Not to throw my wife under the bus, but while she was engrossed in grading papers last night I played "We are Robots" and after about one minute she stopped, looked up and politely said "I don't know what your listening to...but its awful". I didn't reply or argue, just laughed and turned off the sound. (I had to watch the rest of the no-budget video.) Some tastes have to be acquired...like Turkish coffee and Bulgur salad.

Anyway, because Bentley has been struggling with skin allergies for the past week or two, Jennie decided to take him to a new vet recommended by my boss. The office is buried deep in the bowels of backwoods Jupiter Farms. I can only imagine what sort of disturbing sights she must regularly see, considering I have never seen a single animal in the Farms that doesn't possess some sort of physical defect or malady. If Dr. Sfingi can link us to the tale of the Hell House on Haney Lane (OK, done), you will recall the dog with the tracheotomy or even better...the petting zoo at the old Burt Reynolds estate. Just in case that story has yet to be told I hit you with a few details.

I believe it was back in 1997 (which is scary to think is 15 years ago), that Broadway Joe was just beginning his ascent in the entertainment business and was forced to spend most of the year working and promoting in Germany. To record and share his experiences there, his now-wife Kelly bought him what was in 1997, a state of the art handheld camera. So given some time off , Joe flies back to Florida and on one particular weekend shoots down to Spumoni Gardens. After viewing some of his amazingly funny footage in Germany, we decide this camera must be put to good use here. We head off just a few miles down the road to Burt Reynolds Petting Zoo, which was open and free to the public, and to my knowledge an abandoned refuge for deformed animals. Somewhere out there still exists a video tape of the four balloon-heads...who even in 1997 were old enough to know better, mocking and toying with sad mutant deer, llamas, emus, goats and even a burro (which had a sign above its cage informing it was a gift from Dom Deluise!). I feel sheepish giving all the details of the tape, but Broadway Joe was taught that an emus neck can be twisted 360 degrees without any physical harm...and he demonstrated. BazzukaJoe carried with him a backpack full of Doritos and M&Ms we could feed the hungry animals, by the time we reached the goats we had ran out, and were forced to feed them the receipts that were left. There was a llama with a severe dental problems, that we felt obligated to publicly humiliate, and the big finale was was an up close video of a goat pressing his face to Steve Fatone's ass, to which he responded to with a blast so powerful and perfectly timed that it stunned the goat frozen. Its a scene we watched 700 times and laughed every time. Anyway, I now start my day off with a big silly grin remembering that confused goat.
Disclaimer: Dr. Sfingi, please explain to your children...these are all terrible ideas.

We stopped for breakfast after Mass yesterday and ordered ourselves some eggs and coffee. In the corner a mounted TV screen showed a bicycle race and I wondered aloud if it could be the Giro or the Tour de France before realizing I have no idea when any of those are scheduled or why either of them would be on American television.

Anyway, Mojo immediately started singing We Are The Robots by Kraftwerk, which includes the zombified refrain Tour de France, Tour de France. Naturally, that singing quickly gave way to the Rathergood version of the song, We Are Pork Products (by Kraftwurst) which has the even better refrain Pork de France, Pork de France.

What did we say the other day about unlikely cultural references? Gotta dig the LED-studded necktie. And the googly-eyes glued to the hot dogs.

Y'know Shteef you remind me, back in 1985 I was the official scorekeeper an XU baseball game against IIRC Indiana University, Purdue (UI-PUI, or something). The opposing pitcher was a dead ringer for Steve Perry -- the nose, the hair, lots of both. Every time an XU batter took a big cut on one of his pitches our entire dugout sang out IT SHOULDA BEEN GONE! Poor bastard probably got a lot of that.

Ahhh...good to be back. Special thanks to the fine folks at Best Buy for providing Jennie with a brand new replacement computer free of charge after hers recently took a dump. Thanks to them, I return to the blogosphere. Anyway, its been two weeks and a lot has happened...so lets dive right in.

Recently, the wifey and I traveled to Newport R.I. for a family wedding. We had a fantastic time...and although yachts, vineyards and mansions are enormous fun, my shining moment occurred at a tiny rundown sandwich shop tucked away far from the chowder guzzling snobs by the pier. I ordered a sandwich of cooked Bartlett pears, fresh brie and prosciutto and hot baguette. It was magical. It reminded me of the scene in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade when the knight watches Indy choose the grail and confirms "you have chosen...wisely". Jennie's brother Matt also went with it and I am certain he would mirror my enthusiasm.

Lets see what else? We saw the Gold-man this week, he visited Spumoni for Ree's birthday and continue the happy march towards the April 5 spectacular.

Last night I was driving home from work and "Oh Sherry" by Steve Perry came on the radio. Something in my head forced me to call my cousin Tomas. No clue what the subconscious correlation could be, but he fortunately picked up and was thrilled to be associated with such a timeless classic. When I read this story, I recall my brother's wedding when our friend Angela introduced her date to Me, BazzukaJoe, Broadway Joe and Steve Fatone.
Angela: "I want you to meet my boyfriend, Steve Perry"
Silence and then...
Me: "We're big fans."
Broadway Joe: "Shoulda been gooooone..."
Yeah, I know word and thought association gone awry. Well, I'm ready for work.

And today we finished out the Batman trilogy, heading out to our local Regal to catch the latest installment. A good movie, we all thought (though I drank a little too much coffee beforehand and had to spend the last half of the film with my legs crossed).

After the flick we played a little tennis -- because I needed to dump that much more water from my system. Actually, the weather's not as hot as it has been so I didn't sweat as badly as those two mornings last week, taking Da Chimpz to the courts for early-morning volleying.

We got back and got some stovetop sausage and peppers going -- the quick version of the old standard. Sprinkle it with grated parmesan and all is good with the world.

By now the sunlight is fading. Mid-summer is like that, with darkness setting in earlier each night. Early July is great because the daylight lasts until close to 10. In a few weeks, it'll be dark by 9. Gotta live if up while summer is here.

Tomorrow I'll call the Duke of Marcinski and tell him we urgently await his updates.

We just watched a whole lot of Batman. We started with Begins and then watched Dark Knight. We didn't mean to be up this late with it. But now that it's the wee hours, maybe I should strap on the utility belt and go swinging around town stopping crime.

(In Batman Begins the young Bruce Wayne dug out his father's old S&W Model 36. As he checked for rounds in the cylinder Mojo wisecracked "leave the gun, take the cannoli." The whole movie was like that. Smartasses.)

First you have to practice your swing to maximize head speed. Then you need to step up to the potato.

If this protocol makes no sense to you, it probably means you never played potato golf in our backyard. It is a truly disgusting sport, and tonight was a perfect night for it.

We started with some red potatoes ("I get the potatoes, the red potatoes," says Don Vito). These potatoes had been in our summer-warm kitchen for weeks -- all soft and overgrown with tuber sprouts. It was time to compost them. Or better. As you can see, we've done this before. Several times.



Notice how brown and crunchy our grass is? Been a hot dry summer. And yardwork is blowjhinsky.

Earlier today we stopped at Bob Evans for early lunch. Late breakfast, really. I like to order eggs over medium -- mostly because I prefer them that way, but also because it fascinates me how many places don't know what that means. I don't dislike the more common eggs over easy, and that's a good thing because that's typically what is sent out to me from the kitchen.

Anyway, we finished eating and went to the cashier to pay. The boys grabbed candy bars and lollipops and I said no and no. There was a cup with toothpicks. We each took a toothpick instead. As we went to the car the boys proposed keeping them in their mouths all day so they could look cool like the Ivan Vanko character in the Iron Man 2 movie we watched last night.

"Look cool? That guy looked scary," I said. I explained that I would prefer to flick the toothpick off the edge of my top front teeth the way Murdoc does while driving the dune buggy in the old Gorillaz video. So like a trio of dorks we stuck toothpicks in our mouths and drove to Lowes to buy a reciprocating saw (did I mention I have a lot of projects to complete during my week off?).

While entering the Lowes parking lot I finally got the toothpick propped vertically in the front of my open mouth. I tried to flick the top part forward. It worked, sort of. The fail started when I closed my mouth too quickly, sending the pointy top of the toothpick up into the soft underside of my nose, right between the nostrils.

"Aaaagh! I stabbed myself in the nose!"

Mojo was in the front passenger seat watching me; he had seen the whole thing. Meaning there was no use trying to deny what I had just done. And it was a good thing we were in the parking lot because lancing your nose like that hurts about the same as yanking a nostril hair -- I had tears welling up in my eyes.

So did the boys... from laughing so hard.

Every few years we drag ourselves out to a baseball game. I think the last time I caught a game was last year at Yankee Stadium. Was that last year or the year before? Anyway, Da Chimpz weren't with me -- they profess to be bored by the sport.

Even yesterday's day at the Jacobs Field (or whatever they call it now) was abnormal, as Mojo was sitting up in the grandstands while the rest of us hunkered for shade under a bleacher deck just to the rear of the right field foul pole. We had the patio area -- nice.

We even got a visit from Alane's favorite Cleveland Indian, Slider. Unfortunately Alane had wandered off and didn't get to say hello. Or get the obligatory snapshot. (That makes two snapshots we just barely missed over the weekend -- one with the Indians' insufferable mascot, and one with the local network's insufferable weatherman).

Cookie sat at his little patio table and sipped lemonade the whole time, mostly oblivious to the baseball game. I suspect he'd have more interest in the competition if he had a team to follow. But that's hard to do without cable TV so all we get to see are random games from random teams. Even I get bored watching those (I'm usually reading blogs in one window while ESPN3 plays in another).

So it looks like the baseball-fan trait of the Mastandrea gene is going to dead-end at this generation. I'm sure MLB has lots of geniuses explaining to each other why this is good for their sport.

More evidence Da Chimpz have all the wrong cultural reference points: when we were at Andre's last month sitting at the breakfast table eating pancakes, I noticed they were singing Frank Zappa's "St. Alphonso's Pancake Breakfast (where I stole the margarine)."

Yeah, that's my fault.

Today we bought and configured a new Blu-Ray player. I say configured because getting it onto the network and properly logged into the various services was a bitch and a half. But now that it's done we got our Netflix and our Youtubes and the ability to play all my old video downloads, even the ones in *.mpg format. So we sat around watching cheezy music videos from the 80s.

No wonder their pop-culture awareness is so... wrong.

"Don't push me cuz I'm close to the edge, I'm try-ing not to lose my head."

I was sitting in the Ice Room just now, enjoying the ebbing daylight, writing some gibberish notes to myself, when Mojo came in.

"Can I have some of that V8 Splash that's on the counter."

"That's not V8 Splash."

"Can I have some?"

"Uh, yeah. But that's regular V8. Vegetable juice. No fun."

But it looked so berry delicious he wanted it anyway. So I went into the kitchen with him because I had to see this.

"Get yourself a smaller glass," I said, already anticipating what was about to happen.

I poured out some of the red stuff and handed it to him. He took a tiny sip, made a face of intense disgust, then put it down and left.

This won't be the first time Mojo ignores his father's advice and tries something anyway. But what am I gonna do now with this open bottle of V8? If I had vodka I'd make a bloody mary.

Every time I see the "New Mastandrea Model", I think of the Watson Crick model. Just thought I'd mention it.

Thank you for posting the video!

But the best part by far is when you quietly state that "There really is no unison here"...And  Shteef not knowing what you had just said made the statement of "Its like a Well-Oiled Machine"......

"A WELL-OILED DEATH MACHINE" .....

Oh, you mean this:



And the answer is yes, be fruitful and multiply. We definitely need more of this sort of insanity.

John-

You know what video always makes me laugh: "Dance Catastrophe.." A few weeks ago- Merle made a poignant statement..."I hope your children dance like Steef"....

Should we procreate and bless this world with such rhythm and talent? This is quite a question to ponder..

Or just maybe...Cookie, Mojo, and Shteef should be their own dance troupe.... The ballistic balloon heads....

Just a thought....

These are the dog days of summer -- just the way I like it. Emerged from the A/C at about 5 a.m. to retrieve the newspaper from the driveway and was immediately immersed in the hot dark soup of pre-dawn sultriness. Awesome. I got the paper, then rummaged around in the garage to start the weekly migration of trash-cans to curbside.

Right now I need another cup of coffee. Like, right now.

Rookie? You look like you're an old farm hand about to announce the weekly rodeo.

Or something.

Even with the passage of two months, this photo still makes me laugh. Steve is about to do something completely ridiculous as both Joey and Vito look on approvingly. This is normal.

I refer everyone to the link in the sidebar titled "Boogie Heads." Because it's classic.

Did we mention that the hall where we celebrated our wedding reception has since burned down?

HAPPY ANNIVERSARY!!! Your blissful marriage is an inspiration to us rookies in the game. Indeed, I was present on that faithful day eighteen years ago...whichever one it may actually be. That weekend in Ohio was legendary. I have an exam question

Which occurred in Strongville, Ohio on July 17, 1993?
a. Uncle Vito was denied purchasing beer for not presenting a valid drivers license.
b. I danced with Jean Hatala to the groovy dance tunes of a three piece polka band.
c. a parish priest said "fart" during the wedding ceremony
d. a very young Ree seized the microphone to the delight of Guido and the wedding guests
e. all of these above

By the way, interesting song choice. On our last cruise, I participated in a music trivia game where they played the original version of that song by the Clovers and claimed it was the Searchers. I still haven't forgiven Royal Caribbean...for such a sin is unforgiveable.

Next question: Madame Ruth (with the gold-capped tooth) handed me a beverage that smelled like turpentine and looked like india ink. What did I do next?

a) held my nose
b) closed my eyes
c) took a drink
d) all of the above

Not unrelated to high-stakes multiple-choice conundrums, today is the start of our two-day wedding anniversary. It lasts two days because we can't agree on which day it occurs. I keep thinking it's the 18th but Alane swears it is the 17th. Ever the reasonable and accommodating spouse (a Mastandrea hallmark!) I have eagerly embraced the compromise position: let it be both days and we can celebrate that much longer.

I get to drink more wine that way.

Lately I've been in this kick of looking up "awesomely bad exam answers" on the internet. Sometimes I come across ones that I feel like I've seen before. Back in high school, I had an American History teacher who used to always make his multiple choice questions enjoyable. Thinking back, he'd have one question on every test where one of the multiple choice answers would be "Cousin Guido". Although I knew it was going to be on every test ... it was still funny every single time.  

Enjoy. 

Marlo never told me how her pho came out.

And yesterday at the mall we saw there's a Pho-licious coming to the food court.

Coincidence? Probably.

Last month I had to be in the NYC office so I did something a bit daring: I took Da Chimpz with me for some road-tripping and sight-seeing. I did have a full day of work to complete, but we did get some time to walk around Manhattan. I was impressed to hear them say they wanted to see the things they've heard Alane and me talk about over the years: WTC, Katz's Deli, and... Morgam postal facility?

Actually, we went to the West Side to walk a bit of the old High Line, now transformed into a pedestrian walkway. It was very cool, as cool as it looked on the documentary we'd seen about it. We walked north to where the walkway ends and the abandoned railway el continues -- further north along the main line and east along the short spur that used to connect that main line to the USPS.

We stopped there and I reminded the boys of what they'd heard from Grandpa Vito -- about how his father Giuseppe used to unload mail off those trains, first as a Post Office employee and then as a worker for the Central System.

These days the derelict structure no longer connects to Morgan, and the opening where trains used to pass has long been bricked up. It wasn't the typical family memory one hands down across the generations, but this wasn't the typical summer vacation.

It occurred to me that most fathers take their sons out camping to share with them knowledge of the woods. Instead I took my boys to the big city and shared some glimpses of their roots.

And fed them pastrami. That part they'll remember.

If I were a superhero, my name would be Bracciole-Man. My costume would include hightop Converse Allstars and a pair of oven mitts. My cape would smell like calzones. Indeed, I might just hum "I Got The Horse Right Here" as I battle crime and supervillains. So there.
 
Too bad that supermarket didn't have a a foldout that read " Try and Beat Our Meat...Prices". Or even "Pork Your Wife...Will Enjoy Broiling.

In late 1984, I'd lace up the old Converse high-top Chuck Taylors and hit the urban pavements of Cincinnati or Brooklyn to do a few miles of roadwork as prep for my ill-fated boxing matches (once ran from the Castle 1526 to the Coney Island train yards and back -- in a pair of white All Star high-tops).

Those were the days: when athletic footwear was so primitive, and a runner's expectations so low, that you could basically cripple yourself with poorly-designed gear but still hit the showers saying "that was a great workout!"

Those days sucked. Here are the Chuck Taylor's I bought over a dozen years ago. Not sure why I decided this morning to free them from bottom-of-closet oblivion, but I did. Wore them around the house, then out for a bit of shopping with the family, and finally for some back-and-forth between the kitchen and outdoor grill. Finally sat back and unlaced them and HOLY CRAP DO MY FEET HURT.

What the hell? I mean WHAT THE HELL? I know I'm old and decrepit -- but even with a few years of the no exercise and the AS I never had this. I can't imagine running to the corner wearing those things, let alone running a few miles.

Anyway, the whole experience gave me the added opportunity to even sound old and decrepit as I explained to Cookie and Mojo just how much sports gear has progressed over the last 30 years.

Yet still they have the nerve to mock my off-white Merrills. Hell, I can play tennis in those and not have pain. I don't care if they make me look like a retired codger lost on a Florida back-nine.

A FREEZE FULL OF MEAT AND MASTER OF THE HOUSE

John-

No freezer can possibly surpass that of Vito's. Vito has a "skill" for packing it- or rather "Omaha Steaks" has a knack for making their meat stackable to allow for such a skill.....This warrants research....

Speaking of things that warrant research--

Sir Stephen began singing "Master of the House"- a timeless classic of the musical Les Miserables ....When he realized I was a bystander to this serenade, he quickly became quiet realizing his mistake (he knows I will call him out on such a spectacle)...

My husband has never seen this musical-- nor has he seen Guys and Dolls..yet he knows most of the songs on these albums...(and not ones you would think..)

Growing up, I am assuming he was exposed to great music by the Vin-Man. I already know he is the "Master of the 50s, 60s, 70s, 80s, and 90s" as does Royal Caribbean.....but I ask is this normal? How can one human being possess such great useless knowledge and never use it for monetary gain or recognition?

I would like to think of this as his SUPERPOWER. Some men possess great strength and intellect...Sir Stephen possesses the ability to smell any fart and name any tune...(musicals included)....

Long day here at Berea-Rose, but it's quiet now. Got a good way through this week's crossword from WSJ but my eyes are hurting and the light is fading and I don't want to turn on lights. Summer evenings are for not turning on lights if you don't have to. Or a/c -- though by the time we sat down to a heaping pile of grilled pork chops (more on that in a bit) we noticed the thermostat in the dining room was at 86F. Yeah, time to fire up the chillers.

Those were some nice pork chops -- very thick, so I had to grill them carefully. Alane took the day off so I made sure she saw the circular Giant Beagle stuck in my grocery bag earlier this week. Banner hed: "Huge 3-Day Meat Sale." It was in large type so it wrapped to two lines. That means you could fold it down the center to make it say "Huge Meat." So we did.

Anyway, Alane went to Giant Beagle this morning and got huge meat. Now we have a freezer that bulges like Vito's. Heh.

Hello again

Ree-

I feel so blessed and honored to be a part of the Mastandrea clan- hence my new screen name :). I was indoctrinated into the family (like most)..This blog was my first glimpse of the maddening love of family, food, and the wacky. I was welcomed with open arms- and now I finally feel a part of something great....

I also find myself saying and singing the most random of things...I know how my "husband's" (I like saying the word-so pardon me for that :) ) brain works....Its really CRAZY!!!!!!

I am sure this is just the beginning of great things...
And with that said....

MAZEL, MAZEL

Goooooooooldman!!!

Welcome back, Ravioli Ree -- I could've saved you a few keystrokes by reminding you: everything is funny.

Especially when viewed through the half-collapsed partition of a rest-area toilet stall.

Okay, gonna need some help here. Go in to about the 55 second mark. Is that who we think it is?

Making The Comeback

First and foremost, I must say how happy I am to be back on this blog. It may sound strange, but I feel so at home here. Ah, memories. You see, I was once a child star on this family blog, and at the time, my ownership of the mother of all surnames was nowhere near leaving me. It's crazy how time flies. Pretty soon, I will be celebrating my 25th birthday and closing the chapter of my life as the Little Mastandrea. Come spring, I will be inaugurated as Matriarch of the House of Goldman. Being a Mastandrea makes me know that I have what it takes to never let that macaroni dish be emptied. My excitement overwhelms me. 

I chose a new blog name in honor of all who contribute to the beloved macaroni dish, because if it wasn't for you, there would be no blog such as this one as well as  WWVS, and the bottomless sauce pot of knowledge called the Encyclopedia Mastandrea. In all sincerity, I honored to be writing again alongside the super geniuses of my life, The Mastandreas. 

PS: 

Farts are always funny. 

Doodie is always funny. 

Neckbraces are always funny. 

Mustaches are always funny. 

Bad hair is always funny. 

Uncle Vito is always funny. 

Reminds me of another wisecrack earnestly delivered but dead on arrival: "You give the aspirin a head-ache." Steve's 2004 telling of that tale is priceless. My addendum is here.

Interestingly, I had the boys at the local barbershop yesterday. Conversation ranged from the giant shoelace factory in southwest Ohio (don't ask) to Grandpa's Cheese Barn in Ashland (definitely worth a post of its own).

Every comedian must be aware of his audience. Cookie was correct, it was indeed a clever exhibition of wordplay. I have those unsure moments quite frequently. Normally, I will call my cousin Kristie and ask her opinion. She is the ultimate barometer because I can always count on her to laugh. Which reminds me. Not too long ago, I entered in to an ongoing conversation between Jennie's friends about a local Mexican restaurant called "Rocco's Tacos". As they were debating the different appetizers and margaritas, I quietly interjected into their discussion "I would like to open a competing restaurant right next door and name it "Rocky's Cockies" " Now, there are countless euphemisms for excrement, almost all of which funny, but "cocky and doody" have just never been as popular with the general public as they are inside the Fatone and Mastandrea households. I was of course beaming inside, but her friends were not only unimpressed, I'm pretty sure they were disgusted. For the record, Kristie laughed....and she laughed because she is an excellent judge of comedy....and because cocky is always funny. Just like farts are always  funny.

I'm not sure how it came up, but I told an old story at the dinner table the other night. Like most of my tales, it is oft-told. About 20 years ago now, while I worked at BNY, our secretary had spent much of the day telling us the details of the truck she and her husband were purchasing and how they were arguing over the color. Or something. As she regaled a small group of coworkers I made the "oh will you shut up already" face and her response to me was a friendly "tell it to my husband." To which I said: "Why? I have no truck with him."

And I thought it was funny! But everyone else thought it was not! "Of course you don't, she's the one who's buying the truck."

Anyway, I retold the story the other night and Cookie started to laugh. I was skeptical. "You're just being polite," I challenged. And he said, "No, truck, as in quarrel."

At which point I pounded the surface of the dining room table (yeah, that table) and proclaimed him a chip off the old block. Then I remembered the opening scenes of Revenge of the Nerds where the nerdy dad drives the nerdy son to school and now I'm wondering if I've erred.

Indeed, the time has come to unearth this buried treasure and display its majestic beauty for all those understand its precious value. Yes, the macaroni dish is overflowing with tales and legends which need to be shared...so lets jump right into it.

Has anyone noticed that my father really likes to call me Promo? No one seems to know if it is short for a longer name. I recently approached him on it, asked him "What the hell is promo?" He laughed and said "you". 
Recently, my parents received a tur-duck-en in the mail from Berea. In honor of my brother-in-laws 29th birthday, we prepared it. It produced exactly the sort of commentary one would expect. I offered an alternative hybrid meat idea for Passover...gefilte fish stuffed with duck and chicken..."a Gerfucken". However, Joe Fatone Sr. always steals the show...he suggested we send John and Alane a "Cat-bat-rat". 

Finally, I've decided I need to invest in more Luche Libre masks....I have no idea why.