Yeah, that was a huge file. But maybe someone can use the hi-res version (someone who, unlike me, has image-transfer iron-ons and an inkjet printer). Anyway, here's a low-res version for you dial-up people (and I know you're out there).

Today, we went duck-pin bowling in Connecticut.

It was Frylock's idea. Tee-shirts will be made.

Yesterday morning I was sitting at the kitchen table drinking my coffee when Mojo walked up and leaned his head againt mine, humming as he pretended to see what was in my head.

"I see coffee burning your brain," he said.

Indeed.

There it is, 20 floors below my office window: Lindy's. I've never gone in there. Steve knows why.

Upon further reflection, we think the Kool-Aid man's new attire must have something to do with the Janet Jackson incident. And upon further research, we also think that cooking pork ribs with Kool-Aid is "an explosion of wrong."

Not only does the Kool-Aid man now wear pants, he also (apparently) has a new sales slogan. Or so Cookie thinks: as he pawed open the box of Kool-Aid juice pouches he announced to us, "It's an explosion of fun!"

He then immediately added:

"Just like the stinky I just made."

He's a very disturbed little boy.

Alane bought a few things at the grocery store today. She picked up mangoes. For me. To fondle.

If Vito comes around here with that juicer I'm hiding 'em.

I'm watching Euronews, reminding myself why the U.S. is doomed to be the sole superpower for the next few generations. They're doing wall-to-wall coverage of an Airbus flight. An airliner. A passenger vehicle with coach class, economy class, lavatories-with-sliding doors, you know what they look like.

Right now there's a ceremony featuring the flight crew. The spirit of self-congratulation is... interesting. And classically French. I remember a recent contest here in the U.S. to see who could build a craft that could go to space and back. Someone did it. On his own dime.

Oh, that's why Airbus is getting all that news coverage.

Alane is online shopping for real beds for the boys -- all this time we've had them sleeping on a hand-me-down futon (they don't mind; they sleep like a puppy litter). They were just on a kid-furniture site that was displaying a crib, which prompted Mojo to say, "Let's get a crypt."

Yeah, let's. We can hide in there and make juice. Though I'm not sure my juicing experience will be as euphoric as Vito's. He makes mango-mashing seemed a sexual experience... Which, oddly enough, I can understand: years ago, on a business trip to Boston, I got in a cab for the airport and noticed that the driver had two crates of mangoes in the front seat.

"Wow," I said. "You like mangoes!"

He said he did and offered me one. I was a little loopy because I'd just been in a bar drinking with some office-mates, so I said yes. I carried that thing through airport, onto my flight, and on the car ride home -- all the time holding it gently, cupping it in my palm... caressing it gently. In my half-in-the-bag state, I almost pictured...

But hey, this was something I could've already known -- mangoes are already like breasts in that you really can't access them without making a mess out of something. Maybe Vito's juicer is the right approach.

And by the way: who the hell gets to wake up at 10:23, anwyay? As-Seen-On-TV my ass!

While I was busy blogging earlier this afternoon, Alane was busy not stirring the gravy. Don't worry, I saved it (had to pour it into another pot and scrape the carbon from the bottom before it mixed with the rest).

And speaking of meatballs, can you spot the bear?

I just made the meatballs. They're not as large as what Vito proposed -- only about the size of billiard balls (at least that's how they started; they cooked down a bit). Didn't fry them this time; nor did I bake them in the oven. I arranged them on a flat sheet and put them under the broiler. It is decreed: my meatballs shall henceforth be made in this manner. Unless, of course, Vito is here making NBA-scale varieties... because those won't fit in my broiler.

Got another few hours until we can eat all this... I need a loaf of bread.

Vito's messing with my head -- all day I'm here thinking about the meatballs I'm going to make tomorrow, how big I should roll them, wondering if I can make them large enough so I can slice them in half, scoop out the center, and use the hollowed-out meatball halves as bowls to serve the macaroni...

And I know these are not normal thoughts.

Now Vito has me reminiscing for the college drinking parties Alane and I endured in Cincinnati... oh, some 20 years ago. I don't recall losing electricity during any of those. But I do remember sandals (flip-flops, as I recall, not on me because like Vito I know better).

Vito has single-handedly managed to metaphysically combine two of the most important and immutable features of this family: 1) food, and 2) lack of proportion.

The philosophical implications are so enormous that I am having difficulty formulating a response.

Vito, I think Jenia shares your aspirations. In addition to meatballs and zucchini, how about skull sized chicken hearts and frozen blood shots for dessert the size of a human foot. Gettin' hungry? In fact, what if you could eat the table in addition to food and glassware, I think we're on to something, call StarKist.

It was a more or less typical visit to the Castle 1526 today. Except for weekday traffic, which made total driving time more than actual steam-pipe time. Which gave the boys extra time for sleep -- my luck.

While packing the car to flee 38th Street I saw Mary standing by the curb; I went over to say hello. Otto was out with her -- looking exactly the same as ever, and I said hello to him. They were there to greet Annette, who herself was just getting into town, parallel parking... maybe for the first time in a while. It was like old times on 38th Street (except we're all older now, with situations more grim, and no time to sit around and bullshit).

We ate cake, the boys opened birthday gifts, and we philosophized wantonly.

Quote of the day: "Try that shit... I'll fuckin' bury you."

Alas, no shoe was slammed upon a U.N. lectern (though I always thought Vito could have been an excellent Politburo secretary).

Okay, first post uploaded via the new DSL. Hopefully I can keep a more solid connection. Still have to get used to the new configuration and equipment.

Went out on the bike with Cookie and we made it all the way to Scarsdale and back. We passed through giant swarms of gnats. It was disgusting, but otherwise a lovely evening. Cookie loves that bicycle. Tomorrow he becomes five -- ending that strange annual period during which both boys are the same age.

Mojo's papal prediction seems to have panned out: we have a Pope Joseph. Well, sort of. An excellent choice Ratzinger -- I got the news via text message while I sat in an annual board meeting. Others got word by e-mail and as the meeting broke up, one modern and learned attorney on the board reacted to the news by saying, "Oh no, not him: he's evil." I protested that the man is not evil; this forced her to a fallback position of general disgust. "So much for a more inclusive church," she huffed.

Apparently she has no use for someone who would defend doctrine that doesn't comport with modern morals. At least she's impartial, prefacing her creed-bashing with "I'm not Catholic, but..."

Interestingly enough, one of the agenda items at today's meeting was a progress report on the organization's "diversity" quotas for sex and race. There was much self-congratulation over those efforts, because in today's polite society principles must only be skin deep.

The irony should be delicious but instead I feel like puking.

In addition to the threat of indictment, now Alane also needs to fear street justice! It seems that Koko the Killer Clown has left his post at the Coney Island funhouse and is about to open some whup-ass on those who mock the little people.

You think you're safe down in the Carolinas? Think again!

The Kool-Aid animated character from the TV commercials... did he always wear pants?

How many times have we warned Alane that she needs to be more tolerant? Now she's in danger of going to jail!

Of course, as I read the news report, it seems the editors at the New York Post are equally in danger of indictment.

My home DSL is in a state of flux lately, so I haven't been able to tend to the blog. From here in my office I can look through my window and clearly see Lindy's on the corner 20 floors below. And all I can say is this: $22 for pancakes is ridiculous.

And Steve, don't mention the wedding plans when you talk to Don Vito; just talk about the beach.

Its been a long time and theres a lot to talk about.

1. Now that I have announced I will be embracing the instititution of marriage, can one say I've finally recognized my need to be instititutionalized?
2. Today I saw the greatest single piece of graffitti art ever created...a large stone wall sporting one giant tag name: SAUCE. For some reason I imagine this mysterious artistic genius bears a strong resemblance to Big Vin in his teens......and I bet it took eight hours to paint.
3. Speaking of Big Vin, I've now made three trips to his favorite flea market in the last 4 weeks, and on this last trip he bought a very old, very large hacksaw. (Feel free to insert any joke here) While there, Marlena bought me a beautiful blue duffle bag with the words "CROHN'S AND COLITIS" printed on it. Im pretty sure I could board a commercial flight with a grenade launcher and a German luger without anyone from security having the balls to unzip it.
4. This Monday, the Cardinal College will sequester themselves to select a successor for His Holiness, the late Pope John Paul 2. Is there any doubt in anyone's mind that it will be the cardinal from Florida that destroys the election? The network's exit pollers have been out early and have declared Father Guido Sarducci as the clear frontrunner. Should these exit polls prove to be wrong, it's George Bush's fault. Remember kids....its always George Bush's fault.
5. I see my brother has requested I mention more about the "pink engagement".
So Here goes: To surprise Kim, I hired a man in a Pink Panther costume to hide in my apartment and jump out at Kim holding a beautiful oversized london broil with a juicy pink center. While distracted by the huge slab of beef, the Pink Panther removes his costume's head to reveal its actually pop star Pink...and shes wearing a Pink Floyd tee-shirt! What comes next is even more amazing, I jump out of the london broil costume and drop to one knee holding a pink sapphire engagement ring. She was stunned, and said it was exactly the way she always dreamed it...except in the dream it was a Demonico steak...and Collin Farell was inside.
OK, the truth is I set up the dining room table in all pink from tablecloth to dishes, candles, everything...and then busted out the pink engagement ring. (I didn't drop to my knee, I'm not sure why...I only know it must be George Bush's fault.) Afterwards, we visited Spumoni Gardens South and called every number in my mothers address book. The exchange I had with Uncle Philly was priceless.
Me: "Hey Uncle Philly, me and Kim got engaged"
Uncle Philly: "You went to the beach? Thats great!"
Me: "No engaged, we're gonna get married"
Uncle Philly: "Oh, thats good too. Auguri!!"
What was great was how truly excited he was about the beach, not quite as excited as the engagement..but close.

Well, I just wanted to do my first blog from my new home p.c. State Buon.

I just stepped out of the office to hit the ATM and get some coffee. I passed Lindy's on the corner and I remembered something Cookie told once: $22 for pancakes is ridiculous.

That kid sure has a lot to say. As last night, when he finally came in after hours on his bicycle: he announced that I had missed the "fantastic stunts" he had performed at the playground. According to Alane, he was using the pitcher's mound as an incline and "caught air" several times.

Danger looms.

Today John Paul conquered the bicycle -- we asked him if he wanted to try riding without his training wheels and he reluctantly assented. I took them off, he got on, and he's been tooling around almost nonstop since.

Mojo tried too, but it only took him a few tries before he demanded that his traning wheels be put back on. Not content to simply witness his brother's success he spent much of the afternoon trying to ram his bike into John Paul's. So now he's here in the house with me while John Paul is still out training for the Giro d'Italia.

So I was lying here on the couch this afternoon, wishing it was quiet enough for a nap but getting quite the opposite with both boys on top of me, grabbing my face and wrestling with each other. They slid over to the front of the couch, still wrestling, when I spotted Mojo with his face against the small of his brother's back, mouth open, ready to sink his teeth in. I stopped him and prepared to make a big deal of it -- when it comes to biting, Mojo has a long rap sheet. But Mojo was in no mood to cop a plea.

"I wasn't going to bite him," Mojo explained. "I was trying to tickle him with my teeth."

I found his story implausible but good. Quite good.

I'm watching the funeral from Rome. It's quite elaborate. I'm drinking a cup of turkish coffee. Every once in a while I look around and slowly say the word: "acupuncture."

Before the power went down in Tuckahoe last night, we attended a Mass celebrated for Pope John Paul II. I thought it was important to bring the boys, espcially Cookie who's named for the man, but I also knew it would be a challenge to keep them quiet for that long so late in the day. They were tired. Mojo was cranky over a runny nose. Cookie is by nature a chattering monkey. Alane dealt with Mojo; I tried to keep Cookie still. He squirmed; he crawled under the pew; he made a lot of noise. And he did something strange... Every once in a while he'd smile wide and turn his face toward me and slowly say the word:

"Acupuncture."

I don't know where he got that or why he was saying it. I thought to myself, "This makes no sense," but then I thought that at Spumoni South it would seem quite normal.

Honest commentators (like Instapundit) have condemned over-the-top language from Sen. Cornyn and others who have been reckless in their criticism of the modern judiciary. Fair enough -- lynching judges is no way to re-establish law.

A similar controversy surfaced nearly 10 years ago. A somewhat obscure periodical called First Things published a symposium that asked several prominent constitutionalists whether the time had come to hoist the pitchforks, light the torches and overthrow the lawless regime of the courts.

Well, maybe the question was a little more nuanced than that; in any case the writers replied no, we should continue to work within the system.

Just posing that question did two things. First, it gave the MSM fits (heh heh). Second, it put an ever-so-slight chill into the spines of some judges. Of course, all those feelings passed quickly and judges went quickly and quietly back to their standard recklessness.

steve...
You are slacking on the blog. We need details.
You are disappointing John.
Oh yeah and congratulations on your pink engagement.

Now there is something to hope for. You know... they prefer to be called little people alane. A little pope would be cool but i hear the odds are on a latin american cardinal or the cardinal from nigeria. Besides how would he wear the hat. its like 2 feet high. The entire process is quite fascinating. I have never witnessed the way this works. I just keep thinking where are all the younger priests? There was almost no one at the processional to St. Peters that was even middleaged. Median age was 70.

So we went to play a little mini golf and hit the batting cage yesterday. We did not go to the driving range as that is an activity we can only do with John. I wait for the day when we can bring John Paul to the driving range. So anyway, Jenia gave up by the 9th hole and pelted the ball out onto Kanner HWy. We didn't hear any crashes so we assume it went unnoticed. There were several shots into the water hazard but the water had a kind of jello quality. Golf balls floated in it. Shouldn't they sink? well it was in stuart. weird things occur there. It was a good time. Ree and marlena passed. I dont think they enjoy the 18 hole putt putt. I then hit the batting cage and was very weary of the testicle area and its vulnerability so i was careful. And they had a helmet that fit me....what a place.

So i went by my dad's house for some real meatballs and an 8hr gravy and was pleasantly surprised by the presentation of pizzaiola. Very good. You must make some for alane. I think he took out his pent up aggression on the lawn guy and fired him. I wish i was there. He told Vin he had never been told he did a bad job before. Heasked the lawn man "Do you think you do a good job?" Ahhh turn the tables. The guy is not very good. He breaks sprinkler heads and chopps up our xmas lights. He never does what you ask. He hired someone new. He hired " THE HIGBY" I am sure there will be stories.

Actually I am Polish and Slovak, but that's ok. I figure most people do not know one Eastern European country from another. Although I' m of the improper heritage, I think my meatballs were pretty good.

I was terribly saddened by the passing of Pope John Paul. He was truly a great man and so few of those walk the earth. I would hate to be the next Pope-it will be hard to top John Paul. I have already heard that he might become John Paul the Great. Although, I'm not sure how this title gets conferred.

I have seen some of the reporting about the odds on favorite for the next pope. I really do not care who is chosen next--another Pole or Eastern European would be nice, but that would be a miracle. However, while viewing those supposedly in contention it caught my eye that one of these holy men was very short in stature. Indeed, he appeared close to midget. Now, I'm fairly devout, but a midget pope would be a faith challenge for me.

Alane is Polish. That's good if you're going to be the pope; not so good if you're going to make the meatballs.

What can you say about gravy that only cooked for three hours?

What can you say about a man who sleeps wearing Banlon socks?

Earlier today we started to explain to Cookie the significance of his namesake the pope. Most of it he won't understand until he's older but he's about to turn five and we can't shelter him from the world anymore -- at least we can introduce him to the idea/reality of greatness (which may later prove a counterbalance to the moral mediocrity of the "role models" that modern culture will subsequently serve up to him).

Such was our lunchtime conversation.

A few minutes ago Cookie wanted to use the TV for his computer game and I told him I wanted to watch the news for a few more minutes. The pope had died today, I explained, and now all the priests were gathering to pray and decide who would be the next pope.

"Will the next pope be named John Paul?" he asked.

"The next pope will probably have a different name," I said -- and that attracted Mojo's attention.

"Pope Joseph?" he asked excitedly, clearly thinking he had a chance at getting the job.

Good try, Mojo. But the world just ain't ready for that.

Alane is a snore-monster. Tonight, she gets her head examined.