Date Night - Adult Films

Skippy and I took in a movie last Saturday night. It had been a while since we had gone out together where we weren't meeting up with anyone else.

There was no occasion tied to our "date", unless you call the generosity of her co-workers an occasion. Skippy works in one of the local public elementary schools here in Lindenhurst where she works as an administrative assistant. The job doesn't pay much and can be pretty thankless at times, but she loves it. And judging by the gratitude she gets from her co-workers, it shows. They gave her a few Visa gift cards and an assortment of other gifts for all her efforts during the last school year. So what does she do? She takes me to the movies. Man, I love this woman!

"Anything you want to see," she asks, hoping I would totally cave and agree to see Sex and The City. I could have gone for The Hulk, but something about seeing a big green behemoth blow shit up didn't appeal to either of us that night. So, we decided on something very adult and cerebral.

We took in The Visitor.

Now it's quite rare to have an independent film make it to a silver screen out at the Stadium 10 Theatre in Farmingdale (Long Island), NY. This place normally shows nothing but blockbuster, action-packed, shoot- stab-and-ask-questions-later thrillers. It must be a slow season in Hollywood because here was this honest-to-goodness art house film in a theatre that didn't require a ride on the LIRR into Manhattan to enjoy. Imagine that. A good movie where nobody dies or takes off their clothes...okay, scratch the take off their clothes part...we like those movies every now and then.

This was fascinating but depressing film about a college professor who unwittingly finds his Manhattan apartment occupied by illegal immigrants from Syria and a Senegal. Rather than toss them out on their asses, he offers to let them stay until they can find a new apartment. Walter Vale's decision would change his life forever.

Our decision to take in this "adult" film? Not so much.

But there we were sitting in a fairly crowded theatre of 70-somethings, wondering what we were in for. How's that for an adult film? We had to be the youngest couple in the house.

We sat way up in the back near the projection room in a dark corner of the theatre. After we settled in, I lifted the arm rest between us so we can sit close together. We shared a huge bottle of water, Milk Duds and Nestle Crunch Bites. When the movie got under way, Skippy leaned in and gave me a kiss on my cheek, resting her head on my shoulder.

Then she starts to chuckle. By the placement of her hand on my thigh, I'm thinking that she's up for some risque, public display of affection.

Skippy: Sorry sweetie. Not here. Why waste the $23.50, when we could have just stayed in the car and done that for free?

Me: So, what's so funny?

Skippy: (Snickering), I feel like we're on a senior assisted living field trip.

Me: You're so childish sometimes.

Zeb and The Boys

He's a high-schooler now.

Last Thursday, Zeb and his running buddies graduated from Lindenhurst Middle School where they were the BMOCs. Next year, they'll be the little shits terrorized by the Class of 2009. My how their worlds will change.

Zeb and his friends are game. After all, the kids have been friends since kindergarten. They'll stick together. They'll stick up for each other. Oh sure, they'll make new friends along the way. These handsome devils may even find themselves a girlfriend, or two..or three. But I get the sense that they'll never be so occupied that they can't get together for a pick up baseball game or for placing a prank call to a science teacher. (Yes, Zeb really did do this recently.)

There are about 10 or 12 kids in this posse. They call each other by their last names, even though none of them shares a first name. You figure that with names like Van Floerke, Sanchez, Zuppel, and DeRosa, they would stick with their given names. Not so.

"Zeb, why do you guys call each other by your last names?" I ask him one day in passing.

" I dunno." And he skulked off back to whatever it was he was doing.

I'm jealous of Zeb for the friends he has. I had friends like that, too, when I was his age. But I had to leave behind my running buddies in Jacob Riis Houses, when my parents moved us to Richmond Hill, Queens. I hated it. I got into six fights in one weekend because the new kids I met weren't like my old pals. I was homesick, and once you move out of an old neighborhood, you're dead to your old friends. That's just how it is.

But my jealousy lives and dies in those memories from 30 years ago. I look my son now and marvel at how much of a young man he's become and how loyal he is to his pals. I'm fascinated, too, at how unglued they are from their X-Boxes and PlayStations, instead opting to be outdoors riding bikes, skateboarding, or playing baseball. Several of them have developed an interest in a musical instrument, and want to form a band. I can't wait to drive Skippy crazy when I let them jam in our basement.

Congratulations Zeb. Welcome to high school.

This One's For You....

My blog. My rules.

Served here for your listening pleasure is a really good cover to one of my all time fave Kinks songs. It's my way of saying thanks and namaste to everyone who left comments and wrote me e-mails to tell me that things will get better.

Here's to better things.....

There Goes My Hero

I've been ridden with bouts of anxiety and depression for the last few months. They come. They go. Intense feelings of happy and sad that are triggered by the slightest of stimuli.

That's right. Things aren't so happy in Spartacus-land. It's been this way for quite some time.

I won't go into the whys and hows of what brings me up and slams me down. Let's just say that it's my fault. I dug myself into this hole and all my attempts to climb have been as futile as impeaching George Bush. It's like being tied fast to a chair and forced to watch an endless loop of Danity Kane videos.

I don't normally write about these things...check that...I don't normally write about these things here. I've kept a personal journal for the last 23 years, which is where I do most of my unfiltered brain dumping.

In this medium, I try to tell personal stories that I hope have some relevance with my handful of readers. While I get worked up about issue and events and allow my emotions to seep through my fingertips out to the blogosphere, I am not comfortable with simply revealing my moods in public forums for the whole world to read. I have plenty of friends who will attest to my offline rants and whines, but that's about as far as I like take it.

Yet, here I am, writing about being depressed.

This story comes with a twist. No...check that...more like a yank at my collar.

As I sat at the dining room table Wednesday night after dinner, staring blankly at newspaper, processing all manner of irrational thought, Rick stopped by to talk. He had come up from the basement a few moments after the screaming match between me and Skippy subsided. She had reached the breaking point with my un-checked morbidity, and after unloading on me about how my moods affect everyone in the house, she stalked off to our bedroom.

Enter Rick.

Rick: Dad, what's wrong?

Me: I'm not feeling too well right now. Please leave me be.

Rick: Are you sick?

Me: Yeah...you can say that.

Rick: Well, you don't really look sick. You look depressed.

Me: Yeah...you're right again, Rick. That exactly what I am.

He walked over to where I was sitting and put his arms around me leaning his head on my shoulder. I drew him close to me to acknowledge the gesture. He was trying to cheer me up.

He spoke again.

Rick: Dad, I love you.

Me: I love you, too, Rick.

Rick: No, Dad. I love and I'll do anything I can to make you feel better. Just let me know. Okay?

It didn't take long for me to lose it. The tears were already welling in my eyes as the last syllables escaped his lips. A few simple words were all it took to get me crying on my son's shoulder, unleashing years angst and agony.

I must have held onto his bony, 70-pound frame for what seemed like an eternity, though it was only for a few minutes. I could feel the strength emanating from him pass into me, revealing the redemptive and healing power of his love.

I released him from my embrace, holding his chin in my hand. I leaned in, kissed his cheek and told him, "Thanks Rick. You already have done something."

I am fortunate and blessed to have such a son as Rickdiculus.

Thanks for laying one down little buddy. You will always be my champion. My hero.

Not Too Important

I'm going to try and keep this short for you and let this MSNBC video speak for itself. Clearly, here's a man who is so out of touch with the electorate that it would astound me if he won in November.

Naturally, Sen. McCain's spin machine clarified his comment on the Today show with this statement:

"Sen. McCain has consistently opposed a timeline for withdrawing our troops from Iraq. And our friends on the opposite side of the aisle have a long history of attempting to twist Sen. McCain's words on Iraq. The fact that Sen. McCain opposes a timeline for withdrawal and is principally concerned about the safety of American troops and the security of Iraq is pretty much "dog bites man."

Sure he is. But let's not forget that this was the same man who blithely quipped that he would keep our troops in Iraq for a thousand years and ten later stated that in a speech that our troops would be out of Iraq in 2013 after we achieve victory in Iraq.

But I thought we did that in May 2003 when it was Mission Accomplished?

Skippy's mom (the wife formerly known as E.) had a great way to express her exasperation. "Whatevah!" (translation from Lawnguylandese to English: Whatever!)

My sentiments exactly. It's stupid comments like this that got George Bush elected twice. I wonder if McCain deliberately makes these statements because they are stupid and are purposely garnering the pity vote. I can't tell you how many times I've heard people call in my neck of the woods call Democrats "elitist bastards" because they dared to opine intelligently on an important issue. Is there some kind of mass inferiority complex at work here?

It bears watching the polls the next few months because time will tell if this is indeed McCain's campaign strategy; if in fact, he's playing the idiot card.

Hey, why not?

It's a age old schtick that's worked well in everything from literature to television:



But politics is not like that is it? Is it?

Memes For All

Try this out when you get the chance. I'm not tagging anyone in particular with this. It's open to all.

The concept:
a. Type your answer to each of the questions below into Flickr Search.
b. Using only the first page, pick an image.
c. Copy and paste each of the URLs for the images into fd's mosaic maker.

The Questions:

1. What is your first name? Johnny
2. What is your favorite food? Sausage and Pepper hero
3. What high school did you go to? Aviation
4. What is your favorite color? Blue
5. Who is your celebrity crush? Laura Linney
6. Favorite drink? Blue Point Toasted Lager
7. Dream vacation? Cross-country road trip
8. Favorite dessert? My wife's crumb cake
9. What you want to be when you grow up? A rock star
10. What do you love most in life? My guitar
11. One Word to describe you. Trapped
12. Your Flickr name. Spartacus63

1. Johnny, 2. Sausage & Pepper hero, 3. Aviation, 4. Blue, 5. Laura Linney, 6. Blue Point Toasted Lager, 7. Cross-country Road Trip, 8. My Wife's Crumb Cake, 9. Rock Star, 10. My Guitar, 11. Trapped, 12. Spartacus63

(h/t to Alecto for this meme. This was fun.)

All Aboard the 6:17: From Joba to Obama

Yesterday morning on my commute in to work, this guy gets on the train at Amityville and starts ranting about the New York Yankees pitcher, Joba Chamberlain. He's no stranger to me. I see him everyday and he usually talks sports with his riding buddy from Babylon. But for this ride, he put his vitriol in high gear and opened up loudly over the fact that the Yankees manager, Joe Girardi, pulled Joba from his first major league start after only 2 and a third innings. "How could he do that?" asked our intrepid man from Amityville. "He gave up two runs and only threw 62 pitches."

If you live in New York and follow sports, it's very difficult to avoid the Joba Chamberlain saga. Let me spare you the gory details -- he came to the Yankees in August 2007 with lots of high-praise and promise. He broke in as a reliever and was promoted to a starter. His claim to fame in the pros is being on the mound in Cleveland during Game 2 of last October's American League Division when he was attacked by a swarm if bugs called midges . Big deal, right?

What struck me about the whole scene was not the content of his discussion, but visceral disgust in his voice over what transpired. This guy was livid, blathering on to the guy from Babylon with phrases like:

"I can't believe this."

"This is outrageous."

"How could Girardi do that to him."

This went on for a good 15 minutes, within which he managed to work in a smattering of "In the old days, pitchers would throw doubleheaders..." statements, as if there was some lesson to be drawn from this nostalga.

Okay, dude, we get it.

What I wanted to know then and now is why all the hulabaloo? What vested interest does this guy have in the New York Yankees that compels him to tell everyone and his mother about his disgust with Joba being pulled from the game?

I never asked him these questions, but yet, there I was expecting the answer to reveal itself. From the volume of his voice, the only logical reason I can deduce from his tirade was that he is passionate about his team. I guess that's why we call them fans.

But the question I wanted to ask him, but didn't was, who gives a flying fuck?

He was reading the newspaper you see to the left, which, like the other printed rags in New York and around the country rightfully blared on its front page the news of Obama's historic victory as the Democratic Party's presidential nominee. I wondered why he didn't flip to the front cover of his copy of The News and talk about that. Given what's at stake in this election, you would think that the Obama-McCain match up is much more important than the fate of a rookie pitcher.

Boy was I wrong.

It dawned on me at that this is yet another example of how little politics is discussed in public circles. Yeah. We go at it here in blogosphere, and the discussion generated by our QWERTY keyboards is quite lively. But raise the point on the train or in some other public setting and you are likely to be branded a social pariah, a trouble maker, or a rabble rouser.

Don't get me wrong here. I couldn't tell this guy apart from Adam, if not for his rant on Joba. For all I know, he could be the nicest, kindest and most politically-active Obama supporter in the world. You wouldn't know it from the way he was dressed. He had a green polo shirt with a PGA Tournament emblem, complimented by a pair of tan khakis and soft leather uppers with the Dockers® logo. But given the fact that my wardrobe choice that morning was not that far off from his, it's a fathomable possibility.

Like me, he appears to be a person who is gainfully employed in a corporate job, a homeowner, husband, and father to great kids. He's probably someone who is feeling the pinch of the rising costs of goods and services, including $4.15 we pay for regular unleaded gasoline in Suffolk County.

You would think that he would rather discuss Obama (or McCain) because we're sinking in the same boat; that he would want to turn over his newspaper and smile (or rant) at the man pictured on the front page because finally, a viable candidate has emerged who is committed to taking on and reversing the destructive policies of current sitting administration. Finally, we have someone who speaks for those of us who are not in the top 1% (or even 20%) of income or accumulated wealth. Finally.

In my mind, I'm screaming, "SAY SOMETHING ABOUT OBAMA!"

But not my man from Amityville. Yesterday, it was all about Joba. With his newspaper open, he slapped at the picture of Joe Girardi, lamenting the fact that the Yankees let Joe Torre go. "I'm so disgusted," I heard him say. That's when I checked out.

But just as I was about to bury my head back into the CISSP study guide I was reading, I heard his buddy from Babylon ask him about how Hideki Matsui did that night.

Amityville: He went two-for-four with an RBI.

Babylon: Awesome. I have him on my fantasy team.

And there you have it. These two guys talk about sports non-stop because it's a concept that they can wrap their heads around. I'm not saying that these guys are dumb, but when you contrast the sports of politics and baseball, the differences are quite stark.

Politics is a sport that has real consequences to you and me. The rules are, at best, difficult to understand, and more often than not they engender a sense of hopelessness because for lots of people, like my man from Amityville, don't have the time and or the energy to make the leap between an issue like the Iraqi occupation and their personal lives. It's too much work.

Baseball is different. The rules are well-defined and there is always a definitive outcome with little or no personal ramification. It's easy to get mad or happily giddy about what's happening on the field of play because it's just play. Once the game is over you either head back home or turn off your television, momentarily happy or sad over the outcome. There are no long-term effects once the game is over.

As I was walking off the train at Penn Station, I happened to catch this Non-Sequitur cartoon in the newspaper left behind by the guy from Babylon, which sums up my man from Amityville's political apathy.












David Wiley Miller, you are a genius.

Now this is a REAL Pisser

A friend here at work sent me this video from Reuters. Do you think it'll make a big splash at your local watering hole?

Life's a Beach...

...when you're 16.

The Eldest is on the right. Her BFF is on the left. What they're staring it at is anyone's guess. Boys perhaps? Maybe other girls? Who knows.

What I do know is that The Eldest won't be having too many of these moments with her BFF this summer now that she got her first job.

She'll making minimum wage ($7.15) working the rides and concessions at Adventureland Amusement Park in Farmingdale. (Great website, eh?) I know it's not a whole lot of money, but when you're 16, $100 a week after tax is pretty damn good.

So, enjoy these days at the beach while you got them my baby girl. Or figure out what you'll tell the boss when you show up to work with a sunburn after calling in sick the day before.