NYC Through The Eyes of Rickdiculus

He writes essays. He makes films. And now he takes pictures.

This past Friday, I took him and The Eldest into work with me as part of my department's holiday family day. It's an annual event that makes an otherwise slow week exciting, if not for the parents, then for the kids. Rickdiculus is no exception.

Yeah, he played nice with all the other boys and girls and participated in all the events, but damn if I couldn't keep him away from the conference room windows to snap these gems. Here's a sample of his work.































You view the rest of his set up on my Flickr page. Enjoy!

Rainy Season

These clouds look menacing
Though they only obscure your light.
I wish I could swipe them away
Like a great Northwest wind does
After a heavy rain
On a day in early Autumn.

It makes you smirk
To hear me say so,
"Your wishes are no good to me,"
You say as you hold me captive
On this world where
The weather is always inclement.

"I can no more stop the rain,
Than ease your pain," you say
Roiling cumulus maladies that
Soak me to my soul
But offer little relief
As they drone on with pitiless resolve.

Tell me, is there a smile left in you;
A radiant beam from afar?
Are you my constant sun or distant star?
Please show me where you hide
So I can voyage there
To try and make things right;

To try and contract your universe;
Reign in the gamma- and x-rays;
Concentrate the power of life, and
Shrink it to a manageable size
Before another downpour forms
More salted tears in my eyes.

Or perhaps, I should
Just shut up and open an umbrella,
And not encourage the melancholy revelry
Of your comfortable misery,
And wait in vain for that one rare dry day
To bask in the warmth of your glow.

(2006)

A Sad Tale in Black and White

Another sad tale of death and broken dreams comes to you from Long Island. Another tale of woe to help you escape from the latest celebrity dust up. I bring you a real life tragedy that will likely end up a WE TV special. Two families. One black. One white. One lie. One shot. One dead teenager.

On one side you have the Whites, an upper-middle class black family that moved to their dream home in Miller Place, NY in 2005. By all accounts, John White, 54, and his family integrated quite nicely into this mostly-white, Suffolk County bedroom community.

On the other you have the Cicciaros, a white family that has lived in Miller Place for years. Their home is the epitome of suburban living -- the huge manicured lawns and long stone driveways full of late model vehicles. This was a family seemingly in want of nothing, particularly their 17-year old crown prince, Daniel "Dano" Cicciaro, Jr.

Late on the evening of August 9, 2006, the world of the Whites and Cicciaros collided leaving behind a trail of tears and despair. That night, John White was roused from sleep by his frantic son, Aaron, who told his father, "they're going to kill me." They were Dano Cicciaro and four of his white friends who came after Aaron White after being told a lie by Jessica Herbert (a friend of both Dano and Aaron) that Aaron threatened to rape her.

John White emerged from his house with a gun in his hand and ordered Dano Cicciaro off his property. When he turned his back to walk towards his home, he was pursued by Cicciaro. White mistook this as a threat and shot Cicciaro in the face. He died not long after.

Soon after, a grand jury charged John White with second-degree manslaughter and third-degree criminal possession of a weapon. Yesterday, following a four-week trial, he was found guilty. You can read all about here in Newsday.

Now, here's where I piss more than a few people off. The jury reached the proper verdict.

In my mind, it's a question of culpability. There is no question that John White never intended to shoot Dano Cicciaro, yet the fact remains that he fired the shot. You can't take the bullet back. Someone once told me that good gunmanship teaches that you do not raise or aim a gun at someone unless you are prepared to kill them. That is the risk you take, and according to a Suffolk County jury, that is the risk John White will pay for in years of lost time.

I tip my hat to the jury for deciding how they did because this was a tough case, particularly since race was involved. Considering the number of days it took to reach a decision, and the fact that they asked to see all of the evidence and have all of the testimony read back to them, it says something of the painstaking scrutiny they applied in finding John White guilty.

That's the lawfully right decision, where the critical evidence is parsed and weighed and a verdict rendered.

The emotionally right decision would have been to let John White walk for having to endure the wrath of a bunch of drunk, over-indulged, ill-informed, racist white kids like Dano Cicciaro. But courts and juries aren't supposed to deal in emotions. Just the facts.

But while the facts say John White was wrong to emerge from his house with a loaded handgun and shoot Dano Cicciaro, it was equally as wrong for Dano Cicciaro and his four friends to show up at the White's to menace and threaten Aaron White. Some may argue that Dano's actions didn't kill anyone. Think again. Dano's actions that night got him killed by a man with a gun who did not trust that the law would be on his side.

John White is not atypical of black men living in the United States. He is one of tens of thousands of successful black men who were raised in the deep South and have vividly clear personal memories or have heard first-hand narratives of the beatings, lynchings and killings at the hands of white men; some of them cops. This deep mistrust for whites (especially police officers) is not something one would expect a black man like John White to forget very easily; even after achieving home ownership in the affluent town of Miller Place, NY. It's very easy to see why John White would emerge from his house with a gun, instead of calling the cops. It still doesn't make his actions right. According to my friend Tim, who serves on the SCPD, had John White called 9-1-1, several squad cars would have arrived in less than 5 minutes and would have arrested Cicciaro and his friends. All John White had to do was stay in his home, lock the doors and call the cops. Had John White made that 9-1-1 call, Dano Cicciaro would be alive and John White would not be going to jail.

But the 9-1-1 call not placed is that last of a series of missteps that night. In fact, I'd say it's a tragic confluence of stupidity. Dano Cicciaro, mourned though he may be, was not the aggrieved innocent victim his parents and friends make him to be. Despite the numerous denials of the Cicciaro family and their friends, Dano showed up at the White residence to cause trouble. He rolled up in with his friends in suped-up cars, shouted racial epithets and called for the head of Aaron white. He was drunk. He was stupid, and some might say, got what he deserved. Some like the people in this Newsday message board say that. I won't. No one really deserves to die. Yet I hold no sorrow for his loss either.

What I would say is that there is more to this story than most white folks are willing to admit to. This is not simply a case of racially-charged manslaughter. It goes right to the heart of what's eating this country from the inside out. Speaking as a white person, we like to think that in this day and age we've moved past the issue of race. After all, we now have a viable black candidate running for President in Barack Obama. Many of our favorite musicians, athletes, and actors are people of color. In fact, it would not have surprised me at all if Dano Cicciaro had rolled up to the White residence with the latest from Kanye West of 50 Cent blasting from the sound system in his car. The hip hop industry is built mostly on records sales to young, white males.

Yet ask any white person how they would respond if a black family moved next door to them, and they would be looking for ways to sell before their property values sank. They would say that they do not begrudge a black person any of his or her successes. They would say that they do not mind one bit if their sons and daughters listen to hip hop music or dress in the latest Fubu and SeanJohn fashions. Shit, Marc Ecko (nee Milecofsky) has made a fortune co-opting black, hip-hop, culture. But would they live next to a black man? Not on your fucking life.

The truth is we haven't moved far at all from the world described by Harper Lee in "To Kill a Mockingbird."



We still blame the black community for all that is wrong in this country and John White's conviction will do nothing but perpetuate that lie. He committed a crime. Of that, there is no doubt.

But why is there no one decrying the acts of Dano Cicciaro's friends? Why aren't they being brought up on charges of menacing? Why is so little commentary being offered on the significance of Jessica Herbert's lie? Why is no one outraged by the Cicciaro's raucous celebration after the guilty verdict was handed down? The Cicciaros were celebrating and hugging one another and calling this verdict a victory. A victory of what exactly? A victory of white culture over black? A victory of good over evil? You would think they had won the Super Bowl of trials by jury with the way they were hooting and hollering outside the courthouse while the John White's counsel was holding a press conference. This is the type of utter shamelessness that spawns other Dano Ciccaros into our midst, and will continue to incite good men like John White into committing
senseless crimes.

The sad thing in all this is that neither the black nor the white community will see this as another defeat for American society. Black folks will see this as another instance of justice not served. White folks, like the guy from whom I purchased my copy of Newsday this morning, will see this as payback for OJ being sprung. "It's about time we won one," he said to me. Again I ask, what exactly did we win?

I see it as a re-run of the same old racial bullshit; another sad tale in black and white replete with finger pointing and chest thumping; another emasculated episode of racial discord sanitized and dumbed down for the entertainment pleasure of the viewers of WE TV.

All Aboard the 6:17AM to Penn Station

There's never a dull moment about the 6:17AM train to Penn Station. Every Monday through Friday -- except on days when I don't feel like dragging my ass out of bed so early or going into work -- I hook up with four of the nuttiest people I know.


There's Pat, a dysfunctional IT Auditor just like me who always sits next to my pal, Jack, the Empire State Building's coolest union plumber.




To the right is the day school Italian teacher from Sicily, Maria. She's the Christian who celebrates Christmas in December, but says Jesus' real birthday is in September, and then covers her ears and yells "LA LA LA I"M NOT LISTENING!!!" whenever me and Jack decide to trash the Bible.


Rounding out our intrepid quintet is Carmen, a residential property manager, who just happens to be a fellow Puertoriqueña (living in Lindy, no less), who was unavailable the day these shots were snapped for the 6:17 train's year book.

What makes these morning ridings so entertaining is that we have no shame or limit on the topics we choose to riff on. It's like a Linda Richman's Coffee Talk...

Talk amongst yourselves...



We always do.

The other day the topic was hermaphrodites. It all started with a comment Jack made on why he takes long morning showers: "I like the way the water feels on my penis", to which Carmen followed quickly with, "I like the way it feels on mine, too." This led to speculation on exactly what kind of "package" Carmen is packing, "Hey! Hermaphrodites are people, too," I shouted.

Yikes! You would think that a bomb like that would lead to a subject change. But no. Carmen chimed in a few moments later with a story of her niece, who recently informed dear 'Titi Carmen' that "I have a vagina, but my brother doesn't. He has a penis." This spawned school teacher Maria's story about a bathroom show-and-tell incident in which a little girl proved to a little boy that she had no penis. "So how do you go?", the little boy asked. Could there be a more vexing question?

But Carmen simply couldn't leave well enough along. She had to tell us a story about a lesbian that lives in one of her buildings, who is the mother of two kids. Quipped Carmen: "She must have a had a thing for penis at some point."

Me: Yeah. Or maybe she just asked a man to leave a ....ahem...deposit? What wonders one can achieve with a turkey baster.

All this before the sun even rises.

As I ponder whether Jamie Lynn Spears was proving to Casey Aldridge that she is indeed penis-less or showing him how she goes (maybe she was working wonders with a turkey baster), I leave you with this gem from Melanie Safka. While you're listening, stop on over at Politits for the Big "O" celebration and make some noise.

Meet Rickdiculus.....

I took the Little One to the barber the other day. His hair had grown so unruly, E. and I were thinking about changing his name to Cousin IT.

He just doesn't look good in long hair. Far be it from us to stifle his desire for self expression, but when his bangs finally reached down to the middle of his nose, we felt this particular road of self-expression he's been riding on had reached its end. So...Off with his hair!

Now, tell me, doesn't he look great with his short 'do? I think he cuts quite a dashing figure, don't you agree? A real catch who gets his good looks entirely from his mother.

But he is also an incredibly creative young man who has exhibited a budding skill in several artistic disciplines.

He has shown that he has the gift of music. There isn't a piece he can't eventually mimic on a piano. Even his uncle, Jazzman Mullen is after us to get him piano lessons. That's the plan for 2008. He is also a budding filmmaker, camera man, and script writer. Check this short he created with his friend Timmy titled "The Killer". IFC? Sundance Channel? A quirky interview with James Lipton? Who knows?




Lately, he's also shown a real talent for expositional writing. Recall a while back in a tag about real life courses, how I loathed helping him with his "Egypt" project for Social Studies class? Well, I didn't and guess what? The little bugger aced it. He got a 100 on the project, which included building a pyramid, illustrating the insides of the structure on oaktag paper, and writing a narrative describing a slice of life in ancient Egypt. Here's an excerpt from the first-person slave narrative he wrote. You might say he is "A Bisel Goy" or a "Yungermantshik" with how well he characterizes this person.

"Today was the hardest day ever. The Pharaoh ordered us to put in at least 700 stones for the pyramid so we could finish the outside. The stones that we have to lift are so heavy. My whole body is tired from lifting them. My friend was carving in the entrance last week. he hasn't been seen since. We think that he was trapped in there because we heard that part of the ceiling in the entrance collapsed. This work is so dangerous. Many workers have gotten hurt or killed building it...."

I chose this particular excerpt, not only because of the detail he provides in his story, but his sensitivity towards the character he created. I could feel those heavy stones and his character's sense of loss from losing a friend.

Okay, I'll admit, I'm gushing a bit, but please pardon me this indulgence. I am quite proud of my son's creative talents and have no intention of reining him in. I tried doing it with his haircuts, but look how far that got me.

Faux Hawk Alert!!!!!

Okay, I'm through gushing. Now onto the shilling. You can check out the Little One musing at his new place, Rickdiculus. If ya go, tell him Spartacus sent ya.

Isn't It Ironic

Long Island, NY. The center stage of white trash theatre. The fish-shaped land mass that gave you Joey Buttafuoco, Amy Fisher and Jessica Hahn; where guys surnamed "diddy" hold white (clothing) only soirées each summer in the Hamptons; where Rudy used taxpayer dollars to show Judy his one-eyed, Italian, sausage snake in private. It has to be all the MBTE that got pumped into the water supply. We just don't know how to keep from fucking up.

The latest act in this long running show? Dr. James D. Watson -- the molecular biologist who won a Nobel Prize for his work in discovering DNA in the 1950s. He was also known as the acclaimed, but now former, chancellor of the prestigious Cold Spring Harbor laboratory. Screech!!!!!! Crash!

Wait a minute...what do you mean, former, Spartacus? That's right kids. Doc Jimmy is the "former" chancellor because a few months ago he just could not STFU. Bang! Zoom!

He was quoted as stating that he was "inherently gloomy about the prospect of Africa" as "all our social policies are based on the fact that their intelligence is the same as ours — whereas all the testing says not really." Really!

Well, the story gets even funnier. It turns out that 16% of Doc Jimmy's genetic code (the very DNA he discovered) is of African origins. You can read about it here:

Watson's DNA reveals some African ancestry

This is really nothing new as most of us have genetic code that can be traced back to African ancestry. But the average African DNA code for most white folk of European descent is 1%, meaning that Doc Jimmy is alot closer to his African "Roots" than he led us to believe.



Gotta love Long Island folks. We truly know how to put the "fun" in dysfunctional. Well, in tribute to Doc Jimmy's wonderful achievements in molecular biology, his spectacular downfall, and this most ironic genetic "discovery", I give you this....

Teach Your Children....

Please forgive this shameless plug for a fellow blogger, but a few days ago DCup of Politits and part of the Jonestown Super Team, wrote an open letter to her children, or as she affectionately calls them, her spawn. Rather than leave a comment over at Jonestown where the piece is posted, I thought I'd use my own forum to laud what is the most heartfelt and moving piece of literature I have read in a long, long time.

Most of you who read my blog have already seen it, so I'm really aiming this post at the lurkers, friends and family members who stop by on occasion.

Here's the link --> An Open Letter To My Children

Please read it. But when you do, open it in a new window (a right-click will work), then come back here and play the YouTube video below.

Thanks for allowing me this indulgence.

1st Grade Blues

I had a problem walking the straight and narrow as a kid. I just couldn't do it. In this day and age, I would have been considered a "special needs" child, diagnosed with ADHD and any other mental disorder worthy of a seat in a smaller classroom, a daily ride on a short bus, and a year's supply of Ritalin.

Until I entered 1st Grade in Our Lady of Sorrows (Roman Catholic) School in 1969, I was a cute kid.

Before then, I was known to get in all manner of trouble. Don't believe me? Ask my older brothers. They'll tell you. One of them once found me with my head caught in a wrought-iron fence begging to be let out of jail. Another time, I walked out of my kindergarten class at PS 140 to hang out with my brother George's 7th grade class because I was bored. What boy wouldn't get excited by a bunch of giggling and fawning pre-teen girls?

But life completely changed for me in September 1969. I no longer got away with the same crap I did the year before. Discipline was the order of the day, and no form of misbehavior would be tolerated. I got no quarter from Sister Patricia who did not appreciate my "artistic need" to draw my sentence-ending periods the size of golf balls. Nor would my brother Joe tolerate my wanderlust. He walked me to and from school every friggin day with his hand gripped around my neck for two years until he graduated OLS.

For the first time in my life, I was learning those lessons that can only come through the experience of pain. I've already described the physical kind. Now let me tell you about the emotional kind how I came to know the joy and the pain of love....


The little girl you see seated in front of me in this 2nd grade class photo is Maria. I fell in love with her on sight the school year before. This photo does her no justice. She was stunning. However, being the naive young lad I was, I simply had to tell my family about my new special "friend". Big mistake.

For the next two years my brothers teased me mercilessly about my "relationship" with Maria. As teasing often goes, the more you cry the more it happens. My mother would intercede every now and then with a well-meaning but ineffective "déjelo quieto." But recall that this is the same mom who wanted to me experience the pain.

Still I would not be denied my huge crush on Maria, even after she left our school following the 1970-71 school year. In fact, I never really got over her until I penned this poem a few years ago.


Johnny and Maria

Oh what cruelty it is
To have an unblemished six-year old
Find the first love of his life;
To see his vision of beauty standing before him
In all her honey-haired, blue-eyed,
Forty-pound splendor.

Oh what horror perpetrated
On that poor young boy
To have his brothers learn
Of his new-found love;
To suffer the taunts of “Johnny and Maria”
And shrink in the embarrassing truth.

I know that booger-nosed kid.
He still cries somewhere
In the depths of my past;
Not just from the hurtful teasing,
But from the immense loss he felt
From the day Maria left his school.

Damn his brothers, all of them,
For making him keep quiet and
Filling him with shame.
He never shared with Maria
His longing feelings and
How she made first grade bearable.

I’m not exactly sure how
A kid so young
Can be so passionately resolute;
To stamp a petulant foot
In the face of so much hurt
And hold true and faithful
To such a fleeting dream.

So…Jesus can come back to life,
Moses can part the Red Sea,
Mohammed can command mountains to move,
But a six-year old discovers love –
An angel sitting two rows over –
And it’s not possible?

In the end, we believe in
Those miraculous notions that ring true.
Yours are in gods and prophets;
Believable absurdities from centuries past
That hold on strong
For the irresistible promise of heaven.

Johnny's is Maria.
And tho’ he knows not
The state of her Grace
She lives on in that place
Where he goes
To find the joy first love brings.

(2005) All rights reserved.

No Pictures...Please

I walked out of my house to the most beautiful morning I'd seen in a long time. My one-block walk to the train takes me due South allowing me to see the Winter sunrise in all its splendor. I witnessed the first rays of the sun push back the overnight darkness, creating shades of blue yet unpainted by artists' hands. A sharply-defined crescent moon hung high in the sky, a bas relief sculpture lit from above by the brightest of morning stars.

The view from the Lindenhurst Station platform 30 feet above the ground let me see all the way to the Southern horizon. From that vantage point, the color of the sky was shifting from azure to salmon, and the clouds of a retreating front looked like far off mountains. Simply gorgeous.

It would have been much easier to take a picture of this scene -- to snap a sharp digital photo and share it with my friends in the blog sphere -- but I chose the medium of words. I let the written word color this binary canvas and mix the hues on the palette of your imagination. Sorry folks, but today, this sunrise comes with no pictures.

Damn It! I've Been Tagged Again. (Part 2)

This time it was CDP from over at Aunt Dahlia who tagged my ass.

This tag requires a bit less physical effort than the Mathman's tag, but alot more thought.

Okay, here's the borrowed one:

How NOT to Get Pissed Off at Stupid Shit
Of course I’d have to look MUCH harder for blog material, wouldn’t I? This might just be one of those “be careful what you wish for” things.

Now here are the rest:

Understanding the Phenomena of the Remote Control
A survey course in the actual history of this most ubiquitous of rectangular electronic devices. We'll look at how it went from being a time-saving component for changing television channels to a phallic symbol of patriarchal authority and household control. For me this one is crucial because the remote is the only device between me and another episode of "What Not To Wear."


Learning to Pay Attention
This is a skill I really need to master, especially when it comes to listening to E. Whether I'm walking through the door after work or I'm intently watching "the game", she may as well be Charlie Brown's teacher talking gibberish or I'm the chicken hawk to Foghorn Leghorn's chicken, because I can never hear a fucking word she's saying.




How To Disappear When A School Project is Due
Despite the fact that I rarely act my age, I did satisfy my compulsory educational requirements, graduated high school and college. There is simply no reason in the world why I should be mentally and physically pre-occupied with task of building yet another replica of the Great Pyramids of Egypt. What I would not give for the ability to make myself disappear this weekend.



How To Conveniently Forget Your Driving Skills When Your Kids Need a Ride
This one's a no brainer. Really. While E. is more of the household taxi driver than I am, it is the one "honey-do" activity that rankles me to no end. When I was a kid in the New York City and in Queens, I walked everywhere. While this is not always possible for certain suburban activities, more and more of them are of a "walkable" distance. I could make 'em walk, but I'm thinking if I could get the current NYC metered-taxi rate of $2.50 upon entry, I just might re-think this course and call it, How to be more like Robert DeNiro When Your Kids Need a Ride.

Damn it! I've Been Tagged Again (Part 1)

Last night, the birthday boy Mathman, musical memed me. Never one to refuse a challenge and having a functioning Creative Nomad MP3 player from 2003, I thought I'd give this a shot.

The read out screen is broken, which made it hard to see the song title, but what I could not read and remember, I looked up when I got to work and connected the device to my laptop. I also caution you that algorithm Creative uses to shuffle songs really sucks. It doubles up on bands alot.

So, without much further a do......

1. IF SOMEONE SAYS “IS THIS OKAY” YOU SAY? 50 Ways to Leave Your Lover, Paul Simon

2. WHAT WOULD BEST DESCRIBE YOUR PERSONALITY? Geronimo, Unwritten Law

3. WHAT DO YOU LIKE IN A GUY/GIRL? Sunday Morning, No Doubt

4. HOW DO YOU FEEL TODAY? Over The Hills and Far Away, Led Zeppelin

5. WHAT IS YOUR LIFE’S PURPOSE? Walk This Way, Aerosmith

6. WHAT IS YOUR MOTTO? Communicator, Bush

7. WHAT DO YOUR FRIENDS THINK OF YOU? When the Levee Breaks, Led Zeppelin

8. WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR PARENTS? Papa Was A Rolling Stone, The Temptations

9. WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT VERY OFTEN? Uncle John's Band,, The Grateful Dead

10. WHAT IS 2+2? Live Wire, AC/DC

11. WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR BEST FRIEND? Hear About It Later, Van Halen

12. WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THE PERSON YOU LIKE? Kick Him When He's Down, The Offspring

13. WHAT IS YOUR LIFE STORY? Push, Matchbox 20

14. WHAT DO YOU WANT TO BE WHEN YOU GROW UP? Crackerman, Stone Temple Pilots

15. WHAT DO YOU THINK WHEN YOU SEE THE PERSON YOU LIKE? I Wish It Would Rain Down, Phil Collins

16. WHAT DO YOUR PARENTS THINK OF YOU? How Sweet It Is (To Be Loved By You), Marvin Gaye

17. WHAT WILL YOU DANCE TO AT YOUR WEDDING? All I Want, The Offspring

18. WHAT WILL THEY PLAY AT YOUR FUNERAL? Bad Boys Running Wild, Scorpions

19. WHAT IS YOUR HOBBY/INTEREST? Shot Down In Flames, AC/DC

20. WHAT IS YOUR BIGGEST SECRET? Standing In The Shadows of Love, The Four Tops

21. WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR FRIENDS? June Bug, The B-52s

22. WHAT SHOULD YOU POST THIS AS? Wots....Uh, The Deal, Pink Floyd


Happy birthday, Mathman. I hope your day was wonderful and that you got everything you wished for.

CDP, I did not forget you. It's late, I'm tired, I have a very long day ahead of me tomorrow, and your tag requires much more thought than my brain has the capacity to put out right now. I believe the word is called "fried".

Snow Football

What can be better?

When I woke up this morning, I was excited to see the snowy white stuff on everything.

Awesome. I'm a really big kid when it comes to snow. I just love it. The love goes back to my days in Manhattan when a snowy day was cause for celebration. There were snowballs to make and chuck at the passing City buses. There were the inter-housing project battles that were nothing short of re-enactments of the Battle of The Bulge.

But today? The only bulges battling were the old men were the ones who hit the frozen tundra of Baylis Elementary School on Woodbury Road in Syosset, NY.

They were there for one thing. Snow Football.

It was the yellow pinnies against the blue pinnies. It's always that way. Usually it's seven or eight players to a side, but today the crowd was a bit light. Wussies. This is the type of day that makes all the other Sunday mornings we play worthwhile.

It was a back and forth game. My team - the yellows - were up 2-0, then we let the blues claw back to 2-2. We went back up 4-2, then 5-3, only to give up the lead once more. I caught the touchdown that made it 6-5, but two minutes later, I blew the zone coverage. Score tied, 6-6.

It's now Noon. The score tied. We're cold. Then Artie yells out, "one more possession each." Three passes later, we score, then we hold, the way the Giants did against the Bears tonight. Game over. Yellow wins 7-6. Then after the game we're all smiles, even if we are a bit banged up.

It was a great game guys. See ya next Sunday!

And I Brought The Beer...

We arrived in Brooklyn -- me, Distributor Cap, Pissed in NYC and FranIAm. We stepped out of the cab to a smiling Morse, waiting outside his loft.

DCap and Fran had bottles of wine. PiNYC had a nice cake. Me? Two six packs Yuengling beer.

That's just like me -- the classy one.

I have to admit, I was a bit apprehensive about this meeting. I didn't really know much about this motley group of bloggers than from what I gleaned from their writing. There was an intimidation factor, not much different from the one I would feel if I suddenly found myself in a bar with my celebs. After all, I brought the beer. Travolta? Peck? Grant? Maradona? Would these guys wouldn't bring beer to this shin-dig?


Okay, I'm making too big a deal about the whole beer thing. I didn't obsess about it then as nearly as much as I did here, because from the moment we arrived at Morse's doorstep, the experience of hanging with Morse, Ms. Morse, the the Morsel, DCap, FranIam, and Pissed in NYC, WaterTiger and Tengrain (via Skype phone) was nothing short of magical.

We talked and talked and talked, and in between thoughts, we ate some fine grub. We were entertained by the Morsel, one of whose favorite movies is Singing in the Rain. Boy, did this kid make us laugh....





Take a look at these pics. Can you tell we had a good time?

This Is Why I Worry For Their Future

A few days ago, my little one was given an extra credit assignment in either English or Social Studies class to write a letter to a soldier in Iraq, a scan of which I've posted here.

The point of the letter was to provide some words of encouragement and comfort from the home front and to send them needed supplies like toothpaste and foot powder.

Clearly, from the text of this kind note, he's more concerned about the local sports teams than he is about why the soldiers are there in the first place. Of course, contrarian that I am, I asked him why he thinks the soldiers are there?

Me: Do you think that they should be there?

L1: I dunno Dad! It's just an extra credit assignment.

Me: Yeah, but why write a letter to them telling them about home when you could write a letter to our congressman, our senators, or President Bush to demand that they bring the soldiers home and experience it for themselves?

L1: Because that's not what we were asked to write. Mom! Dad's being a jerk!

Indeed, I was being a jerk and E. laid into me for turning a simple extra credit assignment into an exercise in politics. According to her, this letter was not about expressing an opinion, but expressing empathy and compassion for our brave men and women in uniform. "The ones who are making us safer fighting in Iraq and Afghanistan?" I snarked.

"Yes," E. says. "Jerk."

In that moment I realized what's wrong with this country -- we are unable to disagree with some decorum of civility, especially when it comes to politics. I told E., "They don't need our fucking empathy or supplies, which, by the way, should be paid for from DoD budget. What they all need is to be brought back home."

I slammed the front door on my way out to take Chester for his evening walk. I was pissed. All I could think about was how people are simply not allowed a voice of dissent anymore.

Tell someone you're against the war, and you're branded as a soldier hater.

Tell someone that the United States, by Constitutional decree, may not endorse any one religion over another, and you'll get shouted down that ours is a "Christian nation."

Tell someone you think Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama are not good choices for POTUS in 2008, and you are now a misogynistic, race baiter, who hates all things Oprah (yes...Oprah does drive me nuts. Always has. And in the same exact way that Cosmo Kramer goes spastic at the sound of Mary Hart's voice. It's that bad.)



It really pains me to think that this is the legacy we're leaving for our kids. Somehow, some way, it became taboo to speak your mind whenever you disagreed with someone. It is considered offensive and in poor taste to tell someone you're against the war or any currently popular stance, like (Latino) immigration reform. Never mind, that the basis of our Republic -- what is constitutionally guaranteed -- is our right to dissent. You just can't do it.

Allow me to offer a hypothetical question here.

What if my son decided to hand in to his teacher a letter to Hillary Clinton or Chuck Schumer expressing disapproval over the war and the Democrats inability to impeach that imperialist bastard Cheney and his Bush puppet? It's doubtful he would write such a letter because the little one is only 11. But I also think it's because he is very much afraid of the repercussions at his school. I could easily see him being sent to the dean's office for his "misconduct" in not completing the assignment as requested. And E. would be no help in this sense because the other night, she was telling me to shut the fuck up. I have no doubt that the little one -- nay, all our kids -- got the same message.

But with the latest count on the butcher's bill now at 3,879 confirmed American soldiers dead, the largest majority coming after it was "Mission Accomplished", I can't see myself shutting the fuck up now, because if I do, I fear it will not be long before I'm the one in this photo contemplating my loss at the marble slab marking 13's and the little one's final resting place.

Guess What Folks?

I have an orange brain!!!!!!!

Your Brain is Orange

Of all the brain types, yours is the quickest. You are usually thinking a mile a minute, and you could be thinking about anything at all. Your thoughts are often scattered and random - but they're also a lot of fun! You tend to spend a lot of time thinking about esoteric subjects, the meaning of life, and pop culture.

What Color Is Your Brain?

A Shot In The Ass

When I was a a kid, I would get strep throat quite often. The fevers, the aching, the flaming red throats were such a common occurrence with me, one could assume that I was carrier of this ailment; the Typhoid Mary of throat infections.

And each and every time I got sick, my mother would be there to take care of me. She would always make me a lemon rind broth sweetened with honey when I told her my throat didn't feel well, and, then, the next day, would keep me out of school and trudge me to the pediatric clinic at Gouverneur Hospital where she worked as a nurse's aid in their OB/GYN clinic. There I would visit a wonderful doctor with the surname Behrouzi.

Judging by the name, I imagine that the good doc was either Iraqi, Iranian, or Turkish, but his nationality is really of no import. He was a sweetheart of a man to whose care my mother trusted my throat infections and any other ailments I contracted. But as wonderful Dr. Behrouzi's bedside manner was, I came to dread the "strep throat" visits because it usually meant a shot of penicillin in the ass with a very looooooong syringe. Well, what I remember may be far from the reality, but the pain I recall tells me it was a big fucking needle. Ouch.

To hear Mom tell the story, I would literally cry a river at the prospect of getting that ass shot. In hindsight it seems rather ridiculous to cry over a two-second shot of penicillin, but I swear to you that each one felt as though the nurses were plunging the syringe into my ass cheek then rotating it back and forth to make sure it scraped against as many nerve endings as they possibly could without making me lose consciousness. Trust me, waterboarding is a softball Q&A session compared to this torture. In fact, when I told my mother this past Friday that I would be writing a post about the penicillin shots, she said in Spanish "don't forget to write that it took three nurses to hold you down." As much as I want to, I didn't forget that part, Ma.

There is a point in retelling this story. It's that through all the pain and suffering I've endured in this life -- and I'll try and keep my perspective here because I am cognizant of those who've endured much worse -- my dear mother was always there to comfort the pain, but never one to keep me from it. In fact, this was always Ma's MO with any situation I needed to deal with. Whether it was praying the rosary or suffering the occasional strapping from my father or having my tender heart ripped out by the latest love of my life, she would always let me get my ass kicked first, then pick me up and dust me off. I could never thank her enough for doing that.

The truth is, I never fully understood why my mother was this way. I never found her love to be lacking in any way, and as mothers go, she was as tender as any normal mother would be with her kids. Whenever, you asked she would let you rest your head on her lap while she scratched your scalp and sang a lullaby. And like most mothers, she would always defend you in public and chastise in private -- that is, unless it was a school setting, then all bets are off.

But unlike most mothers I observe these days, including E., she was never one to shield her children from those events in life they needed to face. For me, those events included getting my quarterly ass shot of penicillin as a kid, and, later on in life (age 19 to be exact), making me call a doctor to get treatment for the clap, after a night of unprotected, drunken sex with a girl I barely knew. When I called to make that appointment, not only did I suffer the embarrassment of telling the doctor's assistant and the doctor what was wrong, it took another shot in the ass of antibiotics to clear it all up. When I got home from the doctor, she slapped my upside my head and told me I was an idiot for not using condoms. As an OB/GYN nurse's aid at an inner city clinic, my mother knew more than she let on about STDs and unwanted pregnancies, yet she never felt the need for any pre-emptive chastising. I know for certain that she would have done so had she understood in 1983 the devastation that HIV would wreak on the world, but hindsight is always 20/20. She always did the best she could by us, and still does.

She much older now and becoming more frail with the passing years. My irrational hope is that she'll live forever, but the reality is she is in the twilight of her years. These days when I visit her and my dad down in Central New Jersey, she's still the first to greet us at the door and stuff a $5 bill into the grandkids hands, even though she probably can't afford it. After she's told us the latest family saga and served up a huge plate of arroz con gandules, she would retreat to her bedroom to watch her "telenovelas" on one of the Spanish-language TV stations or watch re-runs of Bonanza on TV Land to re-live her crush on Michael Landon (Little Joe).

Despite her frailty, the sparkle in her eyes gives testament to the spirit of her being. One look into those soulful brown eyes, one affectionate scalp rub, one lilting lullaby is all the comfort I need to assuage me for all the shots in the ass I've taken lately, and for all the ones I've endured on my way to being a grown man. I can't thank her enough for all she's done for me, and somehow telling her "thanks alot, Ma" just doesn't seem to cut it.

Look Who's Getting Older

I am 44 years old today. Some say I don't look that old, and many would admit that I don't act my age either. It probably explains why this blog only has a high school reading level. I can be so juvenile sometimes.




My plan for today is spend it with my parents and family in central NJ. It's our after Thanksgiving tradition since we usually spend turkey day in Rockville Centre with E.'s family. I took some pics of the happy fete. Enjoy!

Beyond The Ken

I love words. I'm good at the English ones. I'm getting better at the Spanish ones. I know a bit of Mandarin, as in "Nǐ hǎo ma" or "hello". I think. I have a friend of mine on the train who is trying to teach me Italian. Every morning when I catch the 6:17AM to Penn Station from Lindenhurst, there she is greeting all of her train friends --including me -- with a cheerful "Buon giorno!" I even know a bit of Thai -- that land where almost everyone's name has a "porn" suffix, as in Phanporn. (Man that always makes me snicker in humor.) But Thailand is one of the most beautiful lands I've ever laid eyes on, so it always gives me great pleasure when I can join my palms, bow, and greet a local with a sawat-dee-kaa (for female) or a sawat-dee-khrab (for males ...this one also makes me snicker because it sounds like "crap" when you hear it).

Lately, though, one word has been tripping me up time and again. It's the word ken. This also happens to be the name of someone for whom I reserve no cheer, which may explain why I keep lacerating my linguistic knees and elbows every time that word comes to mind. But he's not the topic of this post. Still there's the tripping.


So, I dusted myself off bandaged the wound, and went out to get myself a definition. Here's what I found from dictionary.com:


ken /kɛn/ Pronunciation Key - Show Spelled Pronunciation[ken] Pronunciation Key - Show IPA Pronunciation noun, verb, kenned or kent, ken·ning. –noun

1.	knowledge, understanding, or cognizance; mental perception: an idea beyond one's ken.

2.	range of sight or vision.

–verb (used with object)

3.	Chiefly Scot. a. to know, have knowledge of or about, or be acquainted with (a person or thing). b. to understand or perceive (an idea or situation).

4.	Scots Law. to acknowledge as heir; recognize by a judicial act.

5.	Archaic. to see; descry; recognize.

6.	British Dialect Archaic. a. to declare, acknowledge, or confess (something). b. to teach, direct, or guide (someone).

–verb (used without object)

7.	British Dialect. a. to have knowledge of something. b. to understand.

Once I read this, it hit me. There is just so much shit I don't understand about this world. Language aside, there are some concepts that simply escape me. To use ken in a sentence, there are some things in this world, that are beyond my ken.

Religion is one of them. I was once a practicing Catholic, so I think I know a thing or two about faith and believing and living for an afterlife in heaven. Conceptually, I get what Catholicism is all about, but even as a Catholic it never failed to stump me, why so many Catholics get hot and bothered by people who don't believe the same way. Take for example this story in Long Island Newsday in which a local retired fireworks company executive living in Patchogue, NY has made it his business to fight the "secularization" of Christmas. To wit, "We are bringing Christmas back to Long Island," says M. Philip Butler. I ask, aren't there better things to do with one's time in retirement than worry about the fate of a holiday co-opted from the Druids? Like many "downtowns" across the U.S., Patchogue's is hurting, and all this wingnut can think of is how his dear holiday was stolen. Way above my ken.

Consumer debt is another. When I was a kid, my parents were quite "frugal" with household finances. As the parents of seven, hungry growing kids stuffed into three-bedroom Manhattan housing project apartment, I could see now why my mother would tell me, "Oh, it's just a small hole. Keep wearing them," when I showed her how worn the bottom of my Pro-Keds were. They managed quite nicely because they based their purchases on need. Moreover, they did what few people do these days, they prioritized those needs so that a pair of new sneakers didn't keep us from going hungry. Let's face it folks. We are not any richer than our parents were in the 1970s, 1960s or 1950s. In fact, we're probably poorer now when you consider how devalued the dollar has become. What I don't understand is that if we are sooo fucking poor, why do we accept being chastised and negatively "scored" by credit rating agencies for not carrying some kind of debt; as if paying cash for something were some form of scarlet letter. As more and more people default on jumbo mortgages they had no business taking in the first place, and with the holiday, "Christmas" season approaching, it perplexes me how these Visa commercials are still on the air. Is carrying mounds of unaffordable debt just to move quickly through a convenience store the apogee of out existence? I don't get it. I have no ken for this one.

Finally, there's this gem from the sands of Saudi Arabia, where the authorities there jailed and whipped a 19-year old woman for being a rape victim -- you can read about it here. When she and her lawyer complained about the injustice of the charge and sentence, the Saudi courts "upped" the sentence. This woman was gang-raped by seven men, and because she broke some Islamic law about hanging out with men not her brother or husband, she gets tossed into the klink, too. The worst part in all this is our own government's reaction in which they "expressed astonishment" though not directly to the Saudi government. And don't kid yourself into thinking that a Democratic President would react in the same way. Sure, Hillary Clinton talks a good game in debates and on the campaign trail, but if she's elected President, her administration will be sucking at the Saudi oil teat just like every other one has since the 1950s. What perplexes me is not so much the inhumanity and barbarity of the sentence, but the hubris of the Saudi government to defend the actions of their courts. I know it's a "cultural" thing in Saudi Arabia, but so is female genital circumcision in parts of Africa. Calling it a tenet of culture does not make it right. Yet, it persists. This is so beyond the ken for me.

There is so much more in this world that I simply do not understand. Someday, I'll write about them here. For now, I suppose I should just shut the fuck up and listen more to what people are trying to tell me -- at home, at work, or wherever I may find myself . But there's this nagging little thing inside me called a conscience and sometimes it needs to speak up before it gets kenned by subjective insights. Sometimes, I have this need to call it like I see it. Sometimes, I need to say, "Ken, you're full of khrab."

Wǎnshàng hǎo my friends. Buona sera!

Exorcising Demons

We all have bad weeks. I think mine happened last week. It actually started out well. But for reasons I can't discuss, it almost turned into a situation where I could be looking for new employment. Honestly, I should have just told them to Take This Job and Shove It --



But I really need the money.

So what do I do? Seek out the company of friends and a few nice frosties to quench my thirst for alcohol, that's what. Tracy, Josh, Fabulous Frank, Ivonee and Amrita were all waiting for me wondering if I would show up. A few beers, a few laughs, some jalepeno poppers and a few tokes from the one hit should be more than enough anger management. But I was not quite done exorcising the demons from my being.

Flash forward to Saturday evening. After having spent much of the day catching up on work I didn't get done because of the three days I missed in training class, I was about to settle down and read up on all the blogs I've neglected, and watch the NY Rangers take on the Pittsburgh Penguins. But no. I had to deal with the drama of The Eldest's misplaced pocketbook. We literally turned the house over looking for the knock-off Louis Vuitton which contained The Eldest's mobile phone and school ID. All the while I was shouting expletive deleteds with every other word, not realizing the cathartic effect it was having on me. I became a clean-freak zealot, raising couches and hell, putting our vacuum cleaner to such great use, I thought I'd burn out the motor. In looking for her purse, I discovered that our house was really disgusting.

Part of my rant included sending the kids to their rooms to clean up their messes. The Eldest went to hers and did what she was famous for -- tossing everything under her bed hoping no one would notice. By then E. had left the house to hand with some friends at a knock-off pocket book party. A few moments later, E. called to send The Eldest over. Apparently, E. and her girlfriends all felt sorry for The Eldest's "loss" and wanted to engage in some mother-daughter bonding. Pobrecita! Meanwhile, I'm turning over the entire house still looking for her "loss".

Well, I found the purse. It was buried behind her bed under all the crap she had thrown in there. I was so amazed and pissed at the pile I pulled out. I took a picture.

The first words out of my mouth after I told her that I found her purse was "You're grounded for a fucking week!" I'm not quite sure what exactly that means to a young girl with more communication outlets than CNN, but it felt good saying it. The exorcism continued. The bad karma oozed out of me like the goo from a popped zit. It was putrid.

It's now this afternoon. After having played an exhausting game of touch football in the morning. I figured I sit home, relax, crack open the laptop, catch up on my blog reading, and watch the NY Giants take on the Detroit Lions. That's when I got a call from Joe.

Joe: Yo! I want to get together at Naumowicz's house for jam. You up for it?

Me: Sure. Let me talk to E. and see what's going on here.

A few moments later.

Me: Yo! I'm in. I'll see you at 2:30. I'm bringing (The Eldest) to sing with us.

Joe: Cool. But then we can't smoke the....

Me: Don't sweat it bro. You can go a day without it, can't you?

Joe: Alright man. I'll see you later.

The afternoon turned out to be the thing I needed to finally expel the demons from the past week. I needed to do something creative and fun and I was glad that I dragged The Eldest out to see how music is made outside of the school and chorale setting. Here's a video of an original song called "Falling" written by Joe. Can you guess who's with him in this cut?



My apologies for the blurriness and sound quality. The Eldest took this video with our Sony Cyber-Shot. I'm also including a shot of Joe going solo singing Don McLean's "Vincent"



Here's to hoping this week was better than the last.

So...I Took A Few Days Off

What of it?

It's been a long week. I've been away for a work-related training class and because of my return flight was nearly three hours late from "ground delays" at JFK International, I did not get back to the beautiful, bucolic Lindenhurst, NY until sometime after midnight. (I was expecting to be home by 9pm. Do the math.)

Anyway, long story short, I'm tired. But before the head that's thinking these lame-ass words hits the pillow for the night, I thought I'd drop a musical gift for my pal FranIAm on the occasion of her 50th birthday. (I think she's lying about her age though. She doesn't look a day over 35 to me.)

Dave "Mahoney" Mullen and Butta at the Triad, October 10, 2007, performing two numbers from is new CD, Mahoney's Way.

Like Rashaan



Flip It

Call a Doctor! I've Been Memed!

The great Mathman has gone viral on me, infecting me with his meme, which he got from FranIAm, who got it from her blogfriend, Diane, who herself was memed by Wyldth1ng. Man, I feel so dirty. Maybe we need blog condoms or something, because I feel like I just caught The Clap.

But I could never refuse a good challenge, so here goes:

1. I hate tourists in NYC, especially the ones that walk around Times Square. For two years, I worked at the Marriott Marquis Hotel right, smack, dab in the middle of the crossroads of the world and it never amazed me to see tourists walking five across on the sidewalk craning their necks at all the tall buildings. When you've got ten minutes to get catch a train at a station that's ten blocks away, the last thing you need is a wall of fat-assed out-of-towners blocking your way.

2. I was a terror as a young kid. Although I will elaborate on this random fact in a future post, once in kindergarten, I hit my teacher in the back of the head with a sneaker because she forced me to take a nap when I didn't want to. While the PF Flyer found it's mark on the back of her head, eventually, my father's shoe found my skinny little ass when he found out. That didn't stop me from getting uppity with Mrs. Carroll, though.

3. I once had a class picture taken of me with a snot in my nose. Another potentially bloggable item. I never lived this one down at home or at school. My mother still has the picture. One day, I'll get it and scan because I really have no shame anymore.

4. I lost my virginity at the ripe old age of 19. I'm not sure if was really a late bloomer or simply unlucky in sex, but I definitely made up for the lost time.

5. I sold sweaters in college for one semester. Lots of them. Some people say I missed my calling as a salesman because I was good at it. Then again, when your entire market is virtually made up of hot, young women looking for a bargain (Macy's was selling my sweaters for 400% more than I was), selling them really wasn't that hard. Hmmm. Hard. That's precisely the state of arousal I'm in now just thinking about those days.


6. I prefer to sit next to women when I commute to work. They're thinner and generally smell nicer than the men on the train. Anyone who rides the LIRR knows that the seats on the new M-1 trains are cramped and uncomfortable, especially when two middle-aged fat-asses try to sit together. Ask anyone who rides with me what my favorite phrase is -- sit where you fit.


7. I shook hands with Colin Powell in 1995, and I have a picture to prove it. Please no comments on the hairdo. I was growing it after....

8. Getting a crew cut the week before the Oklahoma City bombing. People at work said I looked so much like the then-suspect, Timothy McVeigh, that my nickname that year was "bomb boy".

9. I freak out when thunderstorms approach. In fact, anytime extreme, inclement weather is predicted for the NY area, I get absolutely fucking giddy. Snowstorms, hurricanes, Nor'easters, you name it and I want to be out in it driving my 1999 Jeep Grand Cherokee -- which I drive less and less now that gas is nearing $3.20 a gallon by me.

10. One of my wife's best friends, in a drunken stupor, tried to make out with me on my wedding day! I kid you not.

So, because this is a viral exercise, I now meme CDP, Cunning Runt, and Kelso. Have at folks. Ten random things about you.....

Why Cheer When You Can Play?

Nothing sets the Girl off like telling her that cheerleading is not a sport.

It's not.

We've been having this on-and-off again feud for the last few years. We'd state our thesis, offer rebuttals, then toss out the questions. I like to think that I am training a future jurist or simply teaching a young woman to stand her ground. But she's only 15 after all, and if you've ever tried debating a 15-year old, it always goes swimmingly well until something -- some statement -- causes it to end with a yell for "MOMMY!!!!!!" I'll get to why later....

Right now, I want to marvel at the fine argument The Girl has constructed for why cheerleading is a sport. Her position is anchored by the fact that cheerleaders compete. Agreed. If you've ever had the pleasure (or misfortune) of sitting through one of these events, you'll know the competition is as fierce as any sports contest; the routines are as choreographed as any Broadway show; the training and physical skill needed to compete even at the high school level is incredible. There's no doubt that cheerleaders are athletes. But cheerleading is not a sport.



My counter is that it's more like a form of competitive dance, in the way that figure skating and gymnastics are. Yes, I know that the last two examples are Olympic "competitions", but unlike a sport, in cheerleading one is judged on aesthetic qualities and not one's ability to race against a clock or juke a defender out of his or her Chucks on the way to an easy hoop. Cheerleading is not a head-to-head competition in the way that "sports" like football, basketball, and hockey are....



My friend and former co-worker Tracy said it best. She is a former Division 1A college cager (that's a basketball player) who knows a thing or two about sports. A few years ago, when I mentioned to her that the Girl was interested in cheerleading and wanted to try out for the high school squad, she shot back, "Why Cheer When You can Play?"

My sentiments exactly. In fact, it's the statement I use to inflame the Girl to the "MOMMY!" point whenever I feel I need to end the debate. Who says we can't learn something from neo-cons?

To all you Ariannas and Craigs out there, I say this: if you want cheerleading to be a sport, allow an opponent to make funny faces at you while performing your routine; allow your opponent to hit you with a tumbling body check while performing your stunts; allow the other team to hold their ears and yell "LA LA LA LA LA...I'M NOT LISTENING!!!!" while you vocalize your school spirit. Then, and only then, will I consider cheerleading a sport. Until then, shut up, lace 'em on, hit the hardwood or the turf, and play. That's what I did, and look how far it got me.

Yet Another Shameless Post for My Jazz Man Brother in Law

Oh, things I won't do for family. Listen, if you're in town and in a mood for good jazz, stop by and check out Dave's show this Thursday. Hope to see you all there.



Roberts Music Group invites you to a special event for jazz recording artist
DAVE MULLEN and BUTTA
CD entitled “MAHONEY’S WAY”

Thursday November 8, 2007 @CUTTING ROOM (212) 691-1900 19 West 24th Street (between Broadway/6th Ave) New York City Show starts at 10PM $10 Cover

With:
Dave Mullen- Tenor and soprano saxophones
Anthony Robustelli- Keys
Don Martin- Bass
Greg Gonzales- Drums
Ronnie Roc- Percussion
Eric J- Turntables and Rhymes
Lisala Beatty- Lead vocals
Gregory K. Lathan-Vocals
Kira Smith- Vocals
Wendell Jordan- Vocals
Leslee Warren- Vocals
with Special Guests


www.davemullen.com
www.myspace.com/davemullenandbutta


"David Mullen on tenor and soprano saxes comes equally from the David Sanborn and Gato Barbieri schools of phrasing and rhythmic pulse, and he has a melodic sensibility on a par with Stan Getz as a young musician."
-Thom Jurek All Music Guide (AMG)

...."He's paid attention to a wide swath of records from the sax greats, learned the lessons without regurgitating them. A sparkling debut that's well worth your attention."
-Chris Spector Midwest record

"Mahoney's Way" is an exception, for what I've had to get used to. A wonderful project that includes most titles written by Mullen and an excellent re-make of Stevie Wonder's "As". Some of the titles I prefer are the up tempo "Flip It", "Chase Away Rain" and I love the "Like Rashaan" and it's apparent that Dave has been influence by some of the best. A great CD that could change the direction of modern jazz."
-WorldSpace Corporation Satellite Radio

All Those Years Ago

This post is coming to you late on evening of November 4, 2007, but it's been a long time coming. On this date in 1990, E. and I were married. It was a day not unlike today in the New York area, although I recall it being warmer. It was Marathon Sunday and the New York Giants football team was off (they had the Monday night game that year), so, I had no excuse for not showing up at the church. Anyway, how could any man get cold feel with a bride as stunningly beautiful as this?




















It's 17 years later and we're still kicking it together. Though this date certainly wasn't as exciting as it was in 1990, we always seem to make the best of what the day gives us. Instead of the wild party on our wedding day that featured a kick ass band playing everything we asked for including "Love Shack" (I take full responsibility for making that B-52s song a wedding staple), we took care of a long list of chores and errands, listening to the music our kids enjoy.

Instead of hanging out in bed on Sunday mornings figuring out how we'll spend our day, we're drawing straws to see who gets up first to feed the dog, shower, dress, and pick up the bagels and the Sunday paper. We're trying to get our daughter to dance, 13 out of bed, and the little one to put some clothes on.

We don't live in an apartment apartment in Mineola, NY that featured the rumble and whistle of the diesels locomotives going to and coming from Oyster Bay, we live in a house with a nice sized back yard where we could still hear diesel locomotives go by on the Babylon Branch.

Clearly, many things have changed for me and E. But we still love each other and that's what counts.

Our wedding song:



The portrait in this post was painted by the artist Margaret Clark in 1991. I gave it to E. on our first wedding anniversary.