Tuesday, September 10, 2013

I FOUND HUMANITY...

I FOUND HUMANITY…
(LANGUAGE ALERT)

Ok, so here’s the deal… I broke my foot. Yeah, yeah I know: “How’d you do it? Falling off a ladder? Jump off the roof trying to kill yourself? Riding a motorcycle? Trying some new elaborate masturbatory position called “the tantric pretzel” or something??? Training for the next MMA/UFC fight???”

No.

I was looking at ants.

Yup.

Ants.

See… this is embarrassing, but what on my blog isn’t?

‘They’ say ‘truth be told’ a lot… may as well do it ehh?

Sobriety is a bitch, and stupidity on sobriety is like a female pit bull: MAJOR *salute* BITCH!

So I am not the cleanest mofo on the planet. I’m not a hoarder, just don’t tell my tables or couch that. They’re the catch-all for, well everything. And I am a fan of eating food where I watch TV and nap, so the couch is it.

Few weeks ago I was eating a sandwich and an ant crawled up to the plate on my coffee table and continued to walk right around it. It seemed to be sniffing where it shouldn’t, so it got the ol’ thumbs down on the oak.

Sorry gladiator ant. I was NOT entertained!

When I lifted my plate, there were 2 more. These aren’t the big black easy to spot ants, but rather the little ones that make you think “Is that a crumb or a crumb with legs?” So I called in my buddies Siskel and Ebert for extermination, and made them watch Sharknado. At the opening credits the ants were dead and Gene and Roger were back to being spun in their graves. (To aide you with the voices in my head telling the story, that’s 2 thumbs down.)

Went to work the next day and opened my bag and there were 3 ants crawling in my bag. It’s a backpack, not a trash bag… so I killed them and then 3 more popped up. At this point I knew I had a problem. Yet looking deeper in my bag I pulled out a candy sac from couponing, and there was a bit of a nest there. I may have killed 15 more by the end of the day.  I texted my cousin and he gave me some exterminator grade goo to put around when I found the nest.

When I got home, 3 more on my table made me get the hard stuff and start-a-cleanin… half vinegar, half water in a spray bottle and a Swiffer mop head did the deed… I moved couches, threw out old candy, sprayed down the table… every bit of wood in my living room beyond the hardwood floor was drenched in solution and mopped up… it worked like a charm. After that day (knock on wood) even now writing this weeks later, NO MORE ANTS. It was amazing.

2 weeks ago I go outside and BOOM there’s this trail of mini-ants. (Reminds me of tom and jerry when they’d be at a picnic and the ants would walk down the hammock line and vibrate the line so much that tom and/or jerry would fall out of the hammock.)… (ALSO channeling Samuel L Jackson *IT’S MYYYY BEER* in the Snakes on a Plane trailer: “Enough is enough!!! I have had it with these MFing ANTS in the MFing HOUSE!!!”)

I follow the trail back to this crack in the sidewalk and there it is. Ants coming and going like grand central station. Some with granules of food going in and out of this crack. And I’m like BINGO BITCHES! YOU’RE GOING DOWN!!!! So I grab the syringe of exterminator goo and douse the area around this crack… and the ants love it. It’s serious poison to them, but they don’t know this yet. And I feel really good about this now. I found the nest, didn’t have to exterminate the entire neighborhood’s animals in the process… all is right with the world. Minus the ant holocaust going on, all is right with the world.

(I figure later in the world of ant billboards there will be an odd looking teapot in the shape of a bald man’s head with a tremendous bushy beard and the spout will be in the shape of a syringe, causing controversy in the JC PENNY of the ant world… )

Later in the night, round 11pm or so, I go outside with my flashlight app and check on the massacre. Few ants still on the spot, others back on the trail, but still going strong into/out of grand central. I found I needed more light so I went back inside and got my spotlight. I decided on checking around the house where this trail may have ended up or even what they were FEASTING on. And not to disrupt the trail I step over it down onto the last step, skipping 2 in the process, in flip flops.

The last step really isn’t a step. It’s a half inch corner of the steps sticking out of the brick walkway that surrounds my corner of the city block. Well, I hit that half inch corner and immediately I heard a “crack” (which is weird how it was audible yet made no sound… I think it’s like why your voice sounds ridiculous on a recording but normal to you in your own head. Resonance? I forget… ) as my foot hit the side of the stair and down I went. I skinned my knee as if I was 8 years old, and I ended up on my back. Five seconds ago I was king of the world, now I’m a turtle on his back… laughing.

“OUCH!” I thought… “I hope no one saw me!”

Just then a car that had started to pull away from a stop sign at my corner as I started my descent decided to back up and ask… “Are you ok?” with that odd undertone of held-in laughter… I know this undertone because I have asked many myself with this same thought of “DON”T LAUGH… YET!”

“YEAH YEAH I’M FINE! MAYBE MORE EMBARASSED THAN IN PAIN BUT I AM FINE… THANKS FOR ASKING!”   do you need help he asked? 

“NO NO JUST DRIVE AWAY! YOU CAN LAUGH AT ME MAN IT HAD TO HAVE BEEN FUNNY TO SEE. I’LL LIVE!” alright he said i was just checking... 

And he drove away… nice of the guy to back up… yet I heard him break into laughter as he drove away, as I would do. and then I did. It was the dumbest fall in human history, along with the dumbest reason to fall… “I didn’t want to disrupt the ant trail, your honor.”

I went to work the next day and using an umbrella as a cane, most suggested to call my doctor. So I did and he sent for xrays and low and behold I broke my 5th metatarsal bone, or in layman’s terms, the ‘you’re an idiot if you break this one’ bone.

The un-funny bone.

I was fitted with a boot, and given a cane to use that my grandfather used in the years before his death. It was one of those things that was an honor to have and to hold, let alone actually USE because I needed it. and let’s face it: it worked better than a pocket umbrella-cane. (just for the visual… it’s a full sized umbrella.)

But a funny thing happened.

In the days following I found something I didn’t think existed anymore. I found humanity. People moved out of my way, held doors, waited for me, were polite in every turn, and I think even wiped my ass once or twice without asking. That last one was welcomed but weird nonetheless… For the most part I am grouchy working for the government with the idiots that work here. But the folks who showed me there was still good in the world made me feel better about them too. People even stopped by to ask how / what happened… and I am stuck to giving the embarrassing above story on how I broke my foot. One guy even said “C’mon dude, in this case you have to lie about it…” and my forever retort is “HEY! YOU ASKED!”

It makes me cry just thinking about how nice people have been.

These were complete strangers to me, seeing me like a bird with a bum wing, and offering me some popsicle sticks and string to wrap around it to get me back in the air again.

4 weeks ago these same folks would let the elevators close in my face. Slammed regular doors in my face… anything to rearrange my face, as my mirror has told me to do for years… but now they smiled and made awkward conversation seem, well, not so awkward.

My advice: DO SOMETHING COOL to break your fifth metatarsal bone in your foot. It’s painful but once you get the boot on it’s not too bad (thanks Vicodin) and you will see what I mean. It’s 
incredible.

And I KNOW when I am healed I will go back to those doors slamming into my face, elevators not being held, and I’ll go back to being the weird guy in the corner.  And in a lot of ways it’s exactly what I want. Normalcy.


But for now, I’ll take humanity however I can get it. 

Friday, May 31, 2013

EVER BUY A HOUSE?

WOW… A COLONOSCOPY ISN’T EVEN THIS BAD…(it's the preparation that sucks!)

***MAJOR LANGUAGE / ADULT CONCEPT (ONE) ALERT***

Ever buy a house? Not me.

I have been in a few apartments and they basically say “how’s it goin?”, check your teeth, scratch your head and rub you behind the ears like you’re a dog… and boom you live there. Pretty simple ehh? Well, for an apartment…

It’s not the LOOKING for a house. It’s not the cheerful real estate agent whom you not just hope is good looking but is also good at their job. {My agent isn’t good looking, is flat chested, and allows no interest in me from the dating realm. That’s because my agent is a man. Yet if I tell you he is a good real estate agent, then I am telling you the wrong information. I won’t give his name here, but if you come to the midtown Harrisburg region on a drive you will see his sign on just about every house for sale in the area and for good reason. He has sold and bought just about every house, and he is knowledgeable about just about every one. He isn’t a good real estate agent… he is the best. No… THE BEST. There that’s better. Everyone from the bank to the insurance companies to the home inspectors to everyone . . . they all refer to midtown as his domain and say how absolutely awesome he is. And they would be correct. I DIGRESS… per the usual… }

It’s the PAYING for the house… and all that info they need to openly rape you of your credit history, bank statements, and tax information… in public! As if I were stuck in a stockade. Please throw tomatoes… (and stop raping me)… Speaking of the bank… Have I compared them to a colonoscopy yet? Well, I never realized I could take a fisting to my urethra…  And this fist is holding a handful of money they are ripping from my bladder. Get a visual? Enjoy the pain? Throw up? Me too! (you were warned there’d be one adult concept…)

Meeting my bank loan advisor, she was a pleasant referred-to-me woman by my real estate agent and she is fantastic as well. Very informative, very pleasant to the ears. I may have called and talked to her years ago… her number may have been 1-900-QUICKIE.…… But to hear her list of demands from the bank was like hearing it from Mommy Dearest! (put the hanger down and don’t cut my beard!!!)

Tax records! (snip!)
Pay stubs! (whip!)
W-2s! (snip!)
Bank records! (whip!)

I felt like one of Wayne Brady’s slapped bitches! (thank you Chappelle’s show)

But I gave her all the information she needed and then some more. We set up a bank account there so that I could get a lowered percentage rate for the loan and all was fine. Then I got an email from the bank asking for more salary information. They have my tax records for the last 2 years, W-2s and paystubs for the last month. what more do you need? I basically asked this and said this to the one lady at the bank. She didn’t really have an answer (salary verification is a requirement) so I thanked her for not explaining anything to me and hung up the phone in a fury. When I got the information she asked for, the HR people who had to verify my salary explained how much goes in (and comes out of you) to buy a house. And all she’s doing is following bank protocol. And all I was doing was being an ass. So, tail between my legs, I apologized to the bank lady and explained to her this was the first time buying a house and it’s overwhelming. She acknowledged my apology saying how nice it was to hear (she never hears them) but then asked for my salary information while twisting the knife…

Oh, as if you needed more info from me about this first time drilling n grilling… it ended up ok. Being it was my first time doing this house buying, I was unaware of this part of the process. Yet now that I know what to expect so in the future it shouldn’t be so bad.

AGAIN, this bank loan information roll out is like the night before shits for the colonoscopy. Once you are on and off that toilet more often than an altar boy kneels in front of a priest after mass, you then go to the actual -oscopy.

I was warned that the amount of paperwork you sign was monumental. “Sign what they tell you to whether you know what it is or not. And if you want to read it, do it later on when you can’t sleep at night. It’s better than Nyquil!” – I was told. Well, for one part it was true. For the other, not so much. I guess my bank helped out the mortgage broker process (or whatever) because even though there was a lot of paperwork indeed, I was expecting to sign my name 500 times. I even screwed up my own name due to signing so much stuff, even mixed up the dates. But in reality, I think less than 20 signatures were needed.

The move in date was any day after the above signatures were completed. I chose a week after closing and it worked to perfection. During the week, boxes were piled into the car and transferred to the house. I work close to my house so I just swung around the block and then drove back to the old apartment to load up for tomorrow’s offload. This was perfect, so that when the large stuff needed moved, it would make for an easy move for my helpers. And on that day, it was a Friday evening, we started at my apartment with a couch at 6pm. We were done and eating pizza (truck returned) at 7:45pm in the new place. It was quite possibly the fastest move in history, and worked out just as I planned it.

AND NOTHING BROKE, NOT EVEN A LIGHT BULB!

I set up my bed with help from friends and family, and after everybody went home, it felt good to know I was already there. I laid down to sleep and at about 2:45am I was awoken to drunken screaming in the street:

“FUCK YOU YOU BIESHA-SHIT! YOU NEVER LOVED ME!”
--“NO BITCH YOU NEV’R ‘OVED ME AND UGAN GO TA HELL!”

And so on… … … I’m sure the make-up sex was fantastic.

I rolled over in my bed and smiled and thought “It’s great to be back in the city, err, home!”

III

Saturday, March 16, 2013

N.A.S.C.A.R.

N.A.S.C.A.R. = Not Another Sports Column About Racing…  

Yup… but in this case, there’s a first for everything…

Language alert………. Hey, it’s NASCAR…

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

There was a time YEARS ago that I had no idea about NASCAR. I didn’t care about it.  It didn’t exist in my world… like water polo, horse jumping, camel racing or basketball...

There was a nothing happening day where a race was on and my friend mike was over. After hours of drooling in boredom looking for NOTHING on tv, we settled on NASCAR. I didn’t understand it, didn’t know anything, and didn’t care. But there was something to watch on tv. So to heck with it.  Mike had seen a few races by then and he said they were exciting and fun to see the wrecks. I thought “Hey! Why not?”

The cars went round and round in circles and every turn and every straight they came real close to hitting the wall, each other, etc.

An hour went by…

Again, we didn’t understand it, but they were driving fast (200+ mph) in close proximity to each other. That alone was pure excitement in anticipation for the hoped death on the track…  but no. The drivers were under some kind of influence because during that one particular race where all we wanted to see was a wreck, fire, debris… something… anything.

another hour…

by now the drool is a sippable puddle in my shirt…

there wasn’t even a caution flag. Doing a bit of research I can speculate it was 1997, and it was Talladega. The track at Talladega, Alabama (like Daytona) is known for their epic speeds and wrecks. But not that year.  Per Wikipedia, 1997’s Talladega was the fastest (average speed) race ever held, Mark Martin won, and it was the first race in Talladega history run without one single caution. Even non-race fans can think of Talladega and the synonymous “big one” (a known term for a large field-wiper-outer wreck on the track)… but this day where I was anticipating this beautiful fiery flipping 200mph death causing/defying wreck, none came.

Needless to say, to me, racing sucked.

So years later, in maybe mid 2003-04 a race was on and my buddies were in to it wholeheartedly. They were gearheads so I had no choice if I wanted to hang out. (this one had a few cautions in it and the racing was phenomenal, so my appreciation grew from there.)

My buddy John asked “Who is your driver…?”

--“Huh?”

“Who is your driver? If you don’t have one there is a guy in an orange car that has a mouth on him. He’d be right up your alley!”

I didn’t realize I had to choose in the 40+ man field… I had no idea what I was getting myself in to… but I like the color orange and I like people who go against the mainstream. And so the natural progression was to pick a guy named Tony Stewart. He was a fiery Hoosier to reporters, other drivers, and an all-around asshole. After a few races he started in on his own sponsors and even those sponsors who support NASCAR. Needless to say I became a fan instantly. Not even of the racing, but of him.

And so, in 2004 I was a race fan. I watched religiously and started to learn the rivalries, drivers’ personalities, numbers and sponsors. And in racing you rarely say the drivers’ name. you use their number or their sponsor to describe the car. “there goes the cingular 31… check out the 20 for the win!!”… it’s like shorthand for rednecks.

As he didn’t do much in 2004, in 2005, he was a Winston cup champion (maybe by then it was Nextel, but it doesn’t matter.). Tony Stewart, this phenom on the track, and jerk off (the track) was a good pick apparently because of his championship . . . it was amazing to me. yet it was a lot like not knowing anything about chess and being a fan of Kasparov out of nowhere...

So naturally I was not just hooked, I wanted a repeat of the last year… but that wasn’t to come for some time. A younger, nicer, better spoken driver came through and for 5 years he dominated the points and standings. Jimmie Johnson is now known as “Mr. Five Time” by the announcers during races and he literally dominated the points in every year they won. It seemed like a coup was going on with their race team, but between Jimmie and Chad Knauss, his crew chief, they were infallible. And as much as I hate Jimmie Johnson as a driver, (I was sick of him winning all the time) I admire his accomplishment. It has never been done before (5x in a row) and probably will be a record that stands the test of time.

Yet year before last (2011) Tony Stewart ended up in victory lane 5 times out of 10 championship races in “the race for the chase” (the ‘world series’ of racing) and he won it by 1 point over Carl Edwards. But more importantly he closed the book on the 5 year story that was Jimmie Johnson. They literally call Tony the ‘bookends’ to Jimmie Johnson’s record shattering achievement.

And so… again, a first for everything, it was determined that I MUST go to a race at least before I die. I think it was 2009, and my Uncle Gib is a fan of racing as well. so he met me at the Lewes, Delaware ferry port and we stayed at my godfather’s trailer. It’s a beach house for them, and it’s about 3 miles from Rehoboth beach. It’s also an easy 45 minutes from Dover… not a bad drive at all. Well, better than 4 hours from home.

We woke up early on a cool end-of-May day and trucked our way north. We found the parking area and hopped on a school bus that served as a taxi for those who parked there. In the drive to the track the bus driver and Gib struck up a conversation due to Gib being a Mets fan. The driver had a blue and orange NY cap on, so he was as well. they drowned in their tears of baseball fandom for the 10 minute drive… We thanked the driver for the lift, and out we went.

That “monster” you see on TV for the race is immense. Dover is known as “the monster mile” due to its length and the way it gobbles up cars and the cement is known to ruin tires during the races. But outside the track, just by the main gate, sits a concrete “monster” which seems to rise up out of the ground, stories tall, holding a car.

And once in the main gate and after the awe of looking at the monster, you could either go through the mall or go to your seat. The mall is basically a souvenir section with every driver’s gear you could imagine being sold from the side of their semi-trailers. I bought a few things from Dover and Stewart, Gib bought a few things from a few drivers for him and his friends, and just as we met back up and were about to head in, the flyover occurred.

You know…

National anthem…  includes a must-have flyover by a plane or 2. Maybe when you’re in the stands you could anticipate it better, but we were in the mall where you couldn’t hear or see much of the track or the pre-race festivities. Well, I have heard some loud things in my life, but this noise made me shit my pants… but the shit was too scared to come out.

Screaming I asked “WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT??????????????”

-          “What?” Screamed gib…

“what was that?”

-          “What?”

“exactly!”

-          “Oh, the flyover! 2 fighter jets.”

“what?”

This may have been the start of my tinnitus issues…

I haven’t left my house or apartment much in life, but to me, nothing in this world is louder than a fighter jet, let alone 2 of them… and Dover is along route 1… right around the corner from the Air Force base.  The fact that they flew over wasn’t the issue. it was this sonic boom of whatever that flew by and I hadn’t seen it. so I could prepare or even go “OHH, there they are…”… it was just a loud indescribable ROAR that came and went without warning or anything.

I literally never saw the planes.

We made our way to our seats and we were 10 rows up from the bottom of just out of turn four. If you watch it on TV, you’ll see a ramp from the stands to the ground in that area. We were 10 rows up from the top of that exact ramp. So we were right at the opening to the pits. And Kevin Harvick’s team was directly in front of us. My Uncle Patchy would have loved these seats.

But the roar of the engines, the smell of racing fuel, motor oil, exhaust, air ratchets and the constant ass massage from the cars was astounding. I know it’s clichĂ©, but if you‘ve never been, you have to go. an unexpected bonus on this hot day was the vortex that is created by the cars going 130+ miles an hour, so a steady breeze keeps the crowd cool on a hot sunny day.

Earplugs were a must on this hot day for me, Gib went without. Yet mine weren’t those little foam easy jobbers you can plug your ears with. I thought I’d prep by using those noise cancelling over the head ones you’d find at the Home Depot or worn by Navy guys helping the planes take off on the aircraft carrier (think Top Gun)… I was clearly new at this looking around. It was me and babies wearing these headsets. I felt like I was wearing black on white tee shirt day. I would not be surprised if commentator Darryl Waltrip (“BOOGITY BOOGITY BOOGITY” himself) saw me in the crowd and announced to the nation “There’s a newbie”…

After a few hours, it was down to the last few laps. Stewart was in the lead but hadn’t pitted during the last of the cautions, giving him the lead. The dreaded Johnson was in second with fresh tires. With 2 to go Johnson gained on him and on the last lap he overtook Stewart on the back stretch and won the race.

Seems like a boo right?

Sort of.

Gib and I went to our first NASCAR race together and our drivers were the ones to fight it out for the win. The excitement was exhilarating. When he crossed the finish line I gave Gib a high-ten for the fabulous finish and we worked our way to the bus for the ride back to the car. And during that walk back it was determined that Stewart’s second place finish gave him the overall points lead for the series to that point. So the Lowe’s 48 car won the race, but Tony was in first place in the standings.

But enough about the cars… track… drivers… and the drive… the race FANS are why you should go. those internet fads called “Walmartians” look ‘normal’ compared to some of these folks. Boobs are great, but 70 yr old nipples could use a shelter. The intense different type of tattoos, piercings, and daisy dukes for 80 yr olds is why you go. I on the other hand was sitting next to a woman who had a loose sleeveless shirt on and grand 28 year old mammaries… for that reason I only really saw the last 2 laps, and what’s funny is the following year we sat in about the same spot, and she was sitting in the row below us. Yet with a better fitting shirt on the sides, she forgot a button or 2 in the front. I think I got a pic of the slip too.

So again, the race wasn’t much to see versus the people-watching… and yet I realize at that point I was one of them and finally initiated in the club of race attending race fans… and I felt welcomed to be there.

III

Tuesday, January 15, 2013

I RIGHT WRONG...


The more I read blogs and other peoples writing on the internet or in the family alone (ED, CISSY) I realize I suck as a writer. Using such words as those I cannot fathom to include in a write up, I find myself at 36 writing to an audience of 7 year olds. How do I mean? Well, in my writing, people like Aydan (9) and Carly (7) could read it and understand every word of it (minus the occasional bleeped words of course). They wouldn’t have to consult with a Roget’s thesaurus or in this day and age the Rogett’s app.  Is it one T or two? I dunno.

(Side note, it’s pronounced “Rog-eys” not “Rog-its” like I thought. Thanks Trebek. You properly- pronounced Doosh. I love Sean Connery, but only impersonated on SNL.)

Yet as I write this it still hits me weird that an odd 1,000+ hits have been associated with my blog. There’s only 54 posts up, but it has been looked at 1000+ times. I have told not many about the blog, it’s at the end of every email I send though, so maybe the occasional couponner I correspond with may check out my blog.

I told a guy at work about it, and I have a friend named Mike too so maybe he follows. Maybe not. But I know that there’s too many parents with an outward lack of imagination for boys’ names. How many Mikes do you know? I know so many that I call most of them by another name, like their last name or a goofy nickname.

The name Peter would probably be a cool overly used name if in fact it wasn’t associated with the long (duck) dong in your pants. Then again, could you imagine telling your gal to hold off while your archangel gets its wings? Maybe that’s how the bloodflow became associated with maxi pads. (They have wings too!) Is this how the bull turned red? (They give you wings)

The problem and beauty of this blog is its simplicity and its derisions from the title of the post I guess. I wish I knew what derisions meant, or even if it is used correctly. But to sound smarter than I am I will leave it in. Remember that it is dumbed down due to it being then figured out as I write the first sentence. It’s thinking out loud as the fingers type.

Do you hear the voice in your head when you write anything or do you just argue with your own conscience as to what sounds right or should be on the paper? I think of the schizophrenic side of me fighting to get words on to paper too fast screaming loud enough for me to hear it. Then I argue with the walls of my apartment and hope the walls don’t think I am a bad writer… Which brings us full circle.

I wish I was a better wordsmith.

And thanks for checking these posts out. It’s fun to know my stone cold sober (and sometimes stoned only) inner thoughts make people happy enough to come back and read, and even sometimes print and give to others to enjoy.

III

Ps. Yes, this is a stall because I have no clue as to how I will start my godson’s 3rd birthday poem, now 9 days late and counting. . . maybe inspiration will come at work tomorrow. It’s ok though, he’s too young to remember. Yet karma is pissed with me. And hatching a plan I am unaware of. Damn that karma.

Tuesday, December 18, 2012

BOREDOM... A.K.A. 2 DAYS IN DCP...

There’s something to be said about your own boredom… either you’re bored in marriage, bored in life, bored at home or work (hence this blog) or just bored for the moment. This account is about boredom you can’t do anything about. It is also referred to as “doing time”…

Now, a lot of this has been erased from my memory due to it being a looonng loonng time to be doing nothing. But I was talking to a neighborhood kid about buying pot in the neighborhood and how the neighbors/fellow renters have conversed with me about it to the point that the next step is calling the police. So the business of doing illegal business around my apartment building should be done elsewhere if at all. The problem is I’d be a hypocrite to call because I did the same things in life, just not as young.

But I remember how pot made me feel like I was one of the gang even if I was sittin at home alone. Most times though my cousins and friends took advantage of me, knowing I had been an outsider all my life, and even at one of the last meetings with the fellow ‘heads my one cousin said to my buddy “Don’t take him home yet. We haven’t gotten high and that’s why we hang out with him.” This same slut got herself laid at a Penn State game as we all sort of stood outside the car and watched the action of the car. When she got married years later I debated giving her cash or a gift card. I figured she couldn’t buy weed at target, so she got a gift card.

Personally I don’t care what these neighborhood kids do. When I say kids I mean 15-18 year olds. Unlike my fellow renters, I was that age once. They can smoke all they want and I have been outside while they smoked a blunt anyway. I sparked a clove just to “fit in” yet again…

It’s crazy to think these kids were born when I was in high school. But the business side of things need to be done elsewhere so that the kids don’t end up where I am about to write about. . .

*********

About 12 years ago I decided to drive home after a night of drinking at a place called Wanda’s. A friend had offered to give me a ride, but at the time I liked weed a lot more than freedom. So I decided to roll and smoke a blunt on the way home so mom wouldn’t ask why the whole house smelled like weed. After stopping to pee on a building where we used to get together and play basketball, I got back in my car and rolled up to the red light at the corner of 21st street and Route 15 in Camp Hill. There used to be an Exxon station at the light (now dunkin donuts) and the wendy’s that stood at plaza 21 is still there (where I had my first job in fact.)

I put my car in park due to the notoriously long red light there and laid my head back, periodically looking to see if the light was green…

Next thing I knew it was some time later, and the light was still red, but my car was not just surrounded by police, I was being nudged by 2 of them inside my car.  The blinding light of their flashlights stunned me into sobriety and I was ripped out of my car.

“Why are your pants undone?” one asked. “Any weapons inside the vehicle? What’re you doing here sir”

--“I’m waiting for the red light to change… see? It’s red. I don’t know why my pants are undone (lie)… no weapons in vehicle (truth).”

All the while stumbling and slurring.

“You’re under arrest for a DUI”…

--“But I wasn’t driving…?! I was waiting for the red light! See? It’s still red!”

“How long have you been waiting here sir?”

--“10 minutes now… the bar should still be open right?”

“sir, it’s 4:30am.”

--“…………”

“Sir are there any drugs or alcohol in the car?”

--“no” (lie)

And after them whipping me around and slamming me against my own car while asking me all these questions I stopped them immediately… “HEY! STOP IT WITH THE MANHANDLING OF ME GUYS… I’M NOT GOING ANYWHERE, I’M NOT GOING TO RUN! PLEASE?”

These were your typical marine-type meatheads feeling good to be on a police squad so they could justify their small clits by wielding a gun. So they were happy to manhandle a weakling they used to shove into lockers before they could be “legal” bullies. Yet when I stood up to the harsh behavior, they became a little more human. They took me a little more gently to their car. And if the night couldn’t have ended worse…

“well, there looks to be a half ounce in your center console… why didn’t you tell us you had drugs in your car?”

At this point my mental state was in a steady rate of decline. . . but I still had my wits…

--“who in their right mind or drunk or stoned or a combination of the three would ever tell the police they had drugs on their person, sir?”

“that’s a fine point sir”  he said, then got in the cruiser and transported me to the hospital.

I guess Harrisburg hospital was a better place for bloodletting than Holy Spirit hospital which was literally less than a block away from where I was picked up. So we went on a joyride all the way up to Route 81 and back down Front Street. In the middle of all this we had to change police cars for whatever reason. What did I know? I was bombed and lit at the time. I felt as though I was on a trip to Florida per the length of time I was in the back seat of the police car.

When we finally got to Harrisburg hospital the arresting officer sat me in a room and said “where do you live?”

-“…with my mother.”

“do you want to call her and mention  to her what happened this morning?”

-“no…………………………………………. can you?”

He seemed to dial the phone with such joy. Asshole… But as mom answered and they conversed, he said to her that I was one of the most respectful and pleasant arrests he’s ever had. I dunno what that means to me even now at 36, I was still arrested. But at the same time I guess it made mom proud of me even in my “free fall to rock bottom” moment.

So I was given ARD which meant drinking classes and loss of license. If all went well, for however long time was, it would be ok… no jail time, etc… and the pot charge was dropped. What did they do with my pot I wonder……………..? I stop my digression…

You’d think this would stop me from doing it again, but less than 6 months later…

Headed to gramma’s after a night of karaoke previous to the family reunion, I decided to stop at 7-11 to get a drink, and as I stepped in to the store, the officer pulled up behind my car, stepped out, and said  “what do you think you’re doing?”

-um, getting a drink then headed to Gramma’s, sir.

“nope, you’re under arrest for a DUI…”

Needless to say I was deflated. I knew jail time was in my future now. 2 in less than 6 months. Can you say time to grow up and learn a lesson?

Now starts the quick clean-up process. They say a judge is lenient more if you have a few things positive growing in your life. So I went to rehab classes. Even though I didn’t really abide by their rules, they really taught me a few things that proved later in life would pan out to be true. Like your drinking/drug friends would leave you when you quit. (truth)

But also I would leave there and get a six pack to drink the blues of the meetings away.

And the good thing was a slice of advice at the rehab meetings from a kid who had been down on his luck in the past and he said “before you go to jail for 2 days, stay up for 2 days so you just sleep through most of it.” Probably the greatest advice a 4’3” grown assed man could tell ya. He was a horse jockey.

The morning of the court date 1/15/03 I was woozy and yawny from being up for more than 48 hours straight. I had followed the advice from the little guy but as I yawned I teared up. That’s how tired I was.

I walked in after smoking my final cigarette and sat down. The first guy got 6 years for killing a child with a stray bullet in a gunfight.

Now it was my turn. Ever have to shit and piss and sneeze at the same time and nothing, not a bathroom or a Kleenex was in sight… that’s how this felt. Meaning either way this pans out, I was fucked.

My lawyer to the left of me, I handed in letters written to me about my character to the judge. They were letters of improvement of self supposedly written by neighbors, friends, etc… in fact I wrote them and went to the people simply for their signatures. I figured why have them do homework for my stupidity…? And they all agreed they were good enough for the judge, each showing a different aspect of my improved character. Meaning I had less to drink the last few weeks leading up to the court date.

The judge perused the letters and asked me if I had anything to add. I apologized for my actions and he sent me to the clink.

The courthouse in dauphin county is perched above the downstairs dungeon that holds its soon to be prisoners before the van ride to the mall, err Dauphin County Prison. As I was lead through the hall and handcuffed, I made a note of the time. 9:35am… (this is an approximation. I don’t remember to the minute exactly, but it comes into play later)…

I sat in a holding cell across from another holding cell with about 8 guys in it and they were seemingly well - adjusted to the view through the bars. All were basically having a party except the one whom I was lead down there with, the 6-year guy was laying flat on his back on a bench, hands on head, presuming contemplating the new normal for the next 6 years.

I continually yawned, and again tired tears flowed, so the pack of hyenas across the way pounced on that for some time.

“he’s crying! Hahahahaha!”

“that bitch ain’t gonna make it”

-          No man I haven’t slept in 48 hours… this’ll be a breeze if I can just get to sleep…

“HEY! QUIET DOWN OVER THERE!” A booming voice said from the check-in desk. “PETE, GET OVER HERE…” I went over to the guy when called and who do I see but an asshole I went to school with. Go figure.

“How’s it goin?” he asked. “Why are we being reunited here?”

-          Hey pete. (his name too) DUI. 2 day stint. Nothing big.

“Yeah you have nothing to worry about man. Did ya stay up all night? Everybody does. Just try not to yawn till you get to your bunk. And don’t mind the hyenas. They’re just happy to be out of the projects.”

-          Why you being nice?

“High school was years ago. ­­Everybody fucks up man. Everybody. Don’t let it happen again, so take care of yourself.”

-          Ummmm, ok.

 

Eventually the judge slung enough punishment to fill the van and we were all handcuffed again and were driven to DCP. It wasn’t the school bus type of ride that is clichĂ© in prison movies. It was the panel van with enough legroom for a Chihuahua.  We were stuffed in, I was seated inches across from the 6 year guy, separated by steel mesh, and I thanked karma that I wasn’t him.

Getting to the prison it was odd to see it from that side. We always drove past it going to the mall but from the other side it is a fortress. Gates, gates, and more gates. Locks. Gates. Locks. Its amazing and a wonder how anyone escapes these things. Desperate times for desperate measures I guess.

They dropped me in a holding cell that looked like a large concrete and cinderblock room. There were 4 of us in there and plenty of room to relax, chat, whatever. It was a cathedral of concrete. I’d say the walls could have been 20-30 feet high. One guy drying out from a DUI the night before, and another in for whatever reason said this was a cleaner prison than the one he was at in another state. Yup… pete and repeat (offender) were in a cell… you finish it.

After seemingly hours, but could have been 10 minutes, I was asked to be booked.

This was good I thought. Sooner done with this, the sooner I could sleep. Yet the one thing true in the movies and known around the planet are the following words: “Strip down, turn around, bend over, spread your cheeks, then turn back around and lift your sack.” I wondered what degree this guy earned as I looked at him upside down, balloon knot squinting in the light, naked as a jaybird…

Donning orange, possibly burlap fabric clothes now (itchy, orange and miserable… hooray!) I was lead into the booking wing. I sat down. The nurse checking me in was an old acquaintance I knew from the graveyard shift at AT&T. small world… This day won’t end.

After about an hour with her I was lead down a long corridor surrounded by screaming and cages and cages of men. Maybe 40 to a cage in bunk beds. And this was about 2 city blocks long. The humanity in a county prison is staggering, and this place is like a small city minus the entertainment. Food toilets sinks and beds. For thousands. It was a machine for the degenerates in society. A sad cold hard life for the mistaken few… Few, who am I kidding? Masses is more like it. Concrete, cinderblocks, and steel. If a mouse had squealed, the acoustics would have allowed it to be heard from block A to block Z, so imagine how long a human scream can be heard. Let alone a choir of screams.

I was un-handcuffed in a room that had a bunch of beds in it. The back wall was lined with cells, and this room of mattresses had about 30 mattresses in it, some bunk beds, but mostly regular beds. And when I say mattress I mean less than an inch of foam on steel.

A few dudes were chatting in the corner of the hexagonal room, and I could see faces from the slits behind the doors along the wall. This was it. I was in…

So I laid down on the one mattress, using the prison guide book they give you to let you know about life in jail as a pillow. Finally. I could sleep. After 20 minutes maybe, the door unlocked again.

“LUNCH”

Lunch was some kind of turkey and gravy thing that makes cardboard more appetizing. Peas, mashed potatoes, and milk. All of a sudden I wasn’t hungry, yet the others said ya better eat it cause dinner is worse. One of the guys in the back wall of cells asked me for my peas and I gladly gave it to him. I had to finish my milk first though so I could fill the carton with my peas.

I knew a few things. Go with the flow and don’t piss people off is about it. So the guy got my peas. Some time later, I could lay down again.

The door unlocked…

“WAMBACH”

I got up. I had to see the mental health guy they called a doctor for some pills I never got to continue my home regimen, then they dropped me off in a new cell, err home for me. It was another block, Q block, and I was in one of those cells along the back wall in a big room again yet without the mattresses like before.

8-A.

That was my address. It was a penthouse apartment on the second floor of this block and my roommate was a guy dealing with heroin withdrawal.

“You got a cigarette?” he asked shakingly…

-          Do the words ‘spread your cheeks and lift your sack’ ring a bell? Sorry man. I got 2 days and a ton of sleep to catch up on so… I’m sorry, no. What’s wrong with you?

“Heroin”

-          Ok, well, I am of no help man. Never tried the stuff. Just remember this next time you do and maybe you won’t. I wish I could bring you some help, but this isn’t the place for it.

He took my prison book and placed pages on the light that was a fluorescent glare on the side wall. The light never turned off, even at night. So the shade from the paper was welcomed. Later the C.O. made him remove the sheets.

I hopped on top bunk, and passed out. The guy was cool. He woke me up for dinner and breakfast, and lunch the next day. He sort of watched over me and even lobbied for us to clean the floors. Any time doing something other than staring at the cinderblock wall was a privilege, but unfortunately we weren’t allowed that privilege. We were made to stay in our cell the entire time. We were only let out to get our food trays. And in fact the coffee they served in the morning may as well been made from tree bark. It made me wonder if they gave the shitty experience to the guys who were first offenders to make sure they didn’t reoffend.

But the title comes in big here. Boredom. Holy shit. You couldn’t even masturbate.

The sounds of prison was constant screaming, yelling, and more than one fuck was heard about every half a second. But in my cell, that was the background noise to my celly. He was all about rubbing his hands back and forth together and his feet as well. (think Mr. Muyagi in “The Karate Kid” using his hands to heal Daniel-son… 24 hours a day) I guess it was comforting to withdrawal between the sweats and weeping.

I remember finding a ballpoint pen in my bunk and wrote on one of the painted cinderblock mortar the now patented “III”®… I wanted to let the royal “them” know I had been there.

I also remember when pulling the mattress back on my bunk that someone else wrote the following: “time go slow on Q”… even after sleeping for the better part of my stint, time was indeed slow on Q-block.

The morning of release is probably the slowest that time runs. I said goodbye to my celly and thanked him for his help through the hell that was the weekend.

The door opened and I was again handcuffed and lead down the now happy hallway of caged humanity and sent to another tiny holding cell. This was more of a cage of chain linked fencing. I was there for seemingly an hour watching the prison complex at work. I saw new people coming in looking scared as I was, I saw guys in helmets running through with another guy who was apparently misbehaving in his cell. I saw a friend of mine from the pool room at college but made sure he didn’t see me.

Eventually I was allowed to change into my suit I wore to court 2 days before and was given my shoelaces back. My oh my I had no idea how much I loved shoelaces! I was also given back my tongue ring which was taken out 2 hours before by the doctor at checkout. Needless to say it healed over faster than I could get it back in. Unreal.

Soon I was lead to the door and I was free again. I saw my dad and ran to him, hugged him HARD, and said what I wanted most at this point.

“GO TO RITE AID. I NEED CIGARETTES!”

-          Peter, now’s a great time to quit.

“After the weekend I have had, quitting is not in my immediate future!”

When I got home, I hugged my mother, who was crying happy tears. I immediately showered and changed into sweatpants. We chatted about the weekend, I told her all of the above, along with details I missed at this point, less than a month short of 10 years later. And I checked my phone. Among calls and texts there was one in particular:

 My friend Johnny K had just had his first child Dylan, and his weekend was filled with joy as mine was pure hell. But the one spec hit me funny. Dylan was born 1/15/03, at 9:35am… precisely as I was being handcuffed at the courthouse. I even had to double check with him tonight as I wrote this when Dylan was born, and he was shocked I had forgot.

But at the lowest, most bored you have ever been in your life, do you remember it fondly or do you remember that vacation with family and friends better?

I tend to try to remember the latter.

III

Sunday, December 9, 2012

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.........

+++LANGUAGE ALERT+++


COME ON IN…THE TINNITUS IS AMAZING!

So I am watching "it might get loud", a movie about 3 major guitarists talking about their love affair with their instruments. Jimmy paige, the edge, and jack white. I had seen parts of it at my friend’s house in Delaware, but we were reminiscing so much it hadn’t crossed my mind to actually pay attention to it.

I am in awe of musicians. With a stroke of the wrist they can make you dance or cry in one note. The hands and fingers hitting the parts of the wood that make the amplifier howl sends shivers sometimes.

As I watched I remembered meeting mr setzer in NJ and finding myself staring at his crotch area during the time I wasn’t backstage smoking. But it wasn’t his hips that made me drool. His fingers and mastery of the chords and strings hypnotized me. I keep finding myself wanting more from these live acts I have seen and all haven’t come close to his picking wisdom.

As I watched I remembered writing about my cousin Patrick and his band in the freezing cold one January night and the dementia of my mind to leave whilst this brilliant performance was going on. I remember calling him jimmy paige in the writeup and I realize he is right on my screen. And as brilliant as he is, jimmy paige is no Patrick MacDonald.

I am pissed I have no musical talent. None. I am not the jock or nothing really. There is no purpose for me to be of this world and I contribute nothing to society the way these people do. These folks are of the subatomic-sized group of people that through music and confidence they can change a generation.

Stairway

Sunday bloody Sunday

Seven nation army

Just writing those words and you reading them makes your head bob a bit. Currently I have to now go to youtube to listen to jack sing that goddamn song. I seriously hate the song but for whatever reason I am drawn to it so bear with me…


side note… a nice side note too… never noticed meg’s breasts were so voluptuous… I NOW LOVE THIS VIDEO. Yeah they’re the dime-nickel-quarter type, or ski jump type...but oye!

But the more I think about it I feel like painting…. (inside joke)

No I am not an instrumenteur. MSWord says that’s not a word, but you’re reading this so you should know what it is. Fuck word. Call Webster. And Gates. i made a word that i am not even one of. Who does that? people who are up at 4:20am sunday mornings.
I cannot play any keyboard, I can’t play any strings, I have no rhythm, I can’t drum, what am I good for?

I figured out I am good at eating and shitting and peeing and drinking. I can turn a plate of food into shit in a good 8 hours or so.

So I pick up my instrument now and play it. I hit a few keys and words start to form. The blank sheet turns to black lines if you stood far away, but as you come into focus you see spaces and paragraphs form.

Then there’s a blue line… from far away it means nothing, but close up you can hear music if you click the blue line with your mouse.

As I watched the documentary I saw them play to thousands, millions, trillions. I saw how each of those notes they played and spoke so eloquently about affected the crowd. You hear this song played and you see how singular one man took the time to write and it affects not just the crowd there, but eventually the nation… then the world.

One dude… you, too.


Watch this video and don’t focus on the band for what goes in your ears, listen to the crowd. One dude made the words, the group the melody… and a nation of live aid is singing it actually to the band, not the other way around. It’s as if the performer came to play for the crowd to sing to them.

Can you even fathom the power?

As a guy sitting in his apartment I don’t really want to hear people reading my emails back to me. No blog entries either. But as one guy making something from nothing, you can’t beat being in a band. Maybe a prizefighter walking in to a fight is a good enough representation of the rush of adrenaline a crowd must give you. And this rush… I feel sitting here writing about the rush. I get goosebumps watching the pixels change color in front of my eyes and realize each pixel is a human being holding in pee while feeling every moment of the song. Then again… live aid… wembley…. Just piss your pants.

And finally…


(speaking of breasts)

Sorry… whilst looking for this, that piece of garbage came thru and as much as I appreciate the efforts of miss parton, I have to feel the douche chills from her guitarist forced to try and make stairway his own… I say this and I can also say I heard not one word of her singing the song. I just watched the intro, and of course rewound to see her cleavage again.

[On a side note… Why is rewind still in the vernacular? There’s no other word for it, that’s why. Maybe “back it up” or “it starts at 2:38 so start it there…” nah, just rewind your cd or mp3. “seek backwards”]

And the following, while watching them perform and hearing paige speak of it…


those that know know…. “hey mikey….”

That’s all I thought about or ever think about when hearing this song, and as sad or happy or whatever this song is… I always laugh a little when I hear it. (wasted cousins mutually struggling to think of words and stumbling over verses while it is magically played by a once comatosed other cousin who was brought out of his drool on the table to “not fuck it up”, and he didn’t.)

But it’s time to put this instrument down and go to sleep. I wish it was a long sleep, but I will inevitably wake up tomorrow…

*sigh*

III

Ps… If you have the means, buy on amazon “it might get loud”… I highly recommend picking it up.

PSS… mr. white, as you have met ‘my boys’… pokey Lafarge and the south city three… it send shivers down my spine knowing that I knew of that Son House song as well. You just can’t beat the blues…

Friday, November 23, 2012

Sullivan Ballou's words of love


(The most ever deserving letter to make it to the blog…)

Hanging with gib is always an adventure. I never really know what to do with him, and I maintain calm by asking what he wants to watch on tv. (A circlejerk with your uncle is just about as creepy as a circlejerk period. So watching tv is more sublime than I would need otherwise.) So somehow we ended up on a show called Baggage with Springer and I have to say I had to point to the remote just to make him move to change the channel.

To my amazement he found an interview with Ken Burns. Ken spoke about and they showed footage of his series or one movie (whatever) the Dust Bowl. Amazing footage, apparently there was bad times in the plains with human erosion of the land, and the middle of the country literally had become a dust bowl back in the day. Think a blizzard of 5 feet of snow… but it’s dust and 60 MPH winds… Not the point so we move on.

He spoke about the civil war documentary a bit and it was amazing hearing what happened to them in battle.

The interviewer asked him about the Sullivan Ballou letter. He said somewhere they found it and he told his assistant (?) to make a few copies of it and he even showed the actual piece of paper he carries with him in his wallet at the interview. He said when he originally read it, he read it aloud and at the end of it everyone in the room, including himself was in tears. I hadn’t heard it before, so in fact I found it on the internet. Apparently this is on youtube, so maybe I can find it. I’ll post the link at the end. But this is a letter written to his wife a week before the battle of bull run and it happens to be probably the most beautiful thing I have seen made from a man to a woman. This is the kind of relationship I’d love to have with a woman, but there’s none out there deservant of me… hahaha!

Ken said he’d find it a nice spot just after the battle of bull run ran in the film, and there it lies to end the particular part of the series. Ken said it summed up the entire feel of the awfulness of a civil war.

Without further adoooooooooooo….. I give you warning. Get a tissue. Otherwise, this is the dream of my heart:
(written as read from the film...)

A week before the battle of Bull Run Sullivan Ballou, a Major in the 2nd Rhode Island Volunteers, wrote home to his wife in Smithfield.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

July 14,1861

Camp Clark, Washington DC

Dear Sarah:

The indications are very strong that we shall move in a few days - perhaps tomorrow. And lest I should not be able to write you again I feel impelled to write a few lines that may fall under your eye when I am no more.

I have no misgivings about, or lack of confidence in the cause in which I am engaged, and my courage does not halt or falter. I know how American Civilization now leans upon the triumph of the government and how great a debt we owe to those who went before us through the blood and suffering of the Revolution. And I am willing - perfectly willing - to lay down all my joys in this life, to help maintain this government, and to pay that debt.

Sarah, my love for you is deathless, it seems to bind me with mighty cables that nothing but omnipotence can break; and yet my love of Country comes over me like a strong wind and bears me irresistibly with all those chains to the battlefield. The memory of all the blissful moments I have enjoyed with you come crowding over me, and I feel most deeply grateful to God and you, that I have enjoyed them for so long. And how hard it is for me to give them up and burn to ashes the hopes and future years, when, God willing, we might still have lived and loved together, and see our boys grown up to honorable manhood around us.

If I do not return, my dear Sarah, never forget how much I loved you, nor that when my last breath escapes me on the battle field, it will whisper your name...

Forgive my many faults, and the many pains I have caused you. How thoughtless, how foolish I have sometimes been!...

But, 0 Sarah, if the dead can come back to this earth and flit unseen around those they love, I shall always be with you, in the brightest day and in the darkest night... always, always. And when the soft breeze fans your cheek, it shall be my breath, or the cool air your throbbing temple, it shall be my spirit passing by.

Sarah do not mourn me dead; think I am gone and wait for me, for we shall meet again...

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sullivan Ballou was killed a week later at the 1st Battle of Bull Run.

III

Thursday, September 13, 2012

IT'S LIKE YOUNG TIMES ON DECEMBER 26...


*** OPENING PUBLISHING NOTE... THIS IS MY REUNION RECAP OF 2012. YOU WILL FIND THINGS MENTIONED FOR JULY 30TH, AS WELL AS TWO WEEKS LATER. BEING A HUNT N PECKER, MY WORK TAKES TIME. SO...... .DEAL WITH IT. ***

2012 ZARBO FAMILY REUNION RECAP

The week after the reunion is always a sad time. It seems that when we anticipate such a blast and it always is, the fun seems to last only a few hours then it’s over. Maybe I can talk the chairperson into a beach weekend or even a weekend at the Poconos for the next reunion, simply to make it last longer. Just don’t bring your dogs. Didn’t one get eaten by a coyote that year? Maybe it was a cougar. Then again maybe one of the matriarchs attacked one of the mid-twenties cousins and had her way with him. Maybe it wasn’t that kind of cougar… Nor that type of dog. My mind is going down the path not to be travelled by, so we’ll back up and call it what it was:

A heck of a ZFR weekend!

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

Backing up to Thursday, I had to see a doctor over a condition I’d rather not talk about. It seems the operation I had really may not have healed well, so I had an appointment to see my original doctor to see what needs to be done. As I left work at 3:30 pm whom do I see walking from the train station towards my parking garage but my weekend roommate, Uncle Gib. We walked to my car and he gave me his luggage, and said either he can come with me and sit in the waiting room for 3 hours (or however long this specialist took to see me) or he can chill in the 'burg till I could pick him up. He chose the latter and I was off.

After the appointment, I was feeling most comfortable (not!), and I found and picked up Gib. We went home to get situated and hunkered down for a final respite before the explosion that was the ZFR weekend.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

THE VINNIE JOY MEMORIAL GOLF TOURNAMENT, 2012

Waking up in the morning on a Friday made me think I had to go to work. Yet I took the day off to play golf which meant I’d be in pain for the rest of the 2 years I had to recover between golf tournaments. Golf takes a lot out of you and the weather report for the day wasn’t the greatest. Thunderstorms, humidity… yes, I packed baby powder.

I dropped off Gib at his friend Marty’s because Gib didn’t feel like feeling hurt all 2 years like I was going to be feeling, and then headed to Manada Golf Course. It’s a new place to me, but some of the golfers out there were pretty seasoned on the course itself. Plus it had sand!!!

There were plenty of players on the course from our family, but not such a large group as we’ve had in the past… one team was Mikey Mac, Sean Murphy, and Jess Mac… one team was Kiwi, Jess & Zach, (Mikey Mac’s buddy from Iraq, aka honorary family member)… One team was Tony, Skip, Nina and Emily… and finally the ragtag squad of Tre (me), my buddy Marc, Jonny Mac and his neighbor Jerry.  Jerry was an elder Army Vet and he happened to be a heck of a golfer. Yet what’s funny was throughout the day he was telling me what I was doing wrong and how to improve. Yet clearly what I was doing wrong was the fact that I was golfing, period...

While the rest of the field was killing the drives and watching their PGA worthy balls sail down the course, I was having fun digging in the ground with my wedges and woods. I think at one point Jerry, whom didn’t know of my driving prowess, was told to stand in front of the ball because sometimes I have been known to hit the ball backward. My place clearly is not on the golf course, and I have to say the most improved award if there was one goes to Jonny Mac. He’s usually my counterpart in finding balls in the tall grass and forests, but this time on the golf course he was hitting the ball fairly straight and in the air for some distance. We used a lot of his chips and drives. Well, ok… more than we used to...

While my long game needed clear attention from the coaching department, Jonny Mac, Marc and Jerry kept us in the game. Their long drives helped me clean up their mess because what I found out that Friday was I had a clear (good for 3-4 holes) short game.  I even putted in 2 putts for birdies, and one of the chips I made went too fast but right over the hole. But when it came to driving, I was lucky if my ball made it to the girls’ tees. Except one nice drive on I want to say 17... And that one nice drive (meaning it went forward and in the air) hit a tree.

It was clear that maybe, just maybe on this day, I should have just watched.

The weather held off what was supposed to be horrid thunderstorms in the region throughout the day, and it was beautiful cool weather at the eleven o’clock tee time. But by around high noon, the sun had come out to bake off the morning dew and the humidity decided to take a bite out of the day. The sun was beaming hot which made for a more rushed golf game to go literally chill out in the club house for some time.

When the round was finally over, it was learned that the golf we played was actually quite good for any amateur and rarely-play-ever golfers team (-4). But the heroes of the day were the team of Sean, Mikey Mac & Jess Mac with a score of -5. Kiwi’s threesome did well at 8+, and Tony, Emily, Nina and Skip came in last. And my teammates Marc and Jerry received achievement awards individually for longest drive (Marc eclipsed Sean by literally a foot) and Jerry hit closest to the pin.

All in all a fine round of golf for the remembrance of Uncle Vinny Joy. There were no complaints, except of course for the heat. It was, for lack of a better choice of words, treacherously hot.

Afterwards, I picked up Gibby and headed back to Mechanicsburg for a shower, nap, and preparation for an evening at the Elk’s club.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

KARAOKE AT THE ELK’S CLUB, 2012

Last time I was at the Elk’s club it was for the same occurrence. Superfuntime karaoke. Yet it was actually today (July 30th 2 years ago) at 11:07 pm that the Wambachs’ lost their matriarch, and it was announced at the Elk’s Club when it happened. So I had some inner demons to suppress as I walked in the club. So many good memories, yet so many sad ones too… As much as I miss my grandma, we weren’t there that day to bring back memories of the past but, rather to make new ones for the future… and do that we did.

I saw some familiar faces in the club as Gib and I walked in fashionably late. Songs were being sung as if it was 10 years ago at Mr. G’s. Everyone seemed to be having a fun time and libations were making the rounds of reunionites. I ordered the standard pitcher of water and sat with Emily and Tony. We discussed couponing among few other things, and then Magdalena got up to sing.

Lina (or apparently I have been spelling it wrong on all her cards for 12 years) Lena Murphy sang her little heart out full of Journey with a little help from Kiwi during the songfest that evening, and I have to say I am happy I moved up to watch her do her thing. It was magnificent, and if it weren’t for the once again pitch-perfect and beautifully vibrato’d Manu (ya couldn’t have let Lena take this one, could ya? You’re so loud and competitive! Unreal!), she’d have stolen the show. Magdalena brought a tear to my eye and I could see her proud mama sitting off to the right so I gave ReRe a thumbs up as I walked by her.

As I mingled I saw this stick figure walking around and to my amazement, it was a real human. She strolled to my side and gave me a hug. When my palms hit my elbows I had no idea who she could be, but the voice hasn’t changed at all.  I picked up my jaw from the floor and attempted to speak to her but my jaw kept landing on the floor. The transformation from one hot dog sales lady to this teenie weenie, err, “ooooh hoooo… witchy woman” was incredible. Like a caterpillar to a butterfly, Madame Jean Cofer (“hot dog” be gone!!) sprouted wings and looked light as a feather. I-I-I-I was speechless. I’d say Mr. Cofer is a very, very lucky man before but now he’d better watch out. Hmm I wonder if he knows what chloroform smells like…? Yet as usual, all the hot chicks I know are related to me.  It’s a sad truth.

Yet there was one more major score I had to settle with this club, and it was with that of the darned pool table. The last time I was there was pretty much the last time I played and it was awful. I brought a shaper with me this time though and it was up to Tony and Carlo to figure out who was going to play me. I didn’t bring my A+ game, but I’d say I brought my B- game, and it was satisfying enough to forget all the golf miscues I had earlier in the day. I had a few good runs on the table and I was happy with my performance. I played Tony, Carlo, Mikey Mac, and all the while I was getting coached by a young man whom didn’t even speak English. I asked him which ball he wanted me to put in the pocket, and I did my best to perform his request. His name was Frank, he was maybe seven years old, and if he was 4 feet tall by then I’d be surprised. For the most part the balls dropped in the appropriate holes and his grandfather Frank seemed happy about my keeping him busy instead of shooing him away from the table. I could see him laughing with us in seeing his grandson’s enjoyment of the game, and honestly even at seven years old he was a great coach. He saw a lot of shots I didn’t see and challenged me more than I ever would have on my own. I eventually played Frank Sr and got crushed, but still it was fun times for their whole family. As I gave up the table the very Greek Frank Sr said “in a year he’ll be speaking English fluently” and I retorted “Great! In a year I’ll know not a lick of Greek so that works for me!” But Sr thanked me for being so kind and patient with his grandson. (If he only knew what kind of patience I had for children -0- he’d probably kill me, on the other hand I was playing my game at a satisfactory level so I couldn’t complain.)

The night wound down at about 12:30 am, and as some were deciding where to continue drinking and eating, I decided against it and drove our getting elderly butts home to Mechanicsburg. It had been a long day. Gib and I weren’t up much later before we crashed out awaiting the biggest party celebrating the family to be had.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

ZARBO FAMILY REUNION, 2012

***We’d been using the same venue for some time. I even remembered the name this year for the GPS (really I had Hannah’s email printed), but nonetheless I was expecting to hit the exit off i81 to get right there. At the last minute though there was a change in venues due to some kind of mix-up with the place err whatever, so we were reissued a pavilioned establishment not unlike our usual digs. Cibort Park was awesome, it even had an outdoor stage and kitchen. There were bleachers for the softball game watchers and all cars no matter where you were parked were really close. The playground worked out for the kids… It was spectacular. The only complaint I had all day: it was humidly end-of-July hot. If we didn’t know air conditioning could have been part of any family reunion it would probably serve as a permanent location. On the other hand, it proves what you can accomplish in looking for a 100-200 person reunion venue in less than a week. If they had a Carnegie Hall for this, I would at least expect a plaque in Hannah, Kiwi and the rest of the 2012 committee’s honor there.***

SOOOOOOOOOOO… Gib and I worked our way out of bed and headed to the new place. It took some finessing in the GPS but we made it and got there again fashionably late. We were just in time to watch the lunch food be put away slowly and be part of the makeshift softball game to be had.

Our usual captains of Timmy and Nate couldn’t make it to the reunion. Nate had his new excuse for not seeing him for some time, yet there are plenty of weddings and family happenings beyond holidays coming to meet the new cousin. I’m beyond excited to meet the baby and Grandma Cissy says the new addition is “wonderful, just fabulous”… no shock there… she wrote the book on three-syllabled uplifting adjectives. A math teacher… Go figure.

And Timmy Hill is on the other side of the continent keeping up with the Joneses and doing whatever the newest of Mexicans do for a thrill. Yet as fun it is to have them as our usual captains, I can say they were sorely missed.

So Kiwi and Sean it was, as the new civil war within family that is the family reunion softball game was about to be picked. And boy was it hot. I was on the “Heat Exhaustion” team and we played against “the Dehydration” team.

In the middle of the game, we must have been close to an airport because a few planes were flying close to the ground. I figure one of them got close enough to see who or why the Nutzis were playing in this extensive heat.  For the 3 seconds it passed over us, we were riveted to the low flying plane, and oddly enough it was so close we could see the plane’s rivets as well.

As our team took the field in the final inning, I shouted “last inning” halfway to be funny and halfway because I was on the heat exhaustion team and I knew the hot, tingly feeling I was starting to experience wasn’t a good one. So either way, after this last half of an inning in the outfield, if they finished this long hard game we started without me that was fine, I was headed to the coolers to get some cold water. And yet, oddly enough, at the end of the second inning, it was over. It wasn’t just me who suffered from the heat, apparently it was everyone.

Who won? Like the Civil War, who cares? We had fun. It was Civil. And 2 innings made it unofficial anyway. Uncle Chris needed a shower, or maybe to try a new laundry detergent. Because as Sal mentioned later, he was more of a belly itcher than a pitcher. Kiwi also needs to understand that even when you are playing catcher for the other team to let the ball bobble a bit when tagging out your own teammate. That way it looks like you made an effort while secretly letting Tony score a run for YOUR team… and to continue the tradition of the Masciulli’s at slow pitch, Nina (like her brother the reunion before her) struck out.

After the game I asked Aunt Rita for some food because I decided to stupidly play softball first when Gib and I arrived. I snagged a few pieces of chicken and salad from the fridge and sat by myself in the middle of the pavilion so the smokers didn’t bother me and I didn’t bother them. I have an odd allergy, and I call it odd because I smoked for YEARS. But I guess overexposure made me allergic to it now. Oh well. I was doing fine and who sits next to me but Aunt Carm and Nina and Skip. They all immediately lit up and I thought “smoked chicken and phlegm it is”! I couldn’t get away from it most of the day and its fine. For one sniffley day I could deal with the smokers. It’s family, so it was cool.

Carm asked me about where I was living now and how I liked it. I told her Mechanicsburg… “The white shore is a pain in the butt. Things get done right and immediately. If there’s a pothole, it’s gone by the end of the day. Anything you put out there for the trash gets taken. ANYTHING. And there’s few ethnic people. Why? I dunno. I like some pepper mixed in with my salt and comparatively to Harrisburg City, Mechanicsburg is a Morton’s factory. You can leave your bike on the front lawn and 20 minutes later it’ll still be there. I want to steal a bike out of spite to show these kids this ‘Leave it to Beaver’ lifestyle is a dream!!! But to me it’s a nightmare. Plus with everything running so smoothly, I needed to move back to my city. I need a reason to be pissed with my government!” [to loosely quote Jeannie Bueller in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off: “If you say [Linda Thompson], you lose a testicle…”] 

Aunt Carm told me she is living over by the Inn of the Dove and she likes it a lot but the animal population over there is outrageous. She had been on her seat in the garage smoking a cigarette and what did she see running under the car but a skunk. She said they’ve had a few instances of them now, and she screamed for Carlo to get it out luckily without being sprayed. But overall, they like their new house and are happy to have moved there.

I finished eating lunch as I walked and mingled around with my clothes now superglued to my sweat covered body, I found my way around and saw an old (young) favorite of mine. She’s my biggest fan and has asked me repeatedly to write a book. (If she read my blog, she’d have known just coming up with a title is a pain in the butt!) Christine Stanisec (you spell it… the hot one that isn’t Uncle Chip) said “Hey you! You remember your cousin –dammit I wanna say Joe but I think its Chris… we’ll go with Chris—Chris right? [edit: it's Chip] And he now has a fiancĂ©e {insert beautiful redhead name here}!”

Firstly I did the middle aged adult thing: “Man I remember you when you were this tall – (hand about hip-height or so) – and looking at {beautiful redhead name escapes me} I can see no reason why he wouldn’t marry you!” She was stunning, and as usual, all the hot chicks I know are family. And she wouldn’t marry me. I couldn’t even remember her name 2 minutes after meeting her, let alone (now) 2 weeks from then.

Working my way around I saw Amber and Frank Lopez, their children, and again I saw this beautiful redhead. “Hey didn’t I just meet you over there?” 

“No,” she snarled… “I’m Ivy!” Great. She’s only been in the family for 20 years, you’d think I’d know who she was married in with but no, she’s part of the Jeff Josh or John crew, and I think it is Ivy and John or Jeff… I’m going with John this time, which means I need to get to know my family better. But if she knew the compliment I was giving her confusing her with the 20 year old redhead beauty I had seen a minute before, she’d be 100% fine with it. I gotta remember in 2 years, Ivy is the one with the reddish grey hair. Maybe she was tired of getting confused with the hot redhead. Or the anticipation of a long ride… John and Ivy were headed to the Outer Banks, NC that same day.

Names were not my strong suit that Saturday… I called cousins their brother’s name (sorry Christopher, or Philip, or whoever you are, but thanks for telling me you did the same thing…), screwed up with people I haven’t seen for 2 years, and was happy I recognized faces at least. Just don’t make me talk to you.

Continued mingling allowed me to gain a small amount of access to a prized member of the family whom I hadn’t met before. And as we can see so far my remembrance of names in the family is squat. So I associate my newest met family member with the large store on Grayson Road in Harrisburg. He is the Walmart of the clan of Masciulli’s. And his name is Grayson. He’s the perfect mix of the beauty of Emily and the curly hair of Tony.  I even think I saw a grey in his long curly afro. But he’s adorable and a seemingly fun kid to have around. I figure I’ll see him again at the next reunion.

As I mingled more I got away from a few folks and studied banners I hadn’t seen before, and one of them were for the Sanner clan. It may have been up for years, but isn’t as memorable as, say, the Hill Banner. And as I looked more there was one super small one that may have been the most artistic effort put into any banner as of yet.

The post-its spelled out the word “epic” and in fact I believe it was. Hopefully someone saved it. It was made by Ethan Wadsworth (of Jacque Hill fame), Alyssa Rose (of Chris Wambach fame) and others I presume. But mainly the artwork seemed so simple but naming everything and the thought that went into each post-it note was amazing. The kids’ creativity blew me away. I can’t seem to do anything in life, and these kids are brilliant artists. I even commissioned Ethan to come up with a new logo for the 2014 reunion, and he’s all for it.

Finally getting to the end of the pavilion I saw Tug Sanner, Hayden McClain, and the guy whose wife said he needed to run around more. They were playing Frisbee and adjusted their game to play with the travelling shade. It was brilliant, so I joined in… It was mentioned to go to the softball field, but it was too hot for humid Frisbee. We didn’t do too bad, but I was disappointed I wasn’t my old self at the tossing game. I used to play on just about a weekly basis and didn’t have to move when throwing or catching. But it had been some years and the rust had shone through.

Tug happened to be wearing a Chevrolet hat so I questioned his reasoning and he said he happened to like Nascar. (Say 14?) He told me a story that I have told almost word for word about how he got into Nascar. (say 14?) Someone said if you watch the rednecks, you have to pick a driver. (SAY 14!) So he picked Jimmy Johnson. (That’s 48…L) And as all his fans say “He was still a rookie when I got into him”… blah blah blah make room on the wagon… So I explained my story which was again, if you watch the rednecks you have to pick a driver, and I liked the color orange, so I picked Tony Stewart. (Then 20, now 14)… They called him “Big Orange” and the following year he won the championship. So naturally I was hooked. Plus his mouth back then was legendary, trashing his sponsors among other things, so I enjoyed every minute of him. Nowadays he’s tamed down though. I think it’s the sponsor change too. You can piss off a carpenter all you want at Home Depot, just don’t mess with the secretaries at the Office Depot.

(Goofing aside, I got his email address to get in on a fantasy league of Nascar. Then I introduced him to Gibby (a fellow 48’er) and Patchy (a Harvick #29 fan) so there’s a little more fun in the family… when a race comes to town we oughta hook up and go.)

After Frisbee I ran to my car to grab my hacky sack. As I did so, I sauntered past the “Gone But Not Forgotten” table. I’m an emotional person and to be honest I did really well there. Until I saw the awesome happy looking picture of Uncle Mike Comitz.  I couldn’t hold it together anymore, and I had to let it out for 3 minutes at my car. Luckily though I don’t think anyone saw me, and I pulled myself together again to play some hacky sack.

I rounded up Tony Masciulli, Patty Mac Daddy, and Skip. No no we’re all older than 30 playing hacky sack as if we were 18 again. Skip was worried he wasn’t good enough to play with us until he saw us play and realized he was probably better than we were. Well, except for Patty Mac Daddy. He may have cut his hair, but the flippy hippy is still in there. 

After a while they started setting up drums on the stage so naturally we lost Patty Mac.  And soon the circle broke up. I stopped back at my car and took a powder bath. I felt like a chinchilla taking a dust bath. And wow it felt great just to be dry-ish.

And if you were at that end of the pavilion around that time you may have been run over by the new sensation sweeping the playground: full contact, obstacle course bocce ball...

Dinner was served with such flare and mastery it was amazing, and it was over before it started. And food was tremendous. Yeah sure spaghetti and meatballs may not sound like a four course meal to you, but when you are having such a good time with family I would have been happy with just about anything.  So why not keep it Italian? Luckily though none of the meatballs were Zarbos. (sour balls) 

But then something odd happened. A breeze filtered through. It was nice, really nice. But with that breeze and humidity came a Eurythmics lyric:  Here comes the rain again / Falling on my head like a memory / Falling on my head like a new emotion… Then CCR: I wanna know / Have you ever seen the rain / Comin down on a sunny day… Then childhood: RAIN RAIN GO AWAY! COME ON BACK ANOTHER DAY!

Did it rain? Nah, I wouldn’t call it that. I’d say a water tower lost its floor somewhere in the sky and all the water came rushing down and slammed our little party. People rushed to get the felt banners down and luckily they didn’t get so wet just yet. But I thought about building an ark. There were plenty of wooden picnic tables to start with.

Since the deluge was on, anyone hoping to hand out family awards had better get their pipes clean. And clean them she did.

The birthday girl Cissy had just celebrated her 70th with us, and now her voice was put to the test. I overheard her saying she was worried about using a PA system in the rain. (I figured she would have been more worried about who was handing out the brown acid. Calm down elders, it’s on the announcements of the 1969 Woodstock albums, a.k.a. the real one… and that festival didn’t stop for the rain either…) So she made her hands into a bullhorn and all were happy to have been sitting near.  She handed out awards to those people in the family who inspire us to do better, people in the family who did well for themselves, those who kept a pledge to lose weight, and even those people in our family who were married in and are better sour balls than the blood-sour ones.

Hannah, who needs no bullhorn, stepped in and gave a touching speech about Aunt Jean and what the 2012 gift was and how we all got one. She mentioned how hard the reunion is to put on, and the monumental effort it takes to pull it off. It’s a chicken with your head cut off kinda feeling and as much fun as it is to do and be a part of, it is also uncomfortably difficult.  So as she gave Aunt Jean the “You’re Awesome” award, the skies cleared and a rainbow appeared. It seems the matriarchs and patriarch of the Zarbo family were smiling down upon us this day.

After which was officially time for the Zarbo talent show (I took notes, albeit sloppy ones… so if I get titles wrong its due to a few reasons… I can’t write legibly, so I can’t read, I am not a music guru like, well, everyone else is… and in some cases I had no idea what you were doing or singing so I just wrote what you did.) hosted by Kiwi.

There were a few acts that demanded to be seen and judged on Zarbos’ Got Talent,  namely Madison Cofer and her (better than Gabby Douglas’s floor routine) dance. It was amazing, fluid, and you could see her improvement since the last talent show.

Next up (in order of appearance) Sal sang “Let it Rock”, it was a heck of a rendition! It was a home run! Which was better than his mom (and uncle before her last reunion) did playing softball J

[The only thing missing during the whole talent show was Max strumming along on his guitar like last reunion... although this time they were fighting over the drum kit… ]

Carly MacDonald was next and she sang a song I think called “Party Rock” by the Black Eyed Peas (tonight’s gonna be a good night). Carly’s home is on stage, and I don’t think it will take long for the next Miley Cyrus to make millions for her favorite Uncle, err, manager Tre. She moved and grooved while she sang and as I sat next to my dad, Pete said “Well, you can tell whose kid that is!”… When you get famous, just remember this advice: If you ever get into a limo with a skirt on, wear underwear (Nowadays we’re all paparazzi…  So imagine just how bad it’s gonna be in 15 years.) and if you happen to head anywhere near Beaver Stadium, or a church for that matter, you have nothing to fear because you’re a girl. But keep a close eye on your brother!!!!!!!!!

Next up Lena sang something sweetly and after she did so Uncle Patchy and his grandson Jay did a little stand up comedy. Jay seemed like a knock-knock off the old block-block. Jay, when you get older, we’ll have to talk comedy and I can share a file or two with ya... otherwise your great grandfather had a few zingers up his sleeve as well. Use your blood given talent a shot when you get older. You may get lucky and get a ZFR “Most Funniest” award for your effort, yet there is stiff competition out there and a bunch of sore losers...

Next up was one of the older kids. Tug Sanner got up and recited one of Grandpa’s Poems for the touching moment of the talent show. It was the one about Pittsburgh and how beautiful Pittsburgh was, and included the Pirates and Steelers… so Uncle Patchy was happy.

Next up the Joy kids sang a song and then we Nutzarbos sang “Do, re, mi” of which I only knew the scale words so its probably best I wasn’t singing. We found out the night before that my talent was definitely not singing.

Patty Mac and Aydan took the stage with Patty on banjo and his 9 year old son on drums. They played a banjo song called “Salty Dog Blues”, and they brought the house, err, pavilion down. It was awesome, and Aydan is a gifted musician. My dad was worried why he was sitting at the drum kit, but I told him not to worry.  Aydan has been playing some kind of percussion since he was about 5 or so, and then when the song was over Kiwi told about the same thing to the rest of the group. And Uncle Pete was impressed!

Uncle Joe got up and told how proud he was of his son and daughter. Tom is working on finding ceramics of the Susquehannock Indians and I think his findings are part of the IUP library. I may not have that right. My notes aren’t the greatest which is why I barely graduated community college with an ASS. Degree, and Tom is getting his DOCTORATE soon.  But Tom is a marvel of anthropological and archaeological information and it makes me wish I hung with him under the piano years ago to maybe steal some of his IQ. Shoulda got some legos. But maybe if we ever go swimming I can get some of his genius thru osmosis. (the concentration changes in water…from low to high or high to low… thinkin high to low. . . so it would work out in my favor! Again, HACC vs UNLV, so I am almost sorta right.)

And Manu, well, she is a brilliant artist herself. We saw or heard her singing styling the night before, and she worked hard on her thesis called “Surviving the Quarter-Life Crisis”. She passed it and is enjoying herself in a linen shop working toward teaching I believe. I trailed off into the bathroom but I am looking forward to reading her thesis. I only was able to see her artistry in pictures and I am sure pictures did it no justice. When I saw an example of one of the cupcakes in person I was flabbergasted. She did sculpture and it was breathtaking. Somebody has to discover her soon. The art world knows nothing of her, but when they find out, she will explode onto the scene, giving more fodder for Uncle Joe to boast about at the next reunion!

Next up, Kiwi and Hayden performed a song called “I’ll Follow You Into the Dark”. It was a beautiful tune and my dad was amazed at Kiwi’s range of music stemming from his karaoke performances last night to now this. Gibby was happy to have finally heard Kiwi sing for real and said to me later that he was highly impressed and it was the first time he heard his godson sing. Mine too, yet I wasn’t impressed, rather, I was floored.  He’s G-R-E-A-T. And Hayden is showing some real talent on the guitar adding to his probability of being the old soul in the 4G band, with Nick on bass, Hayden on lead guitar, Aydan on drums, and Carly singing.

The Zarbo Family Singers graced the stage and sang a song about Giuseppe Zarbo… the one where we find out the secret behind the name… Zarbo means a sour ball.  But the added bonus to this was they each added their own lyric to the song and compiled them and sang it all together. It was cool to hear a new element on an old family song.

The brilliant artists claimed the floor after the Zarbo Singers performed and Ethan, Alyssa, and Chris performed a short play for the family they just made up. Unfortunately with no microphones, I had a problem knowing what was up but it looked like fun.

Following the talent show, the 2014 plans were made and Pete Jr got up to volunteer himself for the chair of the reunion committee next reunion. He also added in that if he were to do it, he’d pick his own committee and no one was resistant to that, except for his first pick, Uncle Joe, who has other worldly goings-on’s that said he may not even make it to 2014 ZFR. We applauded his efforts in aiding Haiti though.  He went through the crowd (don’t pick me) and found people he said were responsible (don’t pick me) and could handle the immense work of the job (don’t pick me) of putting together a reunion. (don’t pick me). His (please) picks (don’t) are (pick) as (me) follows: Himself, Jacque Hill, Bryan Herchelroath, Jeanie “teenie weenie” Cofer, Phyllis Comitz, Rita Marie Somich and you guessed it, me. It’s a ton of work, but I’m happy to be part of it. Sort of.

The party wound down and as we left it was learned that Ella, Sean and Danielle’s daughter, hit her head on the ground and it wasn’t sure if she needed to go to the hospital. So the after party plans got shifted to the backburner until we heard other news.

Other news was promising, and it was determined the after party was on and those of us who wanted to go went to Sean’s house. Its located just off Locust Lane, and it’s an awesome house. The master shower is spectacular, so Sean and Danielle may just be the cleanest people on the planet every time you see them. It has a large backyard for their pug Chance to run around in, and a play area for Ella as well. Alcohol was served, beerpong was underway, and a little known game to city folk like me called Cornhole was ready to go. Its an adult beanbag game that reminded me of beanbag tic tac toe as a kid. But its mostly like horseshoes but safer with the kids running around. Dunno bout you but if I were a kid I’d rather get hit with a beanbag than a horseshoe.

As the night wore on, teams played and played these games but one team was an abundant winner of the game. Sean teamed up with a woman whom looked so much like Anne Herchelroath that both Jonny Mac and Erin Mac who saw her separately, gave “Anne” a hug and asked how she was doing… Her name was in fact Angie and if she was a professional Cornholer I wouldn’t be surprised. (That doesn’t sound right but it’s the name of the game…) They were unstoppable. Every toss got them a point. They either hit the hole, were on the board, or made Half n halfs… not to mention it is Sean’s game so naturally there was no beating this squad. Mikey Mac and I came closest at 21-20 loss, Sean said, but the biggest losers had to be those who got routed 21-0… twice. I think Tony and Skip liked each other before this party but at this point I wouldn’t have put it past them to hate each other. It was a sad state of affairs, and then it was learned Angie was a softball pitcher. At that moment I threw in the towel. That was the end of games for me.

I sat, chatted, drank sodie from a couponing trip that evening, and was merry.

Gib and I went home around 3-4 am and realized the sad truth. The grand ZFR 2012 celebration of friends and family was over, and on Monday Gib boarded the train for home. It was back to normal life.

Boo.

Yet now we only have 365 days x 2 years to wait for the next one. 730 days. And it can’t come soon enough!

III

 

Ps… Maybe next reunion we should hand out name tags… If no one else, it would at least help me. . . J