Nebraska Joe's online cavalcade of ginzo-fests did not include the Sixth Annual Italian American Summer Festival in Berea. After a day of swimming with Da Chimpz, we thought we'd check it out.

We arrived just a few minutes too late to see the "Tony Fortunato & the Emporers of Swing" -- they were breaking down their gear as we passed. On the other side of the fairgrounds Franco Corso was hitting his stride, belting out those greaseball standards with an exaggerated accent and a pronounced lack of embarrassment. (The event flyer described him as being "from the showrooms of Las Vegas" -- and we strongly suspect that means used car showrooms.)

Having not been to an outdoor Italian event in quite a while my first objective was, predictably, zeppole. I knew that a paper sack full of grease-weighted, sugar-powdered belly-bombers would put me right into the appropriate frame of mind for whatever lay ahead. We circled the place, skipping past the corn-dog huts, the spaghetti stands, and the other trying-really-hard-to-be-Eye-talian attractions.

I got all the way around and decided I must have missed it, so I went around again. I won't bother trying to create a suspenseful story here: there were no zeppoles. I was appalled. I was depressed. I was a little angry.

Alane got the boys snow-cones and brought them to a table (Cookie bopped to the happy crooning of Vegas showroom). I circled yet again to purchase some grub -- a mediocre sausage and pepper hero from one place, an adequate stromboli from another. I got corn dogs for the boys and a fresh-squeezed but disgraceful lemonade for Alane.

On another trip to the far end of the fairgrounds (to capture some poor but much-needed footage of the world-class entertainment, pissed that I wasn't able to document any of his biting rendition of "Quando Quando") I stopped at Porky-N-Beans for a half a rack of ribs -- food that was undoubtedly the best to be had at the entire affair.

I'm giving serious thought to getting myself a deep-fryer and opening a stand there next year: if Berea never tasted real zeppole before, I could show them what they've been missing. And print myself some money while I'm at it. I remembered the old days: was it Vito who had the small soda stand at one of the St. Anthony's feasts way back when? I remember sitting out at the curb with him and a giant trash can full of ice and soda-cans. Hundreds or thousands of people walked past. Somebody was playing a tape of then-contemporary music over loudspeakers -- I remember "Copa Cabana" was part of the loop; we heard it 10 or 20 times that night.

And then there was 1985 and that couple who had sold the gelato from street carts over the previous summer -- they got a space at San Gennaro selling charcoal-roasted corn on the cob. I'd worked for them off and on that August (concerts, mostly -- got to see Squeeze on the piers!); and now they hired me to work the grill. So there I was, working until the wee hours over open coals, turning unhusked corn, wearing a big insulated glove so I could peel them open and dip them into a bucket of drawn butter for customers. The booth next to hours was some rip-off game of chance. I traded the guy a corn-on-the-cob for a big pink bouncy ball -- one of the cheezy prizes his players would never win. I brought it back to the dorms with me when classes started up again the following week. Shortly thereafter, hurricane Gloria hit the New York area. We took the big pink ball out onto the campus mall and kicked it as hard as we could into the hurricane force winds, then leaned back to watch it sail away, up, and then back in the other direction, over our heads and away. We'd chase it and do it again.

Did Steve mention something about stream of consciousness?

Alane is out at Giant Beagle getting meat for tomorrow's meatballs; Da Chimpz are playing Gamecube. And Frylock's first-born will be named Mostaccioli. His second will be named after a pastry... we just don't know which one yet.