Baby You Can Drive My Car?

I come out of hiding to bring some scary news...

Noodle is a licensed driver....

July 2, 2009 will be momentous occasion for her. A major milestone on her journey to adulthood and individual freedom... (queue the patriotic music)

Much like the Founding Fathers 233 years earlier, she placed a signature on a document that declared independence from a benevolent and sometimes evil despot.

That would be me....

I know it's a stretch see it this way, but Noodle is now free to drive my Jeep whenever she needs it for work, school, and other times when I'm three sheets to the wind on the couch and the keys fall out of my pocket.

Even before she became a licensed driver, she had already made the pronouncement that my Jeep would be the vehicle to take her and her friends on a road trip to Toronto or Montreal. (Yes, she really is that nerdy.) She's made numerous claims expressing certain inalienable rights. Of course, Skippy and I had to remind her in whose house she resides and whose vehicles she drives.

Does all this sound familiar? History has a funny way of repeating itself, no?

Well, there will be no wars of Independence in the Spartacus household. No battles over when and where she can drive the Jeep. But like the Declaration of Independence and the subsequent United States Constitution, there will be checks and balances to this freedom. Noodle will be bound to the same contractual obligations Skippy and I do to vehicular ownership:

1. You have the right to keep the car filled with fuel.
2. You have the right to get the engine oil, transmission fluid changed and the radiator flushed.
3. You have the right to rotate the tires with each oil change and fix your own flats using one of those cheap hand-pumped jacks the car manufacturer's give you.
4. You have the right to pay for your own tolls and for your own traffic violations.
5. You have the right to wash and wax the car. (h/t okjimm)
   

I'm sure there are many more rights I can come up with, and if you, dear readers, can think of any more, please feel free to share them in comments. So yes, baby, you can drive my car.....




Thank you once again for indulging my infrequent blog posts. I promise not to be such a stranger.

Happy Independence Day everyone.

Talkin' 'bout My Girl

Again, I know I said I've taken a break from blogging. I believe I also said I would chime in with a post from time to time. Well let's consider this a chime, okay?

Last week, my Noodle (and Skippy's, too) participated in her school's Spring Vocal Concert. The students were magnificent. But what made this concert extra special (and not short-bus special... beep beep) was that my our Noodle got to choreograph and perform an Irish Step dance to "The Voice" by the Celtic Women. I We are biased, Skippy and me. We thought she was awesome. We saw firsthand how hard she worked to make this a great performance, and it showed.

Way to go, Nood!

My apologies for the amateurish video quality. I used Ricky D's camera. I should have taken his tri-pod, too.



Okay good people. It's back to blogging hibernation for me.

What She Said...

I know. I said I was taking a break from blogging. Officially, I still am.

But I could resist the opportunity to write about yet another blogger meet up I had last Saturday. That evening, Skippy and I ventured into New York City to meet Alecto and her pal, Florkow for dinner and a comedy show at Joe's Pub down in NYC's East Village.

It isn't often that I get a chance to pose for a photo with three beautiful women, let alone meet fellow bloggers face-to-face. So when these opportunities arise, I jump at them.

I've met several in the past few years -- among them are Distributorcap, Morse, Pissed in NYC, and Divajoood. And there are a few more I know that I'll get around to meeting someday -- New Jersey is not that big a state Mauigirl!

I also know the lovely and talented Blondesense Liz, with whom I formed that soon-to-be-open-mike-night sensation, Los Pablos.

And now, I can say I met Alecto.

Skippy and I found her and Florkow to be delightful and charming company, and, an incredibly funny, if not unintentional, warm up act for Hazelle Goodman.

Man these ladies have some good stories to tell. Oh, those crazy women from Connecticut!

Okay, good people, it's back to my fortress.

Move along now. Nothing to see here.

While My Family Celebrated Easter Mass...

I stayed home and tried to write a post to Blog Against Theocracy.

I had all sorts of ideas lined up to try and compare the U.S. Constitution to the Christian bible, and republican government to religious rule. I'm not sure how many words I typed and the hours I wasted on this project, but no matter what I wrote, it all seemed to fall flat on its face.

I figured that most of my readers know the difference between the texts -- the Constitution is a flexible document that defines both the rights of individuals and the limits of governmental authority. The Bible is a book that lays out the rules handed down by an omnipotent being, wrapped in tales and parables attesting to both its benevolence and wrath.

Ultimately, what it comes down to is choice.

You may choose to be a part of those who want to subvert the Constitution by having us all submit to an invisible higher authority; the rules of which will be enforced by the most pious among them as chosen by their omnipotent one.

In this paradigm, there is no arguing the perfection of divine rule. The omnipotent one knows best. You don't need to see him, you just need to place your faith is his existence, and abide by the rules. "Trust me," he says, "or I will fucking smite you."

Check out this website and you'll know what I mean.

The Society for the Practical Establishment and Perpetuation of the Ten Commandments

Or, you may choose to join groups that help ensure the preservation of those rights, privileges and freedoms (including the freedom to worship the deity or deities of your choosing) written into the very imperfect Constitution of the United States of America. The intent of the framers is very clear about its imperfection and its inherent modesty is something to be admired. This is why we have an Article specifically outlining the revision process and amendments that prove the process works.

People like Barry Lynn of the Americans United for Separation of Church and State do a great job of protecting those constitutional freedoms. So does the American Civil Liberties Union. But, ultimately, none of this would really be possible were it not for those who've made the supreme sacrifice. If you have time, take a moment to honor a veteran. The Iraq and Afghanistan Veterans of America is a great place to start.

*********

On a personal note, I want to say thanks to Tengrain and Blue Gal for including me in this blog swarm. I know I'm a little late to game with this post. When am I never? You honor me with your invitation.

I also want to say thanks to all those who have stopped by to read this blog. I have decided to take an indefinite hiatus from writing on My Saturday Evening Post . Between playing music and just wanting to give my brain a well-deserved breather, I just feel the need to take a long break.

Again, thanks everyone.

St. Patrick's Day

Today is St. Patrick's Get Stupid Drunk Day.

I call it so because this date has long been used by chronic, serial binge drinkers as an excuse to consume such excessive amounts of booze as to qualify themselves as human distilleries. They ride the train with me at night causing all kinds of mayhem in their drunken states. They're loud. They start fights. Some even puke when they can't hold their liquor. And don't get me started about what happens after the train ride. Many of these morons drive home. Enough said.

In all fairness, I don't mean to paint all St. Patricks's Day celebrants with the same brush. There are many Irish and people of Irish descent who see this day as an opportunity to acknowledge and educate others about their wonderful culture. I love the Irish. I do. And I see no problem in washing down a corned beef and cabbage dinner with a pint or two. In fact, I may have one myself tonight when I get home.

I must also disclose that as an American of Puerto Rican descent, we are not immune to the stupidity of drunken celebration. I lose it when I see my fellow boricuas become borrachines during the Puerto Rican Day parades, usually held here in May. But whether you're speaking of Puerto Ricans or Irish, drinking heavily mocks the cultural significance of the day and reinforces hurtful stereotypes.


Typically, the St. Patrick's Day imbibers I've had run ins with on the train are white, wealthy suburbanites who skew politically towards conservative Republican positions. I'm making generalizations, I know. But this assertion comes from years of empirical observation. It's also fair to ask me how I know this. Look, these are my neighbors. I know them. They talk. I listen. I seethe silently. I see no point in debating them on moral or political issues. They're faithful.

They'll tell you they support denying Irish gay men and women the right to identify themselves as such at the annual parades. "Why draw attention to yourself that way?" they argue. Drawing attention to oneself is not the Irish way, after all, especially when it runs afoul of the moral sensibilities of the diocesan Cardinal who blesses participants as they pass St. Patrick's Catherdral on 5th Avenue. Yet, I've witnessed many of these same folks publicly dive into such depths of sloth, debauchery, and immorality that would make even the most sinful of Popes blush.

I digress. There was a time when this was a cheerful day for me. Despite this date being my niece Megan's birthday, it also holds sad memories. It was on this date in 1984 that my sister lost her infant son to crib death. I know I ought not care about the drunken morons; the packs of whom I'll wade through as I make my way to my train out of Pennsylvania Station. I have more pressing and immediate concerns.

But my point in writing this rant is to ask a favor. Please celebrate wisely and show some respect for the rich Irish culture. Go ahead and raise your pints of Guiness Stout or Jamesons on the rocks and be proud if you are of Irish descent and revel in their joy if you are not.

Please save a slice of Irish soda bread for me and, by all means, don't be this person.

Slán agus beannacht leat

Photo credit: Gary Holtzman

Begging Your Pardon

I just want everyone to know that I am alive and well.

For the last week and a half, my time has not been my own.

Between work and home, I've pretty much running myself ragged. So, sadly, blogging and commenting has been knocked down on my priority list.

Please bear with me. Though it may be awhile longer before I get around to commenting on your sites, know that I do enjoy reading what you post.

In the meantime, please take the time to peruse through my blogroll and check out those bloggers who work just as hard as I do, but have not slacked off on their blogging.

Until then, I leave you with the words of the (in)famous (asshat) General Douglas MacArthur:




You have my word. I shall.

And You Thought...

... the cartoon in The New York Post was bad.

Check this out....



This is old news. I know. But when is crap like this ever going to end? Was the owner of the bakery trying to be funny? Some people need to get over the fact that Barack Obama is the duly elected President of The United States.

Here's the thing. This is not a racial issue, but a free speech issue. The bakery owner has a Constitutional right to express whatever views he has, no matter how vile or repulsive those views may be. So long as they do not incite a crowd to violence, panic, or other forms of mass hysteria, he can say what he wants; after all, you can't yell "fire" in a crowded theater and expect to be protected by the 1st Amendment. However, we must vigorously defend his right to expressing his views because I enjoy the same right to call him out on his bullshit on this blog. .

You can protest his establishment by walking a picket line in front his store. Again, it is your free speech right to do so, as long as you do so on public property and do not disrupt the peace. But this tactic accomplishes nothing but provide his business with free publicity by inviting curiosity.

No. Here's what you can do. Shame him by not buying anything from his shop. Moreover, use your free speech rights to tell others in Greenwich Village, in the New York City area, or anyone you know visiting our great city to not patronize this man's establishment. Do your part to run this idiot out of business and out of town on a rail. Money (or the lack thereof) talks. There are dozens of bakeries in Manhattan, the surrounding boroughs, and even the suburbs who will gladly serve your needs without offending you.

Okay. I'm stepping down from my soapbox. Thanks for listening.

Damn Yankees!

Did I mention I'm on a 12-day business trip to Tampa, Florida?

I am.

Please don't be envious. These subsidiary systems audits in warm, sunny climes have a way of wearing down a fella.

So what's an overworked business traveler to do?

How about have his photo taken with two of the greatest ballplayers to don Yankee pinstripes.

What? No way Spartacus!

Yes. Way! Randal and Jimmy.

Now, I know this is not the type of photo a self-respecting Mets fan would sit for, let alone consider taking. But I became slacked jawed at the sight of Ron Guidry and Yogi Berra walking into the same restaurant where I was having dinner with my colleagues.



I mean seriously... passing on the chance to take that picture is like turning down an opportunity to have your picture with this guy...


Or giving up a point-blank chance to chuck your shoes as this guy...


I'll come clean here. I have been and always will be a die-hard Mets fan.


But in the truly lean Mets seasons of 1976-83:

When the Mets' All-Stars could be counted on the fingers of a man with severed hands;

When fans wished Willie Montañez would someday play firstbase with half the skill and heart of John Milner or Ed Kranepool;

When fans marveled at the majestic heights and distances of Dave Kingman's home runs while the team was being blown out by teams like the San Diego Padres;

When diehard fans held onto the delusional notion that the Tom Seaver trade to the Cincinnati Reds on June 15, 1977 for Pat Zachry, Steve Henderson, Doug Flynn, and Dan Norman would be good for the team...

Phew!


I did what any impressionable and vulnerable 14-year old New York City boy would do... root for the New York team that was winning.

Yes, god damn it. I rooted for the fucking Yankees.

My favorite Yankee then was Ron "Louisana Lightning" Guidry. How could you not root for this lanky lefty with the impossible-to-hit slider? This Cy Young Award winner was a master at painting the black of home plate with his fastballs.

He went 25-3 in 1978, winning #25 over the hated Red Sox in the one-game AL East playoff. Who else would you have sent to the mound?

And let's not forget that the great Lawrence Peter "Yogi" Berra. Not only is he arguably the greatest catcher to play the game; not only did appear in 15 All-Star Games, win the MVP 3 times, and win 10 World Series rings as a player, but was also a coach on the 1969 World Series Champion New York Mets, and took them within a game of winning the 1973 crown over the Oakland A's.

No siree.. It was an honor to have my photo taken with these fine gentlemen. They accepted my request with the courtesy and graciousness seldom seen in the sportsworld today. These guys are all class in my book, even if they are damn Yankees.

Hugh Hefner Needs Cash

Could it be that Hugh Hefner's harem is finally crumbling around him? I think so. Not only are his girls leaving him, but it seems that he's losing cash, too. He'll do anything to rebuild his empire, even solicit hormone-enraged, 14-year old boys to buy a subscription.



I told Zeb to save his money when he saw this.

"Nobody buys Playboy anymore," I told him. "The articles are just not as good as they used to be."

My Man Ricky D

Tonight I had one of those Ricky D moments....

I worked a little late tonight to prepare for my two-week audit trip to Tampa.

Yeah, yeah, Spartacus... Like I'm going to believe that one...

I'll just have to bring my camera and post photographic evidence, won't I?

I digress...

When I walked through the door tonight, this little man was just emerging from his shower in his tighty-whiteys, proud as a fucking peacock to show me the huge raspberry on his shoulder.

Ricky D: Check this out Dad (pointing to his shoulder)! I got it playing football at the youth center.

Me: Really. That looks like it hurts. What happened?

Ricky: I made this amazing catch as I was falling to the ground!

Me: Really? That's awesome.

Ricky: Thanks Dad! You know what the best part is though?

Me: No. What?

Ricky: I didn't cry about it at all. I got up and kept playing.

(Please avert your eyes if you're disinclined to reading mushy parent talk.)

After we talked about his battle scars (he had two more on his knees), he put up his boney arms to show me his muscles. Then he pointed to his abdomen and asked me if I could see the six-pack.

C'mon. Admit it. You took a look at his picture and got a chuckle. It's okay. I did, too. But he was being serious. He was really trying hard to prove to me he's a man, and not a little kid.

I know he's my son and I am biased by my unconditional love for him, but I can't help but root for him. If you met him in person, you would know why. He's always been one of the smallest kids in his class and he is very self-conscious about his small stature. He's easily intimidated and gets bullied sometimes. He has ADHD, so thoughts race in his mind alot faster than his ability to communicate them coherently.

But he has heart. He has that hunger; that indefatigable drive to be good at something.

He's still making movies.



And he plays piano.




And now I know that he's willing to run through his walls and endure the sting of nasty welts to be true to himself and be the man he wants to be.

Comet

If it means you
Having a life
Of smiles and dreams fulfilled

If it means you
Regaining the glow
Of a youth unexplored

If it means you
Walking your world
Of wondrous possibilities

I’ll fly away

I am no star

I am but a comet

Brilliant and momentary
A rare occurrence
In a cosmos infinite

Go on and countenance
The warming rays
Of your nearby suns

I’ll travel on shamed
By my appearance
In your evening sky.

How Shit Works - A Wing and a Principle

I still can't write about politics.

At least not now.

The Republicans are still bitching and moaning about pork even after the Democrats mollified them with a tax cut pacifier. I think I'll wait until the Obama Administration gets around to dealing with the rule of law. According to this post that Blue Gal put up a few days ago, I could be waiting a long time.

While I wait, I thought I'd introduce a new and irregular blog feature that helps me evacuate some of the useless information that clogs my brain.

I call it How Shit Works.

Click off now if you're not into techie stuff. While I consider this post very safe for work, I don't want to kill you with boredom.

Today's topic of conversation is flight. Specifically, what makes fixed-wing* aircraft fly.

* - Wings that are not supposed to move.

First, to answer the smart-asses reading this post, the not-so-subtle secret of flight is in the wings.

Well, duh.

While the first powered-flight did not take place until the Wright brothers did it in 1903 at Kitty Hawk, North Carolina, the principle upon which came fixed-wing flight is based goes back to the year 1725. That's when Daniel Bernoulli, a young-stud, Dutch mathematician, with way too much time on his hands found that as the speed of a fluid increases, the pressure within the fluid decreases.



Break out your calculators and do the math yourself. Here's the equation:


Where is total pressure, is dynamic pressure, and is static pressure. Makes sense, right?

Okay, it will. Follow me on this. Will ya?



There are several ways in which to demonstrate this effect. One way is to move the fluid through an object with a constriction as illustrated on the left. It does not matter if the fluid is in a liquid state or a gaseous one. The effect is still the same.





What's more is that the same principle applies if an object is moved through the fluid, as in a wing through air. The curve on the upper half of a wing forces the air mass passing over it to move faster than the air beneath it, creating a pressure differential that literally sucks up the wing and all objects attached to it.

It should be noted that Bernoulli showed no interest in building a flying machine. The first practical application of his idea was used in measuring blood pressure in humans.

In the intervening years between the time Bernoulli published his principle and the Wright Brothers famous flight, countless people attempted to build flying machines, most of which were based on the way birds fly.

That's not to say that there were no important advances in flight in those prevailing years. Beginning in 1809, Sir George Cayley of Brompton, England, a wealthy landowner and inventor published three detailed papers explaining how it was folly for humans to try and fly like birds. He opined that in order for a heavier-than-air craft to achieve flight, the thrust and lift mechanisms need to be separate, and that the wings on the aircraft need to be in a fixed position.

This was a huge leap forward, but the idea never really took off until a German engineer named Otto Lilienthal developed a table of lift by curved wings in 1891. He borrowed heavily from Sir Cayley's ideas while experimenting with hand gliders. Sadly, Otto died in a hand-glider accident in 1896.

It was Lilienthal's work that influenced George and Orville Wright's success. What made their flight so special was they were the first to incorporate control surfaces that stabilized their airplane along three axis of movement, known as pitch, roll and yaw. As the illustration below demonstrates, the control surfaces on the horizontal stabilizer (elevators/pitch), the wings (ailerons/roll), and vertical stabilizer (rudder/yaw) help an airplane maintain level flight and allow it to directionally maneuver in flight.

It is the Wrights' discovery that spawned modern aviation.

Captain Chesley Sullenberger knows all about this principle. When his airplane lost thrust shortly after taking off from LaGuardia Airport in New York City, and realized it would not make it to another nearby airport, he turned Flight 1549 South with its ailerons and rudder to align it with the Hudson River. Then, using his elevators, he tilted the nose of the plane downward to increase speed, allowing the wings to do their work. At the last moment, he pitched the nose of the airplane up -- again, with the elevators -- so he can safely splash down onto the river and hydroplane to a stop.



Okay class. That's all for this installment of How Shit Works. Until next time, this is Professor Useless Information signing off.

We're not cool

What makes a cool parent?

I've been pondering this question the last few days because whenever I talk to my friends about our kids -- especially the young, single ones -- I end up talking about all the fun stuff.

"Hey, how are the kids?" begins a typical "cool parent" conversation. "They're great" I say as if I'm auditioning to be the new voice of Tony the Tiger. I chat them up about the concerts our kids go to, the activities they engage in, and how well they're doing in school. All this is true.

"You're such a cool dad, Spartacus!" They say. "I wish my dad had done that for me when I was that age."

Heh. The compliment is accepted, of course, because it's genuine and heartfelt. But would a compliment be paid for saying that sometimes my kids suck, and that they're lazy, self-centered little brats? That would be so inappropriate to the moment, yet sometimes, that's exactly how we feel.

Holy shit. Did Spartacus just say that about his kids? Yeah I did. I don't always mean it, but there are times, when Skippy and I have to come down hard with the hammer; shorten the leash, if you will, and be the autocratic, dictatorial parents we are expected to be. Clearly, Ward and June Cleaver we are not.

From one day to the next, we really don't know how we'll resolve a family problem or dispute. We have our own lives and personal issues to deal with that don't always allow us to successfully referee disputes over who gets to use the family computer first. Sometimes, we let the kids kick the crap out of one another. Sometimes we find them annoying and swear at them when we're really pissed. Sometimes we even slap them on the head. Think of the eyebrows that would get raised if we mention all that in casual conversation. Would someone call Child Protective Services on us? Possibly.

I guess my point in all this is that we're typical parents, raising a very typical family. In this slice of Americana that we occupy, we don't see ourselves as being cool parents, and I don't know anyone who does. We try our best, but don't always get it right. Our kids opinions of us change depending one how nice or mean are to them that day. This is how it really is.

So, no. We're not cool. We're normal. And we wouldn't have it any other way.

Phanysthat... She Thinks This Blog is Fabulous...

Thanks Susan.

I humbly accept.

But getting a a blog award is not like getting TARP money and squandering the cash on things like Christmas bonuses, Super Bowl parties and naming rights to baseball stadiums. No siree Bob. Uh uh.




This award comes with strings attached.

No, not these kind of strings.

But the five you see below. You see, in order to complete this transaction, I have to dish about five addictions:

1. My journals. I write something everyday... and I mean everyday. If it's not here on my blog, then it's in my red, hard-cover journals. This is 25 year I've been keeping a journal. I rarely ever go back and read them. The time that I have made me cringe at either the thought I expressed, the way I expressed it or both.

2. Dunkin Donuts Coffee. Okay. I know caffeine is a drug and, therefore, addictive. I get that. But it tastes so much better than a cup of that over-hyped crap from Starbucks. And not only that, when you ask for a regular coffee (with milk and two sugars), you get a regular cup of fucking coffee and not some queer look from a barrista who keeps asking you if you want a latte. Full disclosure. I became hooked on Cafe Bustello con leche as a kid; essentially a latte.

3. Text messaging. I love it. I know that it's no substitute for human contact, but sometimes phone conversations can be quite annoying, especially when you have to endure a full hour of someone yakking about their bunyon surgery. However, I'm well aware that's not a smart thing to do while driving...

4. Walking. Give me a choice between riding in a cab or walking to a destination a mile away and I'll walk. Give me a warm Spring evening shrouded in fog and I am out there. My fondess for walking was born out of necessity. As a teenager, in order to save money, I'd pass on taking the bus and walk where I needed to go. Over time, walking became a way to release my tensions and attain a quiet respite from a cacaphonous world where I could hear myself think.

5. Books. I'll read just about anything that's bound if it catches my fancy, including the works of the matriarch of all things right-wing, Ayn Rand. There are many writers I admire, not the least of which is Pete Hammil. But over the years, my tastes were forged by such greats as John Milton, William Butler Yeats, F. Scott Fitzgerald, John Irving and Gabriel Garcia Marquez.

Okay... here are my five recipients

Randal Graves
Okjimm
Pissed in NYC
Mauigirl
Tengrain

Today is B.A.D. ...So Pimp some Blogs

If sense were common, we would not need a Blogroll Amnesty Day now would we?

So which five blogs will I link to this year? I have six actually. Mind you, some are not smaller than mine, but I sure do love reading them.

Well, there my wife Skippy who finally got around to telling her unbelievably true stories from her life as a school secretary. Please take a peek at Skippyland Elementary if you're in need a good laugh now and then.

Next on the list is my pal Alecto. Mother, database guru, gardner, dog owner, Bikram yoga student, and train rider, this denizen of an unnamed Northeastern state writes about it all on her site Alecto's Ophelia. Truly a must read.

Speaking of trains, allow me to introduce my train buddy the Italian Bird Blog. Whether she posts in her native Italian or in English, her plain-spoken style shines through. She doesn't post very often, which is a shame. I wish she would write more. I'll do my part by prodding her on the train ride into town every morning. You guys need to read her stuff and leave comments... deal?

Next on my list is Blondesense Liz. She and I are bandmates in the group currently known as Los Pablos. She is also the matron of the Blondesense blog where she and several other male and female blondes opine sex to politics and everything in between. But the blog of hers I'm pimping is her crafts site, Hearts Delight. I've seen her work in person and it's every bit as good as it looks in the photos. Please take a gander.

Susan of Phantsythat? Please step up to that podium and receive the recognition you're due. Whenever I'm in need of a good story or simply want to marvel at some incredible paintings, I go to her site. I also go there to see what her pal Crow is squawking about. You should, too.

Last, but not least, and the only male blogger in this group is okjimm who writes Okjimm's Eggroll Emporium. Here's a guy who has turned the pleasurable task of beer drinking and doughnut eating into an artform. Mind you, he writes some seriousy stuff, too, and is as well-read as any beer drinker in blogdom. But when it gets right down to it this cat is funny... and get this ladies... he's single.

Update: Holy fucking forgotten blogs. How could I have ever missed my pal Randal Graves's fascinatingly funny and complex L'ennui Mélodieux. I'll give anyone but Randal $5 if they can properly pronounce and translate that blog name. Please link over to his site if you're looking to get the shit kicked out of you in a good way. This man has chops. Trust me.

Finally, because this is all about the linky love, please, please, please check out my blogroll on the right. You'll notice that I now incorporate that Blogger feature that shows the RSS Updates. Believe me, they'll all appreciate the traffic and your comments.


Okay... I've done my pimping. Time to jump into my Caddy and play some pool down on 42nd Street.

Giving The Finger

Okay, Randal... since you asked....

Or is it "since you tagged?"

And since I'm too weak a blogger to not comply with a meme request...

I come forth with the fourth pic in the fourth folder in the following file path on my laptop:

C:\Documents and Settings\%username%\My Documents\My Pictures

The Rules:

1. Go to the 4th folder in your computer where you store your pictures. (I did that)
2. Pick the 4th picture in that folder. (See photo below)
3. Explain the picture. (Can you hold your fucking horses?)
4. Tag 4 people to do the same. (They're all going to hate me, but okay..)


It is my distinct pleasure, dear readers of this most humble of blogs, to give you:

The Finger

No, not this finger....

But this one....


Here's the explanation. I broke it playing touch football about 15 months ago. I was on offense running a 15-yard out pattern. The guy playing defense didn't bite on my move and jumped in front of me to intercept it. So I stuck out my left hand to knock it down. The outcome? Blind searing pain!

But what I learned from this event was not that fingers can't stop footballs. No, the lesson from breaking my finger is that I need to develop a thicker skin for hospital emergency room snark. I posted it about it once. But you can forgo clicking through to that link because after it was all said and done; after the insurance cards were handed over; after sharing the same space with people who were legitimately in need of emergency care; after the x-rays were taken and the treatment dispensed... phew! I walked away with a new sense for the phrase "I hope you feel better."

That's my story and I'm sticking to it. I tag the following folks. And if you don't comply, may the dogs of Hades hunt you down and maul your left pinky!

Distributorcap - because he hates memes
Alecto - because I always tag her
Tengrain - because he's the king of photographic snark
Dianne - because she's got a blog devoted to photography

My Sweet F***ing Noodle

It was a most unexpected sound.

I was driving down the Merritt Parkway in Connecticut with Noodle and one of her "inner-sanctum BFFs, Carr. (Bear in mind that the young lass has many BFFs. At last count, she has 325 BFFs in Facebook, so consider yourself pretty special if she thinks you're i-s worthy.) We were on our way back to Long Island after paying visits to the University of New Haven, Quinnepiac University, and Sacred Heart University, when a typical teenage girl conversation broke out on the subject of boys. Nothing new there. The topic of the conversation was a particular boy at her school who gave the business the other day to Raych, another one of Noodle's i-s BFFs.



Then it happened. From the mouth of my sweet, darling, lovable, can-do-no-wrong, Catholic-schoolgirl daughter came these words:



"He's such a fucking asshole."





Now I don't really mind the cursing, especially while defending the honor of an i-s BFF. I also have a rather well-developed vocabulary when speaking in Foul, so this development is no surprise. Still, the words seemed to shred the last vestiges of the irrational childhood fear I've built up in her for my wrath. Clearly, my little girl is growing up.

Me: C'mon Noodle. Do you have to drop the f-bomb in front of me? Really. Can I have just a smidgen of respect that way?

Noodle: I'm sorry Daddy. It's just sometimes I can't help myself. That boy really was an....

Me: Stop! Don't say it. I've already heard it once.

Noodle: Well, me and Raych are over it.

Me: Really? How did you resolve it.

Noodle: We told him that we hope one day he has two penises shoved up his ass at the same time.

Ewww! Even I was hurting from that one. It serves me right for raising her to be bi-lingual.

It was then that I cranked up the XM to listen to this cool cat to lose the visual of... of... of....

Nevermind! Take it away Jason Mraz.

Make It Mine

Chester Speaks...

Chester here...

Contrary to the post the other day in which my man-servant Spartacus riffed about me in a less than flattering manner, I really can speak and type on a keyboard and express myself in a lucid, intelligent manner.

Here are just a few facts about me:

I am a dog. As far as I can tell, I am a black dog, but then again color interests me little. I can't concern myself with hues I can't really see. I'm more of a smell, taste and hear type of animal. And, anyway, who needs the drama?

Gardiners Park in Islip, NY (that's on Long Island for all you non-New Yorkers) is my absolute favorite place to visit. Spartacus and Skippy take me there often because they're allowed to let me off my leash, and in doing so let me express my inner canine. How I love that park!

I don't particularly care for any other animals other than my fellow canines, and even then, I am prone to getting a bit upset if I smell one that has been pissing on my favorite trees and utility poles. I don't apologize for my behavior. That's just my way.

Cats in particular make my coat bunch up, and I go crazy when Spartacus quips "Chester, where za cat?" But the truth is that I am pussy in a very street sense. Quite frankly, felines scare the piss out of me, especially the ones that are not de-clawed.

I expect compensation for my loyalty and subservience. I know my place and that I am one or two nips at a nuisance child's ass from being sent back to the pound. But throw me a bone here Spartacus and not one of those rawhide ones. Can you stop making me stand on my hind legs for 20 seconds in order to receive a treat. And that "roll over" trick? Please stop. How would you like it if I made you show your privates for a snack or a beer. That's just too far below my dignity. I'm just sayin...

But I do appreciate my human family and all the love they give me. Even after five years of living with them, they still play with me and pay attention to me on a daily basis. And, my gratefulness for them rescuing me from the North Shore Animal League on December 26, 2003 is limitless. I don't know a thing about God and Jesus, but if I did, I would consider their act of kindness the best Christmas present a dog like me can ever get. I love you guys....

Thank you MSEP readers for taking the time to read what I have to say. I don't know if I'll write more posts here. It all depends on how often Spartacus leaves his laptop unattended. I was able to get at it this time because Spartacus ...ahem... was temporarily indisposed.

But I promise you this... I will bite Spartacus on the ass and piss on his leg if he ever criticizes a blogger (even indirectly) for allowing their non-human companions post on their sites. We have thoughts and feelings, too, even if we don't possess the anatomy to express them in human language, and it's an unfettered act of generosity to allow them to do so.

If he ever does that again, don't be afraid to tell him, "Hey Spartacus. Shut the fuck up!"

It's My Blogoversary...

And I'll spill if I want to...

Well, it isn't exactly my blog's blogoversary. The official date was actually January 13th. But year three of this Saturdays only experiment is well underway, and boy do I have lots of crap in store for many stories to titillate and beguile you.

First, let me ask a question: "How am I doing?" No, I am not trying to channel my inner-Ed Koch, so there's no need to answer that. I know I am a blogging hack, and that Blogger will let anyone with a computer and Internet access post indecipherable crap.

In fairness to all five of my regular readers, I thought I'd answer some questions you've been dying to ask. Okay, dying is much too hyperbolic a adverb, but knowing you as I do, I'm sure inquiring minds want to know. Here goes:


What do you wear when you write your posts?
I know I'm not supposed to respond to questions with questions, but don't you think that one's a bit too personal? No matter. A promise is a promise. Now promise you won't laugh.









The thong came courtesy of the Lindenhurst School District as a Valentines Day fundraiser last year. Can you imagine how happy I was to get the matching bra for Christmas?


How come you never let your dog Chester guest post on your blog?
Um...well... for one, he's a dog. If he could talk, he'd be holding our carpets hostage for an extra half-cup of food, two treats a day and an end to those daily Bataan-death-march-like, three-mile walks Skippy and I subject him to. Truth is, he does talk to me, but only me. While he doesn't ask me to shoot lovebirds with a
.44 caliber handgun or make myself a channel of their peace, he is quite fond of sidling up to me as I'm hacking away at yet another ridiculously sappy post, to say....




"Hey, Spartacus! Bite me!"







You write so much about your family. Aren't you afraid that you're needlessly exposing your children? The Internet is a dangerous place, after all.
Sigh. I was afraid someone would ask me that, and the truth is that all those glowing accolades I shower upon my children -- all those wonderful moments and achievements that you have all come to know and love -- are a marketing ploy. Skippy and I have been trying to pawn the little buggers off since they could walk and talk, and so far, despite our vigorous attempts to wrap them in the most appealing packaging imaginable, there are no takers. I think the next step is either eBay or Craigslist.


Is English your first language?
It was supposed to be. I learned much too late in life that my name card was switched with that of a kinky-haired, trigueñito of Puerto Rican baby in a maternity ward at Beth Israel Medical Center. He got carried out by the nanny of a well-to-do old money family that lives in a 10,000 square foot apartment on the Upper East Side and summers in the Hamptons. I got to a small slice of real estate in one cramped apartment after another, and if I was good, a day trip to the country. However, rarely does the fruit fall far from the tree. When I announced my intentions to my family that I would go to college and major in English Literature at this fine institution, and possibly rub elbows with Jerry Seinfeld, they looked at me quizzically and asked "¿Quién es Shakespeare?"


Why do you call yourself Spartacus? Many bloggers have taken to using their real names lately. Don't you find it the least bit pretentious?
Why not? Yeah, I know. I'm using a question to answer a question. But given the choice of using a mundane name like Daniel, Jim or Steve, doesn't the name Spartacus have more sex appeal? C'mon people. Throw me a bone here. I know that using Spartacus as my online alias undercuts any desire of mine to be a serious blogger who links to breaking news from sources like The New York Times and Reuters without offering any commentary. But what's wrong with wanting to be like Kirk Douglas? See me all you want as that moron who compensates for his shortcomings by buying a red Corvette. The pen name stays.



Are you gay?
Yes. My marriage is a scam and I fathered children for sole purpose of hiding my true inclination. I freely admit to you today that I count myself among the ten percent of the world's population that finds heterosexual relations repulsive. There I go with the hyperbole again. I do not judge heterosexuality in that manner. It's just not for me. I've spent a lifetime in denial and I'm done lying about it. That guy that kissed me when I was 18? I begged him to do it. Adrian Grenier? Yum! Rachel Maddow? Let's just say when I can scrape up the cash to pay for that sex change operation in Thailand, she is so on my hit list.


Does it bother you that most of your comments come from women?
That's really a question for Skippy, but I'll take a crack at it. I'm gay, and it's a known fact that straight women love gay men. And why not? There are several explanations for this phenomena. You could believe the wives' tale that gay men love their mothers, are very neat, and are emotionally sensitive individuals, all traits straight women look for in their male acquaintances. Not so much in husbands, but I digress. Indeed, I love my mother, I can be an incredibly sensitive person and have offered some very matronly advice on more than one occasion. But there's also empirical evidence to suggest that my allure to females stems from a curiosity over, nay, fascination with, finding an answer to this question: why do ruggedly handsome men choose to be intimate with other men, and not me? The medical community has even put in their two cents with this very plausible scientific explanation.

I reported. You decide.


Why are you an atheist?
My reasons are legion. But let's put aside the logical arguments for a moment. Let's forget that many of the world's conflicts past and present have their roots in religious belief. Let's forget that human advancement in every major discipline of art and science was subverted for an entire millenium by a certain group of people who claimed a divine right to rule. It's a simple fact that God hates me, and all men and women like me. It does. What other explanation is there for why we can't get married legally or why we're relegated to warm-up act status when delivering religious invocations? As you rack you brains for a plausible answer, consider this question: What kind of God would create people like me in its image only for the sole purpose of demoralizing and degrading them? That's just cruel. If God is a perfect being then it would follow that you and I are also perfect beings despite what it says in the book of Genesis. Adam and Eve were created in its image, so it stands to reason that they did not fuck up as royally as that Old Testament book says they did. I believe... fuck that... I know I am the product of evolutionary luck. God did not make us, we made it.


Those are all the questions I can answer for now. But please feel free to ask questions in comments and, by all means, enjoy the cake and coffee in the back of the room. And thanks for stopping by today. I love you all.