Frankenberry's Attic

A Final Night with The Ben

2011-11-09T17:03:00.005-05:00

When I was married in a late sweaty summer 16 years ago my wife and I started our life together with two totally divergent schedules that certainly weren’t as conducive to the life that newlyweds might envision, nor anyone else for that matter. When she would rise for her 9-5 (usually more of a 9-7) managing a cigar shop in downtown Pittsburgh the hello’s from me were through the radio at a station where I did mornings in Beaver Falls, Pennsylvania and when she would return to our first place, a wonderful little first place, I would be in the midst of saying goodnight. Not the greatest of starts for togetherness, I guess, but we muddled through with love and promise. So for our first Christmas together I sought to find a way to fill the gaps of time spent alone in that best of little first places. I went to the East Liberty animal shelter. It was to be a surprise and that it was as she watched in wonder two kittens, on Christmas morning, enjoying their first taste of paper and empty boxes, the joys of which, for cats, is solely theirs.

Well that marriage didn’t last for very long. The time spent alone was soon extended when my radio life took me away from that first little place and I went ahead, to Dayton, Ohio, with the intentions of setting up shop in a second new little place and preparing for finally being able to start the together.

It wasn’t the original time alone nor the new one that spelled the end of the union, as it was other reasons entirely that brought it to finish, reasons beyond my control really, but one thing did survive out of that brief time…Benny.

The Ben.

He had a sidekick in those early days but sadly in the nomadic time I found myself in after the end of the marriage, Merlin, as special as Benny, was lost. Benny, though, kept me as his forever sidekick instead. Until last night.

At 16 years he succumbed to age and the kidney problems that cats are wont to after time. I found him on arriving home in a bad state and he went quietly but not without this lifelong sidekick weeping as he rubbed his ear for the kitten memories of Pittsburgh and Dayton and Pittsburgh again. The memories of New York and his first taste of the outside world replete with things he could chase, toy with and, well, eat…grossly...just the heads his favorite parts for some reason.

Of Florida and a time for me to let the constant sunshine finally cheer my mood while that same sun turned his almost all black coat copper from his lounging leading me to the nickname “Benny Brown,” ala the Peanuts and Charlie. He was always my “You’re a good man, Benny Brown.” Of watching him back then recognize my car at the end of the street and start him running along the four neighbor’s yards he would cross before getting to the front door to wait for me to exit my car and make it his way for a hello and rub on the ear.

Memories of he and I then making our way back to New York in the special spot I devised for him in that U-Haul in the upside down room created from a computer desk placed on its’ side under a mound of continuing personal history and laid against that little door in those trucks that slides open to the cab. For what turned out to be a 48 hour trip with some slinking into non-pet friendly hotels in a couple of places obscure to me now, he had his litter box, food, water and an opening to come out into the cab and sit in my lap whenever I started to sing along with the radio on the road. He liked my singing…he was one at least.

Of his first view and then endurance of a screaming newborn and eventual maturing curious, grabby infant in a house I shared with my brother and no longer pregnant sister as we all needed each other to split the rent while starting over again at the same time… but more importantly needing each other just for the need at such a time. My sis, a newborn, 2 bachelors (who knew nothing of babies other than they existed and apparently cried a lot) and the Ben just looking either curiously or disdainfully (you never could tell with him) upon the whole happy mess.

Memories of his surviving a lost fight with a car and back surgery and the jerry rigged cage that I built for him with uneven two by fours, bent nails, plastic chicken wire and a slightly functional staple gun. The whole monstrosity took up three quarters of my bedroom but it housed him comfortably and safely near me. Of the stray cat we adopted in that house who we didn’t know was pregnant but would soon pop out 5 kittens. More newborns for the Ben to look at curiously and/or disdainfully while he pretended to hate them following him everywhere like a surrogate dad. Of the pride I felt at moving Benny the next time into my first place alone in eons after finally making my way back into the world of radio, at least when it came to making enough money to go it alone. We also had, at this point in time, added one of those kittens so he and I had a new sidekick to move along with us and make us more Musketeer like. This was Shoes, the soon to be fat orange tabby, who would become Ben’s best bud for the next six years, sometimes eclipsing even me.

He also right around here met my Maria and her then 5 year old son Jagger, or the J.G. (I like the word “The” by the way as you’ve probably noticed. It has always added an extra import to the referring for me... it’s special in a world where not enough is). He would eventually meet my Maria’s dog Shana (badly though with an eventual truce), 2 puppies (incredulously though with an eventual and delightful fear of him) and find himself, along with Shoes, in a house with his very own spacious space…Frankenberry’s Attic. His own nomadic existence paired with mine had found a home, 3 whole years without moving, 3 whole years of finally finding a constant space that his Steve would come back to, and him, uninterrupted.

This is where I found him, after a “his” lifetime and my own it seems, laid out on the warm golden browns and yellows of a carpet he so loved to lay on while I sat at my computer while also pawing at it, wrestling with Shoes on it or fur-balling up all over it. This is where I found him still breathing and, I’m hoping, hanging in there long enough for one final return of his Steve…one final come back to

I will miss you my Ben…so miss you.

-Your Steve xXoO and rubs on the ear

Doin' Cat Stuff

2011-08-01T16:09:00.000-04:00

Prety straight forward and silly. I like silly.

Sinister Fruit

2011-07-11T17:05:00.000-04:00

Coming this summer to a theatre near you and starring Aloysius "Cutey" Furr it's the soon to be horror classic "Sinister Fruit" - "In the orchard, no one can hear you Meow."

4th of July 35 Years Gone

2011-07-05T12:47:00.002-04:00

This was produced by the U.S. Government, specifically the U.S. Information Agency back in 1976 to commemorate our nation's 200th! Timothy Leary was probably envious of whatever it was those folks in U.S.I.A. were on. Holy trippy Batman!

The Beatles ala Violin and Cello and Coolness!

2011-06-28T18:08:00.001-04:00

These two are just 15 and 16 and too damn cool!

Channeling Ali

2011-06-24T13:10:00.003-04:00

Hey stop messing with my Friday you slobbery mess! Don't make me go all Muhammed Ali on your as....alright...I warned you...jab jab rope-a-dope...float like a doggy running nightmare...sting like a CAT!

A Boy and his Hummingbird

2011-06-23T13:22:00.001-04:00

You've probably already seen this but I wanted to post it anyway. Why? 'Cause I like it alright...got a problem with that!

Baby Hummingbird from Nancy Kee on Vimeo.

Tooling for Smart Bovines

2011-06-21T16:31:00.000-04:00

Found one!

Belated Father's Gift Idea

2011-06-21T16:29:00.002-04:00

"an intoxicating bouquet of spices, smoke, meat, and sweet summer sweat"

Did you miss getting this for dad on Father's Day? Would have beaten that pair of socks!

Sheep on a Roof

2011-06-15T17:53:00.001-04:00

"Seriously firedude, what a party! Last thing I remember was the moors, some wild mushrooms, a cute little ewe and then I wake up on a roof....little help?"

Old Couple and Technology

2011-06-14T13:18:00.001-04:00

Grandma? Grandpa?....Grandpa!?

Smurf this town!

2011-06-14T13:16:00.000-04:00

No, this isn't the saddest town in the world...this town in Spain did this for the new Smurf movie. Who's the one very conspicuous joy-kill in the road up the hill though? Somebody have a little grouchy for breakfast that week?

Hi Grandma! AAAAHHHH GRANDMA!!!!

2011-05-19T15:23:00.001-04:00

Title above pretty much says it all.

MONSTER!!!

2011-04-27T15:58:00.001-04:00

"Oh my god! It's relentless!! Save me!!!"

The Hare has Lights

2011-04-22T15:18:00.002-04:00

Not only does this state cop get the slow pkoe to get out of the fast lane he does a favor for everyone else on the highway...

Cop Annoyed With Slow Driver - Watch more Funny Videos

Fast Friends

2011-04-13T16:07:00.002-04:00

Dolphy meet Furry. Furry meet Dolphy.

Gymnastic!

2011-04-11T17:15:00.001-04:00

All I can say on this one is "holy cow!"

Perception of a Reflection

2011-03-25T17:52:00.002-04:00

Neato I say!

Bad, Bad Timing

2011-03-23T16:17:00.002-04:00

Talk about wrong bank wrong time huh? "(whistle, whistle)...Oh just going in to some banking and...let me get that door for you my friend...you're welcome...(to the inside)...what's that? He just what...oh hold on I have a gun being a cop an all..."

Wow, did this guy pick the wrong time to rob this bank huh?

Some Cool Pics to Cheer Up Grandma

2011-03-21T17:39:00.003-04:00

Professional wedding photographer getting creative with pictures of his girls to cheer up their ailing grandmother. Some great shots. Link to the article with some more of the photos is below.
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http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1367439/Freshly-brewed-brood-Photographer-takes-amazing-photos-children-perk-ill-grandmother.html#ixzz1Gxk6WJrK

The World's Greatest Extra at 32?

2011-03-18T18:52:00.002-04:00

56 appearances in movies and television in the last 10 years. That's pretty cool, even better than that many credits as a grip.

How To on Hacking Times Square Video Screens

2011-03-15T16:41:00.001-04:00

I LOVE this guy!

James Earl Jones Reads Justin Beiber

2011-02-22T17:45:00.002-05:00

Yes, it's as funny as you might think and like John Stewart's bits with kids reading the pundits, it makes the lyrics and Justin Beiber sound even sillier than they and he already are.

She's Not My Mommy

2011-02-18T16:15:00.001-05:00

This is just a joyfully evil little girl in a great spot.

Drama queen! brought to you by Funny Clips

This is Almost TOO Cute

2011-02-15T16:17:00.002-05:00

Yes, I used the word cute in the title. What of it?!

WARNING CONTENT:
The sugary sweetness of this could be more than expected and cause serious harm, even for mean people.

It Wasn't a Perfect Super Bowl

2011-02-08T17:45:00.002-05:00

Including my Steelers losing not everything went well with all aspects of the Super Bowl from the Anthem to some of the spot etc...

Culinary Institute Super Bowl Party Food Ideas

2011-02-03T22:21:00.004-05:00

Here's the intro, video and recipes for some cool dips and spreads ideas for your Super Bowl Party courtesy of the fine folks at the Culinary Institute right up the street here in Hyde Park. When it comes to food...well...it's the Culinary Institute!...it doesn't get any better than that, now does it!

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Intro:

Crostini with Guacamole, Tapenade & Aïoli
Everyone knows that our country is a melting pot. That's especially evident on the first Sunday in February as people across the U.S. join together to watch the Super Bowl and enjoy a melting pot of flavors. The chefs at The Culinary Institute of America came up with an international menu of dips and spreads you can offer your guests. Nearly everyone eats their dips with some sort of chips, but why not try something different and easy this year? Serve them with freshly baked Italian Crostini.

Crostini are simple and quick to make, and they offer the busy cook a wide variety of flavor, textures, and colors. "Meaning 'little toasts' in Italian, Crostini refers both to a toasted piece of Italian or French bread," says CIA Chef Dwayne LiPuma. "They should be easy to pick up, and small enough to eat in one or two bites. Thinly slice the bread in rounds or at an angle, and you can toast, grill, or broil them for more flavor and texture."

Tapenade, a delicious paste made of ground Kalamata olives, and aïoli originated in the Provençe region of France. Aïoli is traditionally made with egg yolks, oil, vinegar, lemon juice, and spices, but the recipe below uses store-bought mayonnaise to save time.

Guacamole, another favorite dip at Super Bowl time, is made from mashed avocados, lemon or lime juice, and chile peppers. It's so simple to make—preparing your own fresh guacamole at home is a great alternative to purchasing ready-made products. To prevent browning, it's best to work quickly, and before refrigerating, cover guacamole with a layer of plastic wrap pressed directly onto the surface of the mixture.

The following recipes can be found in The Culinary Institute of America's Gourmet Meals in Minutes (Lebhar-Friedman, 2004) available at bookstores or at www.ciastore.com.

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Recipes:

Guacamole

Makes 8 servings

•10 avocados, halved, pitted, and peeled
•6 tablespoons lime juice
•1 tomato, diced (optional)
•1 jalapeño (optional), seeded and minced
•1 bunch scallions, sliced
•1/4 cup cilantro, chopped
•1 teaspoon Tabasco sauce, or as needed
•Salt, as needed
•Freshly ground black pepper, as needed
1.Mash the avocados with a fork.
2.Add the lime juice, tomato, jalapeño, scallions, and cilantro, and adjust seasoning with the Tabasco sauce, salt, and pepper.
3.Hold the guacamole under refrigeration in a tightly covered storage container. It is best to make guacamole the same day it is to be served.
Nutrition analysis with tomato per ounce: 35 calories, 1g protein, 2g carbohydrate, 31g fat, 20mg sodium, 0mg cholesterol, 2g fiber.

=============================================================================

Tapenade

Makes 8 servings

•2 cups pitted kalamata or other cured black olives
•3 anchovy fillets, drained
•2 tablespoons capers, rinsed
•2 garlic cloves, minced
•1/4 cup extra virgin olive oil
•2 tablespoons lemon juice
•1 tablespoon chopped parsley, rosemary, or basil
1.Put the olives, anchovy fillets, capers, and garlic in the bowl of a food processor fitted with a steel blade. Pulse the machine on and off in short blasts until a coarse paste forms. There should still be distinct pieces of olive in the mixture.
2.With the machine running, drizzle in the olive oil until the paste is smooth enough to spread, though it should be slightly chunky.
3.Transfer the mixture to a bowl and stir in the lemon juice and fresh herbs. Serve at room temperature.
Note: Tapenade keeps for up to 1 week in the refrigerator.

Nutrition analysis per ounce: 90 calories, 1g protein, 2g carbohydrate, 9g fat, 0mg sodium, 0mg cholesterol, 0g fiber.

=============================================================================

Aïoli

Makes approximately 1 cup

•1 cup mayonnaise
•1 garlic clove, minced
1.Combine the mayonnaise and garlic.
Nutrition analysis per ounce: 110 calories, 0g protein, 7g carbohydrate, 9g fat, 200mg sodium, 5mg cholesterol, 0g fiber.

=============================================================================

Crostini

Makes approximately 24

•1 Baguette
1.Preheat oven to 400 degrees F.
2.Slice the baguette in 1/4-inch-thick rounds or cut on a bias. Place the slices on a baking sheet and toast in the oven for 5 to 7 minutes, or until the outside edges are golden brown.
Nutrition analysis per ounce: 5 calories, 0g protein, 1g carbohydrate, 0g fat, 10mg sodium, 0mg cholesterol, 0g fiber.

Now That's Making An Impression!

2011-02-03T13:47:00.002-05:00

Ah, those Snarky Brits

2011-01-28T12:36:00.002-05:00

This is why it can be so much more fun to watch british TV.

Now THAT'S Cold! part 2

2011-01-26T15:18:00.002-05:00

Remember how I said Canadians would most probably mock us for complining about the cold?

Insane Canadian Fisherman - Watch more Funny Videos

Now THAT'S Crazy!

2011-01-25T17:49:00.002-05:00

...surfers have always been known as a little nuts, but...

Here's the link to the story with some cool still photos:

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1350077/Night-surfer-Mark-Visser-takes-Jaws-wave-darkness-survives.html

Now THAT'S Cold!

2011-01-24T13:14:00.001-05:00

I think Canadians would mock us for complaining about the cold, what do you think?

Rub-A-Dub-Dub One Puppy in the Tub

2011-01-21T17:04:00.002-05:00

"All right, it was funny for about a second, or whatever length of time it is that's infinitely longer than how long I wanted to be part of this supposed cuteness. Now put down the #@$%ing camera lady and let me the hell out of this tub so I can pee on you instead!!!"

Amazing Bird In Flight Stills

2011-01-20T15:12:00.003-05:00

An amateur British photographer captured some amazing in flight stills of birds at 1/8000th of a second using a photography set up he built himself.

Here's the link to the story from the UK's Daily Mail for some more fantastic shots.

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1348572/Birds-captured-1-8000th-second-amateur-British-wildlife-photographer.html

Society Sits Down for Dinner in the Dining Hall

2011-01-19T17:17:00.003-05:00

Found this at Neatorama.com today. Sigh...there's no table for me. I'll just find the guy who filled his backpack with the chicken breasts.
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Found this on Neatorama today.

Dangers of the Electronic Age's own "Walking and Chewing Gum at the same Time"

2011-01-18T14:26:00.003-05:00

The only thing that might top this would be some similar droopy drawer slapstick.

A Sardine-like Commute

2011-01-17T12:40:00.002-05:00

Hope everyone's got their personal hygiene in order on this commute!

Very English and Very Punny

2011-01-03T10:24:00.002-05:00

The puns just keep coming and coming and coming.
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And Oh What A Storm It Was

2010-12-30T14:35:00.002-05:00

It was a bear but there was still beauty in it. Check out this marvelous short film shot in Astoria blizzard weekend 2010. Enjoy.
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Idiot With A Tripod from Gothamist on Vimeo.

Christmas Wish Snub

2010-12-28T15:26:00.004-05:00

You know, why do I even bother putting together a Christmas wishlist in order of importance when my top item is always ignored? Yeh...Yeh...Merry Freakin' Christmas to me!

Holy Cow these are some Lucky, Lucky Folks!!

2010-12-27T16:39:00.003-05:00

These are some of the luckiest people you will ever see! Cheers to still being around gang.

Zombie Safe Holidays

2010-12-23T15:12:00.002-05:00

How to steel yourself from zombies this holiday season without ruining your celebrations...or pies even.

Books for Christmas? Travesty I Say!

2010-12-22T14:17:00.003-05:00

"Books are not Christmas presents! Christmas isn't educational! You've told me that the tales of an omnipotent redcoated fat man bringing toys to every kid in the world in one night are true and then you buy me freakin' books?! Have you lost your minds? What if there's an actual truth in here?! I don't need this confusion already at the age of 4...Hold on what's this?..alright, you just may have redeemed yourselves..."

2010 Mega Movie Mash Up

2010-12-15T15:38:00.000-05:00

Big Band Man at the Ballgame

2010-12-14T16:13:00.002-05:00

As minor leaguers aspire to theirs, kids at band camp aspire to this cup of coffee.
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Jack Black and Jason Segal's take on "The Little Drummer Boy"

2010-12-10T15:09:00.002-05:00

Merry Holidays and Happy Christmas to all!

See more funny videos and funny pictures at CollegeHumor.

Live Action Wiley and Road Runner

2010-12-03T17:36:00.002-05:00

This is just realy well done. Thanks to Neatorama where I found the video.
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Bacon with Bacon

2010-12-03T15:14:00.001-05:00

This is great.

English is Dum

2010-12-01T15:32:00.002-05:00

The often sillee inglish langweg has it pointed owt prittee well by our old frend heer.

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Oh...This Is Just Wrong

2010-11-18T16:52:00.002-05:00

If it's not bad enough that this has 18 slices of bacon it's also had the bacon grease turned into a sauce to add to a pound of ground beef and 3 hot dogs. It's then wrapped in cheese and covered with corn meal. Oh yeh...it's deep fried.

It comes with a defibrillator.

Big OOPS!

2010-11-12T11:56:00.002-05:00

Probably shouldn't have trusted the demolition guy who's missing a hand.

or...

Just because your cousin Cletus is the one that always gets his hands on the illegal fireworks for the 4th doesn't mean you should hire him for this.

Best Bouncy Ride Ever

2010-11-04T16:15:00.002-04:00

When your classmates on the bus tell you it would be cool to jump as the bus hits a bump be skeptical.
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Five Very Cool Minutes

2010-10-27T17:05:00.001-04:00

Now we all know that videos of people falling down and doing generally stupid stuff are often the viraly popular one but occasionally people are capable of some very cool things too...

The News According to Social Networking

2010-10-22T12:14:00.000-04:00

My Buccos And A Missed Moment

2010-09-20T20:19:00.004-04:00

So last week I made my yearly pilgrimage to NYC to catch my woeful Pittsburgh Pirates in Queens for one, sometimes two efforts of baseball indignity. This season it was two games to add to my string of losses while watching them live and further compound my misery. There was a 1-0 nothing, 10 inning loss in the first of four game set with the Mets where Chan-Ho Park came in a scoreless game and further exampled why Major League teams really need to stop paying this guy to wear a uniform. The second game though was a lot tougher to take. After briefly enjoying a five run lead in the fourth Pirates pitcher Paul maholm decided to throw batting practice while the defense decided to forget everything they learned in Little League. It wasn’t this that was so tough though.

Now I realize that I’m 46 years old and there are plenty of things far more important in this brief life than baseball, a lot of them involving trying to survive and remembering to feed the cats. But my love affair with my Pittsburgh Pirates Ballclub is something I can’t escape and has been ongoing now, winning or not, for 41 years or so. I guess I’m a true example of the loyal fan as the “winning or not” has been mostly “not” for most of those 41 years, but I still strap on my mental cleats and cup every exhibition season and look forward to another six months of knowing the names, numbers and watching the games, with tears or not. Baseball for some, is a passion that remembers the best times of youth and the dreams that can be associated with it as you pretended your favorite players in the backyard and played with all your heart on ballfields lost in time. However much baseball has sullied it’s own reputation with drugs and greed and hubris it is still, and always, baseball…a perfect game.

So it was this second game I made my way to, with Cumulus pal Jeremiah, at Citi Field, the third game in the 3 game series, that was extra tough because I missed catching a home run ball in the 9th inning by inches, twice, and missed the opportunity to relive a little those dreams. The disappointment I felt at the time and still do can seem kind of silly for it just being a game but in my six seasons of catching my boys live I have yet to see a victory (about 9 games or so I think) so it felt like I missed a gift the Pirate baseball gods offered up to me as a sort of recompense for my fandom travails. Those Bucco gods had Andrew McCutchen, Pirates center fielder, hit the homer right to me but I didn’t have my glove on, until too late, as I saw it coming our way. (This is the link to the highlight of that homerun).

http://pittsburgh.pirates.mlb.com/video/play.jsp?content_id=12114299&topic_id=8877442&c_id=pit

Again the silliness of a grown man’s disappointment of missing a ball in a game is evident to the casual, but to me it hurt and still does and all can say is, alas. But I still love my Bucs, winners or not, and I will be there at some point next season wearing my bright gold pullover and also my glove, at all times, hoping those baseball gods give me a second shot.

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The Survey Grain Of Salt

2010-09-14T22:55:00.002-04:00

I came across a survey earlier this week about mom’s and how they prepare school lunches for their small people. Quite frankly I was surprised and even dismayed. You would think that Mom’s, being Mom’s, would be forthright and honest when it comes to a survey. It’s a survey, a poll of a sampling. Isn’t it supposed to be a true barometer of what the larger population thinks? They’re scientific and precise right? There can’t be any variables to take into account can there? I mean Pew surveys and others such like them are always supplying us with the real pulse of the people correct? Without them how would we, say, know how many people are actually texting while driving and applying makeup or eating home cooked meals not takeout, or voting for dick and not jane? We wouldn’t.

No, we rely on them to tell us where we stand on every issue under the sun from social to political to economic and, most importantly, to whether we wear boxers or briefs or whether time is relative or something we just dismiss as a mere annoyance hoping our jeans don’t wear. We have to know if we are running with the pack or blacksheeping ourselves right out of the fold don’t we?

So the dismay I felt at reading this poll I mentioned earlier came from the true dishonesty of it.

Mom Central Consulting surveyed 13-hundred mothers to find out how they shop for their kids' lunches. Findings:
--90 percent of them worry about what to put in the lunchbox
--86 percent plan out their children's meals in advance to ensure they eat a variety of healthy foods
--74 percent select items based on their nutritional value
--72 percent buy items with higher nutritional value even if it means spending more money
--79 percent opt for whole grain or enriched bread instead of white bread
--82 percent regularly pack fruit in their children's lunchboxes
--76 percent opt for portion-controlled snack packs

Where was the 35% of them that checked the expiration date on the meat for that sandwich on stale bread and decided it was close enough?
Or, the 22% who went rummaging, last minute, through their purse for $3 for the school lunch, sometimes even secretly finding the money in the stash of ‘grandma’ dollars in their kid’s sock drawer?
Or, the 75% who hastily grabbed whatever looked edible and threw it in a lunch box with a Mountain Dew and some cookies just before the bus arrived?
Or what about the 12% that thought the kids ate enough at dinner the night before to make it through tomorrow’s lunch break?

The only one that seemed honest was the first on the list about mom’s worrying about what to put in the lunchbox. Well of course! My own lunch box has whatever wasn’t talking to me or crumbling into disappearance but I worry about it.

No, I think in light of Mom’s trying to paint themselves in a better light, we have to take surveys with a grain. A Gibraltar size one. So the next time you see, for instance, a survey that says Sarah Palin is really in tune with the heartbeat of the American people and you actually take it to be truth hit yourself with a brick and then, well just hit yourself with a brick. Then keep in mind that we are hardly ever told the true context of the survey and the responders: who exactly (were they escaped mental patients?), what (are they financially sound or just like the rest of us?), where (online, in the mail, at a mall, at a prison?), why (is it a corporate behemoth trying to justify bleeding us dry?) when (in the middle of a shootout after they had finally been caught?). They are indeed only samplings and don’t necessarily speak for the larger public. Hell right now, however much I’d like to be in line with some of those wishfull thinking answer percentiles from the Mom lunchbox survey, I’m trying to find something for Jagger’s lunch tomorrow that isn’t moving. I didn’t get to the store today and my foot itches. How many of those survey answers took that variable into account?

Note: just kidding on the searching for something that isn’t moving. He has a healthy sandwich and sides in his lunch box for tomorrow and I threw in a Redbull and a 5 hour energy vial just in case he gets drowsy late in the afternoon.

Note 2: just kidding again. I didn’t get to the store for any Redbull.

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Note 3: my foot really does itch by the way

Now THAT'S Inflight Entertainment

2010-09-09T14:32:00.003-04:00

Next time that you're stuck on the tarmac after overpaying for your ticket and then paying extra for your bags, pillow, blanket, peanuts, safety equipment and possibly even for wearing a jacket you might just wish these folks had taken the same flight. (after the plane finally got into the terminal all passengers were told they would be billed for the extra, impromptu or not, musical amenity).

Wary Cat

2010-09-03T18:26:00.000-04:00

...hello?...um...helloooh?

When Midwest Boredom Calls

2010-08-27T14:35:00.001-04:00

Funny but a touch on the itchy side don't ya' think?

Mom's Missives Are Always Proven Right...In The End

2010-08-11T22:30:00.004-04:00

My latest entry for the attic here is dedicated to my mom and mom’s in general (minus the mommie dearests of course, no offense ladies) and how, no matter how long it may take, you are always proven right. When very young, for instance, it didn’t take long at all to have your warnings of “hot!” realized. The same can be said of, say, “she’ll scratch you” or “continually banging your head on that wall to get what you want will just hurt.” Some warnings took a little longer to prove mom correct like the consequences of not brushing your teeth every day (hello Dr. Drill) or how crying wolf could and would eventually bite you in the ass.

But there were the ones that seemed to us almost comical because, in the infinite mistaken wisdom of youth, we all thought mom to just be old and silly and maybe just repeating grandma truisms. My favorite was always the “wear clean underwear” missive. Being a smart ass I always thought “well, if I do get in an accident, they’re just going to cut the underwear off me anyway, so what does it matter? What kind of embarrassment could there possibly be as I cling to life?” Thankfully after all these years I’ve never had any awful accidents (except for that perm in the late 70’s) that might raise the “wear clean underwear” issue. I’ve never had to have mom by my hospital bed crying hysterically, not over my possibly not surviving the night but instead my poor choice of unwashed fruit of the looms that won’t allow her to ever show her face again at the weekly English Club.

No, “wear clean underwear” always just hung in limbo and every time I didn’t I would return home with a sense of victory, though, thanks to you mom, that victory was always hollow as if I had dodged yet another bullet. (For those of you reading this saying “My god man! How often do you wear soiled underwear?!” Never, but I have left the house often wearing underwear that should have been cleaned a little more vigorously or was just practically ready to disintegrate). It wasn’t until a couple of weekends ago though, at the age of 46, that mom was vindicated, as moms usually are, when I went to the emergency room because of a distinct pain in my leg that had me, courtesy of surfing WebMD, scared somethingless of blood clots. Turns out it was varicose veins and me just getting old I guess, but when the nurse asked me to remove my pants and put on the very unsnug hospital gown she offered I remembered that I had left the house wearing a pair of Batman underwear. Kinda cool actually in a kid-like way with the Batman logo prominently protecting the front, but Batman underwear nonetheless. And, again, at the age of 46.

“Um…Frankenberry…you did say Batman underw…” Yes, and I’ll cut you off right there bemused and possibly frightened before you ask me more of the obvious. They were a joke gift as part of a birthday bushel of stuff from my Maria and the J.G. The two of them, not really knowing what to get me for said day (I’m the worst to buy for as I never really want anything) decided to just get me a bunch of small things which included, among other things, a Ronnie James Dio T-shirt, a Beatles coffee mug and…Batman underwear. I wore them this particular day for two reasons. 1: because I didn’t think Maria’s Jagger ever thought I would do so and 2: because a good friend was working his last day at Cumulus and I thought it would be funny to say I wore them to be strong so as not to pee myself from the heightened emotion. Didn’t seem so funny though as I stripped for that backless hospital nightie. They weren’t soiled and they weren’t falling off of me out of years and years and years of ‘guy can’t toss his old friend’ use but they were Batman pajamas. Did I mention at the age of 46? Mom? After all these years, you are again absolutely right. Proper underwear will be in order in the future. Love you too.

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Goodbye, Farewell and Shmonty (spinoff welcome)

2010-07-30T15:08:00.016-04:00

Tomorrow a good friend and co-worker here in the building is taking off for greener (hopefully for him) and really damn hot pastures. WRRV’s Shmonty is heading out with his better half, Kari, to Arizona as she admirably reaches higher for her doctorate (serious envy on my part) and he accompanies her realizing the most important thing in life. To just say he will be missed around Radioville here is almost trivial as real friends and daily sanity saving constants are always missed in a much more profound way.

Being around radio for a couple of years or so I’ve worked with many really talented people, many prima donna’s, and many hacks (usually the last two combined) but I have never come across as quick and natural a wit as that of Eric Ashmont (oh…that’s where Shmonty originates...quick you are). I’ve also met some very funny people along the way but far too many of them are condescendingly funny way and that’s, well, not funny. I’ve met a great many who try too hard to be funny and that’s, well, usually painfull. I’ve come across a lot who always have to be the funniest person in the room and that’s, well, a knee jerk to a blunt object. I’ve also run into those who have to work at funny and do and that’s, well, to be admired. Shmont though is a rare exception. He is easily and genuinely funny in that beautiful, screwy, irreverent and intelligent way that can make some folks laugh just a little warily and uncomfortably, which of course is funny in and of itself. He, too, is also very human and that combination is even rarer.

That is a daily dose of a person that cannot be replaced but can be treasured instead for having had the pleasure and laughter of it at all. Good luck to you my friend, to both of you. And to Kari a second dose of luck as he is, after all, Shmonty. Stay together and make lots of funny intelligent babies because, in the world we live in now, that is also rare.

Cheers,
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(No, I'm not the guy in the football jersey. I'm the creepy looking one peering over Shmonty's shoulder in the background with my Maria looking oh so cute as always)

Waterparks, moving furniture, laundry and a few tears: Vacation '10

2010-07-20T13:51:00.000-04:00

As I write this I’ve just finished enjoying a week’s vacation that included, among other things, a few mornings of not having to answer the 4am puppy alarm clock…ah the absolute glory of sleeping in (refer to the first paragraph of my last entry and to just being old in general). During the week…

- We enjoyed two water parks, Maria, the J.G. and I, Splashdown Beach and Mountain Creek, both great places to feel young again and get out some liberating wet screams and yelps of joy.
- I surprised my Maria by reorganizing the furniture in the living room, something she has been wanting to do for quite some time now but always seemed to stay on hold to her dismay and surely my fault. Now, Maria is notoriously awful at surprises both for and to…“What’d you get me for my birthday?!”…“It’s September honey, your birthday’s in November”… “Oh, you’re no fun!”… “Do you want to know what I got you for Christmas?!”…“It’s August honey”… “Oh, you’re no fun!” So, in the middle of my dragging and huffing and lifting and puffing and oh so carefully removing and replacing far too expensive Wizard of Oz nicks and Betty Boop nacks she, of course, tried to ruin the surprise without even knowing it by texting me about when we were going to finally move the living room around. My noncommittal lazy replies had her quite steamed by the time she got home from her hair appointment. Then she saw the “new” living room. Chalk one up for me. I love surprises.
- I finally caught up the last number of episodes of “Lost” that had been in the DVR forever it seems. Maria had been on me for quite some time to finally watch them as she already had, patience is akin to the surprise thing with Maria. I’m man enough to admit that quite a few tears were shed at the final episode, “Oh Jack,” by myself for the first time and Maria in a repeat. The tears were also able to keep Jagger’s unending questions about what was going at bay. The sobs drowned them out until he got bored.
- I did laundry. Stop the envy, it’s unbecoming. Laundry was extra special this time around too because I have some new pairs of boxer briefs that I got for my birthday (birthdays and Christmas never change, just the ones who buy you the underwear) and I didn’t have to adapt the fold out of the dryer to take into account the handles, or tears, that are in both sides of the elastic above the main part of all my boxer briefs. It was quite exciting.
- Parts of the MLB All-Star game were watched but not without Maria and J.G. getting annoyed with my bitching about the game deciding home field advantage in the World Series, a moronic Bud Selig idea that still hasn’t yet met it’s death. With that still being the case though, at least the NL finally got it’s first win since Columbus surveyed some trees and mountains in the ocean’s distance. I also didn’t watch the home run hitting contest, an absolute borefest every year. I know, I’m a grouch.
- I somehow remembered to pay bills including that pesky mortgage, which for some reason keeps bothering me every month with paper in the mail.
- We caught “Toy Story 3” which had Jagger hiding his face from the embarrassment of his mother and me quietly weeping (or not quietly according to him) at the end of the film. I think he punched me in the arm.
- I helped my sister and her guy Buck move stuff in her house as she prepares to have the floors redone by the fine folks at Floors Like Glass who did floors here in the attic. The stuff included a pellet stove. A REALLY heavy pellet stove. I can sing Michael Jackson songs now, even the early ones.
- We did a few things around the house that really pecked away at the to-do list. It’s only a congressional report long now.
- I ate a couple of times at my newest favorite place, 5 Guys Burger and Fries. Never knew about the place. I do now. Tasty.
- We enjoyed ourselves, always a good barometer of a successful vacation week.

With the aforementioned All-Star Break happening during the week I didn’t get a chance to watch much of my Buccos on MLB’s TV computer package but, well, they are the Buccos and I had a good week. No reason to have added misery to the mix. So now it’s back at the Radio Ranch after a week at the FrankenGreco Ranch. Other than the usual adapting when getting back to work after a vacation all is well. For all those who didn’t miss Frankenberry while he was gone for a week? I’m back from the attic. My sincerest apologies.

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A Yankee Game on my Birthday?

2010-07-11T06:31:00.001-04:00

First off I want to apologize for my blogging tardiness. Alas the 4am puppy alarm clock that is on 7 mornings a week here at the FrankenGreco ranch forces an early rack time (not something I’m a fan of by the way as there is a little bit of vampire in me).

Anyway back I am and a little bit older as I celebrated another birthday last week. I realize they do come every year, amazingly right around the same time, but these days, as I’m sure some of you would attest, it seems to happen a little faster than would be liked. So when I went to get my hair cut a couple of days later the additional request that I get now on a regular basis from the stylist as to whether I would like my eyebrows and ears trimmed pained me a touch more than usual.

But for the birthday I took my Maria to see the Yankees down at their new digs. Not brand spanking new anymore but new to Maria as she hadn’t been down there since it opened. Now for those who know me well or actually for those who know me only casually or for those who just pass me in the street I’m sure you’re saying “You took your Maria where for your birthday Frankenberry?” To Yankee Stadium? Yes I did. “But don’t you hate the Yankees?” As a matter of fact I do, to the core of my being. “You did say it was your birthday right?” That I did and that it was. “But isn’t whoever is playing the Yankees your second favorite team?” Yes, but to stop you before you talk again because you’re annoying me now I took my Maria to the game on my birthday because I realized it was probably the only chance we would have for her to see her boys this summer. She gladly weathers at least one boring (for her) Bucco/Met game with me every summer so it was the least I could do. Maria is a big Yankee fan and I’m the only non-Yankee fan she’s ever dated (which I am reminded of often) so she misses out on that relationship camaraderie of cheering and hugging and high-fiving precious victory moments together that only shared fandom and relationship building can bring. I know she misses such bonding too because last fall she asked if I would join her to watch the last out of the Yankees World Series victory and cheer them on for her sake. She even played the tried and true “If you love me” guilt card. I left the room. I know, I’m not good at this.

So I thought I’d take her to see a game, let her check out new the ballpark and if I did so on my birthday all the better for me to maybe build a little bridge over those troubled shared fandom waters and alleviate some of that “If you love me” guilt. Plus with it being my birthday I figured I would get at least one $400 beer gratis…but then I felt more guilt and paid for everything. I even bought beers for Val (from Mix 97.7) and her friend who went with us, big Yankee fans both. Yes, guilt slides.

Maria enjoyed herself, though, as well as Val and her pal. For my own piece of mind I did tell them that I would be rooting for the Mariners, which I did, and then I quietly left our seats to hang out by the men’s room (I felt a pee coming was my excuse) as the painful sea of blue and white rose and cheered the great Mariano for the last out. But the gals were happy with their day and victory and we closed things out at my favorite watering hole, Maroney’s Hub in Beacon, at my request, for some wings and a few beers that were on somebody else. Thank you J.J. It was, in the long run, a good day and I think my Maria still loves me, Yankee fan or not. Doubly good.
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Falling Down is Funny

2010-07-07T16:22:00.002-04:00

Now you have to be really loaded to be rocking to these guys, who are so good that everybody at the show must be at the bar with their backs to the racket because look how long it takes for someone to get to miss face down.

Cat vs. Dog...One for Cat

2010-06-25T16:06:00.001-04:00

...and round one goes to Cat!

Genius Cat Uses Forcefield Against Dog - Watch more Funny Videos

The Devil Forgot To Lock His Cat-Door

2010-06-18T14:23:00.001-04:00

"...Ohhhhh that feels sooooo good it makes me feel a little evil...awwwww yes...bring out the devil in me!!!"

Base Jumping at Dean's Blue Hole

2010-06-10T13:37:00.001-04:00

Serene and terrifying at the same time...

Dog; A Hairy Man Cousin's Best Friend

2010-06-04T17:44:00.002-04:00

There is cute (yes i'm confident enough in my masculinity to use the word cute...right honey?) and then there is this.

Tyra and a little less work

2010-05-15T09:46:00.002-04:00

You know sometimes the best comedy doesn’t get written solely from the mind of the author. As he or she draw on facets of everyday life they find humor and then do their best to poke fun and be as original as possible within the confines of whatever subject it is they are lampooning. It is work.

But sometimes, as I mentioned above, the occasion, or occasions arise that make the work of writing comedy easier, and less work, because, well, the details just write themselves in a “you can’t make this stuff up” kind of way. Anything Sarah Palin for instance or in this case, my current subject, Tyra Banks.

Here are the easy details. Tyra is writing a book. Not just one book, mind you, but a series of them. About models. In a fantasy world where models rule the land. See? I’ve only given you the basics and you’re already snickering. Keep in mind, amidst your chuckling, that I haven’t really written anything yet.

In this fantasy land where models rule (don’t they already?) Tyra is going to call them “intoxibellas.” In what, I’m sure, was a flash bulb moment of inspiration she has combined the words ‘intoxicating’ and ‘bella’ to produce a powerful heroine who is in control of all that she surveys and most probably too much for any man to deny. They, according to Tyra, will have superpowers and have “edgy, sexy, exciting adventures.” Again, I haven’t really written anything yet.

The land they inhabit, one of models, does need a name though. Yet again I’m not really required to write anything as Tyra has already supplied the name for her fantasy world. This, probably, for Tyra was a little more of a labor (the flash bulb of inspiration for “intoxibellas” having worn her out) but she was able to come to literary genious once more and see that a grand land ruled by models would be a land of models, or, a “Modelland.” Brilliant!

Thank you Tyra. You have given this simple writer five paragraphs of material without having to actually write anything.

"Hey did you hear Tyra'a writing a novel?...Thank you...Thank you...I'm here all week, try the veal."

I look forward to the Oprah “O” of approval and waiting in line.

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Brilliant!

2010-05-13T14:40:00.004-04:00

Though fans of Glenn Beck wouldn't understand while reaching for a gun this is absolutely brilliant. Though of course it is Lewis Black, so that's kind of a given.

The Daily Show With Jon Stewart

Mon - Thurs 11p / 10c

Back in Black - Glenn Beck's Nazi Tourette's

www.thedailyshow.com

Daily Show Full Episodes

Political Humor

Tea Party

Spring Sprung Puppies

2010-05-05T21:36:00.010-04:00

So we’ve added to the menagerie here at the Franken-Greco Ranch, the furry one, much to the dismay of Bob, my sleep, if it were to be personified. The additions go by the names Jackson and Brady. In the animal kingdom they are simply classified as canines. At the Ranch they are classified as “Jackson, that's my chin!” and “Brady! No not there…sigh…honey!...more paper towels!”

Yes, we have added puppies to the mix of animals that I’ve already aquainted you with here in the attic, Shana (existing Maria and Jagger dog) and Benny and Shoes (existing Steve cats). There is a certain dismay on their parts as well, as the mad rush of curiosity towards any of the three, should there be face to face or nose to butt scurrying, is usually met with cries, yelps, hisses and the occasional “talk to the paw ya’ baastaads!” It can be a fun disarray, though I’m sure if any of the three existing furry ones could talk “fun” wouldn’t be a word in the conversation and words I couldn’t use here would.

Maria and Jagger had wanted to add a puppy to the gang for the longest time while I was a touch more, shall we say, reticent. I was pretty happy with the existing mix especially with the fact that after 3 + years together they had finally reached an almost peaceful coexistence. Shoes and Shana had never really had a problem with each other except for the occasional “Hey! Get out of my ass!” but Benny was the much harder sell. Eventually though, Benny seemed to find a comfortable place in his distate of the fact that every morning that slobbery mess was still here, maybe even licking my face. So for the longest time I was able to keep at bay the inevitable puppiness with logic, reason, time concerns and even finances. Soon though all I had left was “wait until spring.” Well, calendars and tax returns have an annoying habit of keeping up with the march of time.

So we went to visit the puppy at the apartment of Cait, the New Paltz student fostering him. (Note: I said “puppy” in the singular for the moment). Maria said we had to make sure that he was right for us, in my mind I responded “unless when we get there he’s eating his fostercare mom, he’s, well, a puppy.” I also had been told that his current name was Stevie which, I guess, in a vain way, had warmed me to him even before we met. I also had acceptance at this point and 3 groundrules laid out with the two puppy perps. 1. I was not to become the main puppy caretaker, 2. The attic would remain off limits and the refuge of myself and my boys as they were sure to be driven northwards and 3. That the two of them were not allowed to get pissed off at me if the puppy liked me too much. (it is often claimed at the ranch here by the two of them that I “stole” their dog…Ah, Shana loves her Stephen).

With this in hand I, we ventured into Cait’s apartment, said our hello’s and made our way over to the pee-pee pads, towels and pillows set up behind the gate in the apartment’s kitchen. As we peered down behind the gate we saw a napping Stevie all snug on his soft black puppy pillow. As a first puppy meeting it was as cute as cute could be, especially when Stevie peered up at us, gave a little yawn and stretched with sound. Then his soft black puppy pillow did the same. Stevie had a brother. Puppy became puppies. I silently said “son of a bitch."

Well, here we are again at the Franken-Greco Ranch, with this new true menagerie of fur and human all learning anew to coexist. I now, though, have 3 alarms in the morning. One at 5:30am, which I don’t set on the clock that involves a waking, yawning, barking excitement, replete with a pee and return for breakfast followed by another pee and a poop. A second alarm is set on a clock for the less furry with a waking, yawning, growling 10 year old’s discontent, replete with a pee, clothes, a tooth brushed or two and a school bus. The third alarm is also set on a clock for another less furry with a waking, yawning, and occasional curse, replete with a trip on a dog toy, a pee, shower, and a car to work.

For the 3 groundrules? #1 has been bent but not broken as the puppy perps are doing their job at the end of the day.

#2 remains steadfast, though the gate is only puppy tall at the moment. That one remains up in the air.

#3 may be a matter of time, though, for now, the licking, the chin biting and the squirmy lap time loving has been distributed pretty equally.

As to Bob, my sleep? He doesn’t like me much.

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Kitten Vs. Laser Pointer

2010-04-27T17:24:00.001-04:00

Now this is one Kool Kat on the dance wall!

It's a Mad Maddening Tea Party!

2010-04-16T14:07:00.006-04:00

New T-Shirt Slogan:

"I went to a Tea Party and all I got was this lousy lobotomy!!!"

Star Wars Redux 15 Seconds At A Time

2010-04-13T17:23:00.002-04:00

15 seconds ago, in this very galaxy another clip ended while one began that continued the Star Wars Story in a fun, fascinating herky jerky way...Enjoy the preview you will...

Star Wars Uncut "The Escape" from Casey Pugh on Vimeo.

Gaffe embarasses the The Ministry of Silly Walks after awarding Russian Military a grant

2010-03-30T15:59:00.003-04:00

EMBED-Russian Guard Slips and Fails On Wet Ground - Watch more free videos

This is how you do it Son...

2010-03-30T13:36:00.002-04:00

"Have you guys met my dad? He can do anything! From using the remote, to eating, to scratching himself, to shopping at only the finest men's stores to even teaching me how to skateboard. He's the bestest!!"

Fat Dad Falls Off Skateboard - Watch more Funny Videos

That's gonna leave a mark.

2010-03-26T14:57:00.002-04:00

This wouldn't happen if she were a Laker Cheerleader.

Taking a Moment with a Favorite Website and some 19th Century Slang

2010-03-23T21:52:00.007-04:00

Needing to take a “moment” the other day I went to one of my favorite websites Neatorama.com and started….well…momenting. It’s a great site to do just this, with wonderful brainfood in the way of videos and links to out of the ordinary content uploaded by friends of Neaotorama.com on a regular basis. Do you want to find a video of a napping cat responding to calls from his Japanese owner while still half asleep? This is your place. Maybe the only known video of Mark Twain? You’ll find it here too. How about pictures from deep space probes or maybe a link to the history of some of the oldest trees on the planet? Neatorama.com has this and more. I know that there are many such websites like this out there, but Neatorama is my “moment” website of choice and it will lead you to many of the others.

Anyway, as I was “momenting” at it the other day I came across a link, courtesy of Misscellania.com, about some folks writing a book called The Art of Manliness: Classic Skills and Manners for the Modern Man. In the link they talk of the research for the book and how they came across some great old-time 19th century slang words that they were going to sprinkle into the book for fun. They came up with a quick glossary of some of the words and phrases they found that manly men of the 19th century might have uttered, possibly while passing time in saloons. Though as the link states “These colorful words and phrases probably won’t ever come back into popular parlance” I thought I’d try to find some context or instances where a few of these slang terms could be used today.

Thus my moment leads to time wasting…one of the greatest endeavors you can partake of in this world that doesn’t shine to such…

Anointing: A good beating. A case for the application of salve.
My beloved Pittsburgh Pirates have received an “anointing” in the standings for the last 17 years. My emotional fan well being has received the same “anointing.”

Bellows to Mend: A person out of breath; especially a pugilist is said to be “bellows to mend” when winded.
I was “bellows to the mend” after playing football with the J.G. on Sunday reminding me how terribly out of shape I am.

Blind Monkeys: An imaginary collection at the Zoological Gardens, which are supposed to receive care and attention from persons fitted by nature for such office and for little else. An idle and useless person is often told that he is only fit to lead the Blind Monkeys to evacuate.
You don’t even have to use this one in a sentence to know it can be another term for politicians or conservative right wing talk radio and TV hosts.

Bone Box. The mouth. Shut your bone box; shut your mouth.
How many times a day could you use this?

Bunch Of Fives. The fist.
This one would work well in tandem with “bone box” as in “…shut your “bone box” or I’ll be forced to give ya’ a “bunch of fives” ya’ baastaad!”

Cat-heads. A woman’s breasts.
Not going there without getting a “bunch of fives” from our fairer halves.

Crab. To prevent the perfection or execution of any intended matter of business, by saying any thing offensive or unpleasant, is called crabbing it, or throwing a crab;
While doing some channel surfing the other day I accidentally caught a bit of a commercial for the Kardashian’s and then landed on Fox news longer than I wanted to when I dropped the remote and it went under the couch. Talk about having a “crab” thrown at your intelligence huh?

Cut. To renounce acquaintance with any one is to cut him.
Early form of “unfriending.”

Dash-fire. Vigor, manliness.
Something I used to be full of. Refer back to me being “bellows to the mend” after playing football last Sunday.

Draw the Long Bow. To tell extravagant stories, to exaggerate overmuch; same as “throw the hatchet.”
Hey, I “draw the long bow” and “throw the hatchet” every day on the air especially when talking of how I used to be full of “dash-fire.”

Drumsticks. Legs.
Refer back to me not going there where our fairer halves are concerned.

Earth Bath. A grave.
Eternity Box. A coffin.
Don’t want either of these to come back into fashion as I feel my mortality. They’re creepy.

Fart Catcher. A valet or footman, from his walking behind his master or mistress.
Now that I think about it, this could be of some use in describing some jobs I’ve had in the past. You as well I imagine, if not your current one. Some stuff rolls downhill or some stuff wafts down wind.

Fimble-Famble. A lame, prevaricating excuse.
Tiger woods and all the others out there who pull the sexual addiction card have been using some serious “fimble-famble” to try and get us to think they’re sick and show empathy while they’re in “therapy.”

Fizzing. First-rate, very good, excellent; synonymous with “stunning.”
Early precursor to Snoop Dog lingo, though he would probably find a way to make it rhyme with ho’s.

Flag of Distress. The end of a person’s shirt when it protrudes through his trousers.
Just damn embarrassing to fly the “flag of distress” when leaving a public restroom isn’t it? Also just as embarrassing when the “flag of distress” is toilet paper on the bottom of your shoe.

Follow-me-lads. Curls hanging over a lady’s shoulder.
I think there’s an innuendo here that would, again, lead to me getting in trouble.

Go By The Ground. A little short person, man or woman.
Use this only if you want to get kicked in the shins.

Gullyfluff. The waste—coagulated dust, crumbs, and hair—which accumulates imperceptibly in the pockets of schoolboys.
So, finally a name for what I find in my belly button.

Hogmagundy. The process by which the population is increased.
I think this one has been sufficiently replaced by something a little more obvious and vulgar.

How’s Your Poor Feet! An idiotic street cry with no meaning, much in vogue a few years back.
Much in vogue now in and outside at Town Hall meetings.

Can’t see a hole in a Ladder. “Can’t see a hole in a Ladder,” said of any one who is intoxicated. It was once said that a man was never properly drunk until he could not see a hole through a Ladder.
I think there were a few times in college where I “couldn’t see a hole in a ladder” but I don’t remember.

Monkey with a Long Tail. A mortgage.
This could be amended to “Monkey with a Long Balloon Tail” and then it would be right back in fashion.

Muckender. A pocket handkerchief, snottinger.
“Hey honey have you seen my snottinger? You used it for what? …hey why’d you hit me?!”

Off One’s Chump. To be crazy is to be Off One’s Chump.
This one is definitely right up there with “bone box”, “bunch of fives” and “blind monkees.” Just living in this current world has us all a little “off one’s chump.”

Pocket. To put up with. A man who does not resent an affront is said to Pocket it.
Can be used in the same instance with “fart catcher.”

Rain Napper. Umbrella.
My maria has one of these and it’s Coach. The “napper” part is when she hid the price tag while i was sleeping.

Rib. A wife.
Some folks that are “off one’s chump” would applaud this when interpreting the Bible.

Scandal-water. Tea; from old maids’ tea-parties being generally a focus for scandal.
A lot of this gets drunk at bingo and church socials I would imagine.

Sit-upons. Trousers.
I like this much better than trousers, a word that has always made little sense to me. There’s nothing better or simpler than the obvious.

Sneezer. A pocket handkerchief.
Also to be used as a “muckender” and “snottinger.”

Snotter, or Wipe-hauler. A pickpocket whose chief fancy is for gentlemen’s pocket-handkerchiefs.
After “muckender” and “snottinger” this one’s just gross.

Tune the Old Cow Died of. An epithet for any ill-played or discordant piece of music.
Pearl Jam’s recent single “Breathe” and the last couple of American Idol winner songs.

So after someone, maybe cheating at cards back in that 19th century saloon, started berating me for calling him out I just might have stood up and said…
“…why don’t ya’ quit crabbing me and shut your bone box or you’ll get a bunch of fives with a nose-ender (a straight blow delivered full on the nasal promontory) that’ll put ya’ right on your sit-upons and leave ya’ with a serious blinker (a blackened eye) fella!…keep it up and I’ll call ol’ rusty guts (a blunt, rough, old fellow) over there in the corner to back me up, and he’s still rumbumptious (haughty, pugilistic) and full of dash-fire enough to not go tail Down (to lose courage) on a snotter like you.”
He’d then make a comment about my rib’s cat-heads and I’d threaten to put him in an eternity box with my barker (a pistol) and all hell would break loose.

Actually I probably wouldn’t have gotten past telling him to shut his bone box before I got a floorer (blow sufficiently strong to knock a man down) on my sit-upons ‘cause, well…I’m a wimp and these guys were hard drinking tough asses.

Until the next time I Draw the Long Bow.
Cheers,
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We All Just Need a LIttle Lovin'

2010-03-16T17:51:00.000-04:00

This will bring a tear and hopefully a good reminder of our less than fortunate furry friends who are just looking for some love and attention...

Snow, more snow and some thoughts

2010-02-28T05:18:00.001-05:00

Still mired in snow here as write in the attic in Newburgh, NY.

(Note: Newburgh; one of many towns/cities in this area often referred to by New York City residents as “upstate.” Now, technically, and obviously, the city of Newburgh is upstate from the grand city of New York, any simple map will attest to that. Their inference with “upstate” though is “sticks” or “boonies,” that the second you leave their center of the universe you’re best chance at fun is talking up a cow at a local watering hole until you get it drunk enough to take it outside and tip it. I don’t envy the self-important arrogance that comes with living in NYC).

So as I sit in my attic pondering the snow here in “upstate” New York I’m remembering some of the beauty of it before the morning has me cursing it, again. The way it sits in the dark like a child’s nightlight behind the slats in a window blind or around the edges of a curtain. How it falls, slowly and deliberately past the lamp on the porch. The quiet and comfort it can bring on a snowbound night when everyone is safe and secure and the furry ones are curled up in their favorite spots…Okay, enough of this pondering stuff. Let the eventual AM cursing commence and…

- Pitchers and catchers and the rest of the gang have finally reported to less snowy climes and with it comes the promise of spring as well as the only time this, or any Pittsburgh Pirate fan can experience the feeling of hope. Sportscenter can also now, finally, back off on the most boring “exciting” highlight in all of sports…the slamdunk.
- On the topic of Sportscenter, I was watching early one morning this past weekend when ESPN reporter Tom Rinaldi said Tiger Wood’s lame apology press conference was “13 minutes or so of absolutely riveting theater.” It will be “one of those moments where people will recall “where were you?” when Tiger Woods addressed the public for the 1st time.” Now, not to take away from Tiger’s calculated earnestness to explain himself and start making money again…oh, wait…I just did do that didn’t I? I called it lame and calculated…hold on…redo. My much more brief apologies to Tiger, but a “where you when” moment? Yes, that one ranks right up there with scores of historic events and will be etched in my memory for…“what honey? Did I pay the cable bill? It’s automatic, it was taken out yesterday…what?...yes I cleaned the litter box too…well, earlier, I can’t help it if Benny or Shoes just pooped again…it’s what they do, eat, sleep, scratch stuff that gets me yelled and poop…” Now, where was I? Tiger did what?...
- I just voted in the over or under challenge at Cottenelle.com from their recent commercial campaign. According to the current results I’m in the majority as an “over.” 78% to 22% versus the “under.” Take that Bob Miller. He was very adamant about the “under” by the way. Weirdo.
- Were there Olympics happening somewhere recently?
- Finally got the attic finished here at the Franken-Greco Ranch (well, 90% of it, the molding is still left) and I just wanted to say kudos and thanks to Lenny and George from “Perfect Combination Painting” and the gang from “Floors like Glass,” two great local companies. After Lenny and George did a fantastic job finishing mine and my Maria’s not mistake free painting job (refer to an earlier blog from the attic “Old DJ, New Paint Brush” for painful details) Lenny recommended checking into sanding and finishing our pine floors instead of putting flooring down. He thought it might be a touch less expensive. “Less expensive” caught the ear and he was right. Thank-you Lenny! In comes “Floors like Glass” and holy cow the floors look like…well, glass. Beautifully golden new pine colored glass. Gotta love truth in a companies name when it actually happens. With my desk and computer back in, a new desk for my Maria and some decorating (she prefers Kiss and Stevie Nicks frames while I went with a Beatles, Pittsburgh Pirate and 3 lamp motif) the attic now has a cool office on one side and my Maria’s son Jagger’s rumpus room on the other replete with cat Benny hairing up the new futon and getting me yelled at. I’m loving my new space and I’ll get some pics up soon.

Well, that’s it from the attic at the moment. My Benny and Shoes the cats have their spot in the attic, by the way, but it includes the litter box, two cat beds they’re, of course, not using at the moment and Shoes’s chair moved upstairs from the living room covered with orange hair. This along with the aforementioned Benny haired futon on Jagger’s side and the smell of the litter box is getting me yelled at. Gotta go.

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Incident Free Winter Crippled at the Ranch

2010-02-18T13:31:00.004-05:00

Being a few snowstorms into the winter and halfway through February we were doing pretty well here at the Franken-Greco Ranch avoiding snow incidents. There have been no expensive discoveries with the roof (wood knocking as I write), no sledding accidents involving trees, cars or squirrels and there have been no children in white winter coats misplaced. I haven’t accidentally covered our neighbor’s dog Molly while shoveling our driveway as she nips at me and I’ve successfully allowed our mailperson the opportunity to keep her “in any element” mantra intact by clearing the mailbox well enough to keep her delivering those vital Valuepak coupons and other pieces of bulk we couldn’t live without. But, alas, the shoveling is where I ruined our perfect, incident-less, winter snow record. It was last week and I’m walking around hunched over like some crippled character from a snow covered Grimm’s tale. I was doing so well too. I had gotten the driveway down to a science of anally parceling off sections to be shoveled one at a time in quick, easy push and throw kind of motions. Easy if the snow is a little on the fluffy side that is. Snow on the wetter, heavier, side? Not so much.

I know you’re thinking, if you’ve been here with me in the attic before, “Hey Frankenberry, don’t you live with a chore age child who could help you out with the task of shoveling this driveway at the Franken-Greco Ranch?” Now in that thought you would be spot on. We do indeed, here at the F-G Ranch, have such a chore ready child, age of ten, nimble and wiry, tall and with strong teeth and gums (no, I’ve never put him up for sale at a 4H auction or in a Dicken’s fiction, it’s just..um..noticeable). The only thing is, viable thought or not, said chore age child is my Maria’s son Jagger. The last time I recruited him to assist with the driveway he shoveled the front lawn.

So, needless to say but saying it anyway, I handle the driveway chore. I also consider appointments with chiropractors and sleep in a painful fetal position that Shoes the cat finds just perfect for laying in the cusp of.

If you want to come over for a visit, by the way, there’s a fine piece of front lawn I can have cleared for you so, in your surveying of the beautiful Franken-Greco Ranch property, you don’t get any snow in your pant cuffs.

Happy "Ouch!" Snow Days

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Some New Notes and a Lack of Snuggies

2010-01-21T14:49:00.001-05:00

Well here we are entrenched in the cold of a new January and I was thinking, wouldn’t this be just the time to finally get a Snuggie? To wrap myself up in the warm comfort of this continuing fad on my couch with the TV remote would be the perfect remedy for a night dropping into the 20’s and possibly the teens again. But, alas, I heard that the Snuggie folks have temporarily halted their commercials and sales because I’m not the only person with this dreamily soft, fleecy vision. Apparently all of North America has the same idea and because there are one or two or a few gazillion other people on this continent with me feeling the same chill the Snuggie gang realized they couldn’t possibly supply the demand.

I’ve been forced to alter my vision a touch.

So, in the absense of donning a wonderfully warm and fashionable blanket with sleeves that I could even wear to an outdoor sporting event while high fiving my similarly adorned fellow bleacher bums I’ve instead grabbed a few long sleeve thermals, some heated underwear and summoned Shoes the cat to sit under my armpit. After the initial scratching it’s not that bad, but…heavy sigh…it’s not the same as a Snuggie. Oh, Snuggie, when will you resume your interminable commercialls and present to me your 800 number again?

As I adapt, Snuggieless, here a few thought from the Attic…

- The Supreme Court just ruled to ease the limits on big business and labor unions when it comes to political contributions. Big business can now basically spend it’s millions in direct support of a candidate, or more in the true spirit of American politics, in direct opposition of a candidate. The health care industry and big corporations will now be able to proudly buy politicians that protect their interests right out in the open instead of behind closed doors. They might even be able to get them to wear pins and logos.

- Read an article in the Daily News the other day about Hershey's and Kraft fighting to aquire Cadbury chocolate. The News did an informal poll of some New Yorkers and they chose Hershey's as the best. Kraft's unedible and indecipherable "Toblerone" bar came in second while Cadbury placed a distant third. Cadbury third?! Only if it were pulled from the bottom of the pollster's shoe! Hershey's first? Please. Damned peasants.

- As I watch a good deal of sports I’ve noticed the latest, confusing, but must have accessorys of many athletes. The arm adornment. Be it the half single arm elbow wrap (reminiscent of 80’s leg warmers on the ladies but fancied now by basketball players) or the bicep garter on the football type, athletes all over this great globe are sporting these fashion statements and looking quite gladiator like. Now I’m sure the wearers of these new arm earings will tell you that they serve an actual sports purpose and are necessary for “game.” But in reality? Hey, I loved wrist bands when I was a kid, but they were just for looking cool and well, they still do I admit. I even put on one of Jagger’s John Cena wrist bands this morning and flexed a muscle or two to remember. But they are just wrist bands. Waiting on the next fad now. I’m thinking the bicep garter would look neat as an actual garter on the calfs of offensive lineman. Big fun at weddings in the ofseason.

- Well the New York Jets have continued their improbable run in the playoffs getting three missed field goals from a guy who hasn’t had multiple misses in a game since the mid 50’s it seems and now have just the Colts standing in the way of their first Super Bowl appearance since Broadway Joe’s pantyhose and famous guarantee. There is only one problem, and my apologies to New Yorkers, but I am not a fan of New York sports teams, at all, and now have to endure another week of the Jets being on the back page. It’s not as bad as having to do the same for coverage of the cursed Yankees and their recent World Series run but it’s damn close (never realized that World Series victories were Yankee entitlements and that when any other team won one it was only because the Yankees didn’t). It means another week of stories of Rex Ryan’s postseason itinerary going from having only golf penciled in to instead include a parade and stories of the prodigal’s unheard of rookie year (just don’t bring up how he fared in the weeks leading up to a rainbow on his wrist and the Rex Ryan claim that the Jets were done). I’m thinking of going to Lids for a Colts hat. Maybe that will help hold the headache I suddenly have at bay.

- Driving a 16 year old car, or in my current case not driving it, sucks in case anyone was curious.

- We do good number of tours of the stations in the building for Cub Scouts and Brownie’s and the like and we had another group in just the other day, Pack’s 122 and 134 from Poughkeepsie and Mohegan Lake. For me I really enjoy being able to host the kids if for nothing else than to show off for a moment, even if it is for a group of curious small people who mostly miss the showing off part. They’re just big fans of seeing a lot of cool buttons and switches that I tell them do stuff while reminding them to try not to touch the cools buttons and switches so that they don’t do stuff they shouldn’t. The mom’s and dad’s get it a little more and that’s great. Our stage is a bit solitary so being able to occasionally grab a spotlight is nice. One note, though, to broadcasters hosting such tours in the future. Try not to accidentally backhand one of the children you didn’t know was standing right behind you in front of the piece of equipment you normally just spin to and start almost blindly. You might hear a crack and see an embarrassed child who has no idea they might have, but didn’t, do anything wrong. “A little ice here please.”

- Walked past a TV the other day that had a commercial for the “Jersey Shore” on as I passed. My IQ dropped to about 7, even lower than it does whenever I see a member of the Kardashian family.

Hold up! I think I finally saw a new Snuggie ad. Oh, warm, luxurious Snuggie, answer my call as to the phone I fly…

2009 and this possible new decade

2010-01-03T06:15:00.003-05:00

Well another Holiday season has passed and the new year hopes to be an improvement on the last. Me? I’m all for that hope as my paycheck for one, and I’m sure yours, just wasn’t as effective at staying the wolves as it has been in the past and I know late January will test that ineffectiveness even more.

But for now I’m going to put that thought aside, remember these fine holidays and watch Shoes, my cat, fight with a Q-tip he took out of Maria’s little garbage can next to her makeup table. Apparently it said something about his mother. I was considering a year's end kind of thing but the inundation of bests of this, worsts of that, top 10’s, year in reviews, 2009’s greatest cheeses and such got to the saturation point as always.

Instead just one thought for now from the attic about those inevitable decade controversies that popped up as usual…

With the finish of this particular year, 2009, we experienced the arguments that have gone on at every decade’s or not decade’s end since the manger. At that time, time itself and the counting of it was magically reset at a later time by self important reverent folks to change the calendar from an actual undetermined start time, that was already being counted in another way by other self important reverent folks, to instead reflect the actual start time at the manger and give us a new system of counting time thus offering a great opportunity for future businesses at small bodegas in every mall in the world to make a killing selling kitten calendars. The argument is most passionate with those who feel that at the start of manger time, there wasn’t actually a year zero, that from the moment small screams could be heard in a meager shack by an assemblage of luminaries with expensive gifts, a step dad, an angel or two, a Sheppard and some farm animals, it was year 1. Thus an actual set of 10 years would only “officially” finish 9 years later leaving the beginning of new set of ten at 1 again. So in essence, 2000 + years later if you look back the “80’s” for example they would include 1990. Doesn’t sound quite right does it? These more passionate ones even include exclamation points in letters to the editor! Pretty heavy stuff. Technically, I guess, they’re correct but aesthetically and to the general public?

Now, to the credit of these so passionate if decades were measured the way they would like “Unskinny bop” and “Something to Believe in,” which came both out in 1990, would be classified as hits in the just one decade thus rendering any claims of success spanning two, thankfully mute. But, as it is, we’re all stuck with the hits of Poison covering a couple and we just have to live with it, just like we have to live with the fact that Brett Michael’s doo rag/cowboy hat libido just won’t go away another debatable decade or two later.

My thought, though, is that because manger time started in year 1 we take into account that that crying miraculous miracle was a newborn. He couldn’t count yet and when he could it was after disappearing for a few years while working on his carpenter’s card. Then he hit the public consciousness again, in a big way, and it was fishes this, wine that, throngs of devout everywhere he turned, bringing dead guys back to life etc. He didn’t have time to also think about a new system of day counting and the cuteness of kitten calendars. Plus he didn’t even know! “Hey, this whole messiah business has me a little preoccupied you know, plus, I’m not even aware that, in the future, a whole new system of calendar time counting bearing my mark will happen, but if I were I’d just say make the first of these decade things 9 years long and move on already. I don’t want to be responsible for the overly technical ones getting in a huff every 10 years and thinking the 80’s included 1990. What sense does that make? Poison having hits in only one decade is, really, all they should get…sorry gotta go, miracles, inspirational speeches, walking on water (really looking forward to this one by the way)…”

I for one consider this the start of a new decade if for nothing else than it makes the counting a hell of a lot easier. Plus, the aughts or whatever it is people will want to label this last decade seemed so much longer than ten years for too many reasons to list here. I just hope the new year holds some promise for all of us and I wish you well in it.

To a new year? Cheers and all the best.

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An ode to snow, a 9 year old, and the crap I, annually, cannot remember.

2009-12-18T14:57:00.001-05:00

Our first significant snowfall of the winter has come and gone but with it came the first reminder of winters past and the first reminder of exactly what it is that I fail to (again) remember every year.

-To not just report, on-air, the current weather but the expected weather and then remember that I don’t just do that for the listeners. I live in the same world.
-To keep the ice scraper somewhere in the car or, at least, near enough.
-To keep the snowshovel (in a place I can’t remember) away from the 9 year old when the first minor snowfall happens on a Sunday but attendance at work is still expected on the following Wednesday after the first significant snowfall happens on Tuesday.
-To buy winter boots (haven’t remembered in 9 years).
-To put away my winter gloves and comfy wool headdress’s in a place I can recall.
-To keep the backup snowshovel (in a place I can’t remember) for myself for just the moments when I forget one of the notes above.

Redux:

Our first significant snowfall of the winter has come and gone but with it came the first reminder of winters past and the first reminder of exactly what it is that I fail to (again) remember every year.

After waking at my normal time on a Wednesday morning I realized it had started to snow while I was sleeping. Did I take into account the fact that, before I got off the air the day before, I had warned of just such an occurrence in my final weather report? No. I set my alarm for the usual time.

I didn’t have the ice scraper in my car, or anywhere near it. I was late for work.

After making my way home later, slowly, during the days’ continued snow I arrived home knowing that shoveling the driveway was going to be necessary the minute I got there before the wet snow froze up and would require dynamite or spring to clear.

A half hour later I located the snowshovel…buried in snow in the backyard after being used on Sunday by the 9 year old to make some really nifty snowless paths. With this grand discovery in hand I then put on an extra pair of socks to wear inside an old pair of sneakers and donned a double pair of thin convenience store work gloves and token Pittsburgh Steeler gift mittens.

Finally I was ready for the shoveling and the 9 year old was eager to help.

Another half hour later I found the backup shovel behind a pile of stuff intended for a summer yardsale.

An argument over who would use the cooler shovel lasted a few moments and then came the actual shoveling and the help. Notions of the help shoveling the back steps quickly turned into shoveling the front lawn while I finished the driveway and made my way inside with numb toes, fingers and a distinct sense of impending hypothermia.

Now back to this entry’s headline: An ode to the first snow, a 9 year old, and the crap I, annually, cannot remember.

For snowfall # 2 though, bring it on! I’m absolutely prepared!

---

Scene: Snowfall # 2.

Snow falls in the quiet night of a northern New York town called Newburgh.

Man 1 (me): “Hey honey, have you seen the snowshovels?”

Woman 1 (my Maria): “No.”

Man 1 (still me): “Dammit!”

Sigh.

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Cool Cumulus Nights

2009-11-04T14:15:00.014-05:00

A touch late on this but I wanted to wait until after another Cumulus building event, WRRV’s Boo Ball, before I hit the attic. First off, for everyone who made it out to our Fall What Women Want at Anthony’s Pier 9 I just want to say thanks and hope you had as good a time as I did. It was a success and I think all you ladies were able to walk away knowing it was a night well…and fun spent. For myself, how many folks can say they danced the cha cha slide (or whatever it was that had me winded far too quickly) with Yolanda Vega? I know, I’m probably in some pretty exclusive company. And this was on the heels of the belly dancers and me staring at just their feet, I swear, for their whole dance exhibition (Maria did indeed slap me when I got home without knowing why).

No, it was a really nice night and again, I just want to say thanks to all that made it out and also give a big thank-you noogie to Anthony, Jeremiah, Jill, Mel and the rest of the promotions staff and interns who were responsible for making it such a success.

Then, just a week or so later, came sister station WRRV’s annual Boo Ball, this year at the Mid Hudson Civic Center and all I can say is holy cow, what a great night! Imagine 800 to 1000 costumed freaky freaks just enjoying the hell out of themselves in a fantastically adorned, rather large, rumpus room? Yes that was the night and this one also was a huge success. I really doubt that there was better Halloween party in the Hudson Valley and if you go to WRRV.com you can see the photos of all the freaky freaks I mentioned, indeed enjoying the hell out of themselves.

I do have though, a few photos here for you to give you an idea including my Maria looking as beautiful as ever as Alice in Wonderland. Me? I was the Mad Hatter, certainly not as beautiful (though the eye makeup was quite fetching) but I’d like to think I fit in well with said freaky freaks.

My Maria and myself along with a young lady who fit the "Wonderland" theme as the Queen of Hearts.....

...and me, sans big floppy hat, with the fetching touch of makeup i mentioned (try explaining this to the guy at the Sunoco later when needing to fill the tank).

Jeremiah from promotions the Kiss man, Ace Frehley and his better half, Ally as a very happening witch...

...then Matt Manfredo from WRRV as the Riddler and, one of my favorites from the night, Brando from WPDH weekends as Glenda the Good Witch. I think it was the alluring look with the magic wand and the chest hair that really made the costume.

Here is my Sis and her guy, Buck, as a Buckingham guard and a Braveheart. There were definitely some conversations about the kilt and some classic truths about a Scotsman and his said kilt were revealed. No not that but still very funny...

...and then there was the guy who came as a teddy bear claw/grab vending machine. Kudos to him being able to stay in teddy bear claw/grab vending machine character all night, including no refreshement, no pee break and steamed glass like there was some heavy petting going on in there. Now it was probably just because he couldn't get out of the damn thing but his teddy bear claw/grab vending machine perseverance paid off to the ching of a $1000 as he won best prize. Congrats my friend and nice ears!

Here is the lovely maria in our kitchen before we took off for the Poughkeepsie Galleria's Malloween before eventually hitting the Boo Ball. No, I don't know what she was thinking saying yes to me either. And then finally...

...there is Shoes in an incredibly realisitic cat costume. Check out that attention to detail! Sadly Shoes wasn't able to attend as he had more immediate engangements including napping, eating, visiting the litter box once or twice, scratching stuff and getting me in trouble and then napping again awaiting our return.

All in all it was a great night and, along with What Women Want, another fine example of what our events can be here at Cumulus. Guys? Look for What Men Want coming soon, also to the Mid Hudson Civic Center with WPDH.

Well, Maria says it's time to stop pondering how I might have fared as a Glam Rocker, ala T-Rex and Sweet, and lose the fetching eye makeup. Oh well, I could never walk in those huge heels anyway.

Cheers,

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Apologies from Guyville

2009-10-07T22:20:00.002-04:00

This entry for the “Attic” is really nothing more than a self observation and a note to my Maria because, as write this, I’m noticing that I’m very much in Guyville. I realize it’s stereotypical and it’s been written of and performed about in comedy routines so much so that it’s become boringly cliché’ but, as I write this, I’m in desperate need of a shave, I’m wearing a ratty t-shirt from, I think, my college days, old flannel pajamas that have holes that show glimpses of me that don’t need to be seen, not even by myself in the shower and the underwear I have on is one thread away from not just falling off, but from simply no longer existing. Shoes (the cat) is licking the condensation off the beer can and I’ve got on two socks that don’t match (they don’t just “not match,” by the way, one of them I don’t even think was designed for the human foot but seemed clean this morning). I’m definitely in Guyville but the problem is, of course, that I’m not the sole inhabitant of this shanty town.

When I think about it the women in our lives certainly deserve more credit than we give them because they continue to be the women in our lives as we roam around the house in just such outfits. When my Maria is in and just “around the house” she still looks quite fetching while I, as I’ve just described, look like a schlub. So a thank you is in order first and then, secondly a plea is in order to not toss the stuff if I promise to not answer the door.

I guess there is a comfort in these clothes that goes back to the genuine days of Guyville when I was by myself and just looked forward to being done with the day. Schlubbing at the end of it was always in order even if I didn’t wear anything all that nice during the day in the first place. There is also laziness but I won’t go there as that’ll just open up a whole new can of schlubness when Maria reads this.

There is too the comfort of being together with someone but that can lead to complacency and I’m doing my best to not take that for granted and instead remember, as I said earlier, that I don’t exist as the sole inhabitant of my world now. I haven’t been reading any relationship help books or sappy novels, sorry Oprah, but I can safely assume that looking like a schlub during most of the time that is spent together isn’t great in promoting togetherness.

So what I’m going to do now is be proactive and finally let my underwear no longer exist and instead find a pair that I didn’t buy 20 years ago in a super K-Mart while also picking up steaks, beer, lawn chairs and a leaf blower. I think it’s also high time that I retire some of the said ratty t-shirts and jammies (yes, I’m still a child at heart) and instead find a nice three piece outfit of new t-shirt, pajamas, sans holes and socks that weren’t worn by an animal at some point to keep it from chewing off its’ own foot. Then I will finish my attic thoughts, find a razor and remind my Maria that she still and always looks quite fetching “around the house.”

Plus Shoes has finally finished licking the condensation off the beer can and instead has decided that something in my overgrown face looks interesting. It’s time to exit Guyville. Now where’s that razor… "Ouch Shoes! that's skin!"...

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Old DJ, New Paintbrush

2009-10-01T10:55:00.002-04:00

When I saw online over the weekend that there were pictures of the Khloe Kardashian “wedding” I was so excited to get to the shots of that, surely, oh so magic day that I nearly…

Kidding. I didn’t “nearly” do anything other than come to the realization that eventually there might be babies from this union and if Khloe and her family are any indication of what’s to come then surely the folks at MENSA are already preparing for future members.

My weekend was spent in the attic painting (the real attic that I work in, not the figurative one in the mind of this blog). Actually, it’s the continuing to paint now that the taping and sanding of the sheetrock is finally done. Some important discoveries have been made during the painting process and I thought I’d share with you some of these said discoveries so, if you have a similar project in the future, I might be of some assistance.

Now, first, I should note that when I say discoveries I’m really saying mistakes just in a kinder light because, on second note,…I’m a DJ, I don’t make any painting claims on my resume.

For instance: Sheetrock is just a little on the porous side so when you’re laying down the first primer coat don’t think you’re going to save time buying into the “primer and paint in one!” scam. I never trusted shampoo and conditioner in one so I should have been wary. No you should listen to your sheetrocker, Rob, when he tells you that Melanie, his better half and the painter in the family, always lays down a flat white first. Three coats each of two awkward walls in one room later (and still needing another coat)? Yes, I listened to Melanie by proxy and bought a flat white paint for the other room. See? Lesson and time removed from life learned.

For instance 2: When putting tape along the edges of the other two walls that dream of being a different color from the first two don’t let the paint dry completely. Pull the tape when still tacky (that’s a painting word and, again, I’m a DJ) if not you’ll hear the 3 coated walls scream as you pull off the paint like skin from a body in a horror movie. Or you’ll just hear many expletives from the novice painter when his Maria makes the same discovery…down the edges of an entire wall.

For instance 3: When Rob your sheetrocker says that he can put the small wall above your stairs flush above them don’t instead imagine a cool little recessed cubby spot for a knick knack or two that you’ll never use because you can’t get to it. Stairs tend go down as you descend. The cool little recessed cubby that you imagine for a knick knack or two above your stairs that you’ll never use? It stays where it is. Way above your freakin’ head. With two other flush walls on either side. And however cool your little paint roller extendo stick might seem, it really sucks in practice when using it to paint that cool little recessed cubby spot for a knick knack or two that you’ll never use while descending down the stairs. Really, it does.

For instance 4: Small helpers (our Jagger) can be of great assistance when you direct them to a wall with a little paint, a small roller and some simple directions. Just make sure they’ve discovered a new site at NFL.com that they can immerse themselves in when they become incredibly bored with some paint, a small roller and simple directions. Just be ready to “Come look at this!” every thirty seconds at their new online find.

For instance 5: However much you love your Benny & Shoes they have paws and noses…which step in and sniff at stuff…cat curious like…and leave paw prints…everywhere…and, by the way, have you ever tried to clean a cat’s nose?

All in all though, the attic is finally shaping up. I’m hoping that the other room will prove to be easier and less time consuming now that I’ve learned some valuable painting lessons. Some of the for instances will still be on hand as the learning process doesn’t necessarily make our Jagger or Benny & Shoes learn the lessons at the same rate that I’m trying to. But precautions can be taken to try and assure that painting room two runs more smoothly and has less distractions and cat paw touch ups.

New for instance: I’ve been saving scrap paper to crumple up into balls for Jagger to chase down the stairs and I’ve made sure that the saved WWE “Smackdown/Raw/Kick some Wrestling Butt and Check out this Ladder as Weapon” special events that seem to happen every day are not deleted from the DVR so that Benny & Shoes will be occupied.

New for instance 2: Let my Maria know it’s OK to go shopping for sexy shoes while I work.

Hopefully I’m at the top of the learning curve, at least for the moment, but do I realize that it is a curve. Curves do come down. So I’m mentally preparing myself for new for instances like, say, a small bird landing on the one weak spot in the roof that we weren’t aware of causing the ceiling to buckle and ruin that perfect line I had between a wall of one color and a wall of another.

Actually I’m not sure exactly what my mental preparedness is for that for instance is but I’m at least telling myself that I am ready for it. I can always call sheetrocker Rob and painter Melanie. They’re experts. I’m sure that they’ve faced similar for instances and I now have them on speed dial.

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Days Past: Love, Wonders, Life

2009-07-23T14:59:00.008-04:00

An old friend and dear memory found me online the other day through one of them fancy networking sites the kids are so crazy about these days. Actually, older folks are kind of fond of them too and I would be one of those, with the emphasis on ‘older’ as the finding of me by this friend from years gone did age me a touch.

I’ve been contacted by a lot of past friends and school pals over the last number of months this way and I have to say it is nice to catch up and find out where people are at in their lives and how they’ve achieved or weathered over the years, whatever the case may be. A lot that have found me have just wanted to “check in” after a short recess. Others have used the finding to actually try and do whatever networking is while a good number have expressed relief that I’m still breathing, a feeling that I share by the way.

Most of these are expected and usually come in a flurry after you first succumb to the latest site and get yourself a user name, a password and a few requisite photos to start your “profile.” I’m sure a better word could be found than “profile” as that just inspires images of the authorities poring over your files to see if you fit the crime, but I guess that word is the given jargon and who am I to argue with the semantics of fad?

Occasionally though, in the midst of all the contacting, replying, requesting, silly to moronic in site games and trivia quiz’s, someone does reach you that you’re not prepared for. That’s what happened to me with this old friend and memory I mentioned earlier. My first love. Now we all have our memories of that one, some fond, some not, some indifferent. For some it may not even be the actual first one that is considered to be the beginning of that wonderful, difficult road. Whatever the case, almost 30 years later, my first wanted to know “is this the Steve Frankenberry I knew when I was in 8th grade and he was in 9th?”

The melancholy kicked in almost immediately as I remembered church. Now I don’t usually have melancholic moments recalling being at church. It’s often more in the vein of standing, sitting, kneeling, standing, kneeling, sitting and then nodding while hoping we were going to Rodak’s afterwards for roast beef subs. It’s also remembering priests I wasn’t a fan of or discovering hypocrisy and being taught how to be judgemental and decidedly un-christian far too young.

This though was indeed different as I remembered, instead, the really pretty girl from another school sitting with her big family across the way in the pews to the right of the altar and she had me transfixed. Now keep in mind that at this point in my life, noticing that girls were pretty at all was something that didn’t happen very often. I know it was 9th grade but I guess I was blooming a little late, next Saturdays pitching start was always a bigger concern. But I did notice her and looking at some of the older photos in her “profile” reminded me of that and I was transported back to the butterflies and the first real concerns about how I looked.

She was “The” girl, I thought, and somehow we were able to meet eventually in the flowing out of parishioners to the parking lot where my dad always said you would find the true Christians once they got behind the wheel. That one still makes me smile.

The phone calls followed, lots of them and long ones. I would sit on the stairs to the upstairs of the house, choking the chord on the door that closed them hoping for some privacy. It wasn’t an easy task, as mom, dad and my brother lived up there. For her it was tougher, as there were brothers and sisters everywhere including older ones who wanted the phone for exactly the same reason. But, around that, talking happened, and so much of it. The pressures of the beginning of high school, the trying to fit in, the mundane things we did that day, sharing the things we thought were profound and, of course, the liking of each other. We discussed family and feelings and future. We talked of the differences in our two schools and how much we really wished we were in the same one and didn’t live on opposite sides of the world, as it seemed at times. We set appointments for the next call or even better, a possible meeting depending on whose mom or dad would drive. Of course there was music, always the universal, and what meant something to us or what was just crap. Knowing me, she even once chose to do a report for school on my favorite band at the time, Styx, so she would have a good excuse to come over to my house to “work” on it. Mom’s and dad’s were always very amenable if school work was the “intention.” We took ages to end our phone calls in the silly way we all make fun of now but was hugely meaningful then.

I’m not quite sure if there was any other time for me that was so innocent and revealing. There were inklings of the things we wanted to do but they were kept at bay by just the plain liking and, I guess, at the time, lack of proximity. But the two of us reveled in the simple joy of liking someone that liked us back at the same time. The want to do? It was part of the frightening, frustrating, fantastic, wonderful and painful part of why that time was so special. It was also our only concern. It was a time that is dearly missed because of what we didn’t yet know and that’s the main reason to not want to go back. All you would do is corrupt the memory with the baggage you still lug around whether you want to or not. I was still young enough to believe in the magic in my Terry Brook’s Shannara books and my Mary Stewart Merlin tales. The Pirates would have another world series in them and I still thought I could be a ballplayer on my own merit, never even fathoming that there could be any other way to do it except through hard work. My father hadn’t yet been completely beaten down by his government job for having a heart or been diagnosed with cancer. My marriage hadn’t yet collapsed, collapsing me at the same time. I didn’t have crippling credit card debt or a draconian student loan. I wasn’t yet made to be as cynical and jaded as I am now courtesy of religion and politics, mostly religion. No, all there was at that time were dreams of a limitless future and the anticipation of the next time I would see her, even if it was just in silence across the pews.

We eventually drifted as the distance and the separate schools taught us how life can be unfair. She dated in her school and me in mine and it always seemed that when one of us got back to liking the other, the other was taken. But, as we also learned, unfair doesn’t care.

There were more girls to come, too many to tell you the truth, and some loonier than me, but she was always in the back of my head. I wondered if she had made it and survived because part of me remembers that I worried about her back then. Well she’s done even better than just survive as she’s prospered in 23 years of marriage and motherhood, with an obviously loving guy and 2 teenage daughters that are positively beautiful. Her? She still looks great in the pics I see now, though I’ll always see her face in that halo of pretty feathered hair.

As to the melancholy I mentioned earlier? Don’t let any of this give you the impression of suddenly pining again after 30 years. It’s just melancholy over a very special time in both of our lives that we were able to share, learn and grow from but whose innocence has sadly passed. I’ve always credited my mother and her with my appreciation, respect for and understanding of women (as best as I can ladies, but I’ve always tried sincerely so). I’m also fully aware, like I said earlier, that no time like that can be returned to, nor should be, even if it were possible. She said she remembers the pain that can come with that time as she watches her younger daughter experience it and I’ll get there eventually myself with my Maria’s son I’m sure.

I’m hoping instead that when she first got a chance to see me on the other side of the computer that she felt the same way as I did looking at her. That she felt satisfied to know after all these years that I too had survived and, yes, prospered as well. That she was happy I was able to feel that tingle in the stomach again when I met my Maria because how could I not have with the obvious love that’s spread all over our pictures? That she was pleased that I finally had my own house replete with four-legged furballs and a really cool small human in it?

No, I’m happier than I’ve ever been, just older, and she seems to be in the same boat. Even though some of the aging has come jaded and with a price, a lot of it has been rewarding for just the getting there and using what we’ve learned from our loves to keep going and get stronger. I left a lot of my baggage behind once I met my Maria and she was able to do so as well after meeting me. It makes us lighter and offers comfort, and that, sometimes, is all you need.

I’ve carried the joy and hurt I learned from that special, unique time in my life with me for 30 years and am reminded now that if I hadn’t taken that first welcome step I wouldn’t be able to be as happy as I am now.

Thanks Missy.

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Screaming Eagles at the Ball Park

2009-06-12T14:21:00.001-04:00

We have a softball team here at Cumulus. It carries the moniker “WPDH Screaming Eagles.” Not just regular old eagles, but eagles that scream and thus inspire fear as screaming could break out any moment and then you’re in trouble mister. A lot of the screaming of these eagles, recently, has been out of frustration though a win will come, I’m sure of it. Our team is helmed by Jeremiah from promotions and has a roster that includes “Noggin’ Glove” Shmonty from WRRV, Maggie and Kerry from upstairs here in the offices, M.K. from the road crew and a guy named Chris who’s a real Hoover at shortstop. There’s also Jeremiah and Shmonty’s much more attractive better half’s, Ally and “Need a Snack” Kari, Brian (Kerry’s guy), ace pitcher “Mountain on the hill” Danielle, pair Katy and Geoff and Eric, Doug, Mike and Corey. It is as fine a lineup as can be found in the league. Especially with the fact that not a single one of them is “that guy,” the one has to take the game too seriously and want to impress on every play while trying to recapture some magic from their youth. This is “for fun” co-ed softball that has, at least for the screaming eagles, one purpose: to provide that “for fun”, hopefully not get us hurt and then lead to a beer and good company after the game.

Now I’ve only been able to play in the last few games so I’m kind of the “new kid”, the kid called up for his first cup and the rookie initiations have run the gamut from none to me wearing women’s clothes (actually that was Saturday night and a story for another time). I also use the term “new kid” liberally as I’m probably old enough to be everyone’s dad but I’ve played these few games like a young phenom from running the bases in slow motion like I have a piano on my back to falling down on fly balls hit to me in left field. Safe to say that I’ve impressed.

Our most recent game was rained out, and it was funny because I was suddenly 12 again, in little league and cursing mother nature because I was really looking forward to playing, even if it was poorly. (Note: mother nature cursing was done quietly as she controls lightning). I haven’t played softball or any ball for that matter in quite some time and I can’t tell you how much I miss it. To get out there with a group of friends and to make new ones while having a good time and getting some much needed exercise is absolutely fantastic. There is a therapy there for long days that can’t be measured and I, for one, can’t wait for my next stumble in the outfield or on the basepaths in the name of camaraderie, good times and that eventual beer. Mother nature willing of course.

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Notes from the Attic

2009-04-07T20:13:00.009-04:00

I’m back and sorry, a little tardy on the Blog front. Life, the aliens who keep borrowing my thoughts and my macramé projects have me behind. Here is an update from the Attic…

A couple of months ago Brandy Hunter from WRRV’s Music all Morning had a great idea, no, not duct tape and a large mailing crate with an Anchorage destination for Boris but a chili cook off between the Cumulus gang here to be judged by a chef from the Culinary Institute of America. All interested were invited to fashion huge vats of their own signature style chili (regular size crock pots) in the hopes of being crowned chili champion. It was an eagerly anticipated event that drew throngs of chili aficionados from all across these great states (Bob from Production) to revel in the odors and tastes of all types of chili.

When the time came for the judging by our revered special guest from the Culinary there was a hush. He tasted, wrote notes, gave scores and made judging faces. As he went from crock pot to crock pot breaths were held by those being judged depending on the particular judging face of the moment. Thankfully none of the judging faces made by our culinary guest were those of spitting, regurgitating or dying. Eventually he was done, scoring sheets were handed in and the tension rose a notch to “Don’t we have work to do?”

The scores were then tabulated by an independent and impartial group that specializes in events such as these and likes eating free chili (Jeremiah from Promotions and an intern) and the results were revealed.

Sadly my five cans of Hormel with half a bottle of Saranac black & tan were not among the finalists. To everyone’s great delight though, Boris from WRRV was named Grand Poobah of the chili cook off. Now when I say great delight it is because we knew, if Boris were to be deemed grand chili master, it would be with a sense of humility and grace that doesn’t often come with competitions as large as this. You would normally expect a certain level of gloating and glee at the expense of the “non-winners”, as this was big, but in Boris’s case we knew we needn’t worry. He would take his “Cumulus Chili Cook Off” Champion trophy, congratulate all on a fine day of fun and quietly anticipate another spirited competition.

Then came the “Apple Pie Throwdown,” another fantastic idea from Brandy Hunter that had the staff all abuzz. Could we top the Chili Cook Off that had generated so much excitement in the building? Difficult I know, but, believe it or not, it was done. As with the chili cook off, aficionados of apple pies from across the nation were on hand to marvel in the tastes of the staff’s apple pie creations (Bob from production) and the game was on.

I decided to venture into uncharted territory. I was actually going to create an apple pie, from scratch, on my own, for the first time with no help from the folks at Hormel or Apple Pie Land or anyone else who builds this stuff for you purchase at a local supermarket. I intended to make an apple cheese crumb pie. Daunting would be the best word for such a task.

So I searched for help. First, of course, was mom. “Hey mom, I’m going to bake an apple pie”… “Don’t burn the house down Stephen”… “Ok”…

Then I sought out Beth Christy from The Wolf. “Hey Beth, any tips?” tips followed, a lot of them. She’s good at this baking stuff. She recommended I do my best to not light my house on fire.

Then I found Brandy who is also good at this. She googled apple pies and printed things. I think fire safety tips was in one of the searches.

Back to mom. “Hey mom, do you think I could have your recipe for cheesecake?”…“I thought you were baking an apple pie”… “I am” … “Ok, don’t burn the house down”…“Gothca.”

My Maria was next. She played along, made me think I was on the right track and showed me where the hose was while checking the batteries in the smoke detector.

I was set.

Talking to the experts had convinced me that I could, indeed, bake an apple pie with cheesecake involved all on my own without setting anything ablaze. After all, we just bought the place and that would probably be bad.

I then when out and bought and meticulously double checked every item on my lists. Cinnamon, sugar, vanilla, cream cheese, dog biscuits (a distraction for Shana from the odors of cooking), eggs, pie crusts, oatmeal, brown sugar, cat treats (refer to dog biscuits), 37 gallons of lard, salt, a t-shirt that said “Blessed are the Apple Pie Bakers and Silk Undergarment Makers,” and skittles (for the 9 year old - same concept as dog and cat). I also bought apples, plenty of them in case I screwed up the first attempt but didn’t destroy the house and still had a kitchen for a second try. On the advice of Beth Christy who, like I said, is good at this baking stuff I actually bought specific apples, Golden Delicious and Fuji. No, I didn’t know either. I also got oatmeal for the crumb topping instead of flour, an inspired tip from Beth.

The peeling, mixing of ingredients, extremely anal attention to the recipes and eventual baking commenced. Two and a half hours later I had, I hoped, finished building an apple pie that would be worthy of the competition that would follow the next day.

The judging for the Cumulus Apple Pie Throwdown was done by the competitors and other co-workers that just wanted to eat some free apple pie. The only requirement was that they fill in a few scale of 1-5 judging sheets and not spit anything out in disgust in an overtly obvious way. Napkins and a sense of class were provided.

When the judging was done another hush came over the throng as once again the votes were tabulated by an independent and impartial group that specializes in events such as these and likes eating free apple pie (Anthony and Jeremiah from Promotions).

The results were in. The hush hushed. The runnerups were announced, six through three (I wasn’t one of them). Then came the call of the second runnerup. It wasn’t me either. Yes, I had somehow built an apple pie, on my first attempt, that was not only not spit out in disgust but was deemed to be pretty damn good.

My apple cheese crumb pie was the People’s Choice Winner and came with a trophy and everything. Cool Huh? Boris, who had hoped for a sweep of our first two cookoffs was gracious in defeat as always and even offered to mention my name on his radio station which I’m sure came with a grand announcement and fireworks sounds. Ahhh, the magic of radio.

I’m not sure what the next cookoff is going to be, Gary Cee from WPDH offered the suggestion of a lumpy porridge competition and I certainly have some ideas for that, including one that's just right, but whatever it is I will enter with a new found confidence and the knowledge that I didn’t have to make any insurance claims on the house. Satisfying and great ala mode.

Cheers to specific apples, a layer of cheesecake and an oatmeal crumb topping,

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A Day Well Spent

2009-03-04T13:30:00.003-05:00

So this past weekend I went shopping with my Maria. Now this wasn’t a day of shopping where you hit a local mall or strip shops for a few (note following italics) specific things or you go to the grocery store for the week’s needs plus ice cream. No this was (again note following italics) a day of shopping and I for one am exhausted. The day’s itinerary was fairly simple, like a day of regular shopping: get up, go, shop, do other stuff, grab a bite, maybe do a quick stop for something forgotten and head home. The difference for this day though was the shop part and the noted first italics above, specific. A regular day of shopping isn’t really a day as you’re generally just out for a few things on a list with the occasional impulse. No, this was actually a day (refer to the second noted italics) with no stone set specifics. We left at noon, returned around 10pm and a lengthy ride on a thruway was required.

After arriving, following said lengthy thruway ride, in the far off land of a place named New Jersey we entered the strange and mesmerizing world of a monster mall, a labyrinthian maze of shops, small and big, with peddlers of all types and sizes shilling everything from clothing to shoes to hats to shiny accessories for all the previous. From the extravagant to the mundane, all were covered in fantastic fashion by all walks of life and, for my Maria, this was her element. She navigated this bazaar with aplomb and gusto, leading me from vendor to vendor with the vigor of a woman possessed, carrying just a seemingly thin plastic bartering tool and a handy liege encumbered only with confusion and a lot of freakin’ bags. Though some compensation did come with the liege’s simple request of a pretzel product covered in cinnamon sugar, his shoulders are still sore and his legs still ache.

There was a vendor offering gold gilded sweatshirts with hoods and t-shirts of audacious design sold by peddlers wearing strange sideways headgear and oversized glasses that promise to, not only block out the sun, but make you look damn silly.

There were other vendors sporting tattoos that displayed their personal uniqueness and, I’m sure, their affinity for alcohol.

There were some vendors so colorful that the brightest of finely coifed cockatoos or magnificently dressed peacocks were left envious in their wake.

The patrons were equally adorned, some with extra tight jeans that amazingly still hung around the middle of their bottoms in a baggy, just pooped myself kind of way, some were of the same fashion as the vendors with the sideways headgear that always appears moronic while some looked in desperate need of a belt. Whatever the adornment, all the patrons walked confidently in the manner of persons who felt themselves to be in fashion.

There was music in every establishment, some subtle, some…actually there was no subtle music. It was a cacophony of noise mostly perpetrated by artists espousing such noble lyrical content as to make the most refined artists quake in the their non hip hop shoes. I mean, what person of artistic merit isn’t swayed by “I want to get with you tonight but I can’t….so kiss me through the phone” or maybe something that rhymes with Ho’s?

It was quite a display and all the while my Maria’s humble liege soulj’ad on while she not only bought many things but also returned many unwanted things from previous trips to other bazaars that were credited to her bartering tool as a sort of justification for the continued purchasing of new items.

Strangely though, a number of items in this intricate return/purchase dance were quite similar, at least in the mind of her trusted companion. There were shoes for boots, jeans for dresses, blouses for blouses just of differing design. But to my Maria none of these return/purchases were similar at all, in fact they were all very much different and unique in their own moment. She was the experienced choreographer of this complicated two step while I, alas, was just a grip in this shopping production.

Eventually a day wound down. The faithful liege was compensated handsomely for his servitude throughout with more items from the bazaar bodegas including hot dogs and even at one point, dipping dots and eventually was allowed to fetch the carriage from the cold and escort his lady home, new pieces of trade in tow.

All in all it was a fine day, if for nothing other than the grand company this liege’s Maria always provides and for the smile it received when she was safely charioted home to view and revel in her bounty.

For some you might say that bearing with this all this shopping just for her is true love. For myself (liege) I say that it’s true love, not for dealing with it, but because it was a day. In the world we live in now, with constant deadlines, new workloads for many and throttling schedules, getting a day is the greatest purchase we could have made at the bazaar. I would gladly do the same any time the chance for another a day presents itself.

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Fine Embarrassment

2009-02-17T15:25:00.002-05:00

I’m going to congratulate myself as I doubt there is anyone else that might give me a high five for it (except for my Maria who has experienced this a different way) but I made another stride forward into dad-like territory the other day. I embarrassed the 9 year at the bus stop. The 9 year old? Maria’s son Jagger. The bus stop? The end of our driveway. The embarrassment? I dress like a guy that you warn your kids to stay away from.

Moms and dads have been embarrassing their kids since the beginning of time. Lincoln’s mom probably sent Abe to school with a diorama made of Lincoln logs. Confucius may have given his kids fortune cookies with their lunch. Nostradamus, no doubt, had kids that knew how he was going to dot it. And me? Well I just wake up, take him to the end of the driveway and wait for the bus.

For myself it’s as simple as that, though for Jagger it’s a little different. Where I see myself in a winter coat with a hoodie, Jagger sees a guy that lives under an overpass smelling of gin and sweat that shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near a 9 year old, never mind one that has to face to the kids on the bus who think said underpass dude needs a shave among other things…and pants. I’m not, not, wearing pants mind you, but I am wearing my pajamas. I realize I’ve slept in them but they’re not overly wrinkly, all I have to do is stand in them and they cover my lower half to the ankle, so to me, they’re pants enough.

To Jagger though they are confirmation that I don’t care one iota about his emotional well being on the school bus as the kids stare out the window at the freak in the military surplus looking jacket, menacing hood and ratty sneakers topped off with the jammies that should have me, not escorting a child to the bus stop but instead living on a supervised ward waiting for meds with my pudding.

He actually asked me if I could wear something nicer. Now I have to be honest, he was incredibly diplomatic about it, being just 9 and all, as he first asked me how he looked. I said his John Cena t-shirt looked cool and his hair was well haired…or combed…or well something-ed that would get across the fact that he looked fine and could we now start moving before we miss the bus and I don’t get to nap for 45 minutes? He then said that maybe I should try, you know, to maybe, kinda look as cool and well haired as I said he looked. And could I just maybe do this for our walk to and stay at the end of the driveway?

That’s when I knew. I know I shouldn’t be high fiving myself and applying congratulatory noogies to my own noggin but at the same time I’ve passed another important test, one that puts me on par with parents all across this ball. When you have embarrassed them, just by being you, you know you’re on the right track. Hopefully Jagger will be able to step back, years from now, and realize, as I did, that moms and dads are just being mom’s and dad’s. Priorities are a touch different.

My only concern is that he’s dressed warmly, gets on the bus with everything he needs and that he gets on safely. Doing it while looking cool enough for the job isn’t high on the checklist. Plus I figure it’s our jobs to embarrass you because if we don’t then we’ve tried too hard to be cool and we have most probably stopped being ourselves. (unless you’re just inherently cool to begin with, if so, then pthppt! tongue sound effect to you).

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The Learning of the Seven

2009-02-03T10:29:00.000-05:00

(Note: This is something I thought might make a nice kickoff for this Blog. I wrote it just over a year ago about living with my Maria and her son, Jagger. He's close to 9 years old now and as he changes daily I realize that I could write an annual "Learning of the (fill in year #)" as my learning never stops. cheers Jagger - Love ya)

Let me start by stating that I live with a 7 year old. Let me state further that I have never lived with a 7 year old, the only experience I have with such being the one year I spent living with myself in the early seventies. It was the year Frankenberry cereal came out and I was more concerned at the time with prank phone calls and the fun poked at me on the school bus than I was in trying accommodate the none too subtle nuances of living with me or anyone else that was 7. I’m sure if I talk with my mother she would be able to tell me of the similarities between that 7 year old and the one I live with now though I’m also sure that “I wasn’t like this”. This is a phrase that I’ve actually caught myself saying, by the way, in the same way that we all catch ourselves repeating parental missives that we swore never to do. Again, I’ll have to talk to mom. She’ll probably laugh.

As to the living with a 7 year old that I’ve never done? Well I’m not completely ignorant to the world of small early stage humans, it’s just that I’ve never gotten this far in their evolution. My only experience came when sharing a house with my brother and sister and she informed us of her impending babiness, something we weren’t aware of, her included, at the time we decided to throw our hats into the same ring, a small 3 bedroom soon to be circus in Beacon, NY. So there my brother and I sat, bachelor #1 and bachelor #2, looking down the barrel of myths, legends and outright falsehoods about pregnancy that would all prove to be true.

Without even a hint of girlfriends, never mind mom to be’s we were thrust into the world of babies. Everything babies, babies all the time, first, last and second thought babies, babies the book, babies the movie, babies the graphic novel, babies in IMAX (my god that pee stream is huge), babies are the world concerts for babies, babies rock for grandma, babies are babies u can’t touch this. And this was all before any baby was actually produced.

Eventually a baby did reach production, after a grueling 18 hours on the line and amid rumbles of a strike from the union workers: namely me. Across four hard plastic benches in the waiting room, with a newspaper over my face not hiding the early dawn and also not hiding the screams from my sister that led to a C-section, I was ready to walk off the job - that of waiting across four hard plastic benches in the waiting room with a newspaper over my face not hiding the early dawn or her screams. Then Jake came, a brand spanking new model replete with a great working engine, racing stripes and a fully functioning horn.

The next five years were a wonderment and support my contention that I’m not completely ignorant to this world of small humans, but I did regress. After getting my own place I quickly reverted back to bachelor #1 status just minus the main trapping of being a bachelor. Dating. Other than that my bachelorness went well. Benny and Shoes were happy. I fed them, rubbed their bellies, hung out in windows with them and scratched their ears. Shoes even learned how to get his own cat treats out of the cabinet and bring them to me while not knocking down the beer can pyramids on the kitchen counter, a lazy cat guys dream. All was good.

Then I met her. The best her ever. Violent regression backslide. Screeching breaks and smoking tires. Beer can pyramid tumble.

Now I live with a 7 year old. As with my first experience with my sisters’ baby product I’m getting used to a new product, one that comes with no directions or warnings, just like the first, requiring me to discover instead how to use it through trial and error and the common sense that I often don’t have. For instance trying to operate said product early in the a.m. may cause auditory damage if not managed correctly, (tarmac headgear helps, refer to directions you don’t have). Or, when trying to dress product, at least 17 different outfits should be offered to assure that at least one of them will be considered the products’ own choice, if not, be prepared for a really long morning and another tardy note. Also know that the desired breakfast may not be available, either through the dreaded immediate advertising of Nick TV or because you just forgot to buy something that you didn’t know you needed and then ran out of.

Like I said earlier, trying to remember what it was like for yourself is fruitless unless you consult mom, who finds this too entertaining, though she does offer advice amidst her giggling. The amazing thing though is that showering doesn’t always come with wet collateral damage, breakfast does happen, outfits gets picked, teeth brushing gets successful unwanted attention, lunch is made, bought or two dollared for the cafeteria, shoelace tying is finally tackled on a daily basis.

It is a slow process and I’ve only touched on mornings. You don’t even want to know, if you don't already, what carnage the phrase ‘bed time’ causes or what it is like to live in ‘contrary land’, and you’ve probably heard the word ‘meanie’ quite a bit. But I’m living with a 7 year old for the first time and the rewards, though they may seem to be minimal to the outside observer, are huge. Bachelor #1 has this new product tying his shoes the same way he does. Give me one check on that imaginary checklist.

sjf