Here's a study in contrasts. On the one hand, we see Sunday's Gravy Rave down at Spumoni South. Notice the love and respect shown the tomato.

On the other hand, we look at Tomatina now taking place in Spain. And we say: that's no way to treat a tomato.

The Sultans of Sauce truly kick ass. And the photos are fantastic. But if you're using Microsoft Internet Explorer and the page only half loads for you, try clicking it to full-screen, even momentarily. That seems to bring the rest of the page into display.

And if that doesn't work, download Firefox and start using a real browser.

And hey, get back onto Google Earth -- they've refreshed the NYC aerial photos with better images and lots more close-up detail. You can see the battlements at Castle 1526 (the castle that lays seige unto itself); you can take dry-wall inventory at Kings Material; you can count the fish-heads littering the curbsides of Canal Street.

"And the Vin-man looked down upon it and said it was good..."

We were just sitting here commenting on Mojo's constant mischief. Cookie then referred to his brother as "Augustus Gloop." It took Alane a few seconds to place the name.

As any normal Sunday, the Mastandrea household is up and running quite early in the morning. Yet, this Sunday was a tab bit different. It was only Steve, Jenia, and I who were definites on attending and providing for this meal. Joe and Jessica were tentative since they were making atrip to Sawgrass that day. As I was saying, on this day, I for one woke up and immediately called Steve to come over so that we can take a drive to Publix for some last minute vital items. As I hung up the phone, I hear Jenia getting up and walking through the hallway and out to the kitchen. It was just then when I realized that this was going to be ... Spectacular. Ah...the Jupiter Farms Publix ...filled with beer guzzling cowboys, misfit employees, horseback riders who insist on going out in public with their gear on, mothers who do nothing but love to be up their kids' asses whether its in school or in the case, a Florida based supermarket ... not to mention proudly wearing their femullets. This was not your regular outing, or day for that matter. I'll break it down for you: put a large, long haired Russian, a small businessman, and a little eccentric drama kid into the mix, you are in for quite the treat. We went in with ontly one thing on our minds ...SAUCE. It wasn't even five minutes before the three of us found ourselves in the meat section. It was a a unanimous decision to buy a veal steak (which happens to liquefy while in the sauce) and three different kinds of chopped meat. As we made our way further towards the to the produce section, we ran into the one and only ...Billy Chase. For those of you who don't know who he is, he is our neighbor, who spends 80% of his life in a drunken stupor. Luckily he was sober and with his wife Kim, who approved the marvelous selection of chips, chips, chips, and beer in their shopping cart. On the way home, we managed to beat the rain ... thank the lord we did. It was like a hurricane once the sauce started cooking . We each wore an apron as a symbol of your dedication to this delicious gift from God. It was not only therapeutic, but completely worth it. To be spontaneous, we invited a few friends over who have never experience such a day. As they walked in the house we took their picture on a Polaroid camera and was used as a place setting. Steve kept calling us the Renegades of Sauce, which I liked a lot. But I also liked the Sultans of Sauce. Not only as an omage to Babe Ruth, but to simply rip off the Dires Straits. It was an amazing day and I thank everyone who was a part of it. Salut!

What? I never told the fire drill story? It goes back to when I was a little boy -- a terrified first grader. Back then I always did exactly as told. On the one hand, I was too scared of the consequences to try otherwise; on the other I was taught to believe in the system.

And so it was on a typical cloudy weekday that the school conducted a fire drill, something we’d done so many times before. The bells clanged and we filed out of our classroom into the hallway and to the stairs. As I reached the stairhead I heard the booming voice of the other first-grade teacher: she stood arms-crossed and mannish in her early-70s pants-suit, glaring from the bottom landing, yelling at the students who marched down toward her:

“No running!" she bellowed impatiently. "Walk! Don’t run!”

And so I walked: very carefully, fully in her view, stepping down onto each stair tread deliberately, gently -- walking, not running.
And her eyes followed me. And she put her hands on her hips. With indignation she spoke:

“Oh, and look at Mr. Mastandrea, just strolling down the stairs like nothing’s going on.” I may have thought she was complimenting me until she leaned into my face and roared: “C’mon! Move it!”

Terrorized anew, I broke into a gallop that took me out the main door and onto the gloomy Brooklyn sidewalk, running as fast as I dared to run. Yes, running.

And I was much confused... I’d done what I’d been told... as usual... as required. And yet... and yet.

I clung to my belief in the system for several more years, despite that first flicker of insight -- that vague skepticism that would haunt me for years. I was not quite ready to admit it, but even then I had sufficient evidence to suspect, if not actually conclude, that the system was indeed fundamentally flawed.

Everything that followed was merely confirmation of that suspicion.

Ah, school days... They loom large now for the chimps (thanks for the school supplies, Merle!). And they bring back such fond memories for us. Like fire drills. And reject sneakers (everyone else had Pro-Keds!). And Helen standing over me with the giant eraser as I toiled through my homework. And when I erred, she'd angrily erase my work, make me re-do it, and often exclaim: "You got brains in your ass!"

Alas, she was quite right about that. And really, this explains a lot.

Cookie wanted to stay up to watch Blazing Saddles with me. What a great movie (though I had to hit the mute button several times, lest he pick up bad habits). He just fell asleep, so he'll miss the sack of the faux Rock Ridge, followed by the movie-studio brawl.

That movie certainly wouldn't make it through modern diversity censors (though is oddly more inclusive than said modernists).

"Aw prairie shit. Everybody!"

We got some good mileage out of this stroller. Now it's time to pass it along. Oh, how many times Baby Cookie sat perched in this seat, gazing happily upon the people passing on the Bronx River pathway, stretching out his arms and cheerfully yelling "aaagh!"

Considering that medeira is essentialy a sherry that went bad (barrels once carelessly left on the docks, taking the full brunt of the normally wine-killing sunshine and rain), then no, madeira is not in itself hip. It is anti-hip. It is transgressive.

And these days, transgressive is hip.

That's quite a hat.

I'm glad that Spumoni South was spared the wrath of Katrina. And that Sergei taught Marlena how to curse. I must take notes.

I agree with Alane that gathering the clan would be great, especially for the Limoncello and Medaglia D'Oro companies.

Congratulations, Big Kahuna! How long does it take the pit crew to fill it up and change two tires? Do you have any sponsors yet? Olive oil companies, drill bit companies and Hurricane Ruffles come to mind. And athletic shoe companies.

And yes, I've attended several weather training conferences (all in the name of work). My department is slated to expand and in the interest of "spreading the wealth" I may not be attending as much training in the future. That OK, with trained co-workers I can hopefully have more fexibility in my vacation scheduling.

John, are you trying to say that rainwater madeira is hip?

I signed up for a myspace.com account, and found that except for a friend from college and our very own Ree, no one will be my friend!

Not only must I accept that I am now not hip, I must realize that I naver have been hip.

I shall refill my glass with the cheap Chilean Cabernet I've been drinking. And keep dreaming.

The Moscow subway map t-shirt Marlena sent me absolutely kicks ass. Maybe I can be hip after all.

Ah, so Big Vin has become Professor Xavier! Does that make Frylock Wolverine? He's certainly hairy enough -- but I'm not sure he's got the same mutant healing factor (took him days to recover from that rainwater madeira I made him drink).

TURN AROUND, DON'T DROWN. According to Governor Bush that is a motto for the state of Florida. When I first heard it, I thought , "I'm suppose to turn around to make sure a Tsunami isnt about to crash on my head?" Then I realized what he meant, and I felt bad that so many people in Florida do not have enough common sense to not drive through standing water of which they know not the depth.

As you all know, Katrina safely breezed in and out of South Florida without really interrupting everday life in Spumoni South. It gave us an excuse to eat Double Stuff Oreos and wash them down with Baileys and Cream on a Thursday night. I felt like an alcoholic octagenarian named Seamus O'Malley when I said aloud "I think I'm gonna put some of this Bailey's in my coffee too." Got a little surprise in Spumoni South yesterday (I can't believe Maria Rose and Marlena didnt mention this) The Vin-man has a new toy: a motorized chair. IT IS AWESOME. He zips around corners now like Mario Andretti...and hes loving it. I also think it provides a visual symbol of his patriarchal authority; much like Dr. Evil or Captain Kirk...the largest or most ornate chair identifies the man in charge. Also, Nebraska Joe is correct there is a 15 year old bag of potato chips in Castle 1526, it sits right next to the 20 year old bag of Lifesaver lollipops (cherry and cherrry swirl perfect for Valentines Day....1984). Not to mention they will soon be filming a special on the Discovery Channel where they dramatically thaw out an extinct animal (last time it was a fully intact Wooly Mammoth)....this episode it will be a Baby Watson Cheesecake (species name Dessertus Goto Helenus). I must also mention my fascination with a particular post, did Nebraska Joe say hes not only been to a weather conference...but in fact multiple weather conferences? Thats excellent news, because we can use his expert testimony in our argument that Jim Cantore is a douchebag. I also thank Nebraska Joe for his call to Spumoni from the Bayou yesterday. It defintely made the Big Kahuna happy, hes talking about taking a trip to the Cornhusker State. As for Joey's suggestion there would defintely be a Hurricane Fusco and a Hurricane Ruffles. Well I gotta running, fueling my workday is a work soundtrack providing by mixmaster Ree in the wee hours of the morning. "Bad Touch" by the Bloodhoung Gang has just been followed by "Porcelain" by Moby. Thats genius.

I have just finished viewing Marlena's photos from Russia. It looks like you all had a great time. It must have been great to meet all of Jenia's family. I was looking at the photo of Marlena eating breakfast and wanted to call and tell her she must have mixed up a shot from a visit to Bratislava. The background was so similar. However, the happy smiling face told me otherwise.

I'm very glad to hear that Katrina and the waves did not harm anyone in Spumoni South. I am a hater of all things meterological. Except Steve Doocy on Fox and Friends, and I even hate him when he does the weather portion.

Now while everyone was obsessing about Bazzuka Joe's choice of apparel while cooking breakfast, I was marveling at the menu that he put together. I don't think I have ever had a home cooked breakfast that elaborate. Is this any every day occurence or was it something special for Jessica? If I came to visit would I be treated to something this awesome?

Speaking of visiting, I believe that some serious planning should go on to coordinate a trip to Spumoni South where the Northeastern clan and Western clan would descend upon the homestead at the same time. It would be great to all be in the same place at the same time.

Maybe it's in the Lanyo + Vito + XY chromosome make up, but John and Joe (Whom I just spoke to lastnight!) have exceptional phone voices. They are different, but warm yet professional, and real smooth. I like that.

It's just before 5:30 a.m. and I can't sleep. It's not the hurricane forced rain bans we were conned into thinking we'd be getting, but possibly the Bailey's Irish creme with Hazelnut Coffeemate and a pound of whip cream that Steve and I concocted.
Since everyone that contributes to the blog is either a 1st cousin, or Vito, or Gene from Connecticut, I decided to share my list of 1st cousins living in Russia. You know, so you could become familiar with their names.
1. Sergei (21) Jenia's partner in crime growing up. He taught me curses.
2. Maxim (14) The above's brother. I love him, he lives next door as well, and had summer vacation, so he was with us a lot. Comical.
3. Julia (25ish) never met her, but am looking forward to it. She is now a proud owner of a few sassy Sephora lip glosses.
4. Igor (21) Imperative that I meet him on my next journey, reason being, his name is Igor.

Marlena told me they not only drink vermouth, they also listen to Laibach. I may need to move to Russia.

When we all give the power
We all give the best
Every minute in the hour
We don't think about the rest

What does it mean? Who knows. But I want the hat. I really want the hat.

When a bunch of fire trucks screamed down 7th Avenue this afternoon and stopped outside Lindy's across the street, I thought perhaps justice was being served -- and that a place that charges $22 for pancakes was finally to be reduced to ashes.

Alas, it was some non-event in the subway station downstairs.

I have never eaten in Lindy's. I have eaten in the subway.

I like the word meteorologist. I like to say it out loud: meaty urologist. I don't like urologists. The last one who worked on me left my sack looking like a spinach pizza. Meaty urologist. Hab harvests. Weather conferences. Packing up the grunions. Bazzukajoe hunkering after a giant sandwich made of super-chunk Jif.

This blog puts strange voices in my head.

"Hey, that's quite a bankcheck you've got there; I can tell right away it's not a rubber check but I'm sorry, you won't be able to cash it."

Katrina and the waves have arrived...
AHH it is finally time. The time when we pack our house with every conceivable snack pack item sold in Publix. We take our place on the couch and flip from channel to channel watching bad newspeople with bad hair and bad tans. Rest assured they have bad breath and ass stink. You can not possibly maintain that fresh feeling when sitting in a chair full of coffee farts for 20 hours. Jim Cantore is surpassed in stupidity only by Tim Malloy. I emailed him to ask if there was any relation to Mary Malloy in his family. Do not forget Rob Lopicola and the great Weagle in the pantheon of weather douches. If someone was going to write a screen play it should undoubtedly be about the pre-during-post fiasco of experiencing a hurricane. It begins. I tell myself what i need before hand and go to Publix with a purpose, a list. I do not know what happens when i get there. I buy up every salty snack and and a loaf of bread and peanut butter. Somewhere in my mind i have decided that adequate sustanance is a mountain of chips and a king-size peanut butter sandwich. The lines for gas, water and let's not forget the trip i took home to Spumoni with plywood in a pick up truck driven by a women, and i use that term loosely, that could probably till and combine 40 acres in a day. Thank you MOTHER. Oh and let's not forget putting up the plywood at Spumoni. I lost count onn how many drill bits i snapped. All this fun and we have not even HUNKERED down... I hunker on the toilet; i hide from a hurricane. Shteef is right. We are jaded when it comes to these. I was thinking on my drive home that the last one was soooooo much worse. I wonder if any one wasted their time putting up shutters. Ahhh HURRICANES. Brings the fam together. The family that hunkers together sweats and stinks together. I can't wait for the next one. Hurricane Criswoldo.

Just a thought. I think VIN should get a turn at naming an entire season of hurricanes. Hey Ree maybe you guys should work on that.

Jim Cantore is more performance artist than meteorologist. I've seen him speak at a meterological conference, and I've seen other meteorologists speak at weather conferences. You get a sense of what they like. Some meterologists like numbers, and can ramble about algoriths until the tide has come and gone twice. Cantore? Make sure he's in the spotlight. And get his good side.

It's nice to know that even high water can't stop the coffee at Spumoni South. Be careful what you do with the leftover potato chips. I think that there is a 15 year old bag of pretzels at Castle 1526. I'd hate to think that that sort of thing is genetic

Let it just be known that I am saddened by missing out on Cousin Joe visiting Jupiter Farms. I feel like I missed out on Haley's Comet. But I fear not, for I know everyone fell in love with him, and he will be making a trek back. If not, I have some really cool Nebraska Chamber of Commerce packets, and I'd throw around the idea of packin up the grunions and heading out west. Steve, you're coming! You're awesome, Joe! See you in Sarpey.
Back in good ole' FLAH, we are "batten down the hatches" aka, buying insane quantities of bottled water, D batteries, plywood (well, not us, we're supposed to get 3' floods: welcome reptilious creatures, come in and have coffee), washing every towel and linen, and trying to make Guiness this year with the most bags of potato chips purchased during a period of Marshall Law.

Right now, its 10 a.m. in South Florida and somewhere nearby Jim Cantore is watching satellite imagery with his pants around his ankles saying "Oh Katrina, you dirty dirty girl... Let's role play, you pretend I'm Storm Field..." Down here, in Spumoni Gardens South we've become jaded about these storms, "What only a Category 1? Don't even bother taking in Big Vin's pinwheels." I'm elated about Vito's screenwriting prospects. Mr. Caravella, we need your renewed particpation in this blog....the Vin-man leading the Mastandrea Army in an assault on the neighboring Amish farm which has been sabotaging our tomato crops? Complete that script and you'll be outselling George Lucas.

We're resolved to not help Vito finish his new screenplay until he completes the one he started last week -- the one about the guy who goes to his vacation house and tries without success to cash the giant bankcheck he's been carrying around for hours. But no luck... Each time he enters the bank, they tell him, "yessir, the funds are there -- it's certainly not a rubber check," but they simply cannot cash it. No matter how many Gatorades he drinks. Or how hard he tries to not think about baseball.

How do you end a story like that? WWVS?

Greetings from hot and humid Baton Rouge, LA. I was compelled by the morning news to send best wishes to Spumoni South as Tropical Storm Katrina nears. I'm flying out of the region tomorrow so I get to miss the fun like I did the last time I flew out of Louisiana, which was two days before Hurricane Dennis hit.

Pepper vodka? Do you meen Abslut Peppar? I had a fling with that several years ago. And Tobasco. I quit drinking it before I fell for habaneros. I bet that habs would make a fun bloody mary. We had a great hab harvest a couple of years ago during the drought. Maybe it is time for a Belvedere and hab bloody mary.

Welcome back Marlena and Jenia. I'm sorry you were out of town when I passed through.

Thanks for painting the image of Bazzukajoe flipping blueberry pancakes in just an apron and oven mitts. Can anybody tell me how long it will be etched in my mind?

And they drink vermouth in Russia, all year long. Which makes me wonder: what do they drink at Christmas time when they're eating pork chops and hanging lights?

I really loved my welcome home balloons, Daddy just gets me I guess.
But something that I can't seem to get is that after just watching a Seinfeld commercial, my mother said, "yeah, Daddy used to be a close talker."

Hello Babies,
Jenia's family is a diamond in the subarctic Slavic coalmine. I have stories galore, so I'll hit you with one from time to time. Right now I'll pick the most intriguing topic: Defecation.

In Russia, you have to pay to use a stinkin' port-a-potty. And by stinkin', I truly mean it, my darling mother-in-law, Galina, pointed out to me that a Chinese tourist had just pee-peed on the floor. Kind of a waste of a good 10 roubles. And these are the fancier WCs, while driving home on our 16 total-hour driving trip home from Moscow, at 4am we stopped at a toilet that was just a stoop with a hole. My cousin Janine had quite a problem with these when she was in Germany. She felt she'd rather not use it, and get a colonic back in the States.

Real life toilets that are in private homes are really cool. Jenia's house has a designated doodie bathroom (On the desolate side of the house) the inside of the bowl has a shelf and then a small dip filled with water where the refuse gets flushed. So when you poop, you could see the actual size, color, and distinctive features, like a beached whale, as Joey put it.

It makes you proud too. Ahh, it's good to be home.

Re-reading the post from Bazzukajoe reminded me of the pepper vodka I used to drink at the office back in the late 80s. Those were the good old days, when you could smoke and drink in the workplace -- the happy, innocent days before my boss made a violent attempt to kill me.

I haven't seen a bottle of that stuff in years. Guido and I used to get it and make Bloody Mary's. We'd also make huge cauldrons of Flaming Butthole Chili, eat the chili and wash it down with the Bloody Mary.

Between that and all the turkish coffee, it's amazing we still have functioning colons.

I just had an IM chat with Vito, who envisions a film that features bloggers from this site all forced to live on a farm. Kind-a like a Barese Green Acres. He suggests that across the road is an Amish family that hates us and constantly sabotages our tomato crops.

"Hey, I thought those black-hat bastards didn't use electricity -- this here is a battery-operated detonation device!"

I'm not sure if we can write two screenplays at the same time -- I'm still struggling with our earlier effort to recast the Hamlet's Elsinore as Castle 1526.

I just got John Paul to say: "The Human Torch was denied a bank loan." He said it for me, then walked into the other room and said it to Alane. He's a good kid.

(I might not be able to stop him from repeating this endlessly... And along the same lines, perhaps I shouldn't have told him the other night that in kindergarten he'll be making license plates, because now he's sure to ask his teacher about it.)

Reading the last post, I momentarily pictured Bazzukajoe standing at the stove, flipping blueberry pancakes, wearing just an apron and overn mitts. And the image is very painful.

Would those be Gandolfonov Mittens?

Alane i hope you are not trying to undersatnd the mastandrea mentality or motive. I would think by now that you had given up that futile and pointless research of our deductive reasoning behind our ridiculous exploits. We saw elvis's very poorly trained and tone deaf imitation because we could and steve said it was a good idea.
i hope this shed no light on the ongoing investigation. Hopefully your small men have not inherited this gene but i fear it is too late. Good luck.

Ahhh Yes the Russia Trip has come to a close. I wondered who provided the welcoming accessories out on the lawn. Good call, i would have been deficient in this area. I too recieved a multitude of gifts... shirt, apron vodka, tablecloths, oven mits etc. and a small bag of prosciutto croutons. I proudly wore my apron the very next day while preparing blueberry pancakes, ham and pepperjack cheese omelettes and hash browns. And not those fake patty ones they serve at Spumoni South, real shredded potatoes....MARIAROSE. The apron gave me my formal attire for the breakfast as well as amusing most. I did have something at the welcome home dinner that was different. They had vodka with a chile pepper fermenting in it. It was good but quite hot. Understandably russian in origin, how else do you keep warm? This was enjoyed by all but most by Alexi. He had several and chased it with pickle jar juice. YES the disgusting water left in the empty pickle jar with floaties and who knows what was apparently considered a delicacy in his homeland. This was one thing i was not willin to try. I also had russian chocolate, this little item is packed with power. It kept me up all night. They look like Baci candy but ohh no they are not. There is money to be made on college campuses with this stuff. 2 pieces had me up all night. I kinda liked it since i did just get high speed.

I recieved my pictures in the mail John and Alane. They shall take their rightfully owned space on my refrigerator. To be admired by all.

Weinermobile plan? I never submitted it. But I still think we should've driven that giant non-halal meat sculpture into downtown Fallujah. Talk about changing hearts and minds.

The Vyskrebentsevs made their triumphant return to the United States this weekend, and to celebrate it correctly the Vin-man sent me out early Saturday morning with a very specific task.

Vin: "Hey Steve, while you're out see if you can find one of those big mylar smiley-face balloons"
Steve: "Seriously? I wasn't aware that was a customary ritual in our family. What about some 'welcome home' balloons?"
Vin: "Well yeah, if you can get those too. But definitely the big smiley face balloons"

The man is an enigma wrapped in a riddle. To his credit the giant smiley face balloon was indeed a big hit with my sister. The Homecoming Party dumped the typical pep rally and pageant, in exchange for sausauge and peppers, roast beef, breaded chicken and a spectacular pot of Orange Soup. Now that's Progressive Reform at its best. (Take that Howard Dean.)

Now a few things worthy of mention. Jenia and Marlena returned overflowing with gifts, every one amazing perfect in its own right. I receieved an apron, a shirt, a CD of Euro-Russian pop, and drum roll please... SALAMI FLAVORED CHIPS. Yes, a small bag of crouton like chips that beared a giant picture of a salami on the front. The taste was not altogether bad. Not great, but not quite foul enough for my cousin John to truly enjoy.

I'm going to politely disagree with BazzukaJoe that albeit overpriced for an Elvis impersonator, that show was pretty damn good. Anytime you have a bass guitarist in a wheelchair and a drummer who can only play one 2 minute song each one-hour set, youre seeing a worthwhile show. (Certainly one that won't be playing much longer.) That night was a wonderland for the senses: the stench of old farts, the off-key notes, and the Oakridge Boy bouffant pompoudar grown to the waist in the back. Amazing. Disturbing how many women rushed the stage desperate to get a handkerchief wiped with this guys chest sweat. I imagine the handkerchief can be rung out over a pot to produce a salty elvis consomme.

Anyway, I will finish by expressing my happiness and excitement that I was not the only family memeber who tried to win the Oscar Meyer Weinermobile contest. My idea was for a dance contest/hot dog eating contest called : "Sun, Fun and a Whole Lotta Bun." I thought my entry was original, organized and well-thought out. Apparently the Hot Dog Gods disagreed.

Finally, I too heard a Viagra story from an un-named family member this past weekend. And although I understand any disappointment, I must wholeheartedly agree with the decision to exclude it from our very public Macaroni Dish. Some stories are just better when told sipping Cinzano under the backyard umbrella.

a vote will not be necessary. They are all smegmatic.
Teach Mojo to say
" UNIQUE NEW YORK....UNIQUE NEW YORK"
Then John Paul should learn
"THE HUMAN TORCH WAS DENIED A BANK LOAN."
Send them to castle grayskull...I mean castle 1526 and have them repeat it
continuously during a yankee game. This could be an interesting test of just how much uncle vito can endure.
Steve and I taught those 2 sayings to Noah. He is 4 yrs old son of a friend. He had no idea what it meant. He kept re-enforcing to us that the human torch is very hot and he flies. Yes and he WAS DENIED A BANK LOAN!!! He now sees me every so often in Publix and today he said hey Joey "UKE NEEK NEWK NORK....UKE NEEK NEWK NORK" And he laughed and said I dont like the beach the sand is too hot. I am fascinated by this. This is the line of conversation i am used to in retail. A variety of thoughts that float and land where they may. This is whats its like in my head on most days.
Im hungry....is it hot out.....i missed the 3 stooges today.....my face is itchy...i wonder how many times a day broadway scratches his sack....is castle 1526 really a castle?.....if left alone on sunday could john paul make meatballs by himself?

Who is the Macaroni Dish's favorite member of the Cornell Western Team? Is it necessary to even take a vote?

"I'm-a-good-look," say the chimps. They also like meatballs, so don't be surprised if they show up on any given Thursday demanding meatballs and sausage -- though they still haven't developed a taste for stinky cheese. Which is strange... they like all other stinky things.

I was bad today -- didn't make macaroni. I blame the heat. Or at least the anticipated heat (was supposed to be hot/humid today, but didn't get so bad until mid afternoon). So I dogged the early morning meatball drill and instead slipped out back this afternoon to grill some burgers, some sausage, some potatoes and zucchini. Came out nice. In a few minutes I'll go jog a couple of miles.

Did I ever mention how much I hate jogging? It's dreadfully boring. And my knee still gives me considerable pain. And my back gets stiff. And I sweat like mad -- for a good 20 minutes after I'm done.

I'd rather be drinking wine. Maybe I'll try doing both one day, see how that goes.

Some people enjoyed the Elvis fiesta -- I hear Steve tossed his mutandes onto the stage before swooning in his chair.

BTW, it was Tommy that cut the boys' hair yesterday. He gave them many lollipops. And he somehow managed to lock me out of the shop twice -- not by accident.

I know that there must be a rational explanation, but I just can't come up with it, why a person would go see an Elvis Impersonator at all let alone for $ 40.00 a pop? For that much you could have come and seen the real Neil Sedak or was it Neil Diamond at Madison Square Garden. I'm pretty sure it would have been just as interesting, and kinda like seeing Elvis as the photo in the paper showed whatever Neil it was in a jumpsuit.

The Last Supper on the Suburban brings to mind my own religious encounter of the week. I was looking for something on my dresser when my St. Jude statue took a fall. This seemed like a very bad omen to me as St. Jude is the patron saint of impossible causes and I had managed to decapitate him. Luckily for me, I had the miraculous Super Glue (maybe I should pray to it instead) and was able to do a successful head reattachment.

Mojo and Cookie got their hair cut today and now both are "good looks".

well i don't have any erectile dysfunction stories but there is that whole steroid controversy and that will give you some dysfuction. I can tell you the guy in front of me on I95 had the entire painting of the last supper across the back of his suburban. Now thats classy. I do not get these guys that drive around with thier last name on the back window of the car. Its just bizarre.

So I guess i will be the one to briefly describe the Elvis impersonator we went to see on wednesday night. You know that this show is going to be good when there are members of the band so old they are in wheelchairs. The drummer could only play like 1 song out of every 4 because he was winded. The best part of the show was the original back up singers for elvis, the Jordanaires, were great but even they were all in thier 80's. This guy put forth no effort. I saw a better impersonation at my wedding. He did not move like him and on a song or two he did sound ok but the back up guys were singing for him. $40 a ticket. I feel dumber for having wasted that much time. We had more amusement in Johnny Rockets. Those guys are GOOD. Even the audience was a joke. There were more misfits and morons than i have ever seen in one place. The 4 antiques in front of us must have been farting or one shit in his pants because i could taste the stink it was so bad. No Elvis memorabilia here to sell but lots of misfits and bad hair. in one word WOW!

Haven't watched a lot of baseball this season, but I did have the game on tonight. Noticed the commercials lean heavily toward erectile dysfunction treatments... lots of Levitra, Cialis, Viagra, etc. They've been on for a while, I know, but for some reason I started to take it personally: are the hidden persuaders trying to tell me that people who watch baseball can't get stiffies?

Well, I can take a hint. I have since changed the channel. I'm watching C-SPAN now. A fascinating discussion of Medicare regulation. I'm feeling somewhat sleepy. And strangely flaccid.

Almost makes me wonder if any Macaroni Dish regulars have related stories... Anyone?

I don't want to give away too much, but I understand Vito has a Big Red story all his own.

When you spend an evening bar-hopping with Broadway Joe, you never quite know what you're going to wind up wearing as a hat. Steve, your tale of adventure has strengthened the soul of Airport Guy -- he wants to know if Big Red makes house calls. And Alane wants the phone number of that midget. Uh, little person.

I keep telling Alane that she's headed for prison. In last week's Wall Street Journal there was in article about a financial firm spending a scandalous amount of money on entertaining a potential client. Here's what captivated my attention:

In March 2003, Jefferies and two rivals [snip] helped pay for a weekend-long bachelor party for one of Fidelity's star traders, Thomas Bruderman Jr. Jefferies paid nearly $65,000 for a corporate jet to fly Messrs. DeSano and Bruderman and others from Boston to Miami's South Beach. The amusements included Danny Black, a hired dwarf whom traders and their friends tossed for entertainment. It is this party that federal prosecutors in Boston are investigating. Mr. Black said he planned to travel to Boston next week to meet with authorities and give grand-jury testimony.

You hear that, Alane? You're going down, lady!

I think I owe the world a brief description of my weekend with Broadway Joe. It started in downtown Orlando deep within the bowels of a filthy, decrepit go-go bar named Mako, where there hides a secret VIP room, decorated entirely in marble and oak (it resembled a library one might see in a gothic castle, an amazing contrast to the grime just yards away). What was amazing was the journey one had to embark on to reach this secret chamber. We had to walk through a room full of go-go dancers changing their clothes, and then an entire floor of construction; stepping over circular saws, sawdust, and even gaping holes to get to it. Bizarre. After we experienced an hour in the "Oak Room" as it was referred to, we moved on to the dance club next door named Antigua, where Broadway Joe literally owns the place. ( To give you an idea of his relationship with the staff, the next day he had a pool party attended by all 5 bartenders, 2 of the bouncers and both operation managers). Now comfortably nestled inside Antigua's VIP area, Broadway Joe proceeds to introduce me to everyone in a very unique manner ("this is my cousin Steve, he loves girls with big boobs, so feel free to rub yours against him") I was a bit startled the first time he said it, but learned to appreciate it immensely when nearly everyone of the fifty women he said it to chose to follow his instructions. Now its time for me to make a generalized understatement...Broadway Joe and I drank a lot of alcohol. So what was a surreal experience in its own right becomes even more surreal. I met and exchanged phone numbers with a midget. I discussed American geopolitics with a realtor from Deland. I was lifted 2 feet above the ground and carried around by an Amazon women named "Big Red" (once again thanks to Broadway Joe whispering in her ear "my cousin Steve really enjoys being lifted and carried around by women"). People kept showing me tattoos on concealed areas of their bodies (due to the absurd volume of alcohol Im not sure if this can also be credited to Broadway Joe). I drank a few things that tasted like cleaning agents: Clorox or Tidy Bowl. The drinks had names like Airplane Glue and Gasoline. The Antigua VIP area had a secret bathroom which required an elevator ride, now true it was private...but the toilet didnt flush. Luckily no one took a brunz, but by the end of the nite that bowl was a real brimmer. We stayed till the club's lights came on, and then departed for some craphole 24 hour pizza joint. As we approach the pizzeria, there are no parking spaces or lot to be found, so Broadway Joe pulls his car into the lot of a recently condemned building. This lunatic seriously parks his brand new $80,000 sports car all by itself in a pile of rubble. This pizza place is not a restaurant, there are no seats, so therefore we must take our slices back to the giant pile of pulverized concrete...and eat our slices over the $80,000 sports car. We devoured the pizza, no clue if it was good or bad and returned to Broadway Joe's house, where I spent the next hour playing in his new car....an original K.I.T. from the TV show Knight Rider. And all I could think was.....what better way to end the night then to be sitting in the same seat once occupied by David Hasslehoff's ass?

What, no report from Bratislava? Perhaps I should check the police blotter.

I don't remember grandma having mini Hershey bars all the time. But at least I now know how "Life is like a hat." Congratulations to Joey and Jessica for their Mastandrea first. And how much is the tooth fairy leaving nowadays?

Ellie and I and our faithful Akita Tarka caught a local blues band at an outdoor concert at a local upscale lifestyle development designed in a "prairie concept" distinctive to the midwest. (Now I know why marketing is evil.) Great music and the weather even cooperated. It was almost like CityPlace in West Palm - but with fewer fountains. And certainly no dirty-water hot dog carts.

I'm enjoying a little lasagna and contemplating the rest of my month. Next week I have training in Missouri, the following week I have training in Louisiana, and I return just in time to work the Air Show. I'll blog when I can but that may not be much.

There is something disturbing about the phone calls i get from the Fatones. When i say hello and all i hear is laughing and someone gigglimg and out of breath says check your email NOW! I know it will probably very funny or very unsettling. This time a very bizzare dance performed by an equally bizzare women. I still cannot figure out why she has an old clown on her head like a hat. I can send a link to those that are daring. I am never sure of what i may see in times like this and i take no reponsibility for those that stare in bewilderment and digust.

I was watching an old rerun of the hulk with bill bixby. it was not as fascinating as it was when i was 8. It kinda sucked. maybe grandma narrating it in italian made it better. never can tell.

I was thinking does anyone else remember grandma having hershey bars stashed all over the house when you were little. She could make one appear in a heartbeat. She was Copperfield with those mini hershey bars. Bang it was in her hand. Where did she keep them? I never did find the bag. One of the great mysteries. We need a photo of her on the blog.

Welcome to Bratislava! Before leaving for Brooklyn this morning, I checked the police blotter in the newspaper to learn the results of Steve's night out. Maybe I should have checked the National News section. Or maybe Frylock just taught Broadway Joe how to go to sleep early... but I doubt it. With any luck, one of both of them spent at least a portion of the evening wearing a big hat. Because everything, and I mean everything, is like a hat.

At least Airport Guy knows what that means now.

Today we have been told that Pee Wee is a she. Its a GIRL... We got several pictures but this one came out the best. I have one with a cranium shot that is a classic mastandrea colossal head. It was very cool. We watched as she thrshed about and kicked her feet. I guess i will give in. Steve - Jenia - Darrell and i believe Pat were correct. I have also been informed that this a first for the mastandrea bloodline, a girl as first born. Well, she will have a large hat to fill.

LET THE GAMES BEGIN...

It wasn't the looming start of kindergarten that brought home how fast time is racing. It was Cookie's losing his first tooth yesterday.

Those things just grew in!

Okay, so that happened many million melon chunks ago. Still, this took me by surprise. I was up early this morning, reading the newspaper on the front step (like a mook) and Cookie woke up very excited to find a dollar where his tooth had been placed.

He came running out to show me. He told me it came from the tooth fairy.

I sighed, put aside my newspaper and lectured my boy on the importance of political correctness. They become haters so quickly these days. Where does the time go?

VH1 Classic just showed Morrissey's "Every Day Is Like Sunday" and of course I had to call John Paul to the television to explain the significance of the song.

"See, for Morrissey, every day is like Sunday. And you know what that means? Meatballs every day."

He sat on my lap, gazing up at me, asking in reply:

"And pasta too?"

Indeed. Then I muted the TV and we all turned our attention to the computer where we screened some other classic music videos: "Californication" by Red Hot Chili Peppers, "Feel Good" by Gorillaz, and "Punk Rock Girl" by Dead Milkmen -- which is a cool one to watch because John Paul can sing along with much of it.

Right now we're watching "Holiday in My Head" by Smash Mouth and the boys are dancing. If you can call it dancing.

Today Alane brought the chimps to my office. They had a grand old time. We ate lunch and then they played while I got some things done. Sneaked out of the office early to go with them to Sony World on the east-side (was lame-o), and then we headed for Grand Central. Along the way John Paul decided he was hungry -- which triggered Joseph to declare likewise. He spotted a food cart at the curb and stated his menu choice: today my boys ate their first dirty-water-hot-dogs.

And they finished the whole thing... As they walked down Madison Avenue... Just like a couple of mooks.

Been sneezing a lot this week and suspected that it was an out-of-season hay fever attack. But today it felt more like a cold. And by late afternoon, I was pretty sure of that.

But I had planned a night out with some old friends, so to not appear even more lame than they already know I am, I sucked it up and joined them for a trip to a West-side Mexican restaurant (right across from Fordham Law -- as I gazed out the window I couldn't help but think about the gobs of money Alane and I left there over the years).

Anyway, we drank a lot of tequila. A lot of tequila. And we ate well. Got on the train and listened to the panic-fed phone calls of a woman across from me who'd apparently had even more tequila than me -- she needed someone to come get her at the station, she whined into the phone, because "I'm so fucked up right now... I am like, so fucked up." She was laid out across the three-seater, and between phone calls she asked me to please not let her miss the Tuckahoe stop. Then she repeated her entreaty.

It was quite a performance. And though she never did appear to lose consciousness, she was sufficiently involved in another "so fucked up" conversation to not notice we were pulling into Tuckahoe. So as I got up to leave I slapped her on the leg with my book and called out in a large voice, "Let's go, party girl" -- which was probably the first time in my life I ever used those words in that exact order.

And now that I'm home, sweating out the tequila, I don't feel that cold anymore. Somehow, I feel I have accomplished something tonight.

This arrived with no explanation. I'm not sure there could be a sufficient explanation.

Because this is just wrong... No matter how it started.

Last night we connected to Ohio via webcam -- yes, we beamed choppy live video of fidgety boys horsing around in their skivvies as they sought to avoid looming bedtime.

Talk about reality TV!

Saw BazzukaJoe on IM today and he mentioned that he's been away from his computer with his cellphone off lately... Can people still do that in 2005?

The leper ribs were quite tasty. I liked them. Though I do think our slow cooker runs hot. Just like our grill out back -- the lowest temperature setting has four digits.

As for Limbaugh, he's no worse than Chris Matthews, Keith Olbermann, and all the other cranks who... I can't really listen to anymore. Too grating. Predictable. Repetitive.

I don't see any future for issue-driven campaigning -- unless the issue is free beer and a two-day work-week. That'll get people beyond party affiliation. Until then, I know who I'm pulling for in the next Ohio elections.

Today as it is about a 100 degrees, I decided to cook ribs. I had planned on doing this on the grill until John explained that this would not work due to the fact our grill is like a blast furnace. John suggested that using the slow cooker would be the least heat causing cooking method. I agreed.

Now due to my love of pot roast, I should be a master of the sl0w cooker. However, this thing confounds me. Nothing I make every comes out right. These ribs are to be no exception. They are by far the creepiest ribs I have ever seen. Indeed, although not a fan of food photography, I may have to do so to document the sheer creepiness of them.

These things are black-not that beautiful reddish color I've grown to associate with bbq ribs. At first I was gonna describe them as LaBrea tar pittish but they are weirder then that. It finally hit me what they were like--imagine your skin contracted leprosy and chunks fell off and laid around for say three months. This about hits it. At this point, I'm not even certain I can dine on them without thinking of the Donner Party. I did macaroni salad that did taste pretty good so all may not be lost.

While laboring over the creepy ribs (which I seem to have to watch an awful lot considering you are suppose to be able to put a slow cooker on and come home to a meal), I was listening to Rush Limbaugh. Let me just put on the record that I really dislike that man. I listen to the other shows on the station and was to lazy to shut him off. Anyway he was discussing the election in Ohio to replace the guy President Bush chose as US trade representative. Rush played the commercial for the democrat who apparently served in Iraq and doesnt identify himself in the commercial as a democrat. Rush said that this was to hide the fact he was democrat. That may very well be true but it ocurred to me, that I would really like people to come on to a commercial and give their stand on positions and not tell me their party affliation. It would be interesting to see how voting went if people really did vote on the issues and not on the party name attached.

Well time to make sure the creepy ribs havent formed into some kind zombie cow in the kitchen...

It is quite late and right now is a rare moment in Spumoni Gardens South ... it is silent. The problem is, just when you think you have reached your complete moment of peace, the front door alarm system goes off by itself ... the one point in my life where I will quote Michael Constantine in My Big Fat Greek Wedding ..."Do you want to kill me?"

Anyway, I am sure you all know that I am not blogging to report of quiet nights ...but of joyous occasions. Joe Nebraska has taken the pilgrimage to the Southern Division of the Mastandrea Tribal Counsel.
This lovely reunion consisted of dinner at Nick's Tomatoe Pie, outrageous car rides (at least for Steve and I) and a nice journey to Ghiradelli's in City Place, which happens to be on ... Okeechobee Blvd. I'm so glad you got to come to Florida and witness such amazing goings on such as the Space Shuttle Discovery launch, take a walk through Restoration Hardware, eat good food, drink good milk shakes, and see the famous Florida sunset.
Remember that you are welcome back here again anytime ...

Oh I hope you all enjoy my Soup Mix picture ...Thank you John for adding to your collection, I am quite honored to be part of the Mastandrea Heads. I would just like to let you all know that that picture was taken on location at Winn- Dixie by my favorite photographor Esteban Legsa Verihairi.
Which reminds me ... whatever happened to those pictures of when you guys put your heads in the ice chest?

Didn't L.A. Style do a dance-track around the words "King Fahd Is Dead" back in the 90s? I've had that song beating through my brain since reading the headlines this morning.

Elsewhere, I'm happy to see that Robin is still having fun with that domain name. That man is a virtuoso of mischief. And when the law comes a-calling seeking to depose me, I don't know the guy.