Blueberries, eh?

Y'know, John Paul eats a lot of blueberries. Always has (these boys are practically fruitbats -- Alane really loads them up on berries and melon, all good stuff).

I remember one afternoon when Alane went out, leaving me to watch John Paul (when I really wanted to watch the ballgame). Anyway, he'd eaten a ton of blueberries already that day, and he was a pretty happy baby. He was scurrying back and forth on the floor while I sat on the couch -- surprisingly able to watch a fair amount of the ballgame. I even remember thinking to myself at the time: "This isn't bad. I'm here on the couch, relaxing. Ballgame on TV. John Paul happy, not crying, just sitting on the floor, quietly playing in the soil."

Soil? What soil?

For the previous few minutes, I'd barely notices that John Paul was very busy picking around in what looked like scattered potting soil. Closer inspection revealed dark-matter debris, somewhat resembling the deflated husks of . . . blueberries. I looked at John Paul's diaper. It was ripped. I'm no genius, but I immediately knew all that needed to be known...

So, Jenia, for the sake of love, and for the sake of family, please, stay off the carpets!

My mind has been poisoned! I'm stuck with this picture of my brother pushing a lawn-mower on a dewy morning, launching fireworks with his free hand while issuing bubbles from his butt. Shooting the shit, indeed!

And hey, I still have a rail fascination -- but nothing like John Paul and Mojo. They have some kind of mystical relationship with railroading. It's a little scary. More genetics at work, I suppose.

We were, in fact, scheduled to visit the land of the Culver Line today for a fake-Father's Day get-together (we'll be in Ohio in a week). I woke up about 7, did a two-mile run thru the park, showered up, and headed out for a haircut at Tommy's barber shop in Bronxville. Just a haircut; no shave (Steve, feel free to fill in the blanks on that reference). Picked up a bottle of nice chianti (in case we we'd be eating liver and fava beans in Brooklyn) and got home -- only to hear John Paul announce: "I throwed up."

Alane was busy working over the giant wet spot on the carpet, and it was instantly clear we wouldn't be going anywhere today. Both boys had been filling their diapers with Hershey Squirts lately, so I suppose puke shouldn't come as a surprise. Right now, Mojo has fallen asleep on the couch and John Paul is on the floor lounging on his big pillow. I suspect he'll be asleep soon, too.

As for me, I'm going to try to bring my file server back to life -- for some reason it no longer wants to boot up. Maybe it has the same malady that Blogger suffered from this morning.

Thanks for the extensive stroll down amnesia lane. I'll never forget how excited John got when he watched them deliver the new R-46 subway trains via the South Brooklyn Railway (sorry, if you didn't read about The Culver Line you'll need to for that reference). Does anyone else remember what a subway buff John was? Fess up, John, when was your last visit to the NYC Transit Museum?

Alane, I know what to get him for Christmas. At least he can't say he got lost on the subway while wearing those!

Your mention of Otto's infamous July 4th incident begs the question: does Frankie ever set off fireworks with Otto any more?

I don't know the laws in Florida, and I remember that law enforcement officers always had the best fireworks in NYC, but fireworks are actually legal here in Nebraska. We were in a drought last year so I was "on duty" in case of fires. Rainfall has almost been normal of late, so I need to start stocking up on pyrotechnics. And fuel bottles. Always start with a rock-solid flame. Unless you're Frankie, in which case you use a sparkler!

Nothing much comes out of my mower. It mulches and drops clippings to the ground, which greatly simplifies my multi-acre chore. Now if you count me, the guy pushing the mower, as a mower then emmissions are based on usage of a "Fart-Rite Anal Strip." Those of you that get that joke are probably DaVinci's Notebook fans. They're a man's band.

Why would John ask a question about our family shooting the sh!t on a blog? It seems redundant....

Do Mastandreas share genetics with caterpillars? Or is it just an attitude thing?

So, Ree, did you ever get out to see "Finding Nemo"? And was it anything like finding Mimo?

Alane took the boys out to the train station to meet me as I came home tonight. They kept saying, "Tuckahoe station" as we walked back. Along the way we passed the neighbor on the corner, out on the curb with his lawn-mower. John Paul was captivated by it -- no doubt thinking of his own mower, the one that blows bubbles out the side as he pushes it.

Hey Joe, does your mower do that?

Right now they're in the bath, and I can hear the splashing/screaming. Alane told me they watched today the videotape we made of them when they were little babies -- including some footage of John Paul in his first year. He wanted to know where Joseph was in those videos. Alane had to explain that he wasn't there yet.

Not an easy notion for little Cookie to comprehend.

The Culver is a very interesting line. I vaguely remember these icons of 38th street. I recall the bocce men. That was a site. I also remember Eddie the Ice Cream Man. Jimmy from Gray Shell. And that candy store on the corner with the the big german shepard. Nickel candy and a coke in a glass bottle. That place smelled funny and the proprietor was nearly room temperature. What i miss the most is the apartment building on the corner being on fire once a week. Oh yeah and that high tech movie screen Bernie wouold drag out to watch Bruce Lee. HOWEVER , the crowning glory for 38th street will always be Otto and his bag of fireworks. That is a night I will laugh about forever. We have since taken the 4th of July to a new level of pyrotechnic evolution. Someday the 38th street crowd should be re assembled at Spumoni Gardens South for a reunion. Well I don't know if they would be up for it but it makes for an interesting story. Ode TO 38TH. Nothing like jumpin off a swing into a pile of broken glass. The park was a strange place for an 8yr old. I could never figure out how that much broken glass was assembled in 1 spot.

Hey John gimme the link to TUTTI BARESE again i lost it and im hoping the SIMMS made an entry.

The park on 38th Street is completely different from the old days. They actually have patches of grass, and playground equipment. But none of the character we once had with the broken-down pool, burnt-out grounds-keeping building, and glass-strewn basketbal court. What I really miss is the group of old Italian men playing bocce under the abandoned Culver El. It wasn't summer without seeing those guys (and their sandals and black dress socks).

One way summers have improved since then: no more outlaw electricians tapping into lamp-post power supplies to plug in overly-loud stereo systems to blare throughout the night. And no bongo sonatas. That was wacky.

I'm almost done composing my "Ode to Escarole." I can't decide whether to add beans, tho.

So Martha Stewart is indicted -- but no perp walk! According to WCBS news radio, she showed up at the courthouse in a limo and steamed in under her own power (tucked from view under a white umbrella -- how symbollic can you get?) Once again, we are denied the media event we deserve as Americans. I am disappointed.