade and being assigned the perennial favorite: "what I did on my summer vacation."

What I did? Well, I watched all that crap transpire on my street. So I wrote it up and submitted it.

I got an A. But my teacher circled the part where I had described the feat of pluggging the stereo into the lamp-post. In the margin she wrote: "You have quite an imagination."

In short, she didn't believe me. I was devastated. That was probably what drove me to my life of geek-ery.

This especially goes out to Joey, John, and the Brothers Fatone. Have you noticed that historically we have a predilection for developing new and innovative sports?

1. Sin-Ball- Contestants soak a regulation golf ball in acetone, set it aflame and then drive it towards a nearby church. Special points are awarded to direct contact with the church, and I believe top honors went to John, after he drove his fireball over the church in onto a busy throughway.
2. Boomerang Ceiling Fan Toss- Contestants fling items a of varying weights and sizes into a operating ceiling fan. Special points are awarded for return speed and overall creativity. Steve Fatone took special honors after shutting all the lights and throwing an entire gross of high bounce balls. Top honors were given to Joey, when in Jupiter Villas he tossed both a hardball and a softball. That fan was last heard to still have only two and a half blades.
3. 7 Yard Flotation Device Dash- Contestants attempt to cross an entire pool by running across the various inflatable tubes and rafts floating around it. I believe Steve Fatone holds the world distance record at about 3/4 of the way.
4. Clothes-Line Pulley Shake- Contestants attach a series of stuffed animals to a clothesline and then pulley them out over the backyard. The clotheline itself is than shaken vigorously to test which stuffed animal has the greatest gripping power. I believe it was Joey Fatone's gremlin Stripe that was grand champion. Or was it Baby Snots? Special Honors go to John Mastandrea for pioneering the idea few years prior with his rubber chicken.
5. Bottle Rocket Dodge- This particular contest requires two teams. Team 1 consists of two players who will ride in a tandem luggage cart and will represent the moving target. Team 2 consists of one player who will attempt to hit the moving target with live fireworks. Joey Mastandrea took top honors after inflicting a weeping burn on Steve Fatone's arm.
6. OpryLand Bannister Slide- Contestants vie for overall distance records by sliding down This Tennessee hotels multi-story hand-rails. Steve Fatone was undisputed champ.
7. Chud Bowl- I remember this game being related to American football, but just a bit stranger. It's played on a small grass yard surrounded by a wooden fence. Points are awarded for reassembling the fence everytime it's knocked down. Awards were also given out for the Worst Stench, the four categories were armpit, fart, ass, and breath. It was these aromas that inspired the "chud" in chud bowl.

I know I'm missing quite a few, so please feel free to add on this list. I think if we have an event, we might be able to host our own Olympics in 2008.

Thank you Stephen, it is good to be back. My offroad expeience is limited to the Nebraska National Forest but I did it in a 4X4 so the biggest surprise was getting within 15 feet of a muledeer.

Aunt Marie is right. That's an award-winning quote. Joey your "round table" is an excellent idea. "Farts and Fire" reminds me that we used to light farts in high school. In the Commons. Back then, lighting farts was much more dangerous due to the populariy of polyester clothing.

Marlena I'm with you. We had chickens and a duck for a while. There's nothing like fresh eggs. And the fowl ate the horse flies that visited us because our neighbor has horses. Alas, our fair city decided that our zoning allowed horses but not fowl. Now we have only the horse flies.

Forget "Club Tai" - one of the best clubs in the country is in Peoria and it is called "Big Al's" (no, NOT "Big Gay Al" for all of you Southpark fans). Next door to "Big Al's" is "Big Al's for the Ladies," where ladies watch the guys (or so I hear).

John, is there a Helen Ipso Loquitur? I nominate:

"We can't have anything nice in this house."

All I can remember is that my radios and associated wiring concerned my father. Somthing about me being the most likely to burn the house down.

For the Vito Ipso Loquitur I also remember:

"Turn off that radio and go to sleep!"

I still do some of my best radio listening late at night.

These are sordid tales indeed. But I got stuck a few posts ago... I'm still not quite able to picture my brother doing a back flip. I'm closing my eyes. Visualizing.

Nope. It's not working.

All I can hear in the back of my mind is our dad many years ago saying to him, probably in reaction to some other attempt at jackass gymnastics:

"You have all the grace of a ruptured cow."

Not sure when that particular descriptive was first bestowed -- but it stands out in my mind as a classic entry in the Vito Disputations.

In fact, I think I'm gonna start a new blog called Vito Ipso Loquitur and stock it with his famous quotations. Another favorite of mine was what he'd say when he thought you were crowding too much of the couch (he needed a lot of room in those days to take in the spacious play-by-play of Phil Rizzuto and Frank Messer):

"Move over; you take up as much room as the Pope."

He said that a lot, and I never had any idea what it meant. But to this day whenever I see a mention of the Pope or a picture of St. Peter's Basilica, I think to myself: "Yeah, the Pope; he takes up a lot of space."

Rhetorical Dilemma of the Day: If John Paul II came to 38th Street and spread himself out on the couch during a Yankee game, what would Vito say to make him move aside?

GENE: that was a wonderful story. He's such an assman.
JOE NEBRASKA: I would love to see Auggie Smith, he's not playing Florida. What's up with that? Peoria anyone?

Dobre Ootra (good morning in one of my husband, Jenia's, many native tongues). For those who don't know, Jenia is from Russia and was raised on a farm in the Ukraine for 5 years. This tidbit of information will help me segway into my most camp-like experience.

Me and Jenia were invited to my friend Suzie's aunt and uncle's farm house for a long weekend. The idea alone made us giddy.
So we road up to Northern Florida (a hop away from Alabama)in Suzie's grandma's huge Buick, we were gonna live off the 'fat of the land'. But first, we were going to get a speeding ticket in Ocala...but then we were going to live 'off the fat of the land'.
Jenia and I had envisioned old beat up barns, tabacci chewing farm-hands and a delicious treat of sour cream and sugar after a hard day's work. Or at least that's what he envisioned.
When we got there,we were introduced to the lovely, eloquent Uncle Bubb and Auntie Deb, where they welcomed us to their "Lazy D's". aka house.

It was gorgeous, these people had bucks,'beef must be pricier these days'I wondered. What I thought was their modern-day barn was their business headquarters, not where they barter their pig's fat, but where they sell insurance.

Ah, but we did live like farmers, ok, advanced hillbillies. We were simple, so we got easy jobs. We had to gather up food for breakfast, Uncle Bub went to one of his refrigerators and took out shrink wrapped meat he had slaughtered a week ago, Suzie milked a cow, Jenia was too busy shooting uncle Bubb's antique guns to be productive, and then there was me. I got maulled by the tiny, unintimidating chicken coup. These were like gang chickens, they wanted me dead, their was fury in their eyes as I chicken danced my way through the coup to get eggs. I managed to get 3, and got much slack for that, Jenia & Uncle Bub had been laughing so hard at me. Auntie Deb sympathized with me over the "atmosphere", the moist, natural brown substance that I had all over my hands and shoes. I stayed away from all the other farm animals that day, my job had been done. E-I-E-I-O

Well V, as your aunt Marie has said many times to me "You wont be happy till someone goes to the ER." It has become how we judge the success of a gathering. You are a brave man. Someday there will be a round table discussion between you, John, Little Joe, Uncle Joe, Big Steve, Little Steve,the Vin Man and myself and you will see you are not alone in you bizarre experiences.

Gene,
I have seen photos of your campfire and was impressed. We too built a fire.

It was our first weekend in my parents new house in Jupiter. We were coming home from Walmart. (All good stories begin this way) We had all one needs for a good blaze. Lighter fluid, starter sticks, A cord of wood and of course munchies. (Not to be confused with Muncho, he lives in Staten Island.) Anyway. We gathered chairs and placed them in a circle around a stone pit. The area was a mud pit as summer is rainy season in Florida. We covered all the mud up with plywood so we wouldn't slip into the fire. This made sense at the time. We then gathered chairs. I think Little Joe was seated in a desk chair. The chair placement was crucial as to not give any one male an upper hand. There was only the four of us this time. Joes and steves al around. It took us a good hour to get that blaze goin. We had to keep dousing it with fluid because the ground was damp, summer in Florida. The Flames rose to the heavens each time we fed their need for fuel. We watched in awe. Each time the fire went down we took turns tossing anything we had into it as well as leaping over it. Did you know a soda can could melt. I thought they said they weren't biodegradable? We even hand a branding iron in the fire that we would periodically pull out and dip in a bucket of water. The bucket of water was for our own safety. We were thinking ahead. At about 2 am we ran out of wood. So big Steve tries to take down a tree with his bare hands. Shaking it to and fro till it resembled a Sine wave at which time the top 5 feet snapped and fell to the ground. Nailing him square in the head. Well that was not right. We all took turns pounding that tree till it was a stump. And when that was gone we broke up into search parties,into the dark with flashlights in search of good wood. The gatherers. Well... Big Steve came back with the top of a tree. The whole top. leaves and all. I returned with a pile of Palm branches and leaves. Little Joe came back with a 2x4 from the garage. It all was piled into the pit. The flames ascended higher than the house but only for a brief moment. Palm does not burn like wood. It flares up and is gone in seconds and in its is place are 8lbs of ash for every pound of palm.

The air hung heavy with ash and we were longing for sustenance after that quest for burnable fuel. I ventured in the house and returned with burgers, buns, a fish-cooking wire implement to cook beef over an open fire and rubbing alcohol. The burgers were lovingly arranged on the cooker and we took turns holding it till we burned our hands and we passed to the left. The alcohol was needed to get a good flame up every so often. We had used everything else flammable in the house. Well we ate those burgers and they tasted like a flat tire you tried to drive home on.

But we were victorious. We had stayed out all night and built a fire. We could survive in the wild. Right? So we sneak in the house thru the back back doors and we get our first look at each other in the light. We are all covered in ash and looked like we got caught in a blizzard. So we strip down to our boxers and leap in the pool. Mom was a little irritated the next morning. She said the fire lit up the bedroom all night and every 5 minutes it flared up. El Duce told her "Let em be. They burn down the house then you get mad" Fire. It still fascinates us. When boredom strike there are two answers that will forever be entertaining.

...Farts and Fire

Just think John, our fascination with fire was inevitable. It began with Otto. It progressed with the apt house burning once a week and the blazes they used to set in the garbage cans in the park.

Maybe next time ill bring up the infamous 4th of July at Spumoni Gardens South.

I begin by welcoming back to the blog Capo Joe of our Nebraska syndicate. In reading his entry I feel compelled to share my personal Mastandrea camping story. (Although this does not excuse you, Mr. Simms from validating and possibly elaborating upon it.)

Marlena has tiptoed around a few themes that are worth mentioning. After nearly a decade in Florida, the Mastandreas still continue to struggle with the foreign cultural norms that plague the Sunshine State. I'll give you an example: Floridians take great pleasure in driving into a dark insect-infested forest, making a large fire and then drinking beer until they pass out among the twigs, rocks, and cans cluttering the ground. Mastandreas are simply not genetically equipped for life without laptops, air conditioning, pillowtop mattresses, refrigerators, electric cofee-pots, or audio/visual entertainment centers. That said, I'll tell the tale of Steve the Camper.

Back in winter of 1994, a number of my fellow dorm-dwellers were craving a little outdoor experience. They were unanimous in their decision for a camping trip to Ocala National Forest. Of course, they begged me to go and I repeatedly declined, until finally I relented. So on a chilly Gainesville night a caravan of eight cars and nearly twenty crazed undergrads departed on I75 for Ocala National Forest. Now, immediately I find myself a bit nervous, when we reach Ocala National Forest the caravan does not drive into a park entrance or any sort of gate but instead simply turns right of the interstate and into the pitch black woods. No trail whatsoever, they just turned right into the trees and bushes. Theres also not one truck amongst us, but instead mostly cheap older compact cars driving straight through branches and bushes. The lead car just randomly turns left and right and the caravan blindly follows until a few miles in he finds a nice round open area and the caravan parks in a make shift circle. OK, I'm nervous but Im okay. So the trip organizers jump out and get right to work they drag out 10 cases of Natural Light Beer. For those who might be confused, thats 240 cans of crappy malted hops. The beer is followed immmediatally by a pile of shovels and axes, by which the campers are going to used to make a bonfire. Of course, before they even start swinging theses deadly weapons, they need to down a few brewskis... remember the beer always come first! Admittedly, even for being intoxicated they were quick and skillful at getting the bonfire going on. Once the fire is lit, the party officially starts. Now I mentioned there was close to twenty participants, and I wasn't familiar with all of them. A few daring and creative characters decided that they would pick some psilocibin mushrooms (which grow wild on the cowshit near the university) and ingest them around the fire. Apparently, camping is much more entertaining if your hallucinating wildly on fungus/fecal matter. One long-haired fellow stared into the fire and by his own description "sees two giant ants battling a starfish". He looks to me a little scared, and leans over and grabs an ax. He then climbs the closest tree and informs he "will be guarding the campground from The Predator". Now I'm shuddering, because I keep envisioning one of my intoxicated cohorts stumbling pass the hallucinating watchmen and being beheaded. So I move location to a smaller area where my close buddy Dingo is cooking some burgers with his best friend Chico. They are both extremely inebriated. Dingo turns to Chico and says "if you're my best friend, man. You will punch me as hard as you can" Chico replies "no man, your my friend dude, I can't hit you" Dingo shouts back "if your my best friend, you have to hit me!" and with that a Dingo receieved a punch square in the jaw his glasses go flying, and the two best friends start fist fighting on the floor and actually roll through the fire they were previously cooking over. One of the mushroom-eaters turns to me and says "This is a strange scene, dude." I am going to repeat myself, Mastandreas should not camp. So I once again change locations, find my buddy Simms, who by the way wore his camos for some unknown reason and we watch from afar. Cook our own food at a distance until he decided to hit the sack. There was no way I was sleeping tonite, so I went and found my other closest friend and regular insomniac Gary who for the first time in all the time I had known him was drinking a beer. He suffered from severe IBS and after two beers was upchucking half cooked potatoes and kielbasa six inches away from me. I looked to the heavens and pleaded "Please Sun, rise soon". Which it did, at which point one sees how disgusting the camp site actually looks and how revolting all the pale, hungover, vomit stained campers look. However, it was fun posing and taking pictures by Gary's puddle of electroluminescent orange vomit. If I find my favorite picture I'll post it.

So for the last time, the moral of this story is Mastandreas do not camp.

Yes, it is true, this Mastandrea has camped succesfully. My first bivouac was in Ft Devins, MA and it foretold future efforts. A native outdoor critter stung me, causing the sargent to send me to sick bay where I got my first perscription for an antihistamine that could make anyone drowsy. Ellie and I have camped several times a decade or so ago but stopped due to more frequent and more severe allergic reactions. However, I'm glad that it worked for you and the boys.

You think a laptop at a campground is bad? Try visiting a state park where there is no cell signal to your multiband cell phone. It happened to me in an area centered around a natural spring that produces 20.4 million gallons of water a day. If water attracts electricity, it must funnel it underground.

The Barese Man's Burden is truly educational and inspirational. I toast with my favorite aged tequila. Salut!

Your drinking stories remind me of the wit of Auggie Smith, a comedian you should catch "live" at your local chuckle hut. Don't you hate when people blame the booze? If you're a jackass when you're drinking, it's because you're a jackass. Ain't no magical equation, "add liquid to make jackass." In the insurance game this is what they call a pre-existing condition. Quit blaming the booze.

For the record, I too have woken up in a hospital after a night of drinking. In my case it happened while I was in college. I travelled with two male frieds to Dallas and ended up in a hot tub with my aforementioned friends and three stewardesses (I know, I know, they call them "flight attendants" now). Too many rum and cokes led to a back flip that rumor has it could have been rated a "10" from even the Russian judge.

Bad enough we got Vito antagonizing Hispanic dancers. And BazzukaJoe taking on the feminine hygiene industry. And Steve threatening to hijack the Oscar Mayer Weinermobile.

Now Marlena wants to pick a fight with the Irish!

Just what were you drinking in that bar? And how fast were you drinking it?

I fear the Gene will be coming down on our asses in the near future.

Howdy!
Two nights ago, me and my girlfriends went out. We played a little water volleyball with some buddies, chatted, exchanged bathing suits for the hell of it, and then went to a lame local Ale House for nachos and greasy potato skins. While we were there we were approached by many odd characters. One being a girl who wore her fluorescent green thong on her back rather than her coolie.(Painful, yet unique). Another was an inebriated man with a scantily black mustache, hunting hat, and 'chuckaboots'(as my mom would say). He came to our table and blabbered some kind of spitty vernacular; we were able to understand him say that if he can just talk to us for one minute his buddies would buy him a bucket of beer...and we could share it with him. (gag me)
I was content on letting him talk to us for the remaining 20 seconds so he could feel confident and walk away with not just a frothy mug, but a bucket of 'brew', but my friends weren't, they ripped the poor jerk a new rump roast and he sadly left sans Le Bucket.
About a half hour later we notice that a lot of people are staring at us...okay whatever, this place is creepy. Unbeknownst to us, due to the repercussions of my friends' sharp tongues, Chuckaboots told the entire bar that we were a table of Irish nuns from a convent.
Even when we went to our cars a guy said "whoa, you girls are Irish?"
(Some were shocked that they were seen as plain as nuns, I on the otherhand was appalled over the Irish mishap. Drunken buffoons.)
Horrible! John, Vito, Gene, get me outta this place.

Well, so much for PG-13. We'll be lucky to keep our R rating after Vito's epic tale.

And yet, nothing is really out of place on this blog (or in this world).

I recently ordered an audio lecture series on Vergil's Aeneid. You'd think that after four years of studying Latin, reading Vergil, and then taking college level coursework on the epic tradition I would've remembered something about that particular classic. But I didn't.

The CD lectures were great, and I feel like a newly-minted expert on Aeneas and his nation-building struggles.

"Epic struggle" was what first came to mind as I read Vito's harrowing tale of drunken debauchery. Nowhere in the narrative did he specify that the Furies were pursuing him -- and yet I could visualize them so clearly, the shadow they cast across his will, and the fate that would ultimately be meted out to him by the Olympian gods (i.e., Barbara and Vito Sr.).

Now, if you're paying attention, you will have already noticed that I just confused the Roman myth construct (Jupiter, Hera, Barbara, Vito Sr., etc.), with the Greek variety of hunters and bush-dwellers.

My response: what's the difference? We all eat salty olives and lupini beans with our red wine.

I know Vito planned to follow up his story with more. Not to jump the gun, but I'll add a piece from my own perspective: when Vito first told me that he got hurt at a bar, I told him that I might be able to help him with some of the legal aspects of his situation. When he told me all the details, I told him: my cuz, you're on your own.

Aww, Gene's still sore from what I did to him during our first big adventure, many years ago.

It was right before the great Valpolicella Incident of 1988. We'd driven about a thousand miles from New York to Hilton Head and we were exhausted. We'd gotten to sleep and were greeted by a morning of uncertain weather -- there was sunshine but clouds loomed, and the forecast said the clouds would ultimately take over.

The way I saw it, we only had a limited opportunity to enjoy the sunny beach -- and time was a-wasting.

So I went to the window near the bed where Gene was soundly sleeping. I threw open the drapes to reveal the hazy sun and yelled out, loudly:

"Wake up, motherfucker, you can sleep at home!"

You see, the way I viewed it, this was why we drove so far.

I'll never forget the look of incomprehension on a Alane's face when she learned, later that day, that I'd thrown Gene out of bed, that early, and in that way.

"Look, lady -- we came here to seize the day," was my overly defensive reply. (Those were the days that I thought Alane greatly disliked me -- and it wasn't until we were married that I was able to confirm that suspicion.)

But the important thing to remember is that Gene did indeed get out of bed quite early that morning. Disheveled and confused, he trudged out to the beach and rode his bicycle into the sea.

Did I feel bad? No... We did get a few hours of sunshine.

Does Gene hold a grudge? Well... He did wake up pretty early on Sunday. And when he realized that I was already awake and suffering... he did look a little disappointed.

When did midtown Manhattan get so boring? I'm talking about lunch. New York was always about the food, and yet it's harder and harder to find an interesting lunch at a reasonable price.

Even that octopus sandwish is sounding appealing right now. Better than the panini craze that has gripped otherwise reasonable deli-owners. My first experience with those: I spotted an okay-looking prosciutto-on-focaccia sandwich at the nearby Cafe Europa, pointed it out to the man behind the counter, and instead of wrapping it up to hand it to me he sticks it in a trouser press. I got back a flat and lifeless ham cracker.

And such is the direction that food is moving in Manhattan.

I need to start packing my own sandwich in the morning. But even that is risky -- by about 10 or 10:30 in the morning I tend to get a little hungry. Most brown-bag lunches don't make it past 11 a.m.

Perhaps I need to pack two lunches in the morning. Anything to mitigate the lunchtime risk (how fresh can that pre-made sandwich really be?). The downhill spiral began years ago -- I went to the pizzeria near my job (the Law Journal at that time) and ogled a very attractive sausage roll (the kind that wraps sausage, cheese and peppers in a buxom pizza crust). It looked so good. He heated it, wrapped it, and I took it longingly back to my desk.

And there, I ate it.

But love was not to be had. Something was wrong. Very wrong. This sausage wasn't right. This was... breakfast sausage!

I was appalled. I was hurt. My faith in mankind had been shaken.

That night I called Big Vin in Florida and told him of my lunchtime woe.

"Whoever made that sausage roll..." Vin said with rising anger, "He deserves to have 16 bullets in his head."

At first, I thought that was a bit much. But reflecting upon what has become of lunchtime over the years, I think his is rather a measured response.

The literature all but crackles with recurring imagery – not the least of which being the various chops and fillets seen clenched between Uncle Joe’s teeth. What an appetite on that guy!

I still have the night-shirt that I wore on that fateful Christmas Eve of 1989, and if I were a thinking man I would have worn it to BazzukaJoe’s party.

And as for that dancer’s patron man-stink, I was kind-a hoping that most of that had already been washed away in the on-stage shower stall. But admit it: when we were done with her, she sparkled.

But back to business. I’d like to use the power of the Internet to exert pressure upon a man named Simms. I urge him to step forward and tell us the tale of camping in the Floridian woodlands with that most expeditionary of naturalists… Steve (a man who is neither hunter nor gatherer – more like caterer).

Is it true that if you dig in the right part of the forest, you can find fresh sfogliatelle?

Over a century ago, Kipling took up the White Man's burden. Today I take up the Barese Man's burden. As suggested by John, I will attempt to compose a comparative analysis of Christmas of 1989 with the Bachelor Party of 2003. Years back, I submitted a comparative analysis of author Ken Kesey versus protagonist R.P. MacMurphy from his novel "One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest." This appears to be a monumentally more difficult task, but I am eager for the challenge.

Reflections In The Broccoli Rabe---A Comparative Analysis of Recurring Themes and Characteristics of Mastandrea Celebratory Rites Between December 24, 1989 and October 10, 2003

1.The celebratory rites are always preceded by a group pilgrimage in a multi-passenger vehicle. In 1989, the holiday celebration was preceded by an inter-borough voyage to the assembly-house in a silver 1984 Caravan. The 2003 celebrants journeyed to their chosen assembly location in a white Ford mini-bus.
2. Strong emphasis is placed upon ceremonial headgear. During the 1989 Christmas ceremonies, all seven members of the Mastandrea clan could be seen wearing identical red headpieces associated with St. Nicholas. During the 2003 pre-marriage celebration, members of the Mastandrea clan were seen wearing flesh colored headwear, which occasionally had areolas.
3. Another integral rite seems to be the group consumption of alcoholic beverages. In both cases, Joe Fatone Sr., commenced a ritualistic ingestion of an aged scotch whiskey. This particular drink is known for its mind-altering properties, as well as digestion-altering properties. The former is the intention, the latter is an unfortunate consequence.
4. Its time to examine a recurring theme that once again relates directly to Joe Fatone Sr., and that is the appearance of scented hands. During the christmas festivities of 1989, Mr. Fatone was responsible for preparing the seafood (that would prove vital to the evening fire ceremony) which left his hands smelling very much like shrimp, scallops and codfish. It remains unknown if Mr. Fatone also prepared seafood before the October 2003 celebration, but what is known, is that night his hands wore the unique aroma of shrimp, scallops, codfish...and walgreens perfume.
5. A powerful recurring symbol of these two nights is the bow. A historically important christmas symbol, it could be seen throughout the house in 1989, hung from trees, wreaths and more. In 2003, all the men present to celebrate Joe Mastandrea tying the knot, witnessed a 50 year old exotic dancer tie the greatest bow of all time.
6. Rinsing with water. Throughout the Christmas celebration one could view fruits, vegetables, and fish rinsed clean with water to rid out any impurities. Almost a baptism of sorts. Likewise, during the bachelor party festivities John Mastandrea assisted an unclothed female rinse herself clean of sins and patron man-stink.

This will be continued.....

Technology hates me. I just wrote a perfectly nice little post and poof--it vanished. However, I will not be thwarted.

Nuts is in the eye of the beholder. Truly, there is something not quite right about someone taking a laptop tent camping. This should not come as a huge surprise to me as when we were hiking in the Rocky mountains, this same laptop toting genius told me that our next vacation should be a cruise. Yes, surrounded by the majesty of nature and rescue llamas this guy wants to be on a boat in the middle of the ocean. Admit it, the rescue llamas caught your attention. there is something mastandrea-esque about them. I might even be able to get you all into the great outdoors if you knew that we would witness the bravery of a rescue llama in action.

How nice it is to be able to say that I woke up this morning and did not have a hangover.

A technically correct statement! But of course, there are some damning details. Let's parse it:

I woke up

On the ground. Sure, we were in a tent, but the tent is on the ground. And the little pad I brought was cold comfort. So my spine was a crooked there for a while: my neck and my back pointed in disagreeing directions.

this morning

At 4 a.m. -- I couldn't get back to sleep. I tried. But somehow the immediacy of the fact that I was outside kept me alert. Oh, and there was that sense of foreboding.

did not have a hangover

It's true. But all it meant was that the hangover had not yet arrived. But it was coming -- just as certain as the break of day (I watched it) and the birds singing (I heard them), that hangover gathered its massive strength and slowly but forcefully came down on me.

So I staggered around for much of the morning until others started to wake up -- including Cookie and Mojo, who made it the whole night sleeping outdoors. To think: we had been concerned that one or both would peach out; actually, all the kiddies lasted the night.

So Gene, you're a genius. And the kids are real troopers. It was a swell adventure. And truly, I didn't mean to drink that much wine. But by midnight as I was pouring my last one, I held the bottle out to see if anyone else wanted any before I took the last glass. It was then that it was made clear to me that no one else was drinking the stuff -- that mega-bottle was entirely on my head (especially by breakfast time).

Haven't had that much wine since the Valpolicella Incident of 1988...

More on that later, but first a poll: last night's bivouac was the closest to real camping I've ever done. The Mastandrea temperament does not seem well-suited to it. Have any other Mastandreas successfully gone camping? Alane did before she was a Mastandrea and says it's great fun, but we all know she's nuts.

Okay, they're watching a movie now. It's Antz, and somehow the sound of Woody Allen's voice is making me nervous when I hear it in the presence of my kids.

Still, this is a terrific Father's Day idea. The boys are having a tremendous time. The tent is pitched, the fire is blazing, and Mike Foley at my side, roasting marshmallows, shooting video, and drinking as fast as he can in whatever daylight remains.

Tomorrow, we understand, is the longest day of the year. And here we are at 9 p.m. and the sky still has some brightness to it. Very sweet.

I just learned that Mike's dad attended Xavier High School back in the 1940s. We are comparing notes. The kids, off to my left here, are transfixed on the movie which is being played off a DVD in a laptop computer and projected via a digital projector -- I love the 21st century.

So the light is fading, and with all the wine I've had, so am I. The ants are marching. The kids are mesmerized.

And, most of all: there's no way in the world I'm gonna sleep in that tent.

We shall see...

The ridiculous ideas are always the fun ideas.

About a week and a half ago Gene e-mailed me and said it would be a great idea to get everyone together in his backyard for a cookout, a twi-night movie screening,and (gulp) an overnight campout.

Brilliant, I said. I'll dig out my 50-foot extension cord and we'll set up the daquiri bar.

Well, here we are. This is fantastic -- I've eaten about 17 s'mores by now, and it's still daylight. The wine is almost gone (but that's my fault). The kids are running about like little maniacs -- which means all is right with the universe.

Once night falls I shall post more (unless the wine causes me to fall first).

The mental illness that has no name...

Steve, you need meds.

Between my homicidal lunchmeat and your soylent cheese, we can make quite a sangweech. And by that I don't mean taking a freshly-caught squid, smacking it around and sticking it inside focaccia bread. (Comments, Vito?)

I have a vague memory: it was Christmas Eve. We were in Brooklyn. We ate cheese. Or was it fish? Large men stood in bitter cold air to raise a fire to the star-lit skies.

Steve: this is for the doctorate. Please complete your dissertation on Comparative Mastandrea by linking the imagery and traditions of Christmas Eve 1989 and BazzukaJoe's bachelor party of 2003.

C'mon, show us the heft of your intellect (but please, don't show us the heft of anything else).

Just in case any psychoanalysts were purveying these entries, I'm going to contribute a dream I had a few months back.

The dream begins on a flight to New Brunswick, Canada. The seat in front of me has a small imbedded TV monitor, and so I decide to watch the in-flight entertainment, a documentary on a dynasty of European cheese farmers. In a tiny agrarian village somewhere in the eastern bloc, secretly resides a family of farmers that for centuries has produced the rarest cheese on Earth. A cheese that is so painstaking to create, it takes an entire human lifetime before its ready for consumption. The only humans priviliged enough to ever taste the cheese have been royalty and the super-elite. Furthermore, no one has ever witnessed the manufacturing process...until now.

The cameras enter a huge hangar full of cubicles. Inside each cubicle is a cow being fed cheese by a member of the family. Time lapse film depicts a cow ballooning in size until he has no visible legs or head, and at which point the cubicle door is locked and the room begins filling with liquid cheese. Once the cheese has reached the cubicle ceiling, the room is heated to a specific temperature and left over a prolonged (but precise) period of time, developing at last, into the most sought after cheese the world has ever known. We watch primitive film footage of Middle Eastern princes devouring the cheese in ecstasy. The screen then fades black to begin a truly disturbing scene.

One of the farmers enters into a cubicle and begins petting a cow, he pauses and locks the cubicle door. The room begins filling and we watch as the cheese rises over the head of the cow and just above the farmers neck, at which point he stares blankly straight into the camera and lets out an extremely cow-like "moo". The narrator explains that over the many decades it takes to make each batch, many of the farmers become attached to their cows and "take part in the love that has no name". Rather than carry on their lives alone they join their cows in the ultimate sacrifice inside this one-of-kind delicacy.

A sad story, but nevertheless one that must be told.

Speaking of deli-meat, I've always been fond of tongue sandwiches -- on rye with a little mustard, pickle on the side. Tongue is a fascinating meat -- you can often see big old taste buds along the edges and the grain of the muscle across the face of each slice. And best of all: it's a tongue.

You're tasting it, it's tasting you. Lunchtime reciprocity.

So as I sit here at my desk, still stinking of the salami and soppresata sandwich I had for lunch, I was dumbfounded to hear of the woman from Minnesota whose impromptu midnight snack featured tongue but did not include any mustard (and certainly no pickle).

The story reminded me of two things: a tour of New York City that we gave Alane back in 1989. We stopped at the Carnegie deli and Guido ordered a tongue sandwich that was about the size of a Volkswagen. He ate half and carried the other half with him as we walked the remaining length of Manhattan. On that walk, Mike had remarked upon every aspect of architecture we passed, and I'm sure if we could have put some mustard on his tongue, we would have.

The story also reminded me of MariaRose who, riding safely in the backseat of Vinny's spiffy leased car, did not have a tongue sandwich but clearly wished she did. None being available, she instead took a bite out of the car's upholstery.

I wasn't there to see Vinny's reaction when he spotted the hole and the protruding padding, but I'm told that for a several high-tension moments he had trouble speaking.

Whatasamatter, Vin? Cat got your tongue?

Well hello everybody. Right now I'm instant messaging MariaRose and eating her generic Cap'N Crunch cereal minus the berries. How come no berries? How come we'd rather type than talk, she's 5 feet away? Anyway, eating dry cereal off of a paper plate reminds me of when I was 4 years old. I had such a life when I was four, remember it rather vividly: If I wasn't being ported to Brooklyn (in a stylish sweatsuit, no doubt) to stay with my aunt Phyllis (bus driver)and go to work with her and my Aunt MaryLou (the bus maid) who accompanied her, than I was spending my quality time downstairs with Grandma. I loved doing that so much, life was so simple, and yet she was always so busy. Grandma did something that sticks in my mind every day of my life. You see,I wasn't much of an eater, and in this family that's just not tolerable or comprehendible, so she would find a way. She would make me a hardboiled egg and place it ever so gently into a tiny, ancient green shot glass. It was a perfect fit, I had to eat it. Maybe because of the magical powers it possessed from the piedmonts of Giovanazzo, I couldn't say, but it was beautiful, food-friendly,innovative, brilliant, bulbous...it was Mastandrea. This invention far exceeded that of the automobile, lycra, or Zoobalee Zoo.
Which brings me to the next generation of innovation: when will see Interactive Smellovision? It's way past due. Think of how useful it would be: For the culinary purposes: an expert can help distinguish good mortadella from bad, we would all be able to smell continuous Meatball burps. The list goes on an on. Any thought?

The dream started in an alleyway off a main street. At the end of the alley stood a canned ham, a big one with holes in it from which a man's arms and legs, wearing tights, allowing it to dance around and appear very jolly, attracting hapless tourists to come hither and wham! -- he'd strangle them.

The canned ham, you see, was a mass murderer.

The scene shifted to a diner. Seated at a table amid laughter and conversation was a man with a moustache. He was a trans-sexual. And he was an Elvis impersonator. He was having fun with his friends when his very effeminate, very shy, very gay associate approached him. It was immediately clear that the Elvis-impersonator was the murderer from the canned ham -- and he'd asked his unwitting friend to spend the night in the canned-ham-outfit in order to set him up as a decoy. You see, the murderer's nemesis, a former cop, had just been released from prison on a charge that the Elvis impersonator had fabricated for him. He'd be on the streets seeking revenge. He'd find the canned ham, and it would be the wrong man.

But now that plan was ruined.

"I didn't want to stay in the costume," said the little gay man.

The Elvis impersonator was enraged that his friend was even speaking to him in public -- though a trans-sexual, he didn't want anyone to questions his sexuality. Enraged, he strangled the man on the spot.

Meanwhile, at the end of an urban alleyway, a former cop who'd been framed in imprisoned came upon a giant canned ham that had been left on the ground, empty. No one was in it. And he suspected that something had gone wrong.

Had that dream several years ago, and I'm still trying to figure it out.

Ree, you left out a tiny bit. Billy Chase first kissed Betty on the cheek. To which she winced in disgust. Billy then took off his stained T-Shirt and sat bare chested next to Betty. He asked her if she'd like to have a little sex and at that instant Vito got up from the table and I made billy leave. When i returned to the house betty was burning her clothes and showering with ajax.

Now if anyone would like to discuss stupidity and disorderly conduct i would recomend a short discussion on Jenia's Bachelor party. Wow that was ugly and lets not forget mine.

More words for the encyclopedia.

Malloofo
Stoogatz

There been a few weird incidents that I have witnessed caused by intoxication. Some that have happened in Staten Island, some in Orlando, but the ones that really stick out in my mind are the ones that took place in Jupiter Farms. You know what place that is, the always memorable Spumoni Gardens South.

Billy Chase- Adelphia Cable Guy with an obvious beer gut and sun-drawn leather-like skin. He lives on the outside of his house, and craves Busch beer and cigarettes fortnightly.

Kim Chase- Billy's Busch beer guzzling wife.

It was a normal summer night for the Mastandrea family, we were just sitting down to coffee, when we see someone walk inside without knocking. Well whaddaya know, its good old Bill Chase coming for a visit. This wasn't that much a worry for Big Vin because he already had company over. From what I recall there was Vito Caravella Jr. and Grandma Betty. Two people who were not very ready for what was about to take place in the near future.

Just to keep the already drunk Billy occupied,my father kept pouring more and more shots of scotch for the Hillbilly. Those shots he gladly utilized. Hopefully the man would realize that he was too drunk to speak and he and his wife would be on their way. So we thought.

Yet what we all were not ready for was for this:

Billy: Hey Betty!

Betty: Yeah...

Billy:(slurring) How 'bout we have a little sex?

Betty: (confused) With you? No. Not with you.

Everone stopped and stood in silence, especially Vito. But this was the funny part...it felt as if everyone knew it was coming, yet we were in awe that it actually happened.

Mind you, this woman was in her late seventies and this idiot was his early forties.

Later that night Bill started kissing Vin over and over.

Enough said.

***If there was anyone else who witnessed this incident and think that I left out a few key elements to the story, please feel free to contribute your point of view.

Ah, Tsitsi's chunky wine... That stuff has Harry Potter properties. I do vaguely remember drinking it while sitting around the Staten Island dining room table. As for specifics, no, not really. Who knows: we may have designed a Ford car that very night -- I wouldn't remember. Except there is one much clearer memory: Aunt Marie, sounding very disgusted, stating, "I hate it when they drink that stuff, they get stupid."

Truer words were rarely spoken (notwithstanding that true words are rarely spoken after drinking that stuff). Worth noting because Aunt Marie has seen us drink some hard stuff over the years:

• Galliano (the thick yellow liquid that defies explanation poured from a bottle that defies gravity)
  
• Fortissimo (the whole jug)
  
• Rolling Rock Beer (packaged with a model Plymouth Fury one Thanksgiving to create an ersatz Plymouth Rock)
  
• 30-Year-Old Cherry Liqueur (from a jar taken down from a dusty shelf, with ancient cherries sloshing throughout)
  

Yes, we did some good drinking, back in the day. Only once did I have a second thought -- and it was only a temporary misgiving, entirely unwarranted. It happened sometime in 1988 or 1989. I had arrived with my then-girlfriend who was just starting her career in social work, with a specialty in substance abuse treatment. Uncle Vinny offered us a drink. I said yes. She said no.

"I don’t drink," she said forthrightly.

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” Vin said.

I saw a sudden glint in her eyes.

“Why is that?” she said, in her best social worker voice.

I held my breath, fearing that Vin had stepped in something here.

Vin responded: “For them, everything’s always the same.”

I never doubted Big Vin again. (Well, except when he was drinking chunky wine and engaging in haphazard automotive engineering.)

This is for John. I carry with me disappointing news for you. Joey previously asked for the word Rosaria Mastandrea used to when referring to her underwear. This was a trick question!

mutande---is in fact, the proper Italian word for underwear and I applaud you for this knowledge. However, you should have recognized that Mastandreas do not speak in either proper English or proper Italian (in fact I'm pretty sure Barese dialect is closer to Mandarin Chinese than Italian).

Rosaria Mastandrea actually called her undergarments "oo'bloom". Therefore, the Council has voted unanimously that your answer was incorrect. I am sorry. In good news, the Council was wildly impressed with your in-depth research on shtinkinstash, a word that has intimidated so many for so long, that a report on its origins had never even been attempted.

OK, we return to improper Italian. We must forgive John, for after 12 years of studying the language and scoring 100% proficiency in conversational Italian, I remain helpless in commmunicating with, or even understanding our relatives. So I offer to newcomers a little help in comparing and contrasting.

English: How are you?
Italian: "Come stai?"
Barese: "Come shem?"

English: Uncle
Italian: Lo Zio
Barese: Tsitse(almost like the African fly)

English: Aunt
Italian: La Zia
Barese: Lodzy

English: five dollars
Italian: cinque dollari
Barese: chinga petz

English: the bathroom
Italian: il bagno or cabine d'acqua
Barese: u baccaus'

And this is just the beginning, but it got me thinking about some of the mystical aspects of the Mastandrea culture. We mentioned some of the shamanistic remedies for child constipation and chest colds, but what about the hallucinogenic properties of Uncle Lenny's special chunky wine. I witnessed John, Uncle Andy, Uncle Joe, Vito Caravella and Big Vin drink and then lie to each other.. I was confused at first to hear my father talk about the time he designed an automobile for Ford (I was a little hurt he had never mentioned it), but once Vito Caravella asked him if that was the same car they drove from NY to Finland, I knew something strange was afoot. Anyway, I'm curious if John rememebers this experience, and if he told any tall tales that night. Arrivederci, all.

In a sidebar (non-blog) discussion of Joey's unseemly willingness to "put the douche on the table" I am told Joey has used the word douchacotomy in an actual conversation.

This is alarming. And, in a strange way, inspiring.

I almost wish I was back in my undergraduate studies. Or, better yet, in a doctoral program for comparative literature. I'd would use the term douchacotomy liberally throughout my thesis, confident that no one would have the nerve to challenge me on whether it was a real word. And then I'd be able to confront Joey and tell him (as I often do anyway): "Joey, you're full of shit." But in this case I'd be able to add: "But not as full of shit as modern day academicians."

Once we're done with the Encyclopedia Mastandrea, I have an idea for a new initiative: Mastandrea University.

Lightning round: define mooligas.

Gladly.

mooligas-noun---1.The soft white doughy center in a loaf of italian bread. Mastandreas are often observed tearing it from its crust and dipping it in red sauce before consuming it.
"Vito, what's good to give a baby who is teething?" "Hmmm, give her some mooliga."
2. Small pieces of toilet tissue that that may separate and accumulate in or around the area being wiped clean.
"Vinny, what the hell are those white things?" "Oh boy, looks like mooligas"
3. Something one may find in the corner of a ferret cage, particularly around the litter plate.(also see Mookie-Turds) "Joey, would you please get rid of those mooligas before I throw up?

I got a few more words that require definition:
1. meat-pipe
2. beach glass
3. purgalosi
4. viola

I offer a second challenge to the truly brave, try to define and/or explain these frequently used phrases. The derivation may be necessary in some cases.

1. con elefante, con pony
2. high potential for liability
3. from underneath
4. hava cuppacawfee
5. in and out nobody ba ba.
6. B.T.J.

For dragging this blog into the lexicographic gutter, we salute you, Joey. Just watch your back: someone might choose to post here exactly how you got that bad case of hat-head.

(Ah, more Uncle Joe quotes immediately come to mind: "C'mere, smell my hand.")

And the answer to your question is mutandes.

Lightning round: define mooligas.

I believe we are overlooking a very important word we have yet to bring up.
DOUCHE. It has many meanings and derivations. I was very disappointed when it was not used in the national spelling bee last week when ahkbar passed out spelling persnickety in the final round. I feel DOUCHACIOUS would have been appropriate for the contest. It must have a spot in the encyclopedia. There is also pi, 3.14. A very important term. Well I must sleep.
Goodanita.
And yes john in the morning is when i make coffee.
for the bonus round.....what did grandma call her underwear?

Shtinkin-stash: A word of Dutch derivation. Refers to the facial style one NSync fan would have liked to bestow upon Joey during a bizarre carnival trip somewhere in the tulip fields of Holland and helpfully preserved on VHS tape.

First Known Usage of the Term:

Dutch Girl [taking a pull of cotton candy and placing it across Joey's upper lip]: "Here, have a moustache."

Joe Fatone Senior [pointing at the video and leaning toward Vito]: "What she really wants to give him is a shtinkin-stash."

That exchange took place in 1997; since then, not a week has gone by that I haven't laughed over it for at least 10 minutes.

So the answer is yes: definitely get the Fatones onto this blog. Their heads are certainly big enough.

Bonus Round: for an extra 100 points, translate the following:

In the morn is qwan I mekka de cawf.

Steve. Always remember. If you cannot be traced back to a Mastandrea bloodline or deemed an honorarian by the governing faction dedicated to the procreation of the cranium then I would question who this information is read by. There are things people wouldn't understand, things they could't understand.

Capitch- A term used by the late Rosario Mastandrea to describe refuse wich we discard at the curb on a weekly basis. Removed by large men in the wee hours of the morning and showing no regard for anyone sleeping.

I have a word I would be intrested in seeing defined. Shtinkin-stash.

I would like to compile a dictionary of Cranial Slang as used by the mastandrea clan. An amalgam of Caravellas, Mastandreas and dare we include Fatones? They have large heads though maybe not in the physical sense of the word.

I didn't want to alarm BazzukaJoe, but when I heard that he had contracted folliculitis, I immediately suspected... John Ashcroft. If you want to relieve the pressure of those painful subcutaneous sebacious cysts, your best bet is to cease all acts of political dissent. And clean up your filthy, filthy web-browsing habits. The Patriot Act is far-reaching legislation. It has already gotten under many people's skin.

Bush is only trying to outdo the Reagan legacy. After all, Ron helped spread AIDS, remember? W is sitting around saying: "How'm'I gonna top that?"

Drop the chalupa: I just this minute heard on the news that an angry Taco Bell customer belted a rude cashier in the mouth with a chalupa (apparently not what he had ordered). I've eaten one of those: prosecutors should seriously consider a charge of assault with a deadly weapon.

Okay, I know it seems like John and I can be repetitious on the Hate-Bush, but this epidemic is getting a little out of hand. Just minutes ago, I actually witnessed a grown man accuse George Bush of raising gasoline prices. The man laying the accusation was a bit unclear on exactly how the president accomplishes this feat, and so I was forced to imagine it myself. I picture George Bush sneaking out in the middle of the night and secretly changing the price signs at gas stations across the nation. Then he goes back to the White House and enjoys a hearty laugh at the crazy prank he just pulled. After all, gasoline prices have nothing to do with the controlling interests of OPEC, or Middle Eastern oil producing nations. Therefore common sense says, IT MUST be Bush raising the gas prices. I joined him in his tirade, I asked why were so lenient on him when he caused Hurricane Andrew?

Q-Tips -- The trademarked brand name of a cotton-tipped swab popularly used to dislodge accumulations of ear wax from the ear canal.

If you're a Mastandrea there is, of course, more to the story. Mastandrea babies will naturally consume massive quantities of milk, bread, cookies, soppresatta, provolone, and sfogliatelle. In doing so they will both ingest air and create conditions in the digestive tract for the development of additional gas. This intestinal gas can cause tremendous discomfort unless discharged, either on its own or as part of a full bowel movement.

Apparently, the lowly Q-Tip may be wielded as a sword in the battle against these debilitating intestinal cramps. Quoth the pediatrician: remove crying baby's diaper, procure clean Q-Tip, drag Q-Tip through a jar of petroleum jelly, insert Q-Tip into baby's, er, evacuation route... Stand back.

This methodology is so effective that even the threat of its deployment is sufficient to mollify a cranky baby. So striking is the technique that upon seeing it performed (first thing in the morning, I just got out of the shower and was holding a Q-Tip clenched between my cheeks: "Hey Steve, is there something wrong with my ass?") one is convinced it is simply a horrible nightmare and prays for swift deliverance.

Joey, you win. I earlier posited (with not a small amount of pride) that you are not the only member of the family to have performed onstage abroad.

Steve has since pointed out that I'm not the only member of the family to have been humped by a gorilla in public.

He volunteered no details and I don't think I want any. I'll just withdraw my earlier assertion and quietly let the issue slide.

At some point I will post the full Gorilla Story -- make it part of the Encyclopedia Mastandrea which Steve has now started. I just need to be very careful in the telling -- it's so very... incriminating.

Me and John have been talking about inviting friends and extended family onto the blog, and for those that do not share the same surname, oversized cranium or penchant for broccoli rabe, Ive decided to begin the first HITCHHIKERS GUIDE TO THE MASTANDREAS I encourage all to contribute to this guide, as it has the potential to become more important and influential than the Torah. And with that, we begin....


THE HITCHHIKERS GUIDE TO BEING A MASTANDREA

1.ORANGE SOUP--A rare consomme endemic to Jupiter Farms, Florida. Its signature color and flavor can be traced to a unique preparation process pioneered by the late Rosaria Mastandrea. Its consumption is considered a necessary ritual in the Mastandrea holiday celebrations.
Orange Soup---Know it, love it, eat it with orzo.

2.Lou Monte-Important cultural icon in the Mastandrea home. He is revered and loved for performing hits like "Darktown Strutters Ball", "Angelina", "Crazy Mary", and his magnum opus "Pepino the Mouse". Shouting these songs aloud to the heavens is considered an important holiday ritual. Therefore, having these songs committed to memory is vital to becoming a Mastandrea.
Lou Monte---Do not ever take his name in vain.

3.Seven-Layer Cookies---a delicious multi-colored baked good. Invented by a member of the Fatone lineage named Marcelle Villareale. Often called by outsiders its misnomer "the rainbow cookie".
Seven-Layer Cookie---Don not under any circumstances call it a rainbow cookie, Mastandreas can be very unforgiving.

Six bananas? That sets me to musing about a very pointless mission I undertook several years back: a visit to the famed gorilla of Amsterdam. Yeah, I skipped a scheduled conference call to go to the show. Yeah, I volunteered for the audience participation part. Yeah, I ate the banana.

Message to Little Joey: you're not the only one in this family who has performed onstage in a foreign country!

I readily admit that your performance abilities are somewhat more developed than mine. And your audience is normally more enthusiastic than the bunch of Sri Lankan business tourists who sat through the entire show looking confused and worried. But for about three minutes of dancing, banana-eating, and getting humped by a gorilla, I was a star, baby!

We weren't told that we couldn't chew the banana. Would that have enhanced the act's entertainment value? I'm very eager to learn the details of the particular banana act that transpired that evening. Did anyone make the obvious connection between rocket-building and banana-pranking? Were any of your rockets painted yellow?

And most importantly, was all this before or after the flaming-golf-ball incident?

Musings of missions gone by...

As we get older somehow all missions seem to begin at WalMart. Is it because all of the worlds misfits are employed there? Is it because most people shopping there are barefoot? No. I believe the best ideas are concieved after 2am. It is the only place available. We must begin there by default.

I recall a joint mission taken on by the joey and steves. (did I pluralize that correctly?) Late one evening while watching George Carlin it was suddendly very important to have a modular gas powered rocket with launch pad and firing remote. Imperative because in passing the packages earlier that day big steve noticed that the package assured us that with the payload cone it could reach a height of 200'. In very small print: assembly required. We set out to have them assembled and ready to blast at sunrise. Little steve made about 2 dozen chocolate chip cookies. I went over directions while Big Steve did the parts inventory laying it all out across 2 large tables. Little Joe watched TV. Not very helpful, I know, but he did pay for a few so we let him slide he also distracted Richard "I can eat six bananas without chewing" Koontz from interfering with the assembly process. Richard was attempting to be a family member by association. The few the chosen the rejected. He would be dealt with on another occasion. We built 4 that night and eagerly waited for morning. We broke out the launch pad and fuel and set it all up. First flight was a stunning success. The parachute descended some 4 miles away and was retrieved by big steve. Our options now became infinite. We tried many configurations that day but ended up losing and incinerating all the rockets. I believe one veered of and flew over the neighbor in his yard. He thought it was a missile. Not the sharpest guy. But it was all in the name of science and the lessons learned would later be utilized for fourth of July maneuvers.

AHHHHHH 4th of July. Don't get me sarted.

The penguin almost moved me enough to post, but folliculitis---i can't even spell it. Yet, I am drawn to it. After molten ore is shot into the area in question, then what? does it form a horse shoe? How does one contract such a vile face deforming malady?

Can we show some compassion for poor cyst-headed Joey... who we can now call Signor Mal'Occhio (or mal-ooch, as they'd say in the neighborhood).

Hey Mal'Occhio, where'd you get that swelling? A batting cage mishap? Bad bounce of a flaming golf-ball? Or did that hat you were wearing at your bachelor party leave a nasty ring?

Y'know, life is like a hat. A big hat.

I'm still waiting for Vito (oootivoo) to join this blog -- and provide the Brooklyn fig tree report. Last I heard, the harsh winter had taken all the ancestral fig trees. I keep hoping to hear otherwise (maybe they're just sprouting late this year?). About a year ago I took a cutting from the wildly overgrown tree on 38th Street and had it growing nicely in a big clay pot all last summer. And it didn't come back either.

Vito, what've you heard?

If only John had a picture of this weird swelling in Joe's eye/head, then he'd be able to post it with the other head pictures... it would obviously be under the title Folliculitis Head. Not many would be ready for that one.

Missions huh? I seem to remember a mission Steve and I were sent on with a small search party. we were in search of Strongville to a attend a banquet but never mind that right now. I have a new vocabulary word.

Folliculitus...

I woke up last week with a strange red bump in the corner of my right eye. Some would say it was pay back from the wife or maybe i bumped something with the gravitational pull created by my MASTANDREA sized head. I figured it would go away. I awoke the following morning and gazed in the mirror with my one good eye to blurrily see that I was incorrect. My red spot had grown into a large purple and red area resembling the mark atop Gorbachev's head except mine was in the shape of a sfogliatele. It oozed a bit like a fresh cannoli. It hurt quite a bit. The mother informed me i should be in the ER. So i returned to the place we have all become so familiar with... Jupiter Medical Center. The guy took 1 look and said FOLLICULITUS. A few moments later a burly women in scrubs told me i was getting a needle to help the swelling. The needle would go in the rump roast and it was quite a needle. The needle was not the issue. The molten iron ore she shot into me was. I now know what it feels like to get kicked by a horse. She too said hmmmmm folliculitus. I believe this could be the answer Folliculitus...

My money's on the bird. And I'd gladly pay the price of admission.

Right now I'm back from a barbecue at the boys' school. I got grill detail, so I left the event with a fine coating of grease and smoke that needed to be washed off.

Now that I'm showered, I have that fresh feeling again. And a glass of Pimm's -- which is crap, but Guido bought it a few months ago thinking we could drink it and be more British. Not sure why that was appealing to him. We opened the bottle, drank some, and promptly found something else to drink (Top Job or sumthin'). So I've had this bottle since then and I've been trying to kill it; I just now poured some out and noticed the address on the label: 78 Marylebone High Street. It sounds familiar -- I think my hotel was on that street last time I was in London. Which would explain the stink. And the squalor.

I heard on the radio this morning that an administrative law judge in New Jersey has declared "Ladies Night" specials (free drinks for women, not for men) to be an illegal discriminatory practice -- no different than charging higher prices to members of different races or religions.

Am I the only one left in the Northeast who sees a fundamental difference between Ladies Night and Jim Crow? How did we come this far from reality? I'm so glad I'm not a lawyer--

Oh, wait...

Today, I offer a suggestion to improve the sad and pathetic state of sports entertainment; the triumphant return of THE CIRCUS MAXIMUS.

Both John and Ree were reflecting on past events that appear to make less sense in retrospect, and so I contribute one of my own. I once stayed up an entire night debating with a group of like-minded banana-heads about reinstituting the ancient Roman competetition of Man vs. Beast. Inevitably, what began as just a light-hearted comparision of its obvious benefits to the economy and public at large developed into an individual competition to answer the age-old question-- "What animal could you defeat in hand to hand combat?" I am proud to say that in a unanimous vote, it is believed I can defeat an Emperor Penguin.

I have a clear vision of the new Circus Maximus: I see Michael Buffer announcing "Lets Get Ready to Rumble....." while in one corner waits a fighter and his trainer, in the other corner a rhinoceros...and his trainer. I've also decided the name of the venue at the epicenter of all this, imagine Pay-Per-View Events live from THE OTTO ARENA

So what were we talking about with the missions again?

Profound observation, MariaRose.

Missions for no reason. I remember a few of those way back when. Those were the days! As I recall they could be a great deal of fun. Thanks for the stroll down amnesia lane.

The more I think about it, I'm afraid that we had a purpose that night. I'm thinking that we were playing paddleball in the dark and we lost the ball (imagine that!) causing the aforementioned flashlight run. Any guy will tell you that a tool has to be broken down to its most basic elements, explaining the liberation of the clear lens.

Could we have been looking for remnants of Frankie's sparkler? That should get the all-knowing Otto going.

See how old age has made me into a conspiracy theorist?

I'll be out of town on business for a couple of days with no internet access. Maybe I'll be able to remember the search target from way back when. Take care everyone.

Ree, you are more correct than you realize. One might argue (correctly) that the whole inquiry into what we were doing that night is indeed one of those pointless missions.

Why do I pursue it?

No reason.

Nonetheless I eagerly await the wise words of the all-knowing Otto.

Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It has been almost a year since my last blog. What shall be my penance?

I'm very excited to be back on the blog, it is good to know that I can speak with those who I don't normally speak with on a daily basis.

First off, let me wish everyone a Happy Belated Memorial Day. I hope that you had a restful weekend and day off.

Wow! Summer is finally here! Well, for me at least. School ended the 28th and I couldn't be happier, I'm a senior now. Things are going to be a little different, but that's okay, it should be fun.

John, to get back to your question, do you remember if you were doing one of those missions for no reason? For instance, I remember when I was little my friends and I used to do fake missions and go out to look for absolutely nothing. It was fun. Kind of pointless, but still lots of fun from what I remember. As a kid, you don't know that its stupid because its fun, itsa game. Think about it! I'm sure John Paul and Joseph do it!

When you think of that now, it seems that it all was just a waste of time because our society is now known for doing things for a reasons, if its really unimportant, then we'd rather not do it at all.We work so hard at things that are important, that it makes us lazy and in the long run so that we can't spend time on things that are a blast but are unimportant.

This is what our world is coming to.

Does that ring bell at all? It was just a suggestion...I figured I would help answer your question even though I wasn't there.

Happy searching for the answer!

I'll talk you all later, have a great day.