Here is Mojo eating a black and white cookie at the source -- purchased from the Zaro's  at Grand Central and consumed on the spot.

Gosh, does he look happy.

We got some coffee beans at Oren's and the Post at Hudson News, then jumped aboard a train to spend the next few days in Westchester.

More details to follow, but not until we get back. (What can you make of a kid who eats the chocolate half of his cookie last?)

The Mastandrea gene is dominant. Believe it. He looks like Big Vin's baby picture. This is the little man trying to figure out what i am flashing in his face. He most definitely shares a gen with MR. Furious. He demands to be held. As i type this to my right Ellexa has her chair pulled up beside the computer desk and is feverishly coloring every post in the pad with my highliters. Christian or as the Waite's call him, C.J. is sittin in his chair on my left spinning a pinwheel and giggling, for now. And
yes i said a pinwheel. This is highly significant to the D.N.A. Those of you who have visited Spumoni South know it is peppered with pinwheels. My dad's weakness for flags and pinwheels is legendary.

Our game was rained on but not rained out -- which is a shame because we managed to lose again. We at least made an out in the field -- Cookie fielded a ground ball with the bases loaded and trotted it over to home plate for the force play. It was the only out we got aside from their strikeouts.

Then I got home, lit the tiki torches, poured some vermouth, and lay in the hammock until it got dark. I have multiple mosquito bites to show for it. Now I feel a need to go to sleep. Maybe I'll read a little first -- got a few books loaded on that Kindle (and I'm pretty sure I'll never get through them all).

I've been meaning to post a reply to Tommy's tale of woe. However, there are so many different angles of attack that I hardly know where to begin. Let me count the ways:

• It wasn't a shave in Bronxville, so at least your life wasn't in danger
• Your strange haircut could start a trend; I'll monitor the fashion mags
  
• Goldberg had a distinctive look; perhaps you too can pull it off too
  
• Consider extensions -- cornrows might actually look good on you
• At least your hair still grows back

Not much happening here in Berea. Just another couple weeks of baseball. Da Chimpz won their second game of the season on Tuesday, and they did it in style -- without making a single out on the basepaths (the other team was kind enough to strike itself out to end their rallies). We're supposed to play tonight but just like last night we see the storm clouds looming. That was some huge downpour we had yesterday evening to rain us out. Hopefully we'll get our game in today.

And continuing one of our favorite blog themes, here's a link to high-tech toilets.

There are no words in the dictionary poetic enough to describe the resentment and hatred I feel towards the woman who cut my hair.

Hair is a temporary thing, I understand. It'll grow back, and eventually look nice again. But my haircut blows, the way things currently stand, and it is really frustrating. Like, really.

I went in for a haircut, expecting to come back out of Mastercuts with a lighter head and a fresh outlook on those little tubes we call our hair. What I ended up coming out with was a grudge held against that terrible foreign woman who can't cut hair and against that large mole she sports on her face.

Not once, while describing what I was hoping my hair would be like, did I say the words, "I'd really like to look like a child molester...I think it'd be a real treat!" That look just really isn't my thing. I don't think it fits my personality.

Most of me wants to say that it's really not a big deal, and it's really not worth getting upset about. A lot of me really feels that way. But this other portion of me that strives to look clean and attractive and fit really thinks it would be a gift to society if this woman found some kind of large inheritance and never, ever, ever have to cut hair again.

So here's to the foreign woman in Mastercuts who fails at her job, may she live long and never have to pick up a pair of scissors again.

Well, our Mets are continuing their typical style of play... which is to say we're still hoping to make an out in the field. We're getting close. Our bats were alive tonight, as evidenced by the 21-17 score (at least that was our calculation -- the official score may have been even higher).

Poor Cookie us slumping -- tonight he got the Golden Sombrero as he struck out at each at bat. Eh, he gave it his best shot -- even came close to making a few plays at first base.

We're off until Tuesday, so maybe we can do some more practice with the glove. As for me, I want more time in the hammock out back. Spent some time in it just now, lounging under the tent, sitting up every few minutes to take a sip of Stock vermouth. The sky stays lit until around 10 p.m. around here, and I lose track of the time easily. Right now I'm waiting for the Indians game to start. They're on the west coast playing the Dodgers. Which makes me have to say:

Have another beer, Torre.

Hoping to not suffer the same fate as Willie Randolph over at that other Mets team, I led my Berea Mets onto the field last night with only the faintest hope of pulling one out -- at 1-4 we faced the team that had an 8-0 record.

We were realistic. And we were short-handed -- this league allows 11 fielders but we only had 10 who showed up. And after our victory on Sunday I had returned the line-up to rotate all players through the positions, regardless of their level.

But then an interesting thing started to happen. The game stayed close. We held them scoreless in the first, and we even turned a rare double-play. In the second our bats got hot. We scored a few runs; in their half of the inning they got some back. We see-sawed. Every play was an adventure. A few calls by the umpire were, uh, questionable, and I felt myself ready to pull a Lou Piniella but I held myself together. The fourth inning ended and our game had reached its hour allotment -- but the score was tied and they allowed the game into extra innings.

We scored a bunch of runs in the top of the inning and things looked good. Every play was a gut-buster. But we gave all the runs back in the bottom of the inning and we lost. I walked off the field consumed by fury at the umpire who had demolished our chance for an upset victory. Eh, just a kid.

Anyway, I told the team how great a performance it was -- shorthanded in the field we still came just inches from beating the undefeated team. And as we migrated back to the parking lot a few parents who'd seen the plays better than I did assured me that we really did win that game. Oh well.

Cookie and Mojo both reached base, though Cookie over-ran a fly ball in left center, and Mojo let a throw to second bounce from his glove... Eh, better luck next time. (And we're going out tonight to practice!)

Well, the Berea Mets finally put one in the win column tonight. And what a struggle -- I had to ride herd on the fielders to keep them alert, but also keep the kids from getting too anxious when stepping up to the plate to bat. In the end the score was 7-4, which doesn't sound close but I was sweating every play.

Now Dan and I can relax a bit -- we know winning isn't everything, but we felt it necessary to not allow losing to be everything either. No still shots for the blog, unfortunately, but there is some video and if I can edit the clips down I'll get them onto Youtube. And if you're Franco Corso's IP attorney don't you worry: I won't be setting any of the videos to your friggin' lounge music. (The Italian Festival came and went already this year -- no Franco, but Dan tells me her got there in time to catch some of the Midlife Chryslers.)

Today for Father's Day the boys made me posters with drawings of things that I like -- giant cups of coffee were most prominent. There was also a subway train (do they read this blog?). We tried to go to the Station Restaurant with Joe and Jean for lunch after Mass, but after standing at the reception counter for more than a few minutes with no one paying us any mind we decided to drive over to Max & Erma's -- rolling past the Browns practice facility (which I knew was in Berea, but I never knew exactly where).

Da Chimpz both got hits in tonight's game.

Speaking of old photos of ancestral homelands, I found this interesting site.

Big Vin might be interested in this old snapshot of his old salt mine:
It's a warm and humid night here at Berea-Rose. Da Chimpz played baseball last night and we lost again. Even the Berea Mets are struggling this year. With our 0-4 record I'm starting to feel like Willie Randolph.

Haynie Road only makes me think of one thing: "Slow for Horses."

And that makes me think of one more thing: "Good for Cats."

Steve needs a new outfit. I suggest he go shopping for new clothes immediately.