The stinky balloons. One of the best treasures ever to leave Castle 1526 and come to our humble abode. The bags when given to me looked, ancient. Something was very wrong about them. The descriptions on the front of the bags only added to my anxiety about product liability problems. Funny Shapes?!? Ok, this was explained by the crinkle cut french fry looking balloon with the Jackson Pollack design. This was the one that got to me. One of the bags declared that the balloons were "irregular". How can a balloon be irregular? Pretty much its only function is to be inflated. If it cannot inflate, then pretty much it is broken. Irregular is not really an option for balloons.

The balloons were stink. I believed they smelled like a crematorium. Not that I have ever smelled one--it just seems like one would smell like. John told me,matter of factly, they smelled of rubber going bad. I'll admit, I didn't know rubber went bad. Would my car tires eventually stink like that if I left them in Vito's liquor storage cabinet? The other interesting thing was just how much rubber has gone bad on John that he knew that stink.

Besides being stink, the balloons were a hazard. Maybe Joseph a/k/a "Airport Guy" and Vito in a Vodka induced haze believed that these balloons inflated, but everyone we attempted to inflate exploded. The first one I attempted, a crinkle cut french fry styled one, exploded and sent balloon sharpnel almost into my eye. Further attempts were equally unsuccessful. The one I was able to inflate could not be tied as the rubber ripped when knots were attempted.

Equally hazardous was my seating location at the Hair Salon. As I quietly sat getting my hair cut and not sharing any deep dark family secrets, the woman next to me decided she would share this with anyone in listening range: "My sister had babies. Once the babies were born her breasts sagged like those African women's. So she went and got breast implants. She got her husband to pay for them and then she left him and he didnt even get to use them."
I was astounded. All I could think was if that lady's sister was able to hear this, there would be scissors through the lady. Maybe it's me, but I never feel an urge to share highly personal information about relatives to my hair stylist and anyone else that happens to be in ear shot.

Airport Guy is right: I owe the blog a recap of our visit to Castle 1526. There's much to disucuss, but the most interesting piece was already alluded to: ancient ballons were bestowed upon Alane. They were found in the space-time transporter that is otherwise used as a liquor cabinet.

But it wasn't the balloon bag that got my attention first: it was the image of Airport Guy and Vito Stinky Balloons sitting on the circus couch polishing off half a bottle of vodka.

(It's a circus couch because I was sitting on one end when Alane plopped down on the other end; a wooden board that sits loosely under the cushions to keep your ass from falling through to the apartment downstairs teeter-tottered up and damn-near launched me over the 16-lb sack of Odd Job Tootsie Rolls and into the love-seat in the corner.)

Not only would the balloons not inflate -- they stank of rotted rubber. But wow, did they bring back memories.

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been alomst a month since I have blogged.

I report from Suffolk County, NY, which is the current home of a flood watch and a winter storm warning. Snow last Sunday kept me from visting Castle 1526 before instructing and snow tomorrow will keep me from visting before I leave. I did learn that Long Island is more beautiful than I had remembered, especially from 10,000 feet. And from sea level at a quality Freeport eatery (if you ever get the opportunity, eat there. I recommend the stuffed lobster tails

I was watching the TV Guide channel on hotel cable a little while ago and I saw that the Aqua Teens would be on in about an hour. That prompted me to call John, who probably didn't want to sleep anyway. Turns out he's holding out on us. He visited Castle 1526 this past weekend and didn't report back to the blog about the balloons. Must have been the shellshock. Or was that battlefield fatigue?

Ellie and I shared a great Valentine's getaway but I was overwhelmed by both of my jobs so I haven't posted about it. Ellie and I celebrate Valentine's Day as our anniversary, and the most recent celebration was our 17th anniversary. We rented a cabin and enjoyed the getaway, especially the fireplace. Romantic dinners were included with the cabin rental. The first dinner was a comedy of errors: the waitress couldn't get anything right, leading to dueling predictions of what she would get wrong next. She did so poorly that we ended up laughing it off. The waitress on the second night did a much better job... to a point. She was prompt, attentive and accurate. In short, she was the perfect foil to the waitress the night before. Perfect, that is, until she served dessert to the couple at an adjacent table. As she leaned over to move the cheesecake from her tray to the table her apron sagged from her scarce bosom. Although the couple did not notice her cheesecake-smeared mammary, we did. And we chuckled over it. Eventually the waitress cleaned the cheesecake off her apron and returned to our table to ask what we wanted for dessert. I resisted the urge to travel the path blazed when Meg Ryan motivated the patron to say, "I'll have what she's having" in When Harry Met Sally. We giggled anyway. The watress looked confused. Don't worry, I tipped her well. It's the Mastandrea way.

Perhaps you had to be there.

The Aqua Teens are on in two minutes. I blame any typographical errors on them.

Honesty is the best policy -- but sometimes that just makes it hard (harder?) to be a Mastandrea. At least as it relates to owning up to one's true motivations.

Today I cancelled my AT&T Universal card -- a Visa account I'd had for about 15 years. Customer service patched me through to a supervisor who tried to talk me out of it. She asked why I was closing the account. I stalled.

It wasn't that I didn't have a reason; I just couldn't clearly remember it. The best I can recollect is this: a while back (a year? more?) I fell behind in my household paperwork and found myself late with my monthly payment (via Internet, of course). I can't remember how late, but in my mind it was only slightly late. Still, I got walloped with a hefty surcharge. I vaguely remember calling to complain, but they were within their rights: I was late and they charged me a late fee.

But it pissed me off -- enough that I resolved to close the account. I just never got around to doing that. Until today. So when the helpful supervisor lady on the other end of the phone asked why I was dropping the card, I suppose I could have been more forthcoming:

"Sometime last year you people pissed me off. I would tell you the details but I don't remember them."

But that wouldn't make sense to a non-Mastandrea. So I made up some line of shit about rewards points.

And I still haven't killed that Discover card account. Those annoying bastards really pissed me off...

I'm off to see Tommy in Bronxville because I need a haircut. I hope to return with hilarious tales. And both earlobes.

They seem to loop Matrix movies in the same way they used to loop the Silence of the Lambs movie. It's on again now. The middle one. I didn't quite believe Bazzukajoe when he declared it a steaming pile of crap -- but now I'm with him. There is a good chase scene. But everything else is talk. And the third one -- all talk. If I want to explore "fate of the gods" stuff, I'll read Homer.

Still, I can't seem to stop watching it.

Speaking of macaroni, it's a little-known fact that while stationed in a Germany in a U.S. Army barrack, Big Vin once constructed a half-scale replica of the Manhattan Bridge using nothing but tubatini. But for his aversion to wagon-wheel pasta, he would have made cars to represent Brooklyn-bound traffic.

No sense crying over spilled macaroni... Or is there?

There's also the inter-disciplinary approach to athletic footwear... and cellphones. Big Kahuna, take note.

Look carefully at the photo that accompanies the New York Post article on yesterday's sneaker riot on the Lower East Side. Can you see a head that's larger than the others? Snatching up the tricked-out skateboarding shoes while the crowd behind him brawls?

I give Big Vin credit -- in and out, nobody gets hurt.

18 pairs!
18 is the magic number. The Vin has some new sneaks. I saw them yesterday. very nice.
He is expecting the arrival of Philly. Another former resident of 38th street. He enjoys dancing eating and talking. He is the most fun of the Brothers Mastandrea. He and Aunt Cristina are wintering in florida.
Its been nice out lately. And so I decided to go out with my hammer and chisel in search of dinosaur bones. Did you know that chipping away at the sidewalk is a misdemeanor? John... i need an attorney.
So i was wondering what vito vinny & philly would be doing on the same park bench.
What park would it be?
What would they be talking about?
Would anyone stop to chat with them?
How would they have got there? does anyone even drive?
Would there be any guest appearances?
Would the special presentation possibly become a sitcom?
Okay now I have a headache.

I have greatly improved my diet in recent years, but Ree has just described something that I think I must try. She calls it the DOGEL: part doughnut, part bagel. Here's what I envision when she says that: fresh bagel sliced open, hot doughnut just fried and glazed -- squash the dougnut in the bagel and eat immediately. I could do that. I think I have to do that. And it sure beats the other snack suggestions I've encountered today.

Last I heard, Big Kahuna was up to 17 pairs of running shoes. I strongly recommend an intervention, lest it come to this.

Perhaps we can send the Big Kahuna's global econometrics out to the academic journals. It needs a catchy name. My suggestion: Auto-Euroticism Analysis.

So after Mojo befriended the yeti, we just hung around in the back, tossing snowballs, commenting on the EU's misguided policy toward Chinese militarism. We agreed that China had come a long way, but lifting the arms trade embargo would be a serious geo-political error. That yeti seemed like a real mensch. Until it was time to go in. Being made of snow he couldn't very well come in with us; instead he got a little pushy -- said he wanted me to take him to Stew Leonards for an ice cream cone.

I said no way -- I wanted to go inside to take a shower. The yeti got annoyed and started stomping around, smashing what little patio furniture I keep by the back door.

"Hey ice ass, find your own way to Stew Leonard's," is what I said to him, and I hustled the boys into the warm house. The yeti stormed around a little longer, chasing cars, irritating neighbors.

He must've annoyed one person too many -- last I peeked outside the yeti was back in his original spot, missing his huge head.

Serves the frozen bastard right.

Seldom do I feel the need to defend myself from John's scurilous attacks, but to this I must. I did not insist on making corned beef and cabbage on Sunday. Indeed, I had intended on making a roast, as that is what we generally ate on Sundays when I was growing up. (Not pot roast, although John's mom has decided that this is my favorite meal -- don't get me wrong pot roast is ok, but does not rank as an all time favorite of mine.) However, time got away from me on Saturday and it was too late to make corned beef that day thus the meals were reversed with corned beef being Sunday. Mind you, John had no trouble eating the corned beef or the roast for that matter. Today due to my menu failure, John has taken matters into his own hands and has made macaroni, of course he expected me to step up and do the macaroni part but I felt that he should make the whole meal as generally that is what I do. For instance I did not ask him to boil the potatoes and cabbage...

I talked to the Big Kahuna on the phone today, and I asked about his opinion on Prime Minister Putin's reluctance to believe Iran was a nuclear threat, and about the President's trip to Belgium to promote European cooperation in the Middle East. His answer was pure Big Vin Wisdom, he said "You know Russia doesn't make any cars. France makes what...the citroen? I know Renault is gone now. Even Germany can't afford to make cars anymore; Mercedes is owned by Chrysler, BMW is really a Ford. These countries are suffering, they got no money. The US, Italy, Korea, Japan, these countries still make cars. Even Poland is starting to industrialize, and Italy too. France hates that, hates that they can't seem to be an economic power." The political science think-tanks sometimes refer to this as The Mastandrea Euro-Auto Theorem.

Those planning on stopping over in London may want to pack a lunch. Did I mention the not-so-tasty meal I ordered at the "Rat & Parrot"?

Now that's some sticky snow out there. Got Da Chimps out early to play in the snow while Alane and Julio shoveled. Playing on my enduring disability, I did minimal shovel-work -- working instead on assembling a yeti.

The boys hid in their snowfort, which was just as well because when the yeti struggled to life it kicked up a fearsome amount of snow.

The snow has turned to drizzle. If there's a freeze tonight, the yeti will become the Tuckahoe Ice Man. (I suppose if I'd built it on 38th Street, the locals would call it a golem and enlist it in their ongoing seige of Castle 1526.)

Fell asleep pretty early last night, so now I'm up -- drinking turkish coffee, looking out the window at the accumulated snow. Da Chimps will be very excited. (Surprised they're not awake too with the how loud these snowplows are.)

Alane is not Irish. That much is perfectly clear. And yet today she is intent on making corned beef and cabbage and calling that dinner. That's okay. Really. But today is Sunday. ANd when I talked to Frylock earlier today he asked me if the sauce was on the stove. Shamefaced, I told him no -- this house rarely does the Sunday-macaroni thing. And that sent me into a mood of refelction. Turning my attention to the next generation of Mastandrea, I asked Vito John Paul what he wanted for dinner. He said he wanted popsicles.

Tradition is dead.

If Vinny, Vito and Philly sat on a bench in a room full of people, what would happen?

Mojo likes The Hulk. Except he calls him "Ooga-Booga-Man." So when I saw the movie "The Hulk" on tv this afternoon, I left it on. The boys came in and out to watch, but it was a crappy movie, very slow in the first half, so it wasn't until the second half that Mojo spread out on the bean-bag chair under the coffee table to watch.

Sometime around 6 p.m., he fell asleep (shows you how exciting Ooga-Booga-Man was in his feature film).

Five hours later Mojo woke up. We just watched a recent-release Speed Racer cartoon (I didn't know they were making new ones). Now there's a strange surfing cartoon on. Why are there kids shows on cable at this hour?

Today, Mojo went to school while Cookie and I sat at the kitchen table and chipped dinosaur fossils from a big rock (a kit that Alane got last night). We assembled the bones to make a miniature t-rex. We ate burritos. We drank juice. He's shown only the slightest after-effects from yesterday's tonsil-reduction.

Went out jogging this morning, using the old "long route" that I've been avoiding: out past Tuckahoe station, down to the park, along the Bronx River, over the little footbridge near Lawrence Hospital, stop to check for heart attack -- if yes, use hospital; if no, turn around for return run. Did I ever mention how much I hate jogging?

There are several websites devoted to the graffiti "artists" who bombed subway trains prior to the city's crackdown on quality-of-life offenses. I remember the spray-painted walls and windows -- only rarely was a figure drawing clear or a scribbled word legible. But I was always ingrigued at how seriously the tagging crews took their craft.

The vandals quoted at one particular site I found tonight were as serious as they come: proud of their various signatures, murals, and other creations -- stuff they did some 20 years ago. From 1981 forward, his stomping ground was the F train and he spoke fondly of his many creations.

During that same time period I rode the F train almost every day. I never noticed anything memorable (or readable) amid the grime and scribble. What good is it to write your name on every subway wall if the only one who recognize/remember it is you?

Well, at least he has fond memories.

We asked the nursing staff to wrap Cookie's adenoids in butcher paper so we could take them home. There's an old Barese way to prepare those -- you can serve them hot au jus, or cold in an artichoke and olive oil salad. Uncle Lenny would know how to do it on the grill.

Buzzukajoe is right: a toilet with an mp3 player would be good. But a toilet with an mp3 player and pyrotechnics -- that would be f'ing great!

Tonsils & Adenoids? Mastandrea's don't need those. They get in the way of our sharp sarcasm. My dad once had some issues with his uvula. It kept getting in his way. It looked like a punching bag. The ER doctor was a midget. Alane would hate Jupiter Medical Center.

I remember melting crayons in bottlecaps and scratching the bottoms til they were glass smooth. I don't know if the game intrigued me as much as the playing with fire to melt wax. Something about fire is hypnotic.

Do other Mastandrea's feel this compulsion to play with all things that burn and explode? Those are hard to find in Florida. Unless Broadway Joe and you borrow some powder from the pyrotechnic guys. That is the fun stuff.

I think we need to work on an MP3 player for the toilet.

Tomorrow is the big day for Cookie -- tonsil and adenoid extraction. He knows that his tonsils are getting fixed but he hasn't questioned much about what will actually occur. I feel bad for the little guy. We have been heavy on pushing the "you'll be able to eat all the popsicles you want" and not so heavy on the why for it. I know it is a fairly routine procedure but when it's your own little person undergoing it -- it gets scary.

Mojo has pulled a supreme Mojo today. I put him on his bed to curb his bad attitude. I was in the kitchen attempting to cook supper. I hear him say, "I need new underwear." This doesn't faze me as he changes his underwear about 7 times a day until he finds the cartoon character that fits his mood. After a bit he seems fairly calm and I tell him that he can get up.

Hours later, John comes home and lies on the boys' bed. He finds a pair of wet -- but not soaking -- underwear. We are still not that troubled. We are slightly angry because the underwear is on the bed and has wetted the comforter. We then ask Mojo if he had a problem and he starts laughing. I then move the comforter to get them ready for bed and there is a huge wet spot on the bed. Joseph peed on the bed. What we can't figure is whether he did it on purpose (you know like cats do when they are angry at you) or if he believed that I would not let him off the bed to relieve himself. Since I've always let him off the bed when he was being punished before to use the bathroom, this second option seems suspect.

As John has discussed, Monster Jam was not as much of an anthropological study as we had thought it would be. Mostly people with kids like us, trying to make the little guys happy. It was indeed worth every penny to see their faces when Grave Digger made its grand appearance. John Paul was so taken with it that he took the Grave Digger Joe gave him at Christmas to "Show and Tell" today. We are not sure exactly what he told the class, but in his practice presentation to us, he included that he had gotten the gift from Bazookajoe.

Speaking of Joe's, I received an email from Gary and Kathy that were friends of my brother, Joe. They are some of the best people I ever met. They are about to embark on a cross-country bike ride starting in San Diego and ending somewhere in Florida -- I think St. Augustine. The trip is about 3200 miles. The cool part is they are doing it as a charity ride and are asking people if they want to sponsor them by mile or some flat amount. One charity that they have chosen is American Heart Association and the money is being donated in memory of my brother Joe. I thought that was so great of them.

A day of science. While Cookie and Mojo ran horticultural experiments at the Bronx Maniacal Gardens, I was consulting a neurosurgeon on the West Side of Manhattan.

And still no genetically modified escarole...

Anyway, Saturday's MRI results are in: the herniation that was busting my back throughout December and January seems to have shrunk dramatically (which would explain the diminished pain over the last two weeks). Still, this is strange: the January CT scan showed that the blown out material was calcified. Hardened. Bone-like. A rock. Where did it go in a few short weeks?

No one can explain. More experimentation is clearly warranted!

So today's conclusion: the MRI must have missed it; as for surgery, we'll wait and see if symptoms return. Following that meeting I brought the entire set of radiology films to the other doctor's office; I now eagerly await his impression of this interesting situation.

In the meantime, I'm going to ask the boys to go back to the Bronx and whip up a crop of giant broccoli rabe -- growing season is coming up fast, and Guido's planning his garden.

We have the technology!

Okay, we did it: with Guido at our sides (to lend moral support? to laugh his ass off?) we took Da Chimpz out to Nassau Coliseum today to see the monster trucks. It was hysterical. The first time I saw those big-wheeled machines jump the row of cars I howled. Even better, Mojo clapped and pumped his fists. Now that was interesting to see. Even more surprising was the crowd: no mullets. Well, one that I saw. No rock-concert jerseys. Just lots of NFL apparel and families -- kids screaming for more.

Of course, the rigged "competition" resulted in a victory for Gravedigger -- but not before they hauled out an old car so it could be "eaten" by a mechanical "dragon" that drove out and chewed the thing up in the semi-darkness. Alane, Guido and I thought it was very cheesey; the boys thought it was top quality entertainment.

John Paul asks a lot of questions. Mojo doesn't ask about anything because he just doesn't care.

Forgot how loud the MRI machine is: high-volume, rhyyhmically-repetitive, grating chirps and squawks. A lot like rave music.

How silly of this Brookly-born Tuckahoe-dweller to not know a monster mash from a truck pull. I'd just as soon shoot skellies. Come spring I'm teaching the boys some real street competition. (To be totally authentic, you gotta draw the board using dry-wall scraps from Kings Material.)

Intriguing alternative? Yikes! That's the first time I've hear of someone liking sherry in the can. I guess if your nose can't tell the difference your can can.

Taking the boys to the monster trucks? Methinks you're already taking your sherry by tube. Are you sure there's pulling? Truck-pulling is a useful skill for some professions, although it generates so much smoke that I can't imagine a truck-pull indoors. And for some reason I can't imagine you sitting out in the cold to watch that. I anxiously await your report.

As I sit here with my ass planted in the sofa, I yell to Alane: "Hey, get me a drink!" Annoyed by my surliness, she offers me an intriguing alternative.

She may be trying to tell me something.

I'm not even gonna try to create ironic distance on this one -- this weekend, we're taking the boys to Monster Jam. A tractor-pull. Yes, we're bringing a camera. And a sense of humor. And Guido.

Never thought I'd be signed up for something like this. I blame Bazzukajoe, at least in part. He and Jessica gave the boys Gravedigger and King Krunch for Christmas and they've been playing with them ever since. They're the kind of trucks that you push to start and the back wheels maintain traction for 10 or 20 feet (giving me the opportunity to teach John Paul about the concept of "torque" -- as if he cares). We even built some cool obstacle courses using Lego blocks and sending the trucks rumbling over (am I getting too close to this?).

Anyway, I'm digging out my old rock concert jersies and thinking mullet thoughts. A full report will be posted Sunday night.

IM is cool. I'm here watching music videos while the boys build with Legos and I see an old friend log onto AIM, so I chat her up. After some nonsense back and forth she types "just saw a wild kangaroo."

Huh?

Turns out she in Australia -- so while I'm sitting on my ass waiting to send the boys to bed for the night, she's getting ready to eat lunch on Thursday. With kangaroos. And annoying IM messages from me.

Speaking of annoying, a Huey Lewis video just come on. You think they're watching that in the southern hemisphere?

Toilets? Yeah, we got toilets. For the total brunz experience.

I saw the spine surgeon today. His NP did an interview and exam, then set up the MRI films on the lightbox. The doctor came in afterward and did a brief exam and studied the images.

"That's impressive," he said as he looked at the massive blowout at T8-T9. He thought it over, asked some questions, and formulated his recommendation: "That needs to be removed."

No doubt. Anyway, I got another MRI scheduled and another appointment with another doctor next week. This situation is good for another three or four months of blog fodder, easily.

Just trying to catch up as life has gotten very interesting. While I was last visiting Castle 1526 a couple of weeks ago my boss quit. It's snowing for the second day out of the last three. Single digit temperatures tonight. Before the wind. I should be throwing beads in Louisiana tonight!

As I was saying, I need to catch up. Cookie, your fate was sealed at birth. Joey was right. The lawyer instructing my graduate business law course called me his, "Front Row Cynic" starting in the third week of class. We're THAT cynical.

In college I was crazy enough to make the 24-hour drive from Omaha to NYC. I spread it over two days each direction in grad school. My recent limit is 10 hours each way (Green Bay a year and a half ago, Oklahoma City a year ago). I will be back in NY to instruct in two weeks but I couldn't extend my stay due to the horrible situation at work. I plan on instructing a couple more times this year so I could end up in the southeast US. I know I'll be in Louisiana in this August for training.

What was with Aqua Teen and Harvey Birdman last weekend? Both episodes sucked. Ellie was not amused. I'll be back for more next week, though.

Back in high school I had favorable memories of cast parties. Perhaps because I was the one whose breath was a fire hazard....

Pepino? Priceless.

Not much to report on here except the long hours, snow and cold. It's nice catching up on how you're all doing. I almost expected to hear about the toilet with the mp3 player here. Does a Mastandrea own one yet? I need to know.

Went out running this morning. On ice. You'd think after a month-long lay-up my right knee would've healed. No dice: still hurts like a somnumbeech. Ran into Lisa on the corner and she questioned my judgment (again!), this time with regard to jogging with a blown suspension bushing. I plead guilty -- but I'm also putting on pounds just sitting around waiting to see doctors.

Speaking of which, I consult with a surgeon tomorrow morning. It's the guy Andre recommended... who live webcast the disc replacement. Maybe he'll tell me to suspend my jogging schedule (I can only hope).

The massage therapist at Andre's office is named Tinez and she plays jazz while she works. Being an unrepentant conversationalist (motormouth) I asked about her favorite artists. She was vague in her response, which is just as well since I wouldn't have recognized names if she had offered them. The only jazz I listen to these days is performed by Patricia Kaas, and her stuff is more piano-bar sultry-vocal I'm-so-sophistocated-and-Frrrennnch cabaret-fare. My only other jazz experience, and I told Tinez about it, was my after-prom evening at the Cafe Carlyle hearing Bobby Short on piano with his bass and drum accompaniment. Tinez was impressed, if ever so slightly. After she was done ripping tendons from my back, I asked Andre what he did after the prom. He had a hard time recalling much past the limo entering Central Park. Somehow I suspect he remembers more than that, but didn't want to say it in an open office. He cracked my back like a bastard tonight.

Today I went out to pick up a few things and the store where I shopped was near a Best Buy. Here, I saw what could only be described as Super Bowl fever gone horribly awry. On the curb in front of the Best Buy is the box for one of those huge screen tv's (the kind that take up the better part of a room). Being lashed to the top of a mini-van with what appeared to be twine, was the actual tv. It was amazing. They just tossed it up top of the mini-van and lashed it down. This seemed like a less than stellar plan to get it where it need to go.

Yesterday was the day of errand running. Mostly I'm not too annoyed by having to do them. It is one of the few times that I don't have Thing 1 and Thing 2 in tow. However, the Things would have been much more preferable than my banking experience. I needed to get a bank check. This meant I needed to speak to one of those people that appear to have more standing than the tellers as they sit at desks. I'm standing waiting and this guy appears with his extra jumbo sized Dunkin Donuts coffee and asks if I need help. I take one look and know that this is going to be one of my most horrific banking experiences if not the most horrific experience.

To say that this man was disgruntled does not begin to describe it. He had Vito hands down in the annoyance category. He obviously found the job beneath him and had no problem conveying this to me. It pained him that I needed him to do his job. What made this particularly annoying was he had no idea what he was doing. He wanted me to close out my FIDUCIARY account and open my own account with the money. I explained that as a fiduciary, I felt it important to keep the funds in a fiduciary account. This seemed to only enrage him more. He finally provides what I need and I go to the teller.

Now, the teller is another story entirely. I hand her the check that Mr. Helpful has written out for me and she says, "What am I suppose to do with this?" I explain my need for a bank check. She then wants to know why I wrote it out the way it was. (At this point she was sorta snotty). I then explained that I had no input into the way the check was written and Mr. Helpful had written it. She then stops being snotty and becomes my ally. Apparently, Mr. Helpful was not loved among his co-workers. She goes over to Mr. Helpful and tells him that he will have to re-write the check because yes--it was done entirely wrong. This causes Mr. Helpful further angst. After 40 minutes--I left with the proper check.

I think the tupperpotty parties are an excellent idea.

Just had the boys out in the mild February air. They spent most of the last hour digging through the enduring snowpiles.

Not really snowpiles -- the "snow" has been stacked for weeks of semi-thaw and re-freeze. So it's not really snow. More like ice. Can't make proper snowballs with that stuff... Only iceballs.

And some busy-bodies might try to say that a guy in his late thirties shouldn't have an iceball-fight with children who are only three and four years old. I don't subscribe to that. Nor am I above responding to a direct hit by dropping ice chunks down the back of my boys' parkas.

Don't worry: someday they'll get me back. (They were going to anyway.)

Of course it's possible to wipe one's ass while having a phone conversation -- that's what speaker-phone is all about. I like the idea of hash-marks on the side... I'm picturing a huge Pyrex measuring cup with a seat. No spout, please no spout.

Happy Day...
I don't know, it popped into my head. You left out some Joes:

Joe Shtrimps- an old high school buddy know for his interesting command of the language

Joe Gagalia- an old friend of vins from the transit authority known for his hair and temper as well as an interesting command of the language

Playdates huh? I don't know if i could be a part of that scene. I think maybe Alane should watch the Surreal Life. Verne is an amusing guy.

I had to work this evening but right before i left i was treated to an act of brief stupidity. An idiot was letting his girlfriend put eyeliner on him and when she was done he wiped off with nail polish remover and then followed it up with alcohol. Good thing he was too embarrassed to complain.

I went to use the bathroom at the mall yesterday and when i stepped away the automatic flush did its job. However it continued to fill with water til it flooded the urinal and poured all over the floor like a mini niagara falls. The guy next to me just looked at me and made a face. Like something i could have pissed out would have clogged it? Moron. I am not sorry his feet got wet. I reacted quick and moved.

Why is it whenever i call someone they are taking a dump? Is this karma? Is it possible to execute a good wipe when you're having a conversation. There should be a gallup poll on bathroom talkers. Striped or not? I think most would have residual fecal material due to lack of concentration. So has anyone taken any good photos of their dook lately? Just wondering.

While we are on the subject. Justinian is also known as 36 shits because he ate dinner with us at Steve's one night and he had to shit about 3 or was it 6 times. He was in there a while and even boasted having memorized a framed poem "ode to Steve by Kimberly Mexicano" on their bathroom wall due to lack of reading material. So the 3 & 6 became 36. You know the only 2 things in steves bathroom are a poem about him on the wall and Kim and Steve snorkling in a frame on the toilet tank. Is that strange for a dookie room?I dont know. That boy ain't right.

I know someone i work with that keeps yahtzee in the bathroom for those longer vists. I have been finding magazines in the bathroom at work. So the discussion logically arose. I think there should be pampered ass parties instead of pampered chef. You know they could devise all kinds of bathroom accessories for cleansing and passing the time. Making the baccous more user friendly and inviting. The crowning piece could be that automatic toilet -- and they could bring a mobile version in and encourage everyone to give a whirl. Or a swirl. Test drive it. They could have like custom toilet paper and special tools. Maybe a special toilet with graduated lines inside so you can keep a record of water displacement. This is good. Ill get back to you.

With the spine issue apparently stabilized (for now), I'm slowly resuming my jogging regimen. Did I ever mention how much I hate jogging? I dragged my lazy ass out the door this morning into the not-so-dreadfully cold air. New York has mild weather this weekend -- bonus! But the footpaths along the Bronx River are still covered with packed snow and ice. So I only did about a mile, mostly on sidewalks, some on snow. I clearly lost some lung capacity during my month-long lay-up -- I should probably do another mile tomorrow. Got appointments with two different spine surgeons this week. I hope they can give me a plan of action; when they do, I will certainly post it here (because I post everything here).

Being sick is totally awful...not that anyone said that it was the best thing.
My head is throbbing.
I lost my voice.
I get light headed for no reason.
I can't taste any food.
So if you gave me feta cheese, and blindfolded me, I'd probably tell it was steak.
I hate it, it gets in the way of my normal daily routine. It makes my work slower, it gives me terrible reaction time, and worst of all, I hate being tired all the time. I'd rather have a fever for a day then have a cold for weeks. The odd thing is that even though the mother was sick for a few days, I really don't think I caught it from her. I think I caught it from the mold that may be in my Math class. That pisses me off. Damn hurricanes and careless contractors.

I have tried ten billion times to get my SAT scores from collegeboard today and I'm still not having any luck. Grrrrr...

The one thing that is keeping me going is the anticipation of seeing my Uncle Vinny D'Elia in Margate on Saturday. Woohoo!!! I will be taking a butt load of medicine and hopefully not sneezing all over the place. With that, I think I'll be good to go... I'm psyched!

I'm on the 6:20 from Grand Central testing my ability to train-blog. Thank you again, Mr. Stangi.

As I began to write my post, John said, "before you do that, let's put on some music while you are blogging." So I'm like sure whatever -- for sometimes you go along to get along. Little did I know he was going to put on Lou Monte's "Pepino" and other music so disturbing that my blogging thoughts are fleeing. John's comment that this was what he listened to as a child gave me a great insight into his disturbed psyche.

I have not had anything near as interesting as Steve's cast party happen to me. I must say I am glad.

Today was my first foray into the phenomenon known as the playdate. Up until this point I had not attempted this social construct because well, I was chicken. Playdate's are the currency of the preschool set and lets say I'm less than affluent. However, Cookie had begged me at length to have his friend over. I finally gathered up my courage -- for imagine how you would feel should you be turned down for a playdate -- and asked Cookie's friend's mom if his friend would be available. Lucky for me, his friend's social calendar was not full and the date was on.

Cookie advised me that his friend liked white milk and to have some on hand should it be requested. I complied with this reasonable request. It should be mentioned that I had advised Mrs. Petronio that the noise volume might increase to rock concert like decibels, just so she wouldn't become frightened.

The most amazing thing happened. Cookie's friend arrived, and peace reigned supreme. It was quieter than when it's just Cookie and Mojo. No fighting, no arguing... quiet. And the most delightful part, I was not needed for entertainment. They amused themselves. I wanted to rent this kid from his mom. It's an added bonus that this kid is probably one of the most polite kids ever and an excellent influence on my guys. So, I will most definitely be doing this again.

Since I was already having Cookie's friend over and I was a little worried about the play dynamics of three, (As in someone always is odd man out) I also invite one of Mojo's friends over. Mojo's friend shows up, and Mojo is like, it's my friend from my class. He could not tell you his friend's name if his life depended on it. Indeed, throughout the time the kid was here, never once did Mojo utter his name.

Anyway, this is the kind of excitement you can expect when you reach a certain age, no crying over Johnny Cash, no cast parties, and no drunks molesting you. I would like to thank Steve for the disturbing thought of midget twins on segways. There was actually some rich guy in Bronxville that rode around on a regular sized one and I thought that was odd. The only other one I've ever seen was Gob's on Arrested Development.

Steve, as they used to say in Texas: just lie back and enjoy it. And start composing the latest episode of "Thank You, Mr. Stangi."

Realized it a few weeks ago when Brandi asked me to help her sort through the cast of characters featured on this blog: we sure have a lot of Josephs. I was trying to get them straight yesterday in an IM session with Steve (a/k/a Frylock).

And yeah, I know it doesn't help that we call people multiple names. You really have to pay attention to know who/what anyone is really talking about (and even then your odds are even at best).

Anyway, here it is -- a Cup of Joe (a cup that runneth over):

• Bazzukajoe, a/k/a Big Head, a/k/a JoSephora
  
• Joe-maha, a/k/a Joe Nebraska
  
• Pizza Joe
  
• Mojo Jojo, a/k/a Mr. Furious
  
• Broadway Joe, a/k/a Lil' Joe
  
• Uncle Joe (who needs no introduction)
  
• NASCAR Joe
  
• Joe-hio (Alane's dad, who we should immediately invite onto the blog)

Am I missing anyone?

It looks like the world needs an explanation for my weeklong disappearance, so here goes: BazzukaJoe does not lie, Kim and I indeed spent a week consoling a man requiring an unachievable amount of attention. ( Is it normal when a 26 yr. old man cries uncontrollably should anyone mention cowboy hats, laundry or Johnny Cash?) Anyway, this same man ( the aforementioned "Justinian Skolobasto" a.k.a. "36 Shits") and I have also been working on a side project, a comic strip tentatively titled "Thank You, Mr. Phang" which when it nears a more polished product will definitely get some attention on the blog. So the entire week wasn't darkness and sorrow...just most of it.

Next up: Kim's cast party for her recently wrapped stage production. The party is at the breathtaking beach front condo of the very affluent, and very homosassa lead actor named Stangi. Now, every prior meeting with this guy he is jittery and nervously mumbles all his words, but on this particular night I notice he is speaking slow and clear and wearing a huge blank grin. Apparently, alcohol has an effect on this guy unseen since Jerry Lewis in "The Nutty Professor", and tonite he is feeling particularly amorous. Now everyone has seen a drunk guy tell his friends he loves them, but its usually in a caring frat guy kinda way. Well Stangi begins professing his love to everyone in the room, but its more like a scene from "The Way We Were". I look over at Kim very uncomfortably to alert her that I will not be responding "I love you" to this lunatic. Next I watch him as he begins kissing the play's lead actress (who is married) all over her face, neck and then on the lips (to her shock and dismay). I shoot Kim a very disturbed glance as he moves onto his next victim, a young male actor named Alex who is looking very scared as his face gets showered with the wet kisses stinking of gin. Kim gets accosted next imediatally followed by oh yes....THE VICTIMIZATION OF FRYLOCK. I was licked, rubbed, caressed, and well pretty much pushed to the brink of projectile vomiting. I just faced the opposite direction anytime he approached so that it was my hair, shoulders, and side of my face that got it. It was like allowing a dog in heat to finish because its easier than trying to kick him off. Although it was horrible, I didn't get as bad as some of the other partygoers, and in the end I believe the shared traumatic experience brought us closer, kind of like survivors of a plane crash.

I know this because there was a second cast party downtown a few days later and everyone was far more friendlier and happier...this includes Mr. Stangi who once again started out very calm but as his alcohol levels rose once again transformed into the Amazing Molesto. I watch him from my table as he spots Kim dancing with a female cast-mate and decides to join them. Women would probably recognize the dance he did with Kim, because its sometimes performed at the gynocologist office....only they call it a mammogram. So I elect to not move from my seat in fear of what might be in store for me, and of course that does not discourage him from joining me there. He sneaks up from behind and decides my nipples need some adjustment (its possible hes viewed x-rays from my medical file and knows something I dont) He also gave my hair a good whiff and approved of its aroma. I made a snap decision at that point, I'm going to be skipping any future theater production parties....and I encourage you all to do the same.

I was banging around on IM last night when I saw Broadway Joe (a/k/a Lil' Joe) come online. I alerted him to the Elmo blog item I'd just posted; of course he had to do me one better. Being the pop-music expert he is, he urged me to check out the new style rapper. Not West Coast. Not Old School.

More like Old Shul.

I listened. I liked. I went to Delancey Street to buy myself the banger colors.

I do wish steve would discuss his wherabouts the last week or so. He attended the misfit fair and had 2 farts and a turd squeezed out of him on the HIMALAYA. He was at the amorous alcoholic house. He attended the nipple twisting convention downtown. And in the interim he has been consoling Justinian Skolobosto( also known as 36 shits & matching hatinski) in his severe tumble down mount lindsey. Steve. Give him the morrissey cd. Because some girls are bigger than others and some girls mothers are bigger than other girls mothers.

Cynical you say. For a mastandrea being cynical arrives about the time you first shit on the bowl. I believe it is developed in the frontal brow area of the cranium.

The Fair was quite an experience. It is the single reason for every misfit trailer park mullet in the state to creep out of their mobile home and eat a fried twinkie. Debuting this year is the fried snickers bar. What could be better? Batter and deep fried snickers. Its like a zeppole with a liquid snicker center. Or maybe you would rather have a turkey leg torn from the very rare 6 foot Chernobyl turkey. If you were working the fair you'd be eating that turkey leg in the bathroom. I dont know why. It somehow fits in the equation.

So when will joe maha make another trip to the east coast. Florida is not far. Ask john. he was insane enough to drive here.