Yeah, for some reason I just read this again, and I really do worry about the mental health of our old friend Steve. I mean, the man is truly f'd up.

Another baseball game last night; another loss. The score was something like 16-12, so it's not like it wasn't fun. Da Chimpz made some pretty good plays in the field, and Cookie hit for a double.

Tonight I think I need to fire up the Berea-Rose grill. I have some chicken that wants to perfume itself in marinade and dress itself in dark vertical grill marks.

I find it very difficult to cook chicken these days without saying out loud:

Mastandrea's chickens...
Are coming home...[waving hands like sorcer]
To roost!

It's not unlike my old Fish Eye reflex. I really must learn to keep these eruptions to myself -- the Giant Beagle security team probably keeps a highlights reel of some of my more involved aisle-to-aisle conversations... just me, making small talk with the merchandise.

I'm waiting for Steve to come on the blog and tell us about Habachi Grill. I love the name -- it makes me think of Hitachi Grill, which doesn't exist -- but if it did, it would be an appliance store in Brooklyn and Vito would make Vinny drive him there so e could buy a gigantic console television that wouldn't fit in Vinny's trunk. Does that make sense to anyone except me?

But a wheel of cheese just isn't quality unless it has a cow encased inside it. That's how you know you're getting a truly sophisticated cheese.

Yes, the cheese that dare not speak its name.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OpzEF0D2xfE

Yes. I am planning on taking part in that event as soon as I possibly can.

Da Chimpz had a great time last night over at their friend's house -- and so did we. Finally, the weather improved from its wet-cold nastiness and turned gave us a picture-perfect evening.

The party really got started when the giant slabs of meat emerged from the smoker -- that was good stuff. We sat outside, got a fire going, played some corn-hole (yeah, corn-hole), and generally stayed up way past everyone's bedtime.

And speaking of party, it was Bazzukajoe's birthday yesterday. I didn't get a chance to talk to him. Hopefully, we was too busy eating alternating forkfuls of cake and pizzaiola. We haven't heard any of his "tales from the workplace" recently so I must assume he is just saving it all up for some future brain-dump.

Today is rainy again, but maybe we'll get motivated and get our grill going later. Might even re-assemble that little-house-on-the-prairie tent we had a couple years ago. Should be a really interesting process, being the instruction booklet is long gone.

Due to the incredible lack of events in my life, it has been awhile since I last blogged. Last night for the first time in quite some time, I actually went out with a friend and did something adult like. It was a great change of pace. I got to see Eddie Izzard who I believe is incredibly funny. I have never seen a comedian live or been to a comedy club so I wasnt sure what to expect. He was great. He did 2 hours straight. Which I think is what amazed me. He explained at the onset when he messed up a joke that it was all scripted but to keep all that insanity in your brain is indeed an amazing feat.

In other news, I received a promotion at work. That's about all on that.

Today begins the Memorial day weekend and the chimps and I shall head off to the place where they bury the dead--I tried to spell cem...and it kept saying it was wrong--to place flags on veteran's graves. If the weather holds there are also plans to try the new mountain bike trail and hike the giant rocks left by glaciers. I believe there may also be a picnic involved.

Ah, so checking my messages (I should do that more often) I see that Franco Corso actually did reach out to me last to request that I remove the video clip myself. His concern, understandably enough, was that is cast him in an unflattering light. He said it was poor quality sound (to which I say "That's nothing compared to having been there in person").

Anyway, it was a friendly enough request until the end of the message where he added the kicker that my video was "not authorized." Running my camera at the fairgrounds and capturing a 29-second fragment of his unfixed performance is hardly a case of bootlegging -- authorization is a non-issue. You wouldn't try to shut down a news crew reporting from a county fair just because a performance was under way -- bloggers have at least as many rights as a news crew.

But hey, that's all lawyer stuff and I charge far too much money to practice law, even on my own behalf.

Frankie was right about one thing: he didn't come across very well in my video. And while that is no excuse for engaging in copyright abuse, I must admit that the only reason I posted the video was to show how lame the event was. An Italian Festival with no zeppole... Disgrazia. Of course he'd need to do some damage control.

So he got YouTube to spike my short video clip: take one step forward on image management. But my original review of the event still stands: take two steps back.

As they say in the industry: the internets is serious business. Just ask YouTube: the lawyer-spooked functionaries who run the content sent me an interesting missive.

Dear Member:

This is to notify you that we have removed or disabled access to the following material as a result of a third-party notification by Franco Corso claiming that this material is infringing:

Berea Italian Festival 2006: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5GiAFKFU3vI

Now this is true comedy. Let us recall that I shot that video at a so-called Italian Festival (one devoid of zeppole) at which one Frankie Corso (from the showrooms of Vegas!) belted out several lounge-lizard standards while a handful of elderly Ohioans doddered over a mostly-barren dancefloor. I took about 30 seconds of video to survey the, er, "festivities" as Corso crooned in the background.

Needless to say, there was no infringement of his, er, performance. Maybe Frankie Corso has joined forces with Rob Lopicola and has sought to pour a nor'easter of harassment into our happy Macaroni Dish? I shall respond to the law-addled gatekeepers at YouTube. Or not... it hardly matters. Still, it's quite funny to have Franco Corso voluntarily join the cast of characters of our blog -- he can be our Jim Cantore of atmospheric melody.

Considering Corso's performance, I suppose it should be no surprise that he'd want any and all reference to it deleted.

Just a gigolo, indeed!

The Macaroni Dish has received a special request. It seems that Rachel from the mid-west has stumbled upon an earlier posting of ours and realized that our clan is in possession of one trumpet-grasping, reveille-playing, quartz-movement, cat-resembling alarm clock.

Yes, that clock (not the one that roars like a motorcycle and announces "good morning!"

Bottom line: she's been looking for that clock and cannot find it for sale anyway.

Rachel's request warms my heart -- finally, our happy blog contacted by someone who actually obtains amusement from the types of things that amuse us (though Simms didn't look all that amused when I rousted him from sleep that morning so we could drive to the Stamford train station).

Anyway, someone help me out here: which Christmas was it that alarm clocks were the gift of choice? I'm thinking 1988. Have I had this thing for 20 years already? Yikes.

Needless to say, I can't part with so precious an heirloom. And a quick check on E-Bay and the site formerly-known-as-Froogle turned up no leads. One hint that might help: the name on the clock face is "Rhythm" and there are very few other identifying markings.

Hey Steve, what else do we know about those things?

Tonight, as Alane checked Mojo's homework she couldn't help but read it out loud to me:

Workbook question: Why did he go home?

Mojo's answer: Did he go home?

It seemed unresponsive, but I had to inquire: "What, he's getting philosophy homework these days?"

It's another sign of how oddball we are. Here we are, living in a society where so much social and political culture is driven by envy -- and here we are feeling pity for our otherwise-well-situated neighbors. Case in point: Steve was telling me yesterday about the calzones he made. He found them so enjoyable that at a barbecue stop-over he not only could not stop thinking of his creations -- he actually said he felt bad for the poor people who were sitting there eating perfectly good burgers.

They had no idea what they were missing! (Such it is with life's true treasures.)

Well, a mere several hours after getting off the phone with Steve I had the identical experience: there I was at the Cub Scout picnic, watching people pass around plates of perfectly good hot dogs and potato salad... and all I could think about was the big pot of meatballs and gravy simmering on my stovetop back home. Oh, and the pizza-dough still growling in the basement, angrily awaiting self-actualization.

We headed back at our first opportunity.

That pizza we made was good, too. It wasn't without complication, mostly due to my foolishly using an inappropriate baking pan. (I'd get a stone, but I got enough crap in my kitchen.) The first pizza was slightly underdone, but the sliced meatballs and sausage made up for the average crust. The second one came out with a perfectly browned crust -- with one side dressed in sun-dried tomatoes and the other side striped with tasty anchovies. That latter portion was pretty much all mine, needless to say.

Anyway, we filled up on that and could hardly eat any more of the meatballs. Talk about an embarrassment of riches... It's a good thing the envy-driven Marxists haven't discovered our trove -- they'll pry these meatballs from my cold, dead, gravy-stained fingers!

And yet, I kind-a feel bad for the dumb bastards.

Ah, Sunday: the rain appears to be over (for now); the meatballs are simmering in liquidy-red goodness; da chimpz wil soon come in from their bike ride to don their Cub Scout attire and hit the noon Mass -- which will be followed by the Pack's end-of-year picnic.

Then we'll come home and make the pizza Cookie has been hounding me for all week. He was surprised when I told him yesterday "get your shoes on, we're going to Giant Beagle." He seemed to think that someone else should go to the supermarket and get the raw materials for his pizza. And then, when we got back home with the goods, he lasted only a few minutes bowl-side. After pouring the wets onto the dries and switching on the mixer he asked "can I go watch Tom and Jerry now?"

Such is the attention span of an eight-year-old.

Well anyway, I got a big heap of angry dough cooling its heels in the basement fridge. That stuff will be sprung later on -- sauce will be spread, meatballs will be smashed, and cheese will be sprinkled. Yum.

For my birthday I got a Steve Irwin action figure. Press his shirt pocket and he says "Crikey!" I say "Freaky."

Well, we lost our first game yesterday -- but it was hard fought. I was just glad to be back in time for the opening ceremonies yesterday morning -- I'd been in NYC scheduled to depart on a 6:55 p.m. flight, but the rains had come down in torrents throughout the day and I was worried about cancellation. It was crazy-delayed, but I made it home by about 10:30. Da Chimpz were still awake. They wanted their black-and-white cookies.

So let me just tell you about yesterday: It starts off with me having to pick up a new license plate, because for some reason the state has decided this year mine needs to be replaced (Have BazzukaJoe and Dr. Sfingi remembered to renew their tags this month?) and so I start with the actual vehicle registration department, they send me to the Tax Collector, who sends me to Traffic Violations line...which I might add is 3 miles long and when I get to the counter they inform me I must leave the building and go to the Drivers License Department...where the line the 17 miles long...and a bit darker in skin tone. One hour online and finally I finally reach the counter and find the problem, in order to get my license plate some schmo here (which to my knowledge has nothing to do with the registration or plate of the vehicle) must physically check my insurance card in order for the Vehicle Registration Department to release my new plate. So I ask why such a big deal and they answer on March 25th I was pulled over, given no ticket or warning but didn't have my insurance card in the car. One problem: absolutely never happened. So the lady at the counter looks at the date on my insurance card, hits enter and gives me a sale receipt 2 feet long for $0.00. "Now go back to vehicle registration department and pick up your license plate". So I estimate my $31.00 plate cost taxpayers about $6,000 in wasted employee wages. So lets fast forward to the close of the business day, Merle comes by the store with family friend/hero Jacquie Carter and they somehow manage to convince me to join them for a nice stroll down Jupiter Beach. Admittedly, they both recommend I remove my shoes and roll up my jeans...which considering the distance we were from the ocean I scoffed at. Now my disdain for salt water and sand may be high...but it pales in comparison to my hatred for salt water and sand squishing through my socks and sneakers...which after the crash of a far reaching wave now resemble a pair of breaded chicken cutlets. Buts its still okay, because we truly had a great time out and agree to meet up at my house later in the night. So its now 7:30 pm I'm headed to Publix to pick up some goodies for my company and something for dinner for me and Jennie. Now I know very little has spoken about that elusive species "Stevis Girlfriendis"...but I will divulge a few previously unmentioned details. 1. Like Merle, she lives a lifestyle thats a bit healthier than my own. High vegetable diet and regular visits to the gym. Pilates and yoga. So at 7:45pm (in a starved and confused state and still squishing in my sneakers) when I call her for a dinner request...and it is "just salad". Not exactly my favorite, but I'll deal. Next I call Marlena and she kindly requests that tonight's munchies also be "health-oriented". So after more than 24 hours without food it will be salad for dinner and fruit for dessert. 2. Second fact about Jennie: she has a kickass baby cockerspaniel named Bentley. The dog is cute, sweet and very well tempered. However like most dogs...he has this bizarre predilection for cat turds. As we all know, my cat Bruno is cat-turd factory and so recently I've had to keep the litterbox out of Bentley's tempted reach. On this particular night, I elect to simply shut the guest room door thereby separating both cat and dog from litterbox. Jennie observes my actions and asks with a bit of concern, "won't it be a problem if Bruno has to use the box?". To which I answered almost mockingly "He can last two hours, and hes really smart, he'll meow if he has to go in". As I should have learned by now, always go against my natural instinct, especcially if it conflicts with the ideas of the smarter species. Merle, Jenia Flect, Jennie (who hasn't got a nickname yet) and myself are laughing it up on my couch when I see Jenia's eyes nearly pop out of his head. Indeed, my beloved housepet, Bruno the Wondercat without any warning had climbed upon my couch and shit something you would normally see fall out of a T-Rex's ass. Sheer horror...because as you can guess Bentley spotted this buffet of shit and rushed over for a warm meal. So is there a moral to this story? The world is against me: the DMV, Merle, Jennie, Jacquie, Bruno, Bentley, even the Beach itself is against me. The only one who really understands me: Barack Obama

This week in Mastandrea history: three years ago we got the boys their bunk beds. They still sleep on that bed, though they have ended their practice of alternating on the top bunk, as was the issue in this episode. The practice had even survived the months-long hiatus related to our Tuckahoe-Berea move. The beds have also been instrumental in the development of Cookie's comprehension of Newtonion Physics.

Another rainy day here at Berea-Rose. In a few minutes I have to go pick up the team's baseball uniforms. Then a few other errands until this afternoon, when I check the weather once more to see if we can squeeze in our regularly-scheduled practice.

May 10 is opening day. Yee-ha.