As you all know, John and I are attempting to relocate our branch of the family tree to another state. We are trying to find somewhere with real cheap real estate and some sort of jobs. While looking for attorney jobs with the government, I came across an open position in Billings, Montana.
Now, I know little or nothing about Montana--except its the big sky state, and apparently if you live in Billings you have a view of four mountain ranges. I quickly learned that I could be the proud owner of a 3,200 sq. ft home on 1.1 acres of land for the sum of $ 225,000. Now, if I landed this position, I was thinking, what the heck would John do? But then inspiration hit me--he of the 8 hour sauce and magic meatballs, could open a pizzeria. Now since his restauranting skills are none, I thought we could bring Pennsylvania Joe with us as he has know how. I have even come up with a tentative name for this delusional pizzeria, Two Guys from Brooklyn Pizzeria. I think it has a mighty fine ring to it.

On an entirely different note, today I took Cookie and Mojo to a beach close to our house. We had a tremendous time. However, while playing at the water edge, this other kid comes up to join them in play. I would place this kid's age at maybe 6 no more than 7. He first starts putting wet sand on my kids' backs. I tell demon child to stop it. He then instructs Mojo that should Mojo want to catch some sea creature, Mojo should go out into the deep water. At which point, I lose it and scream at the kid. Interestingly, no mother yelled at me for yelling at her sweetheart, because no mother could be found. This kid appeared to be wandering the beach alone. Eventually, the devil's spawn wandered back to his lair. I watched and the kid's adult had to be about as far from the water as you can be while still being on the beach. It was madness.

Steve says I like to eat things that taste bad. This may be true. It's a good thing I don't fly on commercial airlines that much anymore -- it seems my palate might trigger security fears (what doesn't these days). Here's the tale of 150 passengers stranded in a Rome airport last week:

Their flight home was cancelled after a plane that had left Dublin for Rome last night was diverted to Gatwick when the smell of gas was detected. [snip]...after two security checks, the smell turned out to be coming from food a passenger had been eating on board.

Which makes me wonder: what's the stinkiest food Mastandreas eat? And what does Jenia have to top it?

I download lots of media clips from the Internet. One thing I've learned: when you come across a video clip named "dumbass.mpg" chances are the contents are going to be good.

I'm sitting here watching Euronews, this time having a laugh as I watch Chirac get a swift kick in his jocque. The multi-volume incomprehensible euro-constitution is getting a big nyet from voters. Also being reported are the results of the Giro D'Italia; Cookie wants to know if he can be in that race someday.

Sure, why not.

We watched a few episodes of Chappelle ourselves last night. Too bad the guy cracked up -- I'd been looking forward to the next season. When Alane and I went to bed I talked to her like I was Rick James; she's had just about enough of me.

I got up early this morning to get the meatballs rolling. John Paul insisted on helping -- I had him sprinkle spices over the meat-bowl while I combined everything. I urged him to say "BAM!" as he shook on the dried parsley, but he was less interested in imitating Emeril than in being Emeril. A few minutes later I started to roll out the actual meatballs and place them on the tray (because these days we cook them in the broiler before dropping them in the sauce -- it blasts the grease out and gets them just as brown). John Paul watched very carefully as I rolled them. He picked out one that was larger than the others. "That's the daddy meatball. These are the children meatballs."

I tried to concentrate through tears of diced-onion and the fumes of fresh-grated cheese. I added more meat-spheres to the tray.

"This is a cousin Steve meatball. This is grandma. And grandpa..."

When he ran out of family, he started naming meatballs for classmates. Then Mojo started in, wanted some of his classmates included (fortunately, he doesn't keep track of many people's snames, so his input was minimal).

Anyway, we're in good shape so far today: all of John Paul's friends and family have been roasted and tossed in a simmering gravy. I've showered and shaved and will shortly go to Mass. After that, I'm starting on that giant bottle of Fortissimo that I bought yesterday. That'll unleash some college memories for sure...

That statement was disturbing. How long did he take in the hall scrawling that definition.

I lived in the jock dormitory. I never had much intellectual stimulation from that bunch of sack heads but they loved throwing stuff out the windows. That made for an interesting courtyard view. Many times i came home from a weekend in jupiter and found sheets and pillows or pots and odd bathroom products. Once there was a closet door and a desk chair. As i gazed at this trying to figure out how many tosses did it take to get it stuck i notice the gay drag queen also remanded to the same dorm building walking toward his door. Our biulodings were 2 story and all doorways went to outside balcony or walk. From the second floor came a barrage of water balloons and he was soaked. Wow thats rough i though. Then i see another 2 of those same jocks running up the stairs with a garden hose that had 3 extensions on it and went across the parking lot. They soak the balloon guys. Balloon guys run in the apt and get pots of water for a counterattack. They get bored and they began knocking on doors and when you answered they soaked you and your room and ran in to make sure they got all the occupants. Nice group.

So anyway. I get to work today and there is a pile of dog shit in front of my store. It has smeared and stomped and evenly distributed across the walk. And thats why i think dogs should not shop.

Hope you guys feel better. I got the second season of chappelle i need to watch.
Happy birthday steve!

Sometime in the spring of 1986, when I was Resident Assistant for a dormitory hallway, I posted on the wall a length of blank paper and wrote across the top the provocative question: "What is your conceptual continuity?" The answers were varied and the handwriting atrocious (blogs have taken us a long way toward collaborative communication). My favorite entry:

Continuity is defined by the existence of all ordered permutations in the given euclidean time and space such that the limiting value of the assigned condition meets the value of existence when approached from all directions. Therefore, continuity is insured by disallowing piece-wise definition or any pathologic dysfunction of any rate of change. At least conceptually.

Macaroni Dish fans will recognize immediately that such a distribe can only come from Guido (who I understand had a pineapple recently torn from his ass). I still have a scrap of that posting -- the part that includes Guido's, er, insightful response.

Such was the humor of college. A few entries below Guido's, someone (not me) scrawled the response: "Tits are totally awesome!!"

Yeah, that's more like it.

Alane and I have been felled by some nasty flu-like... yech. I came home early and Alane still has the boys at school. I think it'll be another quiet night, lying around with body-aches and fever-sweats while Cookie and Mojo go mad all around us.

Behold! The newest Mastandrea. Good work, Joe and Jess. Just when you thought it couldn't get any louder around here... The gene-pool runneth over. Splash.

Marie and Vin are sitting back now, delighting quietly in the fact that Bazzukajoe will soon be on the receiving end of all the mischief he has dished out over the years. Yeah, happy birthday Bazzukajoe: you better take good care of Jessica because (as Alane will tell you) carrying a Mastandrea can be as exhausting as it is... interesting.

I once walked past Trafalgar Square. Lots of pigeon shit. By January, Bazzukajoe's list of funny words will have grown astronomically. Think colostrum. Or umbilical. Or (gulp) episiotomy. Let's get this party started!

I have sent John a picture of Pee Wee.
soon it shall be posted
An arrival time of mid to late january is
estimated. more exact time to come.

I thought of words:

1. Pygnogenal
2. polychronopolis
3. trafalgar
4. foliculitis
5. valpolicella

I'm told that Bazzukajoe and Jessica are preparing a meatball that will be roughly the size of a basketball... That ought to answer Vito's question.

That's the trouble with Bazzukajoe -- he has no sense of subtlety. He rushes straight for the smegma and jumps lightly over its more nuanced component: sebaceous.

Now that word cracks me up.

Crossing Sixth Avenue this afternoon I saw a bus with a sign that said "NOT IN SERVICE." I remembered being out with Cookie a few days ago when he saw an empty bus. He announced to us: "That bus is 'OUT OF BUSINESS.'"

Yup.

1 word----SMEGMA

Let's face it, this looks prissy. Yeah, I know the history of dogs -- but don't forget what dogs do when you tell them to "sit." They do it. Cats on the other hand are supposed to say "piss off."

Nice color, though. Did Jessica select that?

For me, I tend to laugh at brand names:

1. Proctor Silex
2. Yuban
3. Neo-Synephrine
4. Motts
5. Spic & Span
6. Fanta
7. Snausages
8. Motorola
9. All names of all feminine hygiene products

Words that make me laugh.

1. Peoria
2. Garcia Y Vega
3. Chutney
4. Carbunkle
5. Skokie
6. Sygmoidoscopy
7. mandibular
8. ishtar
9. kamaclutch

I will sleep on it. I know there are more.

Regarding my cat. Those are nail covers. They stop her from grating everything in my apt like so much Locatelli. I did not paint them. That would be right up there with people who dress their dogs.

Earlier this evening I ate a giant plateful of broccoli rabe, cooked with spinach, garlic and olive oil. Everything is quiet right now, but seismic activity is predicted for the overnight and morning hours. People living in the Northeast may want to stay indoors.

Also, I want to know this: what do think of a cat that sleeps with nail-polish on its claws? Isn't that the equivalent of a man sleeping in Banlon socks?

Chowder is not something a Mastandrea eats. At least not on purpose.

Theres a lotta words that make me laugh:
1. algonquin
2. gherkin
3. hefty
4. husky
5. mitsubishi
6. colonoscopy
7. yuschenko
8. chowder
9. raw pork

As long as we are on questions here's mine, does anyone else find that certain words are inherently hysterical? I was at Cookie's gymnastic observation and was reading about the different instructors. The one instructor's name is Rumen and he is from....Bulgaria. So I start giggling, and the lady sitting next to me starts looking at me and I feel obliged to tell her that I find the word Bulgaria hilarious. Shrubbery is another one of those words.

I'm surprised Steve isn't asking more questions. Such as: why was there spinach in the meatballs? Who taught Mojo that demented form of karate? And why does the old neighborhood look like the inner city of an Eastern Bloc ghetto?

Different. I like to eat things that taste different. And the Madeira isn't made with rainwater, it's ruined by rainwater. The stuff is essentially wine that went bad. And yes... I like it.

I've spent most of the last month searching for answers. Although I didn't find any, this weekend's pilgrimage to Tuckahoe to visit John, Alane, Cookie and Mojo was both hysterical and inspiring. My sincerest thanks for their amazing love and hospitality. But back to the story.

I searched for answers, but instead found more and more perplexing questions:

1. Does John enjoy consuming things which taste bad? (wine made from rainwater? the next logical step is to use the puddles that accumulate on Canal Street. don't even get me started on the bulgar salad... )
2. If a wall collapsed at Castle 1526, would anyone notice? (Kinda like if a tree fell in the forest...)
3. Could Uncle Vito be the Player Hater of the Millenium? (Jack Lanyo was Hitler's stunt double in....)
4. Is Stew Leonard's happy facade a front for a crime organization bent on world domination? (they sell italian sausage with broccoli-rabe, although ingenius...its unnatural)
5. WHERE IS MY WALLET? (it makes you wonder if a person found my wallet and googled my last name if they would find this website)
6. Can Uncle Vito relate ANY topic to his wife? ("OK, Mr. Mastandrea can I please see your social security card?" "Yes...but ut this woman, she don't want to let me make the coffee!")
7. If you drink enough Caravella limoncello, will your calves double in diameter? (wow)
8. How many computers are there in John's house? (reminds me of NASA Ground Control. One day you're going to hear "Tuckahoe, we have a problem...")
9. If we all get the power....do we really get the best?

Mojo fell asleep in the car as we drove home from school yesterday; while he slept I decided to take the bicycle out for some exercise. Cookie came with me on his bike. We went on the usual path along the Bronx River and made it to Scarsdale and back. That boy loves his bike, and I love watching him ride -- standing upright on his pedals, pumping his little legs as hard as he can, smiling and laughing under that big helmet as he screams down hills going entirely too fast.

On the way back we stopped to watch a baseball game under way at the ballfield. I sat with Cookie in the bleachers wanting to point out to him what the players were doing, trying to build his understanding of the game. Unfortunately there were only two outs left in the game. As those teams packed up, two other team started unpacking. So we went back home, I made myself something to eat (broccoli-rabe, spinach, olive oil and garlic), got the now-awake Mojo to put his shoes on, and the three of us returned to watch the next game.

This was a softball game -- Eastchester EMS vs. Eastchester Fire Department. Everyone knew each other; families and co-workers congregated in the bleachers; emergency vehicles idled at the curbside (I hope no one was dying on the other side of Tuckahoe).

I sat with the boys and explained to them what was happening in the game. They paid attention for a while, then they wandered about and played on the bench, then back to the bleachers to sit and half-watch, as Cookie called everything a home run and Mojo made jokes about stinkies.

The game ended as the day faded I walked them across the street to head home. The boys ran ahead of me toward the house, shouting to each other as they scampered, the LEDs in their sneaker-heels blinking in the dusky half-light. It was as close to a perfect day as a person gets -- an early birthday present, the kind you can't hold onto any more than you can hold onto the moments that forever run ahead of you and away.

Today has been nice too -- the boys made a birthday banner that greeted me at the door, and now it's time for cake. The cake has Sccoby Doo decorations all over it.

Of course it does.

Took a vacation day today so I could go to school with the boys: they're wrapping up their swim lessons for the year so the instructors invited parents to come watch their progress. I was also recruited to a read a book to each class: the 3-year-olds and the 4-year-olds. So it was a busy day at the YWCA.

I booked myself into the Y-W-C-A
I said, I like it here can I stay?
I like it here can I stay
And do you have a vacancy
For a back-scrubber?

I read to Mojo's class first -- a book we brought with us about a narrow-gauge steam railroad. I read to Cookie's class at the end of the day. I wanted to read "Mr. Pine's Purple House," a book I remember from my own mis-spent childhood. Instead I selected a book from the school's bookshelf: "Is Your Mama a Llama?"

How could I resist?

We think Vin should eat more. The challenge lately is to get him interested in food. The other night, sitting here with Steve and Vito, we had an idea: we make films of Vito's father eating lavish meals and send the video clips to Vin. We figure, if watching porn tends to make someone want sex, watching Vito eat will almost certainly make someone hungry.

That guy can eat.

Right now, Steve is at LaGuardia airport, sitting at the gate, leaning against his luggage, still wondering where his wallet is.

The man formerly-known-as Steve (just ask him to prove who he is) informed me that I like to eat things that taste bad. That's an unfair characterization -- just because he didn't like the bulgar salad. Or the turkish coffee. Or the spinach from Stew's.

When will Frylock's fortunes reverse? First, he loses his woman. Then he comes to NY and loses his wallet. Then to Brooklyn to lose his mind. And Cookie still won't let him take the top bunk.

There's only one way to recoup some of these losses: eBay.

More on that later.

Today the boys had a playdate at a friend's house, which freed me up to look for a dress for a wedding we are scheduled to attend next weekend. The dress hunting was a bust. Everything was too ugly for words. Much of it reminded me of something that a valium housewife from the fifties would wear to an afternoon recipe exchange.

Not to be totally defeated, I decided to go to Harry & David and get some year end gifts for John Paul's teachers. I walk in and who should be my shopping advisor--Steve Buscemi. Ok, it was not Steve Buscemi, but man was this guy close. He even spoke like him. So he's ringing up my stuff and I say, I think you missed something. He checks and says no. I then go next store to get a coffee while the Buscemi look alike gift wraps my stuff.

As I'm studying the receipt, I realize he did indeed forget to charge me for something. I'm sorta thinking, Gee I already warned him, so maybe I dont have to tell him again and I just walk away. But, you know it's awful hard to rip off the Buscemi look alike. I keep thinking that Tony killed him on the Sopranos, he was a way big loser in Ghost Town and gee he was a loser in Trees Lounge. And he sure seems to be a loser right now. So I tell him and he is really greatful.

It was kinda scary because his name tag said he was shift manager. This didnt seem like too big a deal, since as far as I could tell he was the only guy there. Which is even scarier, because he couldn't even manage himself.

This weekend there will be much Cinzano.

Been reading newspaper and magazine articles about blogging -- even went to a conference on the phenomenon last week. It is becoming quite clear: some people are taking this stuff much too seriously. No danger of that on this blog.

Well, until the t-shirts and other Macaroni Dish merchandise hit the shelves.

It is not often that I spring to the defense of Mojo--but in this case I must. Although Cookie is fully conversant in all things letter and number, Mojo has mastered writing his name without knowing any of his letters and numbers. I find this skill amazing. His signature is even a little more readable than Cookie's. That boy doesn't bother doing anything the easy way.

While Mojo maintains an exquisite lack of interest in all things that are letters or numbers, Cookie forges ahead in trying to figure out they're used. We were reviewing several letters recently to try to think of words that use them. We talked about "B" and Cookie knew bumble-bee and banana. This got him thinking further:

"Do all yellow things start with 'B'?"

I pointed out some of the many exceptions to such a rule: lemon, jaundice, Botswana, and uranium ore. So now he's working on a new theory... something about the velocity of objects thrown laterally (at one's brother) while diving off the top bunk into a pile of stuffed animals.

The boys are now in possession of a mighty bunk bed. Not new, but new to them (thank you eBay). I drove it back this morning from Maspeth (no sign of Ed "The Maspeth Monster" Krachie, Nathans hot dog eating champ until 1996 when Hirofumi Nakajima won the coveted mustard-yellow belt).

Anyway, the boys helped us carry the parts in. Said Cookie: "We have our hands full of bunk."

Quite so. Guido helped assemble the thing and soon the boys were climbing it like a jungle-gym. I later distracted them by loading an old copy of Quake III onto my computer. That worked. Cookie likes to shoot the plasma gun.

(And we don't want to hear any comments about bad-parenting -- Mojo pissed in the waste-basket this week, and that was entirely his idea.)

It's not exactly a basketball-sized meatball, but I assume the cooking procedure is just as challenging. A 15-lb. hamburger is probably enough to feed Jenia, but what are the rest of us going to eat?

As I sit here drinking coffee this morning, I have to ask myself: what kind of fruit juice is Vito drinking right now?

I've heard it said: everything is like a hat.

I'm pretty much back to my regular jogging schedule these days (did I mention how much I hate it?) -- though I'm still rebuilding my endurance from a winter on the D/L list. Still, I felt up to it yesterday when Mojo said he wanted to ride his bike on the path that follows the Bronx River. He said he wanted to go up to Scarsdale, but I didn't think he'd do it.

He did. With me chasing him. On foot. He rode about three miles. Which means I ran about three miles -- something I'm not quite up to these days.

And today, my legs are sore as hell.

I don't normally buy my parmesan cheese pre-grated. I usually buy it in big blocks, then saw off what I need with a hand grater. Yesterday I broke my pattern and bought a container of grated cheese that I used today as we ate spaghetti (Alane made the meatballs this week -- under protest).

Actually, I still have a block of the stuff in the refrigerator (parmigiano-reggiano), but I'm a little suspicious of it. I took it out last week to make the meatballs, then forgot to put it away until later in the day when it was time to eat. I took it over to the table to grate some onto my plate -- and discovered that it was sweating profusely. I could hardly grip the brick to hold it agains the grater -- I put it in its bag and tossed it back into the crisper.

Anyway, as we ate this evening the boys were curious about the little container I had out on the table; I told them it was full of stinky cheese. That made them even more interested. So I opened it up and let them smell it -- they were horrified.

It reminded me of my youth -- trips to Fortunato's on 13th Avenue, the pork store with the mega-stink from some of the world's most powerful cheeses, all hanging over the counter along with bulbous strands of sopressato and giant slabs of prosciutto (di Parma, of course).

I miss that place. What a giant stink. Yummy.

Birthday gifts from Florida arrived yesterday; we opened the box this morning. Mojo is trying to put together the alphabet jigsaw puzzle -- he'd be making a lot more progress if he had even a trace of interest in knowing his letters. The shirts are a riot. Mojo's says "I WAS NOWHERE NEAR IT WHEN IT HAPPENED"; Cookie's says "YOU'LL HAVE TO YELL AT ME AGAIN... I WASN'T PAYING ATTENTION."

The fine and generous folks at Spumoni South seem to have these boys all figured out.