A Morrissey album, without the music, and without the humor? That sounds downright dismal. You know what I want to see on DVD? Elmo singing classic songs from "The Smiths."

"Goldfish in a coma/I know, I know/It's serious..."

Elmo's entertainment career took a turn that was nearly as tragic yesterday at the birthday party of Andre's one-year-old little girl Alexa (and Andre ought to get on his knees and thank the heavens every day that she inherited the beauty of Toleen instead of the wookie-like features of Andre).

Anyway, Cookie and Mojo were very excited to meet Alexa and all of her friends and family. And they were more than impressed when a giant, red, wookie-like creature ambled into the room and did the hokey pokey.

Wait a minute: that was Elmo!

Yes, Elmo arrived and delivered an in-depth performance for the young and the old. Mojo Jojo was absolutely transfixed, which is something we don't see very often. Cookie, on the other hand, was a skeptic. Perhaps it was the zipper that went down the length of the plush red costume. Perhaps it was the black mesh inside Elmo's permanently open mouth. Or perhaps it was the abundance of arm hair and leg hair that burst through the too short sleeves and cuffs of a costume that just didn't have enough square footage to cover Andre's surface area.

It was an hysterical perfomance, and the kids got a huge charge out of it. Maybe a year ago Cookie would've experienced it with the wonder that Mojo did. He still had fun with it. But now he's old enough to be cynical.

I thought we'd have more time before that happened.

Yesterday, we made a second trip to the South Florida Fair, which boasted an extremely unique attraction (so get ready Alane): a pair of identicle twin midgets touring the Fair on miniature segways. Here in Palm Beach County, there resides a pair of minor celebrities named the Hulett Brothers (Guiness recognizes them as the worlds smallest identical twins), famous not only for their miniscule size and enormous wealth (they are real estate moguls and owners of a pest control company), but for the very disturbing commercials they make for our local TV stations. Everyday we are forced to view twin midgets dressed up like spiders or the Blues Brothers while singing and dancing to Y.M.C.A. (Alane you can expect a tape on your birthday). Now, seeing the twins is a common occurrence for a local like myself -- what disturbed me were those miniature segways. I find those segway human transporters creepy anyway (like something out of a bad Star Trek episode), but seeing them shrunk by some reducer ray and commandeered by midget clones has plagued me with nightmares. For those unfamiliar with the segway, you can click here: Amazon.com: Electronics: Segway Human Transporter (HT) i Series.

Joe is right, I did unfortunately miss the Mariachi Band, I was home listening to a Morrissey record....without the music...or humor. I used to have a picture on my dorm-room door of Michael Jackson with a mariachi band. It was fascinating.

I was also asked about the official Kahuna Sneaker Count. It stands firmly at 17, just three shy of maxing out the shoe rack I got him for Christmas. I expect he will soon be applying the same principles to his shoes that he does to his CDs. One rack for holiday shoes, one rack for white leather etc.

As Valentines Day approaches I know somewhere in Castle 1525 awaits a giant stockpile of the world's supply of Lifesaver lollipops waiting to be freed.

By the time the boys were dressed and ready to burst into the living room this morning, Airport Guy was already up and checking his e-mail.

It was a good try.

So we piled into the kitchen and devoured a few stacks of pancakes before making a quick trip to Stew Leonard's. Bought some goodies to send back to 38th Street, then sent Uncle Joe-maha on his way. I'm sure he's enjoying his last evening of Brooklyn, chained to the steam pipe in the kitchen of Castle 1526, listening attentively to the barbed silence that Helen and Vito toss dramatically in each other's direction (from different rooms, of course).

The good news: my back pain has lessened a bit over the last few days. Still there, just not as blindingly intense. I may even get some sleep tonight! How will the blog survive?

Live from Tuckahoe, it's Saturday night. Long past my bed time I blog with satisfaction. I'm now an "Aqua Teen Hunger Force" fan. And I sense Mastandrea history in the making.

John and Alane are great hosts - book your visits early. John Paul and Joseph were bundles of energy and great singers. I'll be singing "Brak" myself, too.

As for the history tomorrow morning, time will tell. After Vinny returned from his tour in the Army Vito took John and I to visit his mom. Vinny was still asleep, but John and I woke him with refrains of, "Get out of bed, sleepyheead." What will happen tomorrow? If it's newsworthy, you'll read it here.

Rescue Heroes are some of the boys' favorite cartoon characters. They are known for saving avalanche victims. But I bet they never thought of this ingenius self-help technique.

It's not quite the best but the strangest album I'd seen in a while. You have Steve to thank for that one though.

I met a munchkin yesterday named Fabio. He wasn't quite a midget. He was 4'10".

ANYWAY
Jessica and I visited a small local mexican place this week and when we ordered we noticed a mariachi band playing in the corner in full garb. This is not a normal occurence a La Fogata but was a nice treat. Then the entire group gravitated to our table and in a broken half garbled statement the lead singer said happy or romantic. No contest....Happy. The man smiled and had only 2 bottom teeth and he hummed the begining of the song so the 2 guitar guys and the two trumpet guys would get the picture. The song they played was "quando quando quando." I am not sure when Englebert Humperdink performed in mexico nor when that was a happy song but it was quite an experience. I tried to call Kim and vanswer some of these questions but she was performing and thought I tried to coax Steve into making a trip he was too busy consoling a girlfriend after a tough breakup. What better consoling than a LIVE MARIACHI? I was disgusted. I did however get their business card because I am sure that someday I will invite them over for a mexican fiesta at my house or Spumoni South. I was also thinking that if ever Steve and Kim decide to wed they are definitely going to need a band since John's has long since expired.

Bazzukajoe always had a way of getting his hands on the very best music, performed by the most uniquely talented artists. "What's in the basket?" Alane should have herself a look inside.

I'll never forget stopping in at Joey's hotel room at the Rihga Royale and using his bathroom. That was a high-tech experience then; it's nice to see the relentless march of technology as it merges mp3 music with heated toilet seats. Gadgets rule!

Yes, it's a penis statue. Not just a penis statue: a penis fountain statue. And the two spheres at the base? Balls that rotate freely atop jets of water. Yes, art reigns supreme in the land of Rembrandt, Van Gogh, and the fabled dancing gorilla.

We drunkenly posed for photos under that statue after we left Casa Rosso -- our second visit to the well-strapped gorilla.

So Merl, when you visit be sure to look for the statue. And please convey my warmest regards to the sexed-up simian of the Red Light District.

Did I ever blog the gorilla story?

With Merl now scheduled to visit the Famed Gorilla of Amsterdam, this is perhaps an apt time to explain exactly why they call me "Johnny" in Amsterdam. As you might expect, it's not a very good reason.

It goes back to 2000 and a large organizational meeting I was organizing at the Amstelveen headquarters of the large multi-national I was then working for. In the run-up to that meeting, my London-based colleague Robin Oakley was on the phone with Miranda Bongers, a staffer at HQ. I love Miranda -- for her name alone. Anyway, she didn't particularly care for my name, for throughout her correspondence with Robin she kept refering to messages from someone named "Sean." Oakley had no idea who that was until he realized she meant me.

"We also call him John," Oakley helpfully pointed out. She replied to that e-mail with this intriguing suggestion:

"Why not Johnny (I like that name better, it is a real Amsterdam name!)"

When we finally did hold that meeting, pre-printed name badges were spread out on a table near the door. Mine? Of course it said: "Johnny Mastandrea." I wore it throughout the two-day meeting and even while I presented.

And that, my friends, is why in Amsterdam they call me "Johnny."

I didn't say the story would be interesting...

Ko-neechi,
Today is the first day of the rest of my Vyskrebentsev life. A moment of silence, please.

And I'm refreshed.

I thought I would share something with you all that I always find cute. Since my father's March Madness Mishap he has a 'woolee' for junk food. Now, this wouldn't be as significant if you hadn't already known my father for eating candy. Growing up, I have no recollection of the Vinman eating any junk other than: cheap sesame candy and Christmas candy when it was the appropiate time of year. Occassionally he'd indulge in chips and dip, those were always a staple in our house. Today though, he thrives on: Pringles, Flavored pretzel nuggets, assorted hard candy, dum dums, tootsie pops, caramel popcorn, cream soda, and ginger ale.

Yum!

Yee-hah! The archived copy of yesterday's disc replacement surgery is available. Take a look: it's free. You'll need Real Player. And a strong stomach. But it's such a cool procedure -- reminded me of that time in 1988 when Guido and I installed some kick-ass overcoil shocks on my VW Beetle. That car was jacked up at the end of his driveway for hours while we stood around trying to figure out a non-lethal way to compress the coils using less-than-appropriate hand-tools.

Come to think of it, the two operations were not at all alike.

In the mock-fascistic words of everyone's favorite Serb band Laibach: Life Is Life. And who can argue with that?

Just got back from a meeting in Washington. It wasn't a bad trip -- met at LaGuardia with our executive director (my boss) and another director (my colleague). Togther we took the 9 a.m. to D.C., had our meeting, then took the 3 p.m. back to New York.

The trip wasn't bad, though the icy winds of New York gave us a rough approach into LaGuardia. How rough? Enough that our conversation, which had been focused on budget challenges, suddenly switched to the issue of sucession planning.

Needless to say, we landed safely, worked our fingernails out of the armrests, and disembarked for home.

So now I'm home, searching the house for vermouth. You'd think I'd learn to stock up on that stuff. "Stock" up. Get it?

I am intrigued that steve can give an accurate count of shoes on the tree. He neglects to recall his putting Vin's shoes on the wrong feet. Vin was not amused.

And by the way the people down the street at Spumoni South already own a Sea Tractor. We were actually just moving into our house when we heard a loud backfire and squealing engine. When I looked out from the stack of boxes a THING came down the street with 4 morons in it. They were sitting about 15 feet above the road and the seats were actually 2 beach chairs and a love seat. I looked at my dad standing in the doorway with a cane at the time. I said, "I could put all this back on the truck." He just nodded.

I did ask him if he had any suggestions for the VITO: Hits from 1526 album but he got upset about it. It would seem that the very mention of the state of the union at Castle 1526 is very unsettling so I do not bring it up in jest. It is a soft subject.

John for the record no one should drink coffee if it came out of a Flavia. Its pronunciation alone disturbs me.

Check your email I have sent an album cover of a new cd I got. Alane would like it.

At the office we have one of those Flavia automatic coffee machines (oh, sorry: beverage systems). It brews single cups of coffee in a wide variety of undrinkable flavors and strengths. I thought of the old office stank-machine when a friend sent me this.

Watched a live webcast of disc replacement surgery today. Fascinating stuff. High-tech. Greusome. Scraping out the old disc like old window-frame putty; using a mallet to tap into place the metal-bases of the polyethylene bushings. Ouch. I gotta have me one of those...

I can't wait until the archived copy is available. Maybe if Alane watches the operation enough times, she can perform the procedure for me -- at night, after the boys are asleep. I have a full set of Craftsman tools that she can use, and I'm pretty sure I can fashion my own prosthesis out of some soup-can lids and soap erasers.

Where there's a will...

That Ronald McDonald fellow is nothing but a big fat liar. According to a newly-revived lawsuit, his deceptive advertising causes parents to feed their children cheeseburgers and fries when they would otherwise be feeding them, what, Pop Tarts?

Not clear if lawsuits like these will become the next tobacco litigation, but all the same rules certainly apply (some say nicotine's addictiveness distinguishes the two lines of cases; I say try eating just one french fry). Deceptive advertising laws are nice; someone should try applying them to politicians' campaign ads (it'd never fly, but would be fun to watch).

The radiology report is in! Actually, it's been in for a while; I only got a copy of it yesterday. That herniated disc material that's leaning into my spinal cord and compressing the nerve root? It's calcified. Yep: nothing like having a rock stuck between bones and nerves.

Talk about your daily grind...

I did get a new Rx from my doctor (my regular doctor -- the specialist doesn't return my calls). It's a mucle relaxant. It doesn't seem to alleviate any pain, but it certainly does make my limbs all heavy and rubbery. Maybe I'll try it with what I have left of the Vicodin -- see what it's like to be numb and rubbery.

BTW, will someone please post the latest count of athletic shoes contained in the Kahuna collection?

Not to worry, Ree. Vito would not have felt obligated to smile back. If he was sitting in a Taco Bell, he'd be too busy to even notice you -- he'd be looking through the items on his tray, muttering things like: "What the hell is a gordita, anyway?" and "Can you believe they want $3.99 for this little nothing?"

But the truly amazing thing is this: just how much stuff would be on that tray of his. That little nothing that cost $3.99? There'd be 20 of them. Gorditas? Dozens. And while he might not be smiling at you, he would certainly be asking you why you weren't eating more of them.

"C'mon, have a few of these. I got 'em in case you got hungry. Here: I got you a chalupa... Whatever the fuck that is."

WooHoo!!! I got a new computer... Thank The Lord! It's nice to have one that actually works now.

I have a picture of it but I'm afraid that it may be too big for the blog, so if anyone wants to have a "look see" they can email me.

I have a question that I have been pondering and it is in regards to Uncle Vito's will to be annoyed by everything. Do you believe that all people his age feel that way? I thought people were supposed to mellow with age. Its such an odd subject.
This though came about today when my friends and I went to Taco Bell after school. As my friends stood in line, I decided to go get us all a table in the corner. As I sat waiting, I called my house to tell where I was, and as I hung up the phone, I couldn't help but notice an elderly couple sitting in front of me. I caught the eye of the woman and I happily smiled, and she reciprocated the friendly gesture. The ironic part was exactly when I smiled the song "Not Gonna Get Us" by Tatu came on full blast in the speaker directly above them. My point is that my smile was genuine, and I sincerely thought they were a cute couple, but did she smile back because I did? I couldn't help but think what if that was Uncle Vito and Aunt Helen and I was just someone of no relation to them who smiled. Would he be annoyed that I smiled at him and feel incredibly obligated to smile back? Anyway, this was something that I was thinking about.

I have a song to add to the Vito Greatest Hits:

Garbage - "I'm Only Happy When It Rains."

Good picks, Ellen. Considering the suspended-animation properties that adhere to the Castle 1526, I'd like to add one more track to the score:

"One-Trick Pony" by Paul Simon.

It wasn't meant to be a melancholy song, but if you play it over and over for 40-something years, it'll get a bit depressing. Now see, if they had an Argo Avenger 8X8, they'd want to get their act together, make plans, and file for retirement tomorrow -- pack sensible lunches and drive proudly into the lake of Prospect Park, roll right over the syringes and beer cans that wash on the shores of that august fishing hole, and finally have some fun in life!

Hell, if I get one of those, I might retire myself. Drive my ass right into the Bronx River.

Since Joe-maha is now at the airport in Chicago waiting for his flight back to 2-land. . .and is fond of the Blues. . .

• Muddy Waters: Mean Mistreater
• Brownie Mcghee & Sonny Terry: Blowin' The Fuses


• Brownie Mcghee & Sonny Terry: Trouble In Mind


• Memphis Slim: Misery


• B.B. King: Thrill Is Gone

and for Joe himself. . .

• Muddy Waters: You Gonna Need My Help


• B.B. King: Outside Help

This is too easy with Blues titles. . .

This amazing vehicle even has its own newsletter. Ask those maniacs down the road from Spumoni South whether their mud-buggies have newsletters.

I bet not.

Writing that reminds me of something we experienced while visiting Alane's cousins in South Carolina on our way to Bazzukajoe's wedding. We were doing some food shopping at a local supermarket. The checkout counter was smaller and configured differently than what we're used to, so Alane and I were confused about how to orient the shopping cart. The less-than-patient cashier said something to Alane, seemingly in a foreign language. Alane then pushed the cart right up to the register and the cashier rang up our stuff.

When we got to the car Alane repeated what the cashier had said in her powerful southern drawl:

"Bring your buggy over here."

I had never called a shopping cart a buggy. I just never thought to do it. I laughed uncontrollably for about three or four hours.

Anyway, I tried to tell Guido that the Argo would be impractical when driving with passengers. So for fording streams with extended family, we might consider getting a sea tractor.

I need one too....

No snow here today but it was 40 degrees. I was loving it. I am impressed JP thinks of me like that. They never cease to amaze me.

If you have one of these, I think you can drive right out onto the frazil ice.

UPDATE: Guido and I are pretty sure we absolutely must have one of these. One each, that is.

Here, again, is the family chariot, still parked across the street except now it's 11 a.m. of the morning after. It's not quite as buried as it would otherwise be -- Alane went out last night and brushed some snow away. Now she's out again with the boys. The snow seems to have stopped but the wind is kicking up in occasional gusts.

I'm watching from the window as the boys scamper up the snowbanks with their little shovels. Still no sign of frazil ice. I may call in an air-strike anyway.

Those brave Iraqi freedom fighters are stepping up their heroic efforts to rid their nation of the indignity of free elections. With Zarqawi upping the ante, who knows what will come next. We hope they don't get overly zealous in their noble pursuit: let there be no slashing of tires on get-out-the-vote vans (such barbarity is only acceptable in the barely-civilized, post-industrial cultures of Blue America).

The Milwaukee County D.A. is reportedly going to file charges this week -- a simple vandalism rap that took two and a half months to bring. No wonder Zarqawi sleeps so easily each night.

Wow -- Joe's story brought back a memory I had repressed for quite some time. It too involves crap. At my folks house in Ohio, we don't have septic but sewer. One day my brother Brian and I were home alone. This was almost always a recipe for some sort of disaster -- though I can't figure where the rest of the clan was. I was older, so they were probably at one of my brother Joe's football games. Brian and I came back from some sort of adventure and the homestead STUNK. Huge, gag-inducing, stink.

We went to our basement and alas we were awash in crap. The sewer had backed up into our house. Now this is the part that I can't figure out to this day, for whatever reason my brother and I decided that it was our sworn duty to remove the crap. So we got shovels-snow shovels and began shoveling shit. In this lovely fecal matter was lots of corn. Giving me a new found respect for the undigestibility of corn. The other part I'm blanking on is what we were doing with the crap once we shoveled it. I assume putting it in a garbage can -- but all I recall is the shoveling.

While shoveling my folks came home and looked at us like we had lost our minds. (That's what responsibility gets you). My dad said lets go up to the hardware store and get a shop vac. Thus ending my brother's and my adventure as shit shovelers.

This was not what I was going to start off with or the reason I sat to post but it all came rushing back with Joe's septic tale. BTW, the other day John Paul and I were talking about what a good big brother he was. I said I wished I had a good big brother. John Paul said, "You did, right mom and he died?" I said yeah. John Paul's response was, "But you still have Gary and Bazzuka Joe." I told him that was right.

Anyway... What sat me down to post was my making blueberry muffins. It reminds me of the one thing that Vito may not have found annoying. (Although now that I writing, there really might have been some annoyance). He was giving John and I enough Hostess mini-muffin packs to feed the masses. He looked at John -- not the "So I looked at him" look-- as he passed out a little serving bag and said, "Sometimes you get six." As in sometimes you get six in that little bag instead of five and this was almost as good as winning the lottery. Now I'm wondering if maybe he wasn't annoyed that you didn't always get six. Today when I brought the muffins in to John, I purposely brought him six to see if he would make the comment, because now almost everytime I make mini-muffins, one or the other says it. But today it was not to be and I was annoyed.

For the Helen mix, I think you can do an all Eurythmics and Annie Lennox mix. You could have:

• "You have put a Chill (in my heart)"
  
• "You hurt me and I hate you"
  
• "Why?"

Shortly I will attempt to take the boys out into the blizzard. Ain't nothing that builds character like playing in a blizzard. Joseph is already balking but he will join the festivities.

Danny Elfman has a track on the soundtrack from "The Hulk." Track title: "...Making Me Angry."

Elfman did a lot of the music for dark movies like "Batman" and "Nightmare Before Christmas." He's perfect for this: Mastandreas don't need off-the-shelf music; we need an original score!

I feel your pain. . . .

I am sorry you are up at this hour. I will recommend water therapy once again. . .as my PT says: "Gravity is not your friend." I also recommend a rolled or folded up towel between your shoulder blades when you lie down. . .I use one under my neck and under my lumbar spine and it helps better than the $$$ expensive prescription pillow. . . .

It is intense back pain that has me awake at this hour; it is the horrific image of a turd-belching meat-pipe that has me shivering in a fetal position.

Then again, I appreciate being able to even type out the term "turd-belching." As Steve once famously said (and he most sincerely meant it): "Oh how I love discussing crap."

I know a song:
"The more you ignore me " by Morrissey
"this one goes out to the one i love" by REM

Wow. I know your feeling alane. I feel surrounded by misfits every day of my life. This afternoon i watched a guy with a convertible top drive with it half open and inflating like a parachute.

When I worked in Macys early one morning the cleaning guys sucked up the cable connecting the stanchons that create the space you stand in on line. He wound it up in the waxing machine so fast it caught a chair leg and yanked it straight at him. He ducked and it smashed an etagere and a case in cosmetics. He walked away with it spinning unmanned. The rope burned up from spinning and caught fire under it. That's the kind of A-list people Macys hired. Cannot understand the chapter 11 thing.

Anyway...

The toilet clogged at work today and it reminded me of something that happened at Spumoni South a while back. We first moved there we didn't know a whole lot about septic systems. Apparently they get clogged and need to be cleaned out every so often. I came home from work to a funny shtink in the place. Upon inquiring the mother infomed me that we had a backup and the guys would be coming on Monday to fix it. A back up? The shower and tubs looked like a pudding pie. It was even bubbling up as we watched. Nasty. Badwater. So I go out front to the yard and fresh air. I know there is an exit pipe somewhere. How else would they clean it out? I found it hidden at the base of the palm tee under the front window. I turned the cap and slowly removed it. What happened next lookek like a coffee pot percolating as the pipe emitted a creeping stream of wet paper and meatballs all over the lawn. I quickly tried to replace the cap but it was putting your thumb over a running hose. Not happening. I decide to head inside and break the worse news when I heard my mom celebrating that "it was going down!" I told my dad what just happened and all he said was, "Why would you do that? The whole block is gonna know." Little did we know it would draw them like flies, not repel them. I shined a flashlight out the window and showed Lena. She said "What's with all the meatballs on the lawn?"

"That's probably what it is," I said. "See that pipe? Its the septic pipe." We now refer to it as THE MEAT PIPE Well it was too late to do anything so I left the pipe open all night. What a sight in the morning...

On London Calling by The Clash, there's a track that got some airplay during the classic-rock radio days of the 1980s. Its title: "Hateful."

I'm sitting by my window gazing out at Railroad Avenue. I see lots of driving snow. No frazil ice, though.

Quite literally the East Coast of Nebraska. I can see Iowa from the top of the hill that lifts our backyard. BTW Iowa is every bit as frigid and snow-covered as Nebraska is right now. There was no ice on the Missouri River first thing this morning but by 11 AM it was about 20% covered with frazil ice. Who says the Internet is only good for porn?

How do I know so much about river ice? Around here it periodically jams causing flooding. Then we dynamite it to break it up.

Welcome to the blog, Ellie!

East coast of Nebraska? I told you not to let anyone sell you ocean-front property out there!

Thank you for the invitation to join the Macaroni Dish blog. It has been suggested that I not reveal any local family secrets so as to avoid a horse's noggin in the Murphy bed. . . .After 17 years with Joe-maha, I feel as though gravy runs in my veins, albeit slowly when it is single or barely double digits meteorologically speaking.

Since it is hard to type with mittens on, I will bid you all 'good night' and return to my voyeur status after expressing my gratitude again.

So much for sensitivity to the lessons of history. I'm blogging from the frozen east coast of Nebraska, where the temperature struggled into the double digits. I'll folow the cold to the east on Monday morning as I head to CT to instruct. Funny how I missed a cold spell two weeks ago while I was visiting Castle 1526, leaving NY as the cold got there and missing it in Nebraska. This time I'll endure it in both places, neatly conforming to karma.

It's been good to be back home for a few days, cleaning up the mess at the office and getting ready for a week of vacation there so I can do my part-time job and visit Castle 1526 again. So much for John's hypothesis that I'd learned the lessons of history. Actually, I fly in and out of LaGuardia and the drive to the job is three times longer than the drive home so I couldn't miss this opportunity to visit. See how work intereferes with after action reports?

When it comes to Vito's mix we might want to include:

• Never Give Up by Barbara Streisand (another Brooklyn kid)
  
• Fight by The Bunburys
  
• I Can Help by Billy Swan
  
• It Takes Two by Marvin Gaye
  

No one mentioned a Helen mix, which itself would be ripe with options:

• Leave Me Alone by Donna Summer (was this supposed to be a dance mix?)
  
• On my Own by Patti Labelle
  
• Love Stinks by the J. Geils Band
  and of course
  
• All By Myself by Eric Carmen

John wins with "King of Pain." I somehow felt that I couldn't list another song by the Police or I would have posted Don't Stand So Close to Me."

"Unrolling the bracciole of life" is a nice touch, not that there was anything wrong with stirring the gravy or the cellar stinking of old wine.

Wow, time warp. Sitting here flipping channels and came across "Silence of the Lambs," already in progress. And what part of the movie did I catch? The serial killer lowering the basket down the hole, saying:

"It rubs the lotion on its skin or else it gets the hose again."

There was a time on Staten Island when you couldn't flip channels at any time of day without hearing that. (As a matter of fact, there was no way to talk to each other without hearing that line either.)

Here's the family chariot, sitting across the street, in the snow, parked by the curb. And there it shall stay until the skies are done dumping snow upon us.

I took that picture at about 3 p.m.; I'll check later this afternoon or tomorrow morning to see if it's worth posting a comparison shot.

The chimps are chattering at the front window, waiting for the snowplow to rumble past again.

Snowbound, I'm sitting on the floor, leaning against the coffee table, scouring the Internet, blogging. Which makes being snowbound very much like having a busted back -- because this is all I've been doing for well over a month now.

Which reminds me: I've got a few things I want to say about the quality of late night television. I'm gonna get my thoughts together on that...

A snowstorm is supposedly heading for the Northeast. I'll believe it when I see it. Still, I hear that the supermarkets have been picked over in anticipation of armaggedon.

Right now I'm watching the cable station that does traffic and weather reports 24 hours a day. I understand Joa-maha was fascinated with this station while waiting out his sentence in the dungeons of Castle 1526. As for me, I'm less than enthused -- they're showing lots of negative numbers as local area temperatures right now. And they're confirming tomorrow's imminent storm of snow. Snow and wind. Yes, Bazzukajoe, wind.

Lots of gusto.

New York seems to be in the midst of Nebraska-style weather. And that's not fair. How's it feeling at Spumoni South?

Yes it took me a bit, but it came to me -- "I can't make you love me (if you don't)."

The little lion was very hungry. so he went to the haunted McDonalds and ordered a cheeseburger and fries from the ghost behind the counter. The ghost went to the back and the little lion heard lots of spooky noises come from the kitchen until the ghost came back with his food. The little lion sat down and was about to eat when Scooby-Doo came running in with a warrant from the Health Department. He served the warrant on the ghost behind the counter. Then he pulled mask off the ghost's head. It wasn't a ghost at all -- it was Curtis Sliwa! He'd gone back to managing McDoanlds, but was cutting so many corners in the area of food safety he could only do it disguised as a ghost. So the little lion decided not to eat his tainted cheesburger -- he'd go to Burger King instead. And as they led Curtis Sliwa out in handcuffs he turned to the perp-walk camera crew and said: "I would've gotten away with it if it weren't for those meddling kids."

Cookie and Mojo wanted a spooky story when they want to bed last night. This is what I told them. They've been highly critical lately of most of my bedtime story ideas. This one they seemed to like.

"King of Pain." By the Police. I win.

My mind has been in overdrive attempting to add more songs to the Vito song list. As of yet, I have nothing to contribute, but I will come up with something.

This morning I sneezed and my nose was running a liitle so I took the tissue and wiped it. After I did this, I called Joseph over to clean up his booger problem and he said, "Don't touch me." I said, "Why?" His response, "I don't want to get sick. You have diarrhea of the nose."

The other day we drove by a house under construction. It had no siding or shingles. Joseph asked where it's "skin" was. I explained that skin on a house was called siding and on the roof called shingles. A couple of days later we drove by the house. John Paul said, "Look that house has jingles." So I was looking for a house with Christmas decorations--jingle bells. Then I realized what he was trying to say was shingles. The house had now gotten shingles. It amazes me what sticks in their heads.

Tell me why! I submit the Boomtown Rats' "I Don't Like Mondays." Or any other day, for that matter.

Next survey: postal music.

I apologize for the long absence, things been a little batty the last few weeks, but Alane's entry inspired me to make time. I welcome with open arms Brandi to the blog. I'll refrain from singing "the sailors say Brandi, youre a fine girl..." because I've been informed Alane and Vito find it annoying. I once met Alane's cousin Rick in Manhattan in a moment that will remain etched in my mind forever. We were talking in front of the Museum of Natural History and he was about the throw away an empty soda can, and instead politely handed it to a homeless man who was collecting cans out of some nearby trash. Instead of continuing on as he had been, the can collector just froze inches from Rick's face. He then proceeded to stare in his face smiling for a good ten seconds before slowly but LOUDLY exclaiming two words to him:

"HAPPY... DAY!"

Picturing Rick's confused face is making me laugh right now, but his response is downright legendary. He said very dryly: "I thought our relationship ended when I gave him the can."

So with that kind of pedigree, all of Alane's cousins have a free pass to the blog. Anyway, I have a lotta things to get off my chest today so Im gonna jump right in.

1. John, I been thinking about putting together a mix-tape for Uncle Vito with songs that he can relate to. So I challenge you to think of some titles that are appropriate for his unique angle on life. I'll get you started:

• "I Wont Share You" by The Smiths (dedicated to the many relatives he'd rather not visit than let his wife enjoy)
  
• "The Old Apartment" by the Barenaked Ladies (self explanatory)
  
• "I Can't Stand The Rain" by Missy Elliot (or any other weather for that matter)
  
• "I Hate Everything About You" by Ugly Kid Joe (again this kinda sums it up)
  
• "Black Velvet" by Alana Myles ("don't really know song, but shes got the same first name as my daughter-in-law")

2. In response to the last question addressed to me: Uncle Vito pronounces it "Alana" because the correct pronunciation is annoying. As is the pronunciation of every name, except "Yankees."

3. I'm willing to accept Alane's conclusion that my brother and I are destined for the depths of hell, but I openly challenge anyone not to laugh when a handicapped preacher pronounces the name Jesus as "Chee-tits." Or when a perfectly healthy priest performing a marriage says that "you must give your fart... excuse me heart..." Or when a man gets foul-tipped in the scrotum by a 80-mile-an-hour pitch that his cousins dared him to swing at, causing a future injury that would require surgery and make his gonads resemble a spinach pizza.

Shit, I really am going to hell.

4. My brother left out another detail from the South Florida Fair which I believe is worthy of mention. Just adjacent to the pig race track lied a row of disgusting public toilets, one of which had an open door and a patron devouring his soggy rain drenched dinner inside. We stared in astonishment, even took a picture. All I could say was "that's a small cafeteria".

Well, I got more to unleash but I gotta get running back to work.

And speaking of extended family (yeah, we mean you Brandi!) I saw something in the news today that reminds me of yet another misty legend.

Had a very nice chat with Brandi this evening. Vito joined us briefly (until his DSL link went down). Brandi's even signed up to be a blog contributor. I shall goad her into utilizing that access -- by talking about her on the blog until she feels the need to post comments in her own defense!

Okay, I won't do that. We haven't been down to the Carolinas to see Alane's cousins since the run-up to Bazzukajoe's wedding. We need to get down there again. In the meantime, Brandi's semester started up this week. You can't tell me ridiculous stuff doesn't happen in school! Brandi, save us from our daily routine: share your plight!

Elsewhere, it's frickin' freezing in the NY area these days, with snow on the ground and annoyance on my mind. Not Vito-level annoyance, mind you... Because that's hard to reach.

Frylock: why does my dad call my wife Alana?

I'm sitting here, reading blogs and watching Euronews on cable-tv. I like Euronews... "Sissy european lisp-thing," is what Harvey Birdman's boss might say. When I'm weathering the seiges of Castle 1526 I like to tune into that station so I can enjoy the disgusted look on Vito's face.

"What the fuck is this?" he'll mutter. Of course, he mutters that all the time.

I was thinking of all my compadres at Spumoni South as the boys and I went on another of our adventures. Due to the sub-zero weather (I believe some sort of side effect of global warming), our adventure had to be indoors. I had planned to take them to this place where they manufacture snow and then make a large hill so you can sled, but the weather was even too cold for the little maniacs.

It has been my goal not to miss a single Children's Museum in the Metropolitan NYC area. I had pretty much hit them all except, THE STATEN ISLAND CHILDREN's MUSEUM. So I loaded up the boys and off we went. This journey brought back a virtual kaleidescope of Staten Island memories. As we passed a house that appeared to be built on the road (I guess set backs are not part of Staten Island zoning), I remembered Joe's adventure with his car and a house that just wasn't where it was suppose to be causing Joe to hit it. I remembered the great bridal shower that Aunt Marie had for me. I remembered Jeanine breaking the cinder block with her foot.

As I approached the museum, I got this strange sense of deja vu. It looked sorta like the place where we all went on the outing to that historic village, but I'm pretty certain I was in a different historic setting on Staten Island. I recalled that on that trip MariaRose had ran up to Marlena and punched her in the back and then proclaimed, "It was an accident."

I also vividly recall the developmentally and/or physically disabled woman at the historic village that made me realize for the first time what a fast track to hell Joe and Steve were on. This memory came back because in the Arts and Crafts room of the SI Children's Museum, the volunteer helping had Down's Syndrome. (Which did cause me to pause and ponder for a moment if there something Love Canal like on Staten Island causing genetic anomallies-come to think of it there was an entire school group of developmentally disabled kids there). I will say I was very proud of the boys. They did not miss a beat. Did not ask why the lady looked different or anything. Just struck up a conversation about collage techniques. Some other little girl came in and was terrified and asking her mom what was wrong with the lady.

Upon returning home the phone rang and it was John's mom. She sounded great. It doesn't appear that there has been any permanent damage from the stroke. I told her that I thought she was very lucky to have escaped without any impairment. I told her that she had been given a second chance and if I was her I would go to Bermuda or something. I also added that I doubt God had left her on the planet so she could return to her toils at Gannin tire. She believed otherwise, as she planned on returning because she had about year more to do. Every one views things in different ways I suppose.

Tonight I went to Astoria to visit Andre's House of Chiropractic. It was my first visit to such a place. The experience put me in the mind of the immortal Smiths lyrics:

He broke my spleen
He broke my knees
And then he really laid into me...

So now I'm home, all beat up. I feel rejuvenated (though I don't think it was enough to break my Vicodin addiction).

Joe-maha (a/k/a Airport Guy) fled the Castle 1526 today. We eagerly await his post-action report.

They put Vinny in a poncho. And he's not even the Mexican in the family...

Santayana lives on in yet another high-stakes psycho-drama unfolding at Castle 1526 (one absurd enough to send Joe-maha hastily plotting his return trip to the cornfields and conference rooms of distant Sarpy).

The dynamic is fascinating: despite being substantially weakened by medical catastrophe, Helen has heroically dedicated her daily efforts to keeping Vito removed from every aspect of her life.

At first it was sort of amusing: he'd try to help and she'd pretend he wasn't there. Hardy har. Then it kept up, with her shutting him down at every turn. Then it got tiresome. Soon you couldn't help but smell the stink of contempt in every tortured exchange.

I talked to RoseAnne about it and quickly found out she has the very same stink about her. With her whispering constantly in Helen's ear, I must conclude there is no hope for the situation.

So I'm bowing out -- though I still find it immensely fascinating, probably because of the enormous irony of it all. If Vito's non-retirement from the Post Office teaches us anything, it's this: the worse you treat him, the longer he hangs around.

"Those who cannot learn from history are doomed to repeat it."

Joe-maha is much more sensitive to the lessons of history, so don't expect him to come back to Brooklyn for another 15 years... At the earliest.

Some deep textual analysis is in order. Within about a dozen words of each other, Bazzukajoe mentions the leg of Steven (it was hanging) and the leg of a turkey (it was large). These narrative elements converge to build frightening imagery: Jenia gnawing contentedly on a fur-covered coyote leg; Steve circling the fair-grounds like a giant, depraved, pizzaiola-devouring buzzard.

I am too disturbed to sleep.

I.C.Q.? That is archaic. But back to what's important. We ventured out this weekend to the South Florida Fair. A mecca for the misfits of the world. We saw pig races and inbreeding and deep fried snicker bars. Is there a need to deep fry a snickers? I could actually hear arteries clogging. It was a fairly douche experience. It was made all the more fun because Nikoles came too. The rides were half closed do to the sporadic biblical rain we were experiencing. We pressed on. The Vin went too; he no longer misses any opportunities to venture into the unknown. My mom covered him in a rain poncho. A poncho. The word alone is bad enough. The highlight of the evening was Steve riding the glider ride with Nikoles. He looked like big man in a little suit. His legs were hanging off the back. And I witnessed Jenia eat a turkey leg as big as my head. All in all a fun day. I am not sure if we were watching all the inbred redneck trailer misfits or if they were watching the us.

This rocks -- Mrs. Petronio knocked on our door earlier with a big plate of homemade ravioli, meatballs and sausage. Outstanding. It's all part of my sinister plot to usurp Guido's place in the Petronio family hierarchy -- or at least eat the food that his mother had otherwise prepared for him. I'm hitting my stride. Guido's been invited to join the blog, but so far he has not weighed in (not even in self-defense). No problem: more ravioli for me. (And for da boyz: they ripped into those meatballs.)

The Post is still better at stuff like this, but the News comes in with the latest quaotable quote. Moral of the story: when wildly porking your neighbor, be sure sure to put out the candles (or at least put out the cat):

"This is so embarrassing. We had never done that before and now she's in the hospital and my cat's dead."

I'll have to search my personal archives for anything that interesting. Blogs are for sharing.

Doesn't anyone use ICQ anymore? I signed up for an account sometime in 1997 (or something like that) and we used to chat with each other across the offices of the Law Journal:

"Let's get coffee."

"OK. Gimme five minutes."

Real useful stuff. Even better:

"I need lunch. Wanna go to the Greasy Duck?"

"Yeah, let's grease the duck."

And so on. I dug out my old account info recently and logged back in (using Trillian -- a multi-network IM client that I highly recommend). My account number is 1505588. I'll keep it open for a while, but all the old timers have moved on to Yahoo or AOL IM.

Oh well.

It's not that he appears to be a particularly dangerous man, but it just doesn't seem like a good idea to annoy Ron Jeremy... especially on his home turf.

These are indeed tales of great bravery. Bravo, Vito.

This afternoon we unceremoniously took down the remainder of the outdoor Christmas lights. Giudo despaired: "No vermouth! No barbecue!"

Of course he was pissed: I let him do almost all the work.

It sure was cold. Which doesn't seem to discourage Cookie and Mojo -- they want to be outside regardless of the elements.

Helen got sprung from the joint today. I saw her shortly after her return to 39th Street. To abbreviate the old Army descriptive: situation normal.

And what is it about the shops at Grand Central that when you walk through there past 9:30 p.m. you can't find one black-and-white cookie to bring home to your kids? You'd think they'd keep more of those in stock...

Right now I need some sleep -- but my rib-cage feels like it's being crushed. The Vicodin is nice for making everything numb... everything except that tattered nerve. Taking the pill seems to just accentuate the pain. And I need to turn up the contrast in my life.

After a long and perilous investigative mission to Vegas, Vito has returned safely to the New York area. We eagerly await his report from the floor of the Porn Awards.

So far, the details are sketchy. Did Ron Jeremy merely pose for a photo with Vito and his group, or did he invite them up to his room for a bowl of spaghetti? Would Ron Jeremy ever actually share his spaghetti?

And when they recruited Vito to perform on-the-spot mortadella inspection, exactly how did the competition stack up?

These are the things we need to know.

After about a month of pain-inspired insomnia, I fell pretty soundly asleep on the couch this evening (and it was my night to tell stories to the boys at bedtime). I slept just long enough to miss a call from Marlena and an IM from Joe-maha. Now I'm up and watching Euronews, pounding Vicodin, and sorting through the events of the past week trying to find something blog-able.

I could post what I've seen, but people would find my characterizations so far-fetched...

And Vito held out his mutandes and said:

"Out damned spot!"

Oops. Wrong Shakespearian tragedy.

Vito and I just got back from the laundromat. It was his first trip to one. Ever.

Your punchline here.

More later.

I think the Internet is a great thing. But I still worry about Alane's using it... so many bad ideas out there.

Mojo treated us to the most fascinating psychotic fit I've seen in a while last night.

It was bedtime and he was commenting on how sleepy he was. He supposed, out loud, that he could probably sleep until the following night.

I was surprised to hear this from him -- he very rarely volunteers to sleep.

"If you sleep through tomorrow you'll miss Spongebob on TV."

He let me know that he's so over Spongebob:

"That's okay. But I wouldn't be able to watch Scooby Doo.."

Upon saying this, his face fell:

"I didn't watch Scooby Doo today..."

He started crying:

"I have to watch Scooby Doo!"

And the crying turned into a tantrum -- all this in the space of about five seconds. Amazing. Even more amazing was that, despite his being so tired (supposedly), it took another 20 minutes to convince him to go to bed. Without the Scooby Doo.

The eagle has landed. Last night. Alane was able to find him at JFK.

I liked my MRI images a lot more than my CT scan images -- I thought the MRI shots had more personality, more artistic quality. Didn't scan any CTs -- and got them to the spine doc today. No good shots of my spleen. That's what I most wanted to post.

Tsunami? I blame Bush.

Light blogging lately. What with the trips to a Brooklyn hospital, the busted back, the month of no sleep, and now the gastro-intestinal malaise -- I got things going on! Maybe Spumoni South will keep the pot stirred over the next few days. I will be collecting Vito stories (and here Steve is right -- for me to post those would absolutely require footnotes... and a translation table).

A woman boarding my subway train tonight wore a huge button on her coat that said: "No War on Iraq."

I had an overwhelming urge to say to her: "You're right, that Zarqawi guy really needs to stop all his anti-election violence."

But that would just be wasted sarcasm: I knew quite well her anger was reserved for the people who oppose the Zarqawi-types. She, in other words, was just another asshole.

Helen and I each got CT scans done yesterday. What's the chance of that? Mine was thoracic, of course, and I just looked over my image-slides -- them ribs need some barbecue sauce!

Helen is stable and in a room and annoyed that the television isn't working. We like signs of normalcy.

Next medical adventure: Cookie needs his tonsils removed. His are very large and appear to be growing hands.

We're going to the mattresses in Brooklyn these days. Let me tell you something about hospitals: if Vito can't handle the workings of an airport cab line, imagine how he might react to the dynamic of a city emergency room.

Lots of stories; little time.

Steve says I should start including footnotes on my more cryptic posts. All I can say is this: if you have to ask what it means, then you probably wouldn't understand. My assessment: "Sounds like you need a fence."

At lunch today I bought a black and white cookie. Then I remembered that John Paul had asked me over the weekend if he could come to my office. I told him we could do that one day soon.

"And we'll go to Grand Central Station? And see all the trains? And you'll get me a black and white cookie?"

He was a recalling a trip we'd taken together, joyriding and trainspotting -- back in June.

"Yeah, we'll do all that," I said, though I'm not sure when (probably after I get my back ripped open and repaired).

So for tonight, it was just the black and white cookie I'd bought at lunch.

"You boys need to share," I instructed.

John Paul had a plan for that:

"Can you cut the middle in half?"

I'm not sure how that would work. But I got a knife and did sort of what he asked.

Thou shall not covet thy neighbor's wife. But you should roll her off the driveway before shifting the car into Drive.

Whaddya mean, no per-minute charge? I'm running a tab on these boys. As soon as they're of age, I'm presenting a bill.