Speaking of hypertension, I just pulled a blood pressure reading of 121/74. Not too shabby -- except that these days it takes 100 mg of Cozaar each day to get myself there. I'd rather have 100 mg of Cynar.

Speaking of Jesse Jackson's visit to Terri Schiavo's hospice, I hear Al Sharpton is now planning a similar visit. It's not that he fears being upstaged by Jackson -- it's just that he heard there was a feeding tube hanging around that no one was using.

Speaking of the people who unjustly enrich themselves at the expense of oppressed Iraqis, I think people are missing the real point of Volcker's report on U.N. corruption. Give Kofi the benefit of the doubt: he says the report clears him, so fine, he's cleared. My take is this: the U.N. followed all its own rules and operated as cleanly and efficiently as it was able -- and it was still able to preside over the largest fraud un human history. Can we all finally stop pretending that this organization is competent to run anything more complicated than debate contests?

The wretched people of Sumatra have endured unimaginable hardship over the last few months. While some study the land and the seas for after-effects from yesterday's massive earthquake, others ask themselves what could have caused such a horrible event.

RoseAnne knows. It was all Vito's fault.

As society wrestles with the vexing question of how much protection the law should afford to innocent yet inconvenient lives, some thinking people respond by confidently declaring -- that Tom DeLay is a scoundrel.

The point of my earlier post was that "enlightened" newspeople have a specific view on how the big question should be answered -- leading them to report facts selectively (or fictionally, as where they call the woman "brain-dead").

I stand by my orginal observations on all current events matters, and further point out that limoncello is indeed a generic substance. However, that stuff that Airport Guy and I sipped here in my living room was no ordinary limoncello. The brand name was Caravella. I can only think of one brand name that could possibly be better than that!

Hoppy Easter everybunny

I haven't blogged in a while and it was fun catching up for the most part. I farted when I read the go monkey go story so it must be genetic.

The only thing odder than reading your words in print is seeing it posted to the family blog. The exercise was a heck of an effort and I'm not at all sure when I'll catch up from it. Or if I ever will.

As for your teaching moment at least they were exercising their First Amendment rights. Not that they could really do any more, since their tax dollars (and probably those of their children and grandchildren) are paying for the war. Unless of course they're rich, in which case they're reaping horrific profit. Besides, Iraq didn't even threaten to attack us. Recall that 15 of the 19 hijackers were Saudi, but we only kiss Saudi butt.

While we're on the subject of irony don't miss the fact that DeLay actually wanted to pull the plug on his uncle and sue under products liability law.

Speaking of the "whooping crane mating dance" their migratory season approaches here in Nebraska. I've seen it and it is impressive.

So far only threats of snow this past week. Next week is "Sever Weather Awareness Week" which means that we as a community prepare for tornado season. On the other hand I'm not ready to lock my snow shovel in the shed just yet.

Ellie wanted to make some St. Joseph Day pastries this week which gave me an excuse to purchase some lemoncello. Lemoncello must be a generic term becuase I couldn't find a link to the brand that we bought. But it's very tasty. It enhances blogging. And for some reason it also reminds me of Tuckahoe.

We're here in jolly Ohio trying to keep the chimps occupied. They spent about an hour swimming at the town pool, then some time outside to play in mud while Alane and I went to Wal-Mart. Those stores aren't allowed in NYC because city people are much too e

[UPDATE: tried to blog this via my Treo, but it chopped off that part where I tried to say that NYers are too enlightened to ever tolerate low prices. People with $4k/mo rent want everyone to have a high cost of living!]

Here's a story that hasn't gotten any media attention: a Brooklyn woman is attempting to remove the feeding tube of her portly but not-quite vegetative husband. Those efforts have been thwarted by the man's insistence that he leave the apartment each day to go to work. Even after joining forces with her adult married daughter, the woman has made very little progress in starving her husband.

Said the man: "These fuckin' women seem to forget that behind this couch is about seven tons of pretzel sticks and Tootsie Rolls. I'll outlive all of 'em."

Outside the isolation of his living room the effort quietly continues.

Mojo's masterpiece is now posted on the door to my office. It's working -- people are much less apt to interrupt (or come anywhere near my desk).

When I got to Andre's office last night he was busy adjusting his massage therapist, Yvette. He decided to share with her the 20-something-year-old story of the mishap at the school dance. The story gets better (and longer) every time it's told. It was during a slow dance -- we each had a dance partner, and naturally we circled each other, conjuring mischief. Andre reached between me and my date and pinched my pectoral. "You fuck," I muttered as he circled behind me; I reached back and pinched in return. Suddenly, the girl he was dancing with screamed and ran off.

I was confused.

"Why is she upset that I gave him a purple nurple?"

Hmmm, seems I'd missed. Andre's gut almost ruptured from laughter.

"Yeah, I thought your chest felt a smaller on that one," I said, and tried to put it all behind me.

Yvette laughed politely at his little tale and probably thinks we're both fools. When storytime was over, Andre tried to disconnect my spine and damn-near succeeded.

It's March. Time for some final snow. This is some nasty stuff. Though I hear in Nebraska the snow is just getting started in March.

So we had a fun night with Joe Shtrimps. We had dinner at Brewzzis. Which is appropropriate because Joe is Abruzzi and no, he did not bring the 110 camera. We discussed the proximity of all the Sarcona Brothers to thier mom's house. He brought photos of Frank Shtrimps his 2 yr. old son. Yes there is someone in this world that looks up to Joe. Someday he will understand what a momo his dad is. Steve and I remembered the retarded things we had done in the past. There was some discussion on the paintball trip with some buddies that seemed to spiral out of control quickly. I had not seen him in a while but as steve can tell you he looks exactly the same. After dinner we went out to the live stage band playing in CityPlace and were disturbed to see a 60-something year old lady doing some sort of madagascar whooping crane mating dance.

I am impressed with the artwork of mojo. He has some Dali and some Picasso in his creative opposable-thumbed hands.

I am fascinated at the black ops missions alane will embark on with the men.
I had a woman in my store shopping and walking around with a SEARS shopping cart and her dog in the basket and her son in the folding seat You would like our mall you can rent a giant baby carriage that is in the shape of a fire engine.

In today's batch of junk mail was a notice from our favorite overpriced law school (Fordham) alerting us to an upcoming lecture called, get this: "The Unrooted Presidency: Guantanamo and the Rule of Law."

Care to specualte on how presentation registers on the HATE BUSH scale?

Lawyers are many things. Practical is not one of them. To think that we'd confer full due process rights to irregular fighters (enemy combatants who wear no uniform, no insiginia, and do not bear their arms openly) is really f'ing insane. So you're against indefinite detention? Would summary execution be a cleaner alternative?

I act surprised, but this head-in-ass pose is typical of legal academia. By the end of this decade -- when the Middle East has more semi-functioning democracies than ever before, when standards of living rise, when toleration for terrorism falls, and when participation in global trade interconnects humanity -- let's see if Fordham holds a symposium called "Visionary Presidency: Civilization Is Safer Now."

Don't hold your breath. Later this year Fordham also has scheduled a seminar called "The Jurisprudence of Justice Stevens." It looks like it's being run through the law school, but I gotta believe that's really a study in psychology: that Stevens guy is a total head case.

It's only slightly surprising to see the European media still addled by the HATE BUSH syndrome. Could it be they haven't noticed that the election is over? Whatever it is, they're after the windmills again -- I just got up and clicked on Euronews, which is usually a decent way to get lots of stories an ugly American would otherwise never see. What they just showed was a horribly (predictably?) deceptive version of the Terri Schiavo situation here in the states. According to the Euro-pansies, Terri is brain-dead -- something even her "killer-her-now" husband hasn't claimed. All the usual suspects are rounded up: Christan conservatives, a hasty Congress, and Bush-hating opinion pollsters.

You'd think people would be a little more careful about the facts in a story about intentionally starving a woman to death.

Remember this next time you hear partisans like Maureen Dowd wail that the people of Europe disdain American social/political values: those people read comic books as news -- it's no wonder they expect us to be clowns.

I remembered that Earth Day is coming up soon; I'd forgotten that today is Idiot Day. I was driving through White Plains and saw a crowd up ahead. I thought perhaps it was the haggard bus drivers of Westchester, striking in order to obtain the much-needed right to retire from their high-pressure careers at the grizzled old age of 57.

It wasn't a picket line -- it was a war protest. I sat at the red light and stared with disgust at the moronic messages scrawled on their signs. Our military toppled two murderous dictatorships to make way for free elections and these asshats still ask the rhetorical question "what are we fighting for?"

If the boys were a little older I'd drive them up there for a teaching moment:

Sons, there will be moments in your life when you or your loved ones are threatened with violence of some sort. At those times you will need the support of the clear-thinking and courageous citizens of your community. Those people you see across the street holding those signs? People like them will be of no assistance.

Andre smashed my spine tonight and that felt pretty good. He dropped me off at the 125th Street station of the Metro-North and slipped me a cigar. I stayed out at street level and fired it up -- having a good 20 minutes to kill, knowing how the station stinks of bathroom cleaner (better to stay outside, even with the cold). The stogie was pretty good. I grabbed a New York Press from the box on the corner and paged through -- hadn't read one of those in quite some time (they've lost their edge since the wild days of the late 90s). Watched the cops pull over a car and frisk the driver. With minutes to go until the 8:10 arrived, I put out my cigar and went upstairs. On the train I saw the newly re-elected Tuckahoe trustee and asked him about the election results. The challenger for mayor was a real ass -- we're pretty happy he lost. I got home and ate some pizza while the boys watched the Scooby Doo movie.

And now, it's time for some sleep. This weekend: we entertain Helen. I'll see Vito briefly when I go down there to pick her up. Maybe for fun I'll ask him to try to do something nice for her.

While we try to sort through Alane's story of running commando raids on the Target parking lot (wow, she's shot), I think we also need to hear from Airport Guy, who has apparently carpet-bombed a small midwestern city just to go through the exercise of cleaning it up again.

Imagine that you go to a very large mall--huge. You park at one end in the underground parking. Then you decide to go up to the third floor at the totally opposite end of the mall to Target. Imagine further, that in tow you have a three and four year old that have been walking said mall for close to 4 hours. You enter Target and are compelled to buy the largest liquid detergent in stock. You them realize that you will have to get detergent and kids back to car at opposite end of mall four floors down.

The only possible solution--Operation Target. You know full well that you will not make it back to the car with everything, unless you heist a shopping cart. Now, not certain if you could just walk brazenly out into the mall with the cart-subterfuge is in order. You meander out to the target parking lot and then enter the mall at a different door. You pick a door strategically close to the elevators. Tell chimps to behave normally. Luckily one chimp is camflouged by all the Target bags in the cart. The other seems vaguely aware that walking through the mall with a Target cart probably is not right. Eventually after practically running through the bottom level of the mall--you reach the final elevator and safety. Operation Target is a bona fide success, and a possible topselling video game.

I'm just saying imagine that happened not that I ever partaken in such tomfoolery.

We like the fact that the boys are regularly given art projects at school, but we're starting to get a little concerned that perhaps Mojo has some latent psychological issues -- his drawings are a little... disturbing.

His latest opus smacks of the over-hyped 80s dabbler Basquiat (though I think Mojo's forms are technically superior). The face expresses nearly every aspect of modern malaise; the upheld hand imparts totalitarianism in a direct and arresting way. It's all Mojo.

And speaking of Mojo, I was singing Devo's "Go Monkey Go (Mojo Jojo)" last night as the boys were going to sleep. Once I was done, Mojo let loose with a giant fart. I calmly said to both of them: "When I said 'go monkey go' I didn't mean 'go to the bathroom.'"

This was clearly the funniest thing they ever heard; they laughed for about 20 minutes.

Maniacs.

We need Gurjot on this blog.

As we eagerly await a Joe Shtrimps update, I can report that I just returned from my annual physical. I like my doctor -- he's personable, responsive, and seems to handle my health issues carefully. We chatted cheerfully throughout the exam until he announced that it was time to check my prostate. I replied, "Yeah! That's why I come here: for the thrill rides!"

After that, coversation was a little strained.

got a phone call saturday from Joe Shtrimps. He will be in Palm Beach on Tuesday. Frylock and I will be joining him for appetizers possibly on wednesday night. This should be interesting. He has a wife and son and we have significant others that do not know each other at all. This should be a fun night. Hope they are ready.
Stay tuned for commentary................

Mojo said it a few times yesterday -- at least once to each of us throughout the day. He said to us: "Hey you, get back to work." And then he went on with whatever he was doing.

Hey, at least we still have jobs.

Still, something about this kid reminds me of Maria Rose.

Thanks to all who inquired throughout the day as to the status of the sauce. It came out quite nice -- I think I ate all the lamb chunks myself. The meatballs were extraordinary, if I may say so on hy own behalf.

Other stuff to add to prior posts:

• My strip-club dream included a renaissance-fair type of erotic performance that included lots of baroque music and, seemingly, a cast of thousands. I was reminded of this while speaking to Frylock on his cellphone today. He was attending a Renaissance Festival. And he was commenting on the abundance of breasts. Odd?
  
• Neither Cookie nor Alane have been paying adequate attention to developments in modern labor law: strikers cannot be fired legally (unless the strike itself is illegal, and even then it takes an Executive Order). Modern consitutional law gives strikers more rights than abortion protesters, so even I could take Spongebob's case if he really wanted to stick it to old man Krabs.
  
• Bazzukajoe: stop watching so much television. You want satisfaction? Drink more.

There's almost an entire loaf of italian bread still left. I think I need to make myself a sang-a-weech.

Ok, now I feel better about myself: I got started early today and got the tomato sauce going in time for its full eight hours or therapeutic simmering. So no more wisecracking from Frylock: "you call yourself a Mastandrea, eating those mashed potatoes and brussel sprouts on a Sunday?"

Though I'll admit my willingness to outdo definitely got the best of me: hearing of the recent veal-strip triumph, I was actually eyeballing a giant veal rib in the butcher-case this morning, thinking "yeah, I can throw that in the pot..."

But it was way too big. I let my eye wander to a package of stew-chunks nearby and I grabbed that instead. I should have read it more carefully -- it was lamb. Oh well, it's in there now. Could turn out real nice.

I think the dream means you better hope you have a kind and understanding wife or else you are gonna get kicked hard in the crotch.

On another note, I would like to clarify an amount in a past post. John reported eating a piece of pizza. Now, unless you consider eating pretty much an entire large pie a piece or are Jenia, this seems a gross understatement.

The buses in our county are on strike. The boys are much enamored of this. They have reported this to pretty much everyone they know--swim teacher, pre-school teacher, grandma in Ohio. They also explained to me that the drivers were going to get fired. I thought this was a pretty good grasp of labor law and what could happen until I realized that they believed this to be so because Spongebob and Squidward were fired by Mr. Krabs when they striked. The boys were also quite happy to see that the striking bus drivers carried signs just like Spongebob and Squidward.

I went to Mojo's class the other day. They are studying dinosaurs. One of his friends, Jared, explained to me that dinosaurs are ex-stunk.

Last night I dreamt of a strip club. It was a very strange dream. We were regulars there. The action started with Don Vito and I, up early and unable to get back sleep, deciding to go there at about 6 a.m. We knew the place would be open, but we knew the girls had already gone home. The off-hour bartender knew us (but not as well as the prime-time guy); he poured coffee for us and we sat and talked.

Then it was night and a whole bunch of us were there, sitting at a table, waiting for a food order to arrive. I announced that I was going upstairs to (and here I leaned into the chest of the fat guy sitting next to me and shook my face from side to side) brrrbrrrbrrrbrrrbrrr.

And up I went. I figured out which dancer was on duty: she was in the back behind some curtains. I peeked through and found her sitting topless on a beach chair, reading a book, looking as if she were on a tropical vacation. "What do you want?" she snapped and quickly went back to her goldbricking. I turned to one of the male workers who was standing nearby. He glanced at his dick and commented: "What does she think you'd want?"

I went back down to our table to rejoin Alane and the rest of our party. Our food had arrived; it was time to eat.

Can anyone help me decipher this?

I've been dragging my busted back to Andre more and more often, and I think his program is helping. Tonight he threw me up against the wall of his office, crossed my arms in front of me, and tried to push my shoulders up through the sheetrock.

Damn, that hit the spot!

I keep meaning to tell him about the time I was lying on the floor of Frylock's bedroom back on Staten Island. He walked in and decided to walk across me. He put his foot on my back and stepped -- creating a series of crunches that sounded like a roomful of people crumpling polystyrene coffee cups.

Tonight he laid me back on a special table: half of it was a waterbed. And not just any waterbed -- he flipped the switch and a series of internal hot-water-jets pounded my back. Wiggy. I turned face down on it and screamed "Turn it up full blast!" Then I realized the other patients in the room were probably trying to take their treatment seriously.

I got home, had a slice of pizze, and drank a can of club soda that's been in the refrigerator since Marlena was here in November. How did it last that long?

There is no way uncle vito thought those balloons were tube socks. He ha snever ownwed tube socks. Banolon Baby....

So we are sitting in room 411 at Jupiter Medical Center and that new show THE CONTENDER comes on. That is the biggest turd since the Pat Sajak Show. If sly and sugar ray could train the participants of the peoples court for 1 week and let them settle thier differences in the squared circle then I may watch it. I think we should make a list of participants and send that in. Like
Aunt Cristina VS Uncle Charlie That would be awesome. I would definately pay to see that. Or Dr. Vaugnn VS Dr. Lubarsky in an ICU room with all equipment as usable weaponry. I am tired

So said Vin's gastroenterologist to Vin's cardiologist:

"You give the aspirin a headache!"

It's old news by now, but last week's Supreme Court venture is still worth a look. There's nothing new about judges misusing their authority, but some cases just have a "shock-and-awe" level of brazen-ness. The best part of this opinion is Antonin Scalia's dissent. Another Xavier grad who missed this year's Beefsteak Dinner!

Another Sunday and again I am gripped by the ancestral urge to eat a dish of macaroni. The problem: we get easily sidetracked around here. It's hard to do something that takes eight minutes, much less cook gravy for eight hours. So at lunchtime I decided to feed my jones by digging out the bottom of the refrigerator to get to the macaroni leftovers... from last Sunday... when we ate leftover gravy.

I felt a little ill after that. It lasted about eight hours.

Saturday night, the boys are about to go to sleep, there's not much to do... Gotta watch Cops. They even have a bonus episode, coming up.

"Due to the graphic nature of this program, viewer discretion is advise."

Damn right.

So I chatted on IM with Brandi last night and asked her all about Charlotte and how she likes it there. And today I get to the office and return a call from a recently-departed colleague who just joined a major law firm. Her voice mail message informed me she was out of the office -- spending most of this week at the firm's Charlotte office.

Coincidence? Or is it a message?

My addiction to pain medications is progressing nicely. The back pain is returning, not quite as crazy as before, but it's there and kicking. Fortunately John Paul did not need to use the pain-relief Rx that followed up his tonsilectomy. I'm looking for the right mixer to tone down the heavy cherry syrup... Grenadine and tonic might work. Maybe Triple-Sec, gin and crushed ice. Something is bound to work.

So there I was, shoulder to shoulder with Broadway Joe, wondering how the electric toilet worked. We defeated the safety mechanism by putting our feet on the seat; we hit the "wash" button and leaned over to look. And the last thing we saw before running away wet was this...

Is it true that Uncle Joe asked the surgeon to not cut into his leg for a vein -- he asked that they use bucatini instead? He wanted it al dente, but the doctor explained to him that's why he's in the hospital to begin with.

I'm pretty sure every pair of socks I owned and wore as a kid were "irregular" (I remember the special deals at Robbins -- a 12-pack of three-stripe tube socks for $3). Which leads me to yet another theory: it was a hot and hazy day in the late 1970s that Vito bought the wacky ballons thinking it was a package of sweat-socks.

Wow. I remember the balloons. They once filled the space behind the xmas tree prior to Dick "almost room temperature" Clark declaring the new year. That memory brings back something that traumatized me when i was about 7. As I recall I was sitting next to the steam pipe. A frighteneing place to be. Why is it so damn hot. ANYWAY.... My mom gave me a party popper to fire at midnight and when i did i happened to be standing adjacent to Sir Jack of Lanyo and it tore his tympanic membrane to shreds causing him to shriek and writhe in pain. It resembled a seizure without the foaming. I was never the same.

I believe we will be entering several new terms as brought to us from Uncle Philly Bert

Today I witnessed some things that were very interesting. I shall begin with a brief description of the participants.
Uncle Philly....orders the shrimpfeest and likes pig ears with pimp steak. "its all horsemeat"
& Aunt Christina......must approve all matters involving previous participant.
Sadie ....stand in for throw mamma from the train. needs only 1 finger to test octopus. Cannot spell -S-H-I-T-
& Nino .........Very tan. Very bushy stash. able catch octopus with 1 hand.
Pietro ....very high pants & able eat octopus without using his hands
& Rosalie...not good with the camera.
Andy......wardrobe malfunction
& Marie.....experienced with the bowstick and nunchucks
My parents & Jessica and myself.
They boiled an octopus and ate it. They tore that thing apart like turkey on thanksgiving in bangladesh. I was told try it you'll like it they say it tastes like rubberbands. Very Enticing.
I will give more tomorrow.

A Note
All thoughts are with Uncle Joe. He is getting bypass surgery tomorrow. A little leaky plumbing. We all wish him the best. Your in our prayers.

I mentioned to John I have a theory on the origination of the ancient balloons. I don't believe that vodka was stored in a liquor cabinet at all, but instead a small wooden time portal. While fishing around for the bottle, Uncle Vito actually reached across the time-space continuum and grabbed balloons from Roseanne's 3rd birthday party. Had they finished that bottle of vodka and reached in a second time for some Chivas Regal, I believe he may have pulled out some pastries served at John's baptism. I also would like to reference Alane's hair salon story. About a month ago, Kim and I were having coffee with her mom and stepdad. It was great, we were laughing and discussing music and movies when her stepdad unexpectedly interjected "you know I was 30 years old when I was circumcized". In a room of people known for the volume of their voices, there was silence....uncomfortable silence.....and confusion. The best I could do to empathize, or sympathize was say "I didn't get the chicken pox until I was 17. But getting back to my favorite scene in the Money Pit...." Also, the name Vito Stinky Ballons reminds me of a T.A . worker my dad once knew: Philly Stink Arm Pits. My question is this: how can a balloon be "irregular" ? I don't claim to be a scientist but doesn't air naturally distribute evenly? Is it possible for all the air to go to one end of the balloon and not the other? Did Uncle Vito manage to defy all the known laws of physics twice in one day? First when he crossed the boundaries of time and secondly when he changed the properties of matter ? If his home is a castle, than the man must be a wizard.