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?