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.

I Found Love

I could be angry that President-elect Barack Obama has chosen the very homophobic and fundamentalist Pastor Rick Warren to give the invocation at his inauguration ceremony next month. It's also no secret that the LGBT community came out in favor of his candidacy back on November 4th. And it's no secret now he's punched them hard in the gut.



Some pundits view this decision by the President-elect as yet another move towards healing the divisions that plague our nation. Sorry, in the name of some good friends and family, both with us and not, I can't turn the other cheek.

I could be really angry that neither Rep. Robert Wexler (D-FL) nor Rep. Dennis Kucinich (D-OH) have publicly stepped up to the plate to call for impeachment hearings in the wake of both President Bush and Vice President Cheney for lying to the American people about the decision to invade Iraq and for approving the torture of prisoners. Senator Levin (D-MI) has his eye on the ball.





I could be angry that dysfunction and stupidity are alive and well on the Isle of Long; the place I currently call home. When I learned that a 44-year old PTA mom from Baldwin, NY was found half-naked, making out with a 13-year old boy, I jokingly asked Skippy "where was Mrs. Tuckruskye when I was 13?" But the humor quickly passed as we thought about how this is yet another in a long line of embarrassingly dysfunctional acts committed by a Long Island resident (think Wal-Mart trampling on Black Friday) that didn't stop to think of the consequences of her actions, let alone the psychological damage she could cause.

Right or wrong, it's one thing to cheat on a spouse. Rarely does any good ever come from that. What two adults choose to do and why they choose to do it is a private matter. But this is incorrigible.

I could be angry with those Southern Senators, led by Senator Mitch McConnell (R-Ky) who shot down the bailout of the American automobile industry, blaming the United Auto Workers for the demise of the Big Three automakers. The hubris of these assholes astounds me, especially when you consider their states are home to foreign, non-unionized car makers like Toyota, BMW, Honda, and Nissan. But several of of them could vote for a $700 billion bailout of investment banks that conveniently allows executives to pad their compensation with taxpayer money.

I could even muster some angry, fist-jabs into the air towards New York Governor Patterson for his drastic budget cuts and tax increases because his financial wizards didn't accurately anticipate the Wall Street meltdown and it's effect on New York's economy. C'mon Dave. A tax on naturally sweetened soda and fruit drinks as an anti-obesity measure? Are you kidding me?

But I can't be angry.

Not today.

That's because this morning I woke up to find three notes taped to the mirror in my closet.














Noodle... I love you, too, baby. And Skippy and Zeb and Rick and Chester. Thanks for the lift, sweetie. I'm leaving the notes up there as a reminder of where I can always find somebody to love.

He's 12 Today? That's Just Rickdiculus

Yep. It's true. It's true.

The sun has set on another September 17. Another halfway to St. Patrick's Day has come and gone. And our Rick has turned 12.

Rick, it's hard to believe you've turned 12. Where has the time gone? It seems like only yesterday me and Skippy were in our old Toyota Corolla driving through a deluge to bring you into the world. Your Mom reminded me today of our discussion on what to name you as we drove to the hospital.

Skippy: Terrence.

Me: Jackson

Skippy: Douglas

Me: Jackson

Skippy: Rick!

Me: Oh, alright already!

And on it went. Of course, you could have been Kathleen Maria. But we won't speculate on that alternate universe. We love you just the way you are.




And, there's so much to love. For one, you're a character. From the moment you could walk and talk, you had this innate ability to entertain anyone within five feet of you. A born showman, you are. You haven't changed a bit. Even now as you continue to hone your movie making skills with you pal, Timmy, your sense for the moment is impeccable. We love your stories, even if alot of them just aren't true.










But there's another side to you that I've written about quite a bit here in this space. You have the heart of a champion. When you set your mind to doing something, you go all out. Whether you're playing football, baseball, or getting twisted like a pretzel on some sweat-soaked wrestling mat. There's only one speed for you: full.









What's more is the special gift you have to lift up the spirits of those around you. I try not to wonder how I would have made it though this day had you not been there for me. I suspect in the coming years that you will probably be there again for me and for lots of other people you love. That's just the kind of guy you are.







I know, too, that sometimes you get down on yourself because of your height, or because Zeb or some of your friends pick on you for being so enthusiastic and good-natured. Don't let them get to you. It's hard to ignore, especially being the sensitive kid you are. The fruit never falls far from the tree. I know exactly how you feel. But if there's one bit of advice I can leave you with on this day, Rick, it's this: don't let your short stature limit your possibilities. There's so much you have to offer this world, that to put limits on yourself for whatever reason would be to rob us all of your Rickdiculusness.

Happy Birthday Rick. Hope you had a nice one!

Not Another Peep? Heh Heh

I hated being teased growing up. Fuck did I hate it. I even wrote a poem about it once... sort of. But like all things in life, eventually you get your karmic justice. I got mine. Growing up in a large family in a three-bedroom apartment as I did (I was the second youngest of seven), you develop a full appreciation for the word co-habitation. That was the operative word for me for several years in the 1970s, when I shared a room with my brothers Ralph and Louie. Ralph and I shared a bunk bed, while Louie had the twin bed next to ours. I used the top bunk. Being the oldest of us three, Louie took charge of the room. He's a natural leader to begin with, which at the age of 16 translates into "really bossy." Most nights, we watched what he wanted on our little 19-inch black-and-white television. He also told us when it was time for bed. And he meant it. You see, Louie was also our "A" student. Part of the reason he did well in school was because he stuck to a routine. That meant lights out at 10PM, no exceptions. Me and Ralph had other plans. Lights out for us meant keep Louie up all hours of the night. We'd make up stupid songs or make noises that would drive him bonkers. The sound he hated most was "peep." Here's how a typical weekday evening went in our room:

Louie: Would you guys shut the fuck up! I'm trying to sleep. 

Me: I'm sorry. We'll shut up. 'night Ralphie (snicker...) 

Ralphie: 'night Johnny. Me: 'night, Ralphie....

It was at this point Louie would jump out of bed and threaten us with bodily harm.

Louie: I swear if I hear another peep out of you. 

Ralphie: Sorry.

Moments later......

Ralphie: Peep. 

Me: Peep. Peep 

Ralphie: Peep. Peep. Peep. Peep. Peep. Peep 

Me: Peep. Peep,Peep. Peep. Peep. Peep.Peep. Peep

Louie would pummel us both with punches after that and try as we might to feel the pain of being hit on the arms, legs, and chest, we would simply laugh our asses off. Years later, Louie still can't live it down. What makes telling this story even more fun is that my brother Louie is a died-in-the-wool Republican. We haven't had a chance to discuss the selection of Sarah Palin as McCain's VP running mate, but I can't imagine him not being energized by her selection. No doubt, he's one of the "base" who admires her hot fucking body media savvy, and is up in arms over how the liberal media is digging up all manner of information not showing her any respect of deference. If I didn't know any better, I'd swear he thinks Palin is getting peeped. So, here's my advice to Obama's campaign team: Keep peeping her. Peep her until she fucking cracks. Then laugh your ass off while you take your lumps. Trust me. It works.

My Boy Zeb is 14!

Boy Zeb. It's been a long time since your feet were this tiny. Remember these? Probably not. This is what your feel looked like moments after you were born on this day in 1994.

It was as really hot on your birthday. The sweltering sun beat down on you and Skippy and Aunt Kate as you were riding to get some pizza from Umbertos. On the way there, someone bumped Kate's car from behind giving three of you quite a jolt. No one was hurt in the accident, but Skippy swears that it was that fender bender that set the ball rolling. The accident happened at 1PM. You were born less than 3 hours later.


I don't know if she's right. Whenever you put your mind to something, you are always in a rush to get to it, even being born. The only caveat being waking up in the morning. Somehow your incredible sense of urgency getting up out of bed on most days.

Sorry to embarrass you with this Halloween picture. It was your mom's idea to dress you this way. She called your her darling pumpkin then, and you should know that even though you're a few inches taller than she is, you're still her little darling pumpkin.


You should know, too, that nights with you were not always as peaceful as they seem in this picture. You probably don't remember the time I spent the whole night in the hospital when you became severely dehydrated from a bad stomach flu. Your mom and I were so worried for you then. Let me fill you in on a little secret, Zeb -- that hasn't changed.



You are also very loyal. Here you on your 7th birthday with your first, and still, best friend, Greenie. Do you realize that you've been friends with Greenie for more than 12 of the 14 years you've been alive?

I do. Have I told you how envious I am that he's still your best friend? How could he not be? Like me, Greenie probably remembers the time you stood up to the fifth grader that made him cry on the bus home from school one day. I was home from work that day and met you at the bus stop. As we were walking away, the fifth grade bully yelled from the bus, "Hey, is that your kid?

Me: Yeah. He is.

5th Grader: Well, he spit at me.

I was really pissed at you for doing that, and after I lectured you on why it's not a good thing to spit on other kids, you started to cry, "But Dad. He made Greenie cry. I had to do something."

I never said a word about it to you again. I realized then just how special you are. You're always doing something to defend your friends and family.

You know, Zeb, as you get older, you and I will have our disagreements on lots of things. Please understand that I'm not trying to make your life miserable, but sometimes I see alot of me in you and I can't help but say "Please, don't be that way."

Like when you and Rick go at it because he looked at you the wrong way or won't let you on the computer in the basement. If there's anything I've learned about being one of six brothers is that, in the end, your family is all you have. So, why engage it in the first place? I guess you have to. A brother's right of passage I suppose.

But then I say no. Be like me. I'm a good guy who, with Skippy, managed to raise three great kids who are all special in their own way. I hope to the heavens that you, too, will find that special someone with whom to share your life. I did.

And did I ever tell you how proud I am of your guitar skills? Man, you've learned more in one month than I learned in two years. I've told you that before, but I can't tell you enough. You rock.

Hope you've had a wonderful birthday, Zeb. May you enjoy many, many more.

Dad.

Stepping Up For Skippy

I was all set for a quite evening last night.

I had no races to run. No guitar lessons to take. No one to drive to this friend's or that friend's house. No test to study for. Nothing.

That is until Skippy called to tell me that she was headed for the dentist. She had been complaining about a toothache for the last few days which made her mouth and face sore. Being the smartass I am, I suggested that her pain may be because she talks too much. Oh, wait, that's my problem....

It turns out that Skippy's problem was much worse than she thought. She called me at work to tell me that she got an emergency appointment with our dentist and that it was at 5:15 p.m. The nerve underneath her tooth was infected and the it had to be pulled.

Me: So what are we going to do about dinner for the kids?

Skippy: I shouldn't be long. I'll make it when I get back.

Me: Don't be silly. What were you planning to make.

Skippy: Garlic pasta.

Me: I can take care of that. Leave me the instructions and dinner will be ready by the time you come home.

Skippy: You would do that?

Me: Sure. Why not?

Famous last words. I've always known that that the job of "mom" is no easy task, but I had forgotten just how hard is that task. Last night, the rust in my ability to play the role showed.

Before you beat me up about making an apparently, sexist remark about the roles of moms and dads. Please understand that our family structure is quite anachronistic. Skippy handles much of the day-to-day load of the household tasks like cooking and doing laundry, while I take care of things like fixing fences, painting basements, car maintenance...etc... It's just how things work best in our 6-member unit most of the time. I help out with her self-assigned tasks and she helps me with mine. Noodle, Zeb and Rick also pitch in by doing their daily chores of tidying up the kitchen, bathrooms and basement.



Here's the lazy one in our house. Eat, sleep, shit and bark at postal workers. What a life! I digress...







My offer to cook dinner last night was sincere, despite the fact that I hardly ever cook. On occassion, I'll fix something for myself. But sandwiches and scrambled eggs don't count, do they? I'm just not that into it.

I am fascinated by those who can cook and create culinary works of art out of any ingredient available. The Cunning Runt comes to mind at this point. The man is a genius in the kitchen and has pictures to prove it.

Me? I can barely follow a recipe, and drove Skippy nuts with my incessant phone calls on how to mix ingredients and the location of important utensils. Here's a partial transcript of our 6:30PM conversation:

Me: Uh...how much olive oil do I use to brown the garlic?

Skippy: Oh, you think I measure?

Me: What do I use to do this part?

Skippy: C'mon man. Use your imagination. My mouth is killing me and I'm still waiting to see the oral surgeon.

Click!

You get the idea folks. I'm clueless in the kitchen. I admit it. By the time it was all over I had yelled at Rick for only wanting plain pasta, and at Zeb for wanting his without garlic in it. (There are other ingredients added -- grilled chicken, broccoli and sun-dried tomatoes are in this concoction.) Thankfully, Noodle was hanging with her BFF, Rachel at her house, so she was spared my wrath.

My patience wore so thin that by the time it was all said and done, I had placed at least five calls to Skippy and swore at my boys at least 10 times, all of which ended with: "What do you think this is? A fucking restaurant?"

When Skippy finally returned home, I barely showed any interest in her condition. That made her cry.

"Oh shit," I thought. "I've done it now."

That's when I grabbed the dog's leash and harness and took him for a walk around the park. It was as much a therapeutic walk for me as it was a strategy session on what to say to her when I returned, starting with an "I'm sorry."

I got home 30 minutes later, gave her a big hug and kiss, apologized profusely for my actions. I then took her out to Friendly's for one of her favorite treats -- a vanilla/chocolate swirl sundae with whipped cream. I apologized again after we returned home. We ate our ice cream in our living room and talked about what happened. She accepted my apology reminding me that I am more than capable of managing the house in her absence. Her point? The drama was unnecessary. Point taken.

Before I close this, though...I need to say one more thing:

Skippy, I'm sorry I went off the deep end last night. You were the one suffering here. Not me. All I needed to do was step up and cook some dinner. I should have just handled things as best I could and not bother you as I did. I should have stepped up and done what other fathers in my placed the world over do on a daily basis.

If anything, days like this show how much I need you and how much the kids need you. We love you and, while we would manage in your absence, we are quite lost without you. There is nothing in the world we would not do for you.

Love.... Spartacus




Isn't she a beauty? I think so. Pick on me if you must. I deserve it. But, please, if you leave a comment, show Skippy some love. She's hurting now and could use a hug or two.

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.

The Heart of a Champion

Ah Rickdiculus...

I know you had a rough Suffolk County Kid Wresting Tournament today. Rougher than most I imagine. You were pinned in both your matches, yet, you stepped off the mat with your head held high. You congratulated your opponent, your opponent's coach, and when you found me waiting for you as you stepped from the mats, I was smiling as only a proud dad can. How could I not?

No, you didn't win today. That's okay. I suspect from your tears that you had taken the losses in those matches pretty hard. I understand how you feel, Rick. Losing always sucks. As I told you after you had completed your wrestling: "All that proves is that the kids still wrestling are better wrestlers than you today. Nothing more."

That's because I know that inside that scrawny 70.1 pound body of yours beats the heart of a champion. It never amazes me how you always manage to get your teammates pumped up with your infectious enthusiasm, despite always being one the smallest kids on every team you've played on. It's just makes watching your contests that much more fun.

I think what I like most about the way you play sports, Rick, is that you never quit. Today, you were scheduled for two matches and, despite the fact that your second watch did not go off for another 45 minutes after your first, you stayed until you heard your name called, and you popped right up from your seat ready to wrestle when it was. I love that about you. You never quit.

Again, I say to you, put aside the losses at today's wrestling tournament. Put aside the humiliation and frustration you felt, and feel good about the fact that you did the best you could. There will be other wrestling matches and other contests where your enthusiasm and perseverance will count for something. Soon enough baseball season will be here and you will be slapping fastballs right back up the middle and vacuuming grounders on the infield. You will be doing everything you can to help your team win. And you will do it not only with your talent, but with your drive and desire to bring your teammates up with you. That son is what makes yours the heart of a champion. You have that, and I could not be prouder to call you my son.

Happy 40th Janette...One Week Later!

It isn't often that you'll find Spartacus's clan all in one room. The latest occasion came last week when my sister-in-law Janette celebrated her 40th birthday. I swear the woman doesn't look a day over 30. Don't you agree?





Here's the birthday girl!






Well, I thought I'd share some of the pictures of our evening out at Sapphire, down on Eldridge Street. Missing from this photo is one of Spartacus's brothers, Ralph, who could not attend because of another family obligation to which he needed to attend.





Dancin' Joe, Janette's husband.









My sister Margarita and husband Dave Mullen, the artist behind "Mahoney's Way"









My brother Louie and his wife Daisy.










The Spartacus Clan!

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.

Yet Another Shameless Post for My Jazz Man Brother in Law

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



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

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

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


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


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

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

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