Mooligas is one of the most excellent and under-used words in the Italo-Brooklyno lexicon -- I healf-expected to hear it in a Sopranos Chrissy-Paulie dialogue, but the series ended without my noticing its inclusion.

It's anglo cousin, dingle-berry has to compound two words and waste a whole extra syllable to get its point across -- not very economical, and a great disadvantage to someone trying to tell his story in a room full of people who are all talking loudly trying to tell their story.

Alane and I especially enjoyed hearing Bazzukajoe's tale of wretched debauchery the other night -- we sat on the front steps of Berea-Rose with the cordless phone on speaker so we could both hear the grisly details. Both meaning Alane and myself, but probably also meaning us and the neighbors. Which would explain why people have been averting their gaze whenever we pass lately.

As we listened to the sordid tale, Da Chimpz were across the street riding their bikes with one of their little pals. The kids brought out what looked like a slide that had been detached from a playhouse -- a yellow plastic mold that they laid onto the sidewalk to use as a ramp. Cookie was beside himself with joy, racing his bike across that thing, trying to get air. The three of them were having a great time. Then the little geniuses got the idea that the ramp needed more incline. They (fortunately) had nothing to prop under its end, but that did not stop our fearless dare-devils -- Mojo decided he would hold the end while their friend came barreling down the sidewalk to make his jump.

Alane and I gritted our teeth as the slide, the bike, and the kids all collapsed into each other upon impact. We waited for screams of pain or tell-tale gushers of blood but sensing neither we turned our attention back to Bazzukajoe's narration of events that happened in Vegas and should have stayed in Vegas.