Grammar, schmammar. . .
While I am the first to admit I make grammatical errors both in speech and in written word. . .it struck me as ironic that the Omaha Public Library would have it's volunteers wearing buttons that say, "Can I help you?" I thought libraries existed to promote literacy. That's what I get for thinking.
Because there's no such thing as too much cheese. Unrolling the braciole of consciousness; shaping the meatball of life. Because everything is funny; you just need to view it from the proper angle. Good for cats. Made in Poland. Because everything is like a hat. You know how those gorillas can be... Very unforgiving.
Thursday, January 19, 2006
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
We got some crazy weather today, boy. Lots of wind and rain to mess up the morning commute.
It was only this week that the news reported Metro North Railroad's excellent on-time record. So it shouldn't have been surprising that the weather would try to louse that up by knocking down a tree in the Bronx.
A tree in the Bronx? Since when are there trees in the Bronx? And how long does it take to haul fallen tree off the tracks so service can be restored?
All I know is this: I got to the train station at a bit after 8 a.m. and noticed an unusally large crowd -- telling me at least one train had already been cancelled. The wind was howling, and the rain had already moistened my clothing (it was the kind of morning when a car drives by and splashes puddle-water onto your pants -- which happened to me on Lake Street, starting the day off right). With no trains rolling, I decided to return home. It was raining harder by then. My $3 umbrella was woefully inadequate.
The television news reported the service suspension. I was annoyed because I'm signed up for MNR's e-mail alert service -- which would've sent a message to my cell-phone. That would've saved me a trip to the station, if only they had sent an actual message.
So I got comfortable. I got online, e-mailed the office, then went to the kitchen to make some turkish coffee and toast. Then back to check on office issues and get more news reports -- service had been restored. I went to the MNR website to learn that the schedule for the rest of the morning had changed -- a new timetable was posted. I read it. There would be a train at 10:20. My pants were mostly dry by then. I packed up my papers (again), put on my coat (again) and left for the station.
There was no train at 10:20. I stood in the mist of the wind-driven rain for about a half-hour before a train arrived. It made every single stop between Tuckahoe and Grand Central.
The final indignity: the train platformed on Grand Central's lower level -- which adds about five minutes to the time it takes to fight your way out of the station.
It's just another reason why I'm glad to be leaving New York. In fact, I expect that will be a recurring theme on the Macaroni Dish over the next few months. Why do I need to get out of here? Let me count that ways.
Oh, and I did ultimately get a service alert e-mail. It was time-stamped 9:51 a.m. -- too late to have been any use. The message got to my mailbox at exactly 3:04 p.m.
Like clockwork.
It was only this week that the news reported Metro North Railroad's excellent on-time record. So it shouldn't have been surprising that the weather would try to louse that up by knocking down a tree in the Bronx.
A tree in the Bronx? Since when are there trees in the Bronx? And how long does it take to haul fallen tree off the tracks so service can be restored?
All I know is this: I got to the train station at a bit after 8 a.m. and noticed an unusally large crowd -- telling me at least one train had already been cancelled. The wind was howling, and the rain had already moistened my clothing (it was the kind of morning when a car drives by and splashes puddle-water onto your pants -- which happened to me on Lake Street, starting the day off right). With no trains rolling, I decided to return home. It was raining harder by then. My $3 umbrella was woefully inadequate.
The television news reported the service suspension. I was annoyed because I'm signed up for MNR's e-mail alert service -- which would've sent a message to my cell-phone. That would've saved me a trip to the station, if only they had sent an actual message.
So I got comfortable. I got online, e-mailed the office, then went to the kitchen to make some turkish coffee and toast. Then back to check on office issues and get more news reports -- service had been restored. I went to the MNR website to learn that the schedule for the rest of the morning had changed -- a new timetable was posted. I read it. There would be a train at 10:20. My pants were mostly dry by then. I packed up my papers (again), put on my coat (again) and left for the station.
There was no train at 10:20. I stood in the mist of the wind-driven rain for about a half-hour before a train arrived. It made every single stop between Tuckahoe and Grand Central.
The final indignity: the train platformed on Grand Central's lower level -- which adds about five minutes to the time it takes to fight your way out of the station.
It's just another reason why I'm glad to be leaving New York. In fact, I expect that will be a recurring theme on the Macaroni Dish over the next few months. Why do I need to get out of here? Let me count that ways.
Oh, and I did ultimately get a service alert e-mail. It was time-stamped 9:51 a.m. -- too late to have been any use. The message got to my mailbox at exactly 3:04 p.m.
Like clockwork.
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
Today I finally announced to staff and colleagues my impending move, freeing me to talk about the whole more openly on the blog. And now that I'm able to break radio silence I find I don't have anything in particular to say about it. Except to say that everything is moving right along: some parts quickly, other parts in slow motion. It's quiet here without the chimps. Too quiet. I should be drinking right now, but I am out of vermouth.
Guido took me food shopping over the weekend. We did not see any bizarre people. That's rare -- they are usually drawn to us, like flies to shit. Maybe next time we shop. I know this: we won't be shopping for Borsci. Unless I have paintbrushes that need cleaning.
This Friday is the Beefsteak Dinner at Xavier. I'll do my drinking there. I'll do everyone's drinking there. I love Xavier events. They usually start with a Mass that's packed, celebrated by some old Jesuit who forces us to sing hymns -- and we do. Then we traipse through the gym, with a basketball game under way, to get to Larkin Hall because that's where the alcohol is. There we find more Jesuits, already warmed up near the keg(s). We drink. More people congregate. Larkin Hall fills. Eventually there is an announcement: everyone please take a seat. We noisily migrate to tables, stopping to load up with more drinks. More announcements: a prayer (the only portion of the spoken remarks that earns any amount of respectful attention) then welcomes, more announcements, etc., etc. We sit. There is paper placeware and a small wilted salad in a plastic bowl. We push that away. We look around, trying to find the one ass-hole who decided to bring his girlfriend/wife to this decidedly male event. There's at least one such jerk every year. We spot the poor bewildered woman -- and we note how she is surrounded by other alumni busily and sloppily flirting with her. Because Xavier alumni still don't know how to act around women. Then the beef comes out: trays of it, thin slices of london broil perched atop a thin slice of french bread. The caterers carry trays to each table, lower them into the midst of the angry howling mob, and with lots of grunting and jockeying, we take beef and eat it. This process repeats itself, with lots of lunging and grabbing and shouting at caterers who pass one's table on their way to serve another. When the caterers can walk the room with a tray of beef without being assailed, beef-time is declared over. Ice cream and coffee are brought out. Drunk men stand around eating little cups of ice cream as they either bid farewell to their chums or negotiate plans to extend the night's merriment at some neighborhood bar.
And that's how the Beefsteak goes. I missed last year's because my busted spine made it impossible for me to go anywhere and enjoy myself. So this year I'll be trying to make up for lost time. And that can only be bad.
Guido took me food shopping over the weekend. We did not see any bizarre people. That's rare -- they are usually drawn to us, like flies to shit. Maybe next time we shop. I know this: we won't be shopping for Borsci. Unless I have paintbrushes that need cleaning.
This Friday is the Beefsteak Dinner at Xavier. I'll do my drinking there. I'll do everyone's drinking there. I love Xavier events. They usually start with a Mass that's packed, celebrated by some old Jesuit who forces us to sing hymns -- and we do. Then we traipse through the gym, with a basketball game under way, to get to Larkin Hall because that's where the alcohol is. There we find more Jesuits, already warmed up near the keg(s). We drink. More people congregate. Larkin Hall fills. Eventually there is an announcement: everyone please take a seat. We noisily migrate to tables, stopping to load up with more drinks. More announcements: a prayer (the only portion of the spoken remarks that earns any amount of respectful attention) then welcomes, more announcements, etc., etc. We sit. There is paper placeware and a small wilted salad in a plastic bowl. We push that away. We look around, trying to find the one ass-hole who decided to bring his girlfriend/wife to this decidedly male event. There's at least one such jerk every year. We spot the poor bewildered woman -- and we note how she is surrounded by other alumni busily and sloppily flirting with her. Because Xavier alumni still don't know how to act around women. Then the beef comes out: trays of it, thin slices of london broil perched atop a thin slice of french bread. The caterers carry trays to each table, lower them into the midst of the angry howling mob, and with lots of grunting and jockeying, we take beef and eat it. This process repeats itself, with lots of lunging and grabbing and shouting at caterers who pass one's table on their way to serve another. When the caterers can walk the room with a tray of beef without being assailed, beef-time is declared over. Ice cream and coffee are brought out. Drunk men stand around eating little cups of ice cream as they either bid farewell to their chums or negotiate plans to extend the night's merriment at some neighborhood bar.
And that's how the Beefsteak goes. I missed last year's because my busted spine made it impossible for me to go anywhere and enjoy myself. So this year I'll be trying to make up for lost time. And that can only be bad.
Monday, January 16, 2006
In the run-up to the holidays, Alane picked up a bottle of Borsci, a digestif that I had never heard of but that some old Italian ladies were raving about in the liquor shop. We brought it upstairs on Christmas Eve but forgot to open it after th meal. We dug out the bottle over the weekend and finally had a taste.
The stuff was perfectly awful. It tasted a bit like a benzine eggnog, with a burning-tire finish. I thought perhaps the stuff had gone bad. Or that a cabinet-maker had washed his lacquer-brushes in the solution.
Fortunately, it ate a hole in the side of my paper cup before I had to finish my portion. Which reminded us of Christmas Eve 1987, when Mike Yee and I stopped to see Guido and his mom on our way to Brooklyn. She brought out a bottle of wicked grappa and poured out a small glass for each of us. Mike sipped it, nodded his head as if to say "thank you!" but as soon as she wasn't looking he poured it out into the potted plant.
A few months back we finished off the last of that grappa. Cork and all, it still tasted as bad.
The stuff was perfectly awful. It tasted a bit like a benzine eggnog, with a burning-tire finish. I thought perhaps the stuff had gone bad. Or that a cabinet-maker had washed his lacquer-brushes in the solution.
Fortunately, it ate a hole in the side of my paper cup before I had to finish my portion. Which reminded us of Christmas Eve 1987, when Mike Yee and I stopped to see Guido and his mom on our way to Brooklyn. She brought out a bottle of wicked grappa and poured out a small glass for each of us. Mike sipped it, nodded his head as if to say "thank you!" but as soon as she wasn't looking he poured it out into the potted plant.
A few months back we finished off the last of that grappa. Cork and all, it still tasted as bad.
"Mr. Corleone is Johnny's godfather. To the Italian people, that is a very religious, sacred, close relationship."----------------Tom Hagen, "Godfather Pt.1
I was extremely surprised...but absolutely thrilled on Saturday to be asked by BazzukaJoe and Jess to be Ellexa's godfather. I of course, proudly accepted. This is my first time in this role...I am not sure if its kinda like being Joey's underboss...instead I think Tom Hagen's above statement to Wolz pretty much says it best. Congratulations also go out to Jessica's sister Heidi, who will be Ellexa's godmother. Thanks again to Joey and Jess, for bestowing upon me such an amazing honor.
By the way this weekend I went to the South Florida Fair and there was a Magnum PI ride....think about this now, a spinning ride based solely on an 80s TV show with Tom Selleck ( I took a pic, Ill have to post it.) Also saw the world's tiniest woman, luckily for Alane we were not allowed to take a picture. Funny stuff. Catcha you all a litttle later.
I was extremely surprised...but absolutely thrilled on Saturday to be asked by BazzukaJoe and Jess to be Ellexa's godfather. I of course, proudly accepted. This is my first time in this role...I am not sure if its kinda like being Joey's underboss...instead I think Tom Hagen's above statement to Wolz pretty much says it best. Congratulations also go out to Jessica's sister Heidi, who will be Ellexa's godmother. Thanks again to Joey and Jess, for bestowing upon me such an amazing honor.
By the way this weekend I went to the South Florida Fair and there was a Magnum PI ride....think about this now, a spinning ride based solely on an 80s TV show with Tom Selleck ( I took a pic, Ill have to post it.) Also saw the world's tiniest woman, luckily for Alane we were not allowed to take a picture. Funny stuff. Catcha you all a litttle later.
Sunday, January 15, 2006
We never created any such folklore on 38th Street. Aside from us cousins, I don't remember socializing much with anyone in the area (was there anyone our age in the area?).
It got cold around here today, a real bummer after about a week of mild temperatures. Last night the rain turned to ice, so walking to Mass this morning was a lot like a winter Olympic event (no, probably more exciting than that). There were several times I came close to falling on my ass -- but all was well thanks to my goat-like balance.
My eyes have improved greatly since yesterday: no more goop forming concrete crusties along the edges of my eyelids. All in all, it was two days of nastiness -- followed by a full day (today) of washing all clothing and bedding to try to eliminate the vicious microbes.
It got cold around here today, a real bummer after about a week of mild temperatures. Last night the rain turned to ice, so walking to Mass this morning was a lot like a winter Olympic event (no, probably more exciting than that). There were several times I came close to falling on my ass -- but all was well thanks to my goat-like balance.
My eyes have improved greatly since yesterday: no more goop forming concrete crusties along the edges of my eyelids. All in all, it was two days of nastiness -- followed by a full day (today) of washing all clothing and bedding to try to eliminate the vicious microbes.
Saturday, January 14, 2006
Joe, you skipped the best part of infamous Gilly-Hornet Nest debacle. I returned with Vinny Lia to his house afterwards to seek him some medical attention, when he showed his mother (her name was Santa) his sting-covered face she shouted "WHATTAYOODOO??!!" and then slapped him right in the cheek that was smothered in hornet bites. I felt bad...but not bad enough to leave the house hysterically laughing. As for the Colorio-Serafino incident, I'm not sure I considered it "squaring off", as much as an Italian psychopath dragging around a harmless kid by his collar until he was a red shirtless mess. Funniest part of that event was how it began, Paul Serafino's tank-top ripped at the seam, making him look like Tarzan...and it was all of us laughing at him that made him lose his temper and attack poor Joe. Another golden oldie was Mike Lomenzo and his "Ex-Stinkquisher"...the crazy bastard filled a fire extinguisher with eggs, mayo, ketchup, mustard, vinegar, baking soda, pickle juice, and his pee and then let it ferment for a year to spray people with on Halloween. His first victim was Gerard "Ge-head" Holden in front our house...Vito Caravella Sr. coincidentally was present at thae moment of detonation. The smell was so unbelievably vile that Vito Caravella reacted like one of Curtis Sliwa's Guardian Angels....he jumped up and wrestled the extinguisher from Mike's hands and said "You're not spraying that again...you pineapple!" (already he didnt say pineapple but I wish he did) I have about a million more stories, just not enough time or space. Whenever I pick back up the novel I put down to years ago, we'll be able to share them all. Till then we'll have to settle for one or two at a time on our wonderful little blog here. By the way Joe, Im trying to think about the kid with glasses and I'm coming up empty...was it Vinny Carubba? I can give you a list a names: Paul Greco, Sal Linea, the Lia Twins, JJ, Stinky Paul, Vinny "Tits" Imparata, Robert Teetsel (who owns some all time great Marisa stories) "Shicken" Vanderbilt, Mark Ward, Joe Crotch, Chris Grant, The Campagna Bros. (who also own some good stories).....well im outta time....were goin to the Fair now.
Good Luck with the new job. 6am is a bit early. Does that mean you go home really early, because that would be a pay off. I have heard a new domicile may be on the horizon, so we cross our fingers in anticipation. I go back to work monday. I anticipate it not being a good day.
That's intresting that you view your years on Marisa Circle as the wonder years. I do as well. I find myself blocking out 38th street completely from my mind. I remember the "Baio Incident." The Fatone brothers spent many weekends on Marisa Circle. I remember watching this moron Gily throw a brick at an enormous beehive hanging near the 1st base line on the ball field at Sleepy hollow Inn. Neither exist any longer. The beehive split in half and fell next to Vinnie Lia and this other kid whose name escapes me. He wore glasses. Steve? Anyway we all stood in amazement behind the foul wall as the swarm chased both of these guys all over the field. You could see it like in a cartoon. They had stings all over thier faces. That ball field saw many interesting games. Steve, remember Joe Calorio and Paul Serafino squring off during a football game?
Wow.
So we took the baby to the doctor. She recieved her first shot. Jessica cried. She peed all over my clothes. And the doctor said "perfect". She is normal all around except that her head is slightly small for her size but that is also normal. Now i am not a doctor but that is not a mastandrea normal (is that an oxymoron) There are certain standards that we see as understood in our DNA. Perhaps we have been mistaken. Is it a trait only passed on in the male genetic code. We know the thick head and scorching sarcasm is not only passed to the males. That has been witnessed. Does the head only get passed in the male code? Are there mastandrea women with large neanderthal like cranial attributes? I cannot think of any. Can anyone else?
That's intresting that you view your years on Marisa Circle as the wonder years. I do as well. I find myself blocking out 38th street completely from my mind. I remember the "Baio Incident." The Fatone brothers spent many weekends on Marisa Circle. I remember watching this moron Gily throw a brick at an enormous beehive hanging near the 1st base line on the ball field at Sleepy hollow Inn. Neither exist any longer. The beehive split in half and fell next to Vinnie Lia and this other kid whose name escapes me. He wore glasses. Steve? Anyway we all stood in amazement behind the foul wall as the swarm chased both of these guys all over the field. You could see it like in a cartoon. They had stings all over thier faces. That ball field saw many interesting games. Steve, remember Joe Calorio and Paul Serafino squring off during a football game?
Wow.
So we took the baby to the doctor. She recieved her first shot. Jessica cried. She peed all over my clothes. And the doctor said "perfect". She is normal all around except that her head is slightly small for her size but that is also normal. Now i am not a doctor but that is not a mastandrea normal (is that an oxymoron) There are certain standards that we see as understood in our DNA. Perhaps we have been mistaken. Is it a trait only passed on in the male genetic code. We know the thick head and scorching sarcasm is not only passed to the males. That has been witnessed. Does the head only get passed in the male code? Are there mastandrea women with large neanderthal like cranial attributes? I cannot think of any. Can anyone else?
Friday, January 13, 2006
Things here are going pretty well. I have returned to the work force and so far the job is not too bad. Although I have been in training all week and I am quite certain that my trainers think I suffer from narcolepsy as I tend to drift off. This is quite noticeable as I am the only person in training. People around here appparently believe the earlier the better when it comes to work and most people start work at 8:00 am. At my offfice I can start work as earlier as 6:00 a.m. I have been getting in between 7:00 and 7:30 and it is painful.
Ellexa is a most adorable baby. She seems so alert in the pictures. Hope she is sleeping well for you all.
Ellexa is a most adorable baby. She seems so alert in the pictures. Hope she is sleeping well for you all.
Your mention of Scott Baio instantly transported me back to my "wonder years" back on Marisa Circle. Particularly because Scott's cousin, Jennifer Baio lived on our block...a fact none of us ever realized was of any importance.....except for one person....in an unprecedented twist of irony, Broadway Joe continues to boast how back in 1987 he made out with Jen Baio while Eric Carmen's "Turn The Radio Up" blasted on the radio. (And yes I just called him to confirm the actual song) Today, whenever the song plays on the radio a huge grin develops on his face...and he will proudly recount his day of glory.
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