Major Minority

Opressive heat the past few days. A/C units humming their mechanized tunes day n night. Played some early pick up soccer yesterday with "the Albanians" to avoid mid-day heatstroke. The venue was Stamford High School which has a sweet turf field that's forgiving on aging knees.

My friend, Mark, often talks about the Albanians and how "they're like dogs, barking at you all the time." He warns me that if I bark back, it'll quickly turn into a scrap, and they'll gang up on me. He says, "I don't know how much I can help you, Greg. There are too many."

This was a gross exaggeration on Mark's part. They were actually a friendly bunch.

The Albanians take the field at 9am and play until 11am. That's when they relinquish the field to the Brazilians. This is an unoffical tradition at Stamford High School. The field is public, but soccer's subcultures rule it at specific times Sunday mornings.

Albanians aren't the only ones to show up, though. They just happen to be the majority of the players at 9am. A few Mexicans, Africans, and Russians also bring their boots, ready to play.

When the teams divide, it's the Albanians versus the rest of the world.

I have to admit, I had to Wikipedia Albania. I had no clue where it was. Near France? Maybe in Africa? For my geographically-challenged readers, it's on the Adriatic Sea just west of Greece, Macedonia, and Serbia. The country is an emerging democracy and they speak Albanian. I found nothing else interesting to write about it.

Our goalkeeper was a fat Mexican whose real name was Ricardo. But everyone there called him "Two-ffon" because was a much heavier version of the great Itailian goalkeeper Gigi Buffon.

I joined two other pudgy Mexicans in midfield. One liked to call himself "Messi" after the great Argentinian player Lionel Messi. He played nothing like his namesake. The other simply answered to "Alex" and he was a pretty good player.

We had a Colombian and a Lithuanian at the back. A unidentified South American up front with one of the Albanians (who generously decided to play with us to make the sides even).

I was the only American out there, the most major minority that morning. But it didn't matter a bit once the ball started rolling. I got the chance to create with people I would otherwise never meet. That's why I am grateful for this sport.

GM

Fingers Crossed

I'm-a takin the afternoon off today. Gonna play me a round of golf with a few friends if the clouds can hold in their tears.

I heard a comedian say a better name for golf is "shitngoddammit" cause that's all you hear on the course. And instead of numbering the holes, you should give em names like "aggravation" or "pain in the ass." Agreed.

But the beer cart is always around the corner.

K has her second interview with a fitness club up in the wilderness of Ridgefield this morning. She already received a job offer as a soccer coach for a girls varsity high school team. If this interview goes well, she'll have to make a tough decision. I'm trying to stay out of it.

She been thinking a lot lately, and now is the time to stop thinking and follow her intuition. Don't let money, fear or any other garbage influence her decision. I admire her. She's taking a chance to pursue something she's always wanted to do.

Good luck, K. Fingers crossed for ya.

Love,

GM

Billionaires, Listen Up

My job this week is to interview hedge fund investment managers: A rare and interesting breed. My company is developing a pitch presentation for them. And I’m digging n sleuthing for info in order to write intelligently about what they do.

So I slip into my starchies, head to their glass offices, click on the recorder and let em go on for an hour or so.

They’re a kahki n polo crowd, but that’s sheep’s clothing. They are a carnivorous bunch, indeed, earning a living by singling out the weak.

To oversimplify it, they invest in bankrupt companies. That’s right, hemmoraging companies, troubled companies, or, as they like to euphamize it, “distressed” companies.

Who wants to invest in that?

I tend to like my investments strong n stable, decades of heritage, an impenetrable reputation and, of course, hearty profits.

Not these guys. They like their investments with companies wiped out by hurricanes or washed up by mismangement. They like em in the middle of legal battles. They like em on the brink.

In essence, this fund is an investment portfolio of 30 crappy companies. So, again, who wants to invest in that?

Billionaires do.

In other words, my friends, their ideal client is you. My faithful readers who own Carribbean islands. My Left Back loving oil magnates. My adoring fans who own casinos in Monte Carlo.

It’s all quite genius. A bankrupt company is a cheap company, so they snap em up hoping for a turnaround. And I’m hoping you’re smart enough to see the logic in it.

I’d invest, but the minimum is $5 mil investment, and I need to keep those kinda funds free for my basement renovation.

So, my billionaire readers, if you wanna go for it, I gotta name and a number for ya.

GM

The Squatter Skunk

Construction on my basement has been slow going since April. Like a determined driver with a flat, my Lithuatian carpenter is inching his way toward the finish line. 100 weekday nights and weekend days are finally looking like something.

But before all the hammering and sheet rocking, we had a little fun in the name of demolition. We tore up the place like a couple of rock stars. Kicked in walls. Ripped down ceilings. We created a pile in the backyard that, after months of work, grew to the size of a Volkswagen. Rusty nails, wood scraps, plaster chunks, all of it sat there decaying, soaking in what nature threw at it.

We cleaned the pile yesterday. Threw it all in a giant dumpster that now owns half of my driveway. As we were cleaning, Mark started yelling, "Go Greg. Go. Go." I thought he was cheering me on. After all, I was tossing the soggy sheet rock into the dumpster at a pretty good clip.

"Get outta here," he yelled, this time backing away from the pile. Apparently, one critter's junk is another critter's home. A skunk decided to settle in for a few months—and we were tearing the roof off his new home.

Must've been a horrifying experience for him. I felt for him, at a distance of approximately 10 yards.

He scurried into his underground bunker to wait us out. The hole was just big enough for your fist. You could just see the white stripe on his head and his eyes carefully watching you from inside. Frozen with fear, he felt safer there.

Mark came back into the scene with a 6 foot long 2x4. He placed the end of it just outside the hole. He looked at me and said, "Give me the word."

"Are you kidding?"

He just looked at me, didn't need to say a word.

"You can't kill him, Mark."

"Ah, you guys from Florida are soft. Somebody from Maine would've said 'what are you waiting for?'"


GM

All I Ask For

House is still silent. Only the faint hum of the refrigerator. No cars on Emerson Street. Golden sunlight washes neighboring houses. The occasional ironed and gelled commuter walks by.

Baby's still asleep. Birds chirp and tweet.

Listen to the morning. Sweet sounds of beginnings. What'll this day bring? I'd like to place a few requests:

A cool plate of watermelon.
A kick ass driving song.
A fit of uncontrollable laughter.
A sweet kiss from my wife.
A giant hug from my daughter.
A good idea, maybe two, if I'm lucky.
An unexpected phone call.
A check in the mail.
A quiet evening with a glass of wine.

That's all I ask for.

GM

Mondaze

Well, I awoke with less ambition than I had the night before. I always have more zip at night and commit to promises I never keep.

I’ll hit the sunrise Yoga class at the gym! I’ll head into the office early and get a jump start on the week! I’ll iron all my shirts!

I’ll hit the snooze bar for the 4th time.

When the initial alarm sounds, that’s when I start bargaining with myself:

I don’t need to go to Yoga class, I can do it right here. Kris gave me that DVD. Thank you Kris for these 9 minutes.

Oh, I don’t have to go to the office early, I can get it done right here on my laptop. Oh thank you Apple for these 9 minutes.

I’ll just wear a t-shirt to work tomorrow. No ironing necessary. Thank you Hanes for these 9 minutes.

Like most of you, my alarm clock sits next to my ear on a nightstand. I have it set to the one station with a signal. When it goes off at 6 a.m., some craggy talk show host greets me growling about politics.

The first click of the alarm sends my snoozebar arm in motion. I’m barely conscious, yet my arm exits the sheets like a military cadet. With the speed and accuracy of a Jackie Chan karate chop, it crashes down on the snooze bar, going limp when mission is accomplished.

Ah, sweet slumber.

Then Cam wakes up.

No snooze bar there.

GM

On a Saturday

Ulrich Schnauss' velvety melodies on the soundsystem. Hot cup o' hello. A little girl running around with colored marker caps on her fingers. A Lithuanian in the backyard sawing wood.

That's a Saturday morn around here.

K is off to day of her personal training seminar. So queenie and I have the day together...

Ok.

Took a little break there, but I'm back. Cam wasn't having any of this blogging nonsense, so we packed up and went to the gym. They have a romper room for the little uns. Cam loves it. I stretched my legs a bit. Rigor mortis was setting in on em due to 4 straight days of relative inactivity. I don't know about you all, but this bag o bones yearns for some exercise every day. 30 minutes is all I ask for.

Remember that Yoga I started? Lasted two days. And I was so enthusiastic about it. Bloody shame. Meditation is also something I keep threatening myself I'd do. I hear that's good for clearing yer noggin from noise pollution. And it's like Times Square in my head.

So much I want to do, so few hours to do it in.

Gotta find a way to slow it down. Put the brakes on. I schedule my every waking hour, just to keep up. Now I'm scheduling my weekends, which is ridiculous. Scheduling yer fun? Kinda takes the fun out of it.

I've requested to Kris that tomorrow be schedule free. We don't "do" anything. The subject of "doing" will not be discussed. We will float in and out of the day on whims and fancies.

Let's see how it works.

To spontaneity,

GM

Spidergirl

Workin the gig from the home office today, my pals. Mondays and Fridays I try to keep it churnin in Skunksville. Cam and I are flyin mommyless—K just buzzed off to her personal training class and won't be back until the early eve. Much chaos and mayhem to be had.

Cam and I are rampin up a slow mornin in our tiny 6' x 12' office: a room attached to our teeny cape. From what K and I understand, this room was built as a sun room with wall-to-wall windows. But the last owner walled up most of the windows leaving one at either end. Solid move. Now you can use the room in winter, too.

There's just enough space to give us two kids a little workin room. She's busy coloring in Lady and the Tramp and playing with a giant stick she found outside. I'm writin you, procrastinating the obligations and promises I've made to clients. She babbles on to nobody in particular as I prattle on about nothing in particular.

GMo Version 2.0

Just now, a spider the size of a cheerio invaded her personal space, meaning it crawled within a yard of her foot. She ran across our tiny room screaming, leaping into my arms.

KMo Version 2.0

Guess I gotta get me a spider.

See ya around.

G

What Matters?

Bouncing from project to project today. Calendar layered with appointments n' obligations. Great chunks of time reserved for people I barely know. Gotta shave the stubbles. Gotta iron the wrinkles. Gotta shine myself up.

I yell “bye ladies” as the backdoor shuts. The ones I adore still inside. Coffee still steaming. Cereal shreds swirling around my spoon. Crumbs, a memory of my morning toast.

gotta gas the SUV
gotta Tivo TV
gotta drink $2 coffee
gotta pay the monthly fee

need that microwave oven
a new pair of jeans
300 count bed sheets
see what this means?

money = happy
a huge fallacy
don’t sell out, friends
let's all be free

Luxuries ain’t luxuries if you’re slavin for em.

Screw the Jones’. Let em keep up with someone else. My front lawn could use a few weeds. My car will keep its dents. My pool will remain inflatable.

there’s music to see
museums to visit
pictures to take
memories to make

family’s at home
waiting for you
let em know you love em
that’s long overdue


GM

In Like a Lion, Out Like a Tiger

The sky fell last night. Big, beefy raindrops mixed with hail the size of marbles. Went on flashin n thunderin for a country hour. Saw minivans up to their siderails in water. Then, all at once, it stopped. The calm after the storm.

Not really.

There isn’t much calm at the Monaco hive this morning. Us bees are a-buzzin a little too fast these days, and we’re starting to sputter (to euphamize it for ya). Kris has her agenda. Cam has hers. And I have mine. Which left us all grumbling under our breath today.

We ain’t livin in our usual state of euphoria this morn, folks. I’m not here to write about rainbows and tootsie rolls all the time. If you want that, I think the Osmonds have a blog out there somewhere.

I’m gonna call it like I see it.

And I see an exhausted, conflicted wife who doesn’t have a moment to sort it out. I’m seeing a 21-month old who wants constant attention (don’t we all?). And I’m seeing a guilty husband, leaving the two to sort it out.

What would Ward and June do? Their special edition DVD reveals scenes of valium gobbling and whiskey guzzling. The Beev doesn't approve.

I may be crafting my own PR spin on this, but I believe we’re unearthing some hardcore truths, the kind that need to be told. This is all new to us, my friends. That's what evolving, growing, living is all about. And we’ve received advice from some of you and appreciate it all.

We are thankful to have you next to us.

I can assure you we're not faking it up here in CT—living out some lie. And that's the truth.

G

The Genius of Judge Judy

Not sure if I’m ready for another triple digit day on the heat index. Tried to play soccer yesterday. My jersey was soaked to the fiber, felt like someone tossed an uncooked pizza on my back. Had to peel the gnats from my eyes. A truly disgusting experience.

If you’re one of my elderly readers, I suggest you stay indoors, orange julius in hand, Matlock on TV. Or may I suggest Judge Judy?

If I were unemployed and ambitionless, I think I’d devour Judge Judy reruns by the episode. I’m completely transfixed by that show. It has the same train wreck appeal as “Cops” but with air conditioning.

The producers (I'll refer to them as geniuses) manufactured the perfect storm. High school dropouts versus sassy master debater with law degree. The premise: shred the idiots, humiliate them as much as possible in 23 minutes of air time.

Judge Judy argues like a Jedi knight. Swifly pointing out fractured logic, faulty reasoning, and distorted ideals, and in the process, pummeling egos. The geniuses found a gem in Judge Judy.

Even the name is perfect. The irony of it. Judy is your next door neighbor, the lady you ask to water your plants when you’re away. Judy picks up your kids from soccer practice.

Judy rips you a new a-hole.

Oh, you may think the whole thing is mean. You may think that nobody deserves a good bitch slap—even the ones that have volunteered for their vivisection.

Yet another beautifully played card by the geniuses. Who wants to watch something “correct?” We have established layers of drama. The defendant and the plantiff are conflicted, and now you’re conflicted for watching said conflict.

Even the baliff—the courtroom’s version of a cigar store indian—gets into the action. The geniuses strike again. It's the baliff's job to introduce the plantiff and defendant. He does this before Judge Judy storms in. (Have you noticed she always rushes in, like she's sprinted in from the parking lot?)

One defendant’s last name was “Batman.” Seriously. The baliff introduced her by whispering her last name in the same melodramatic tone the superhero used to announce himself to a confused villian.

Nobody saw the humor in it, except for Judge Judy and a few audience members with their GED.

Stay cool.

G

Me Gramps

It’s been a few days since I hit the bloggerboard, so apologies out to you my friends. I shan’t be away for so long next time.

And I also promise to never use the word “shan’t” again.

The Monaco 3 were down in the steamy south for a spell. Unfortunate circumstances. We were saying goodbye to Grandpa. He passed on many weeks ago, but due to another illness in the family, we couldn’t get the family together until now.

A bittersweet visit. I’m one of those strange folks who actually enjoy my time with family. I believe my immediate family is somewhat of an anomaly these days. Both mom and dad are happily married after 40 years. My brother and I never experienced the pedophilic uncle, the alcoholic father, custody battles, jail time, brat camp, or fat camp. Idyllic, really.

My parents successfully transported a 1950’s existence into the 80’s, and we’re carrying it on. We all continue to floss once a day, pay our taxes, and live in the burbs. It's boring, but refreshingly so.

Grandpa was born in 1911. A first generation American. Don’t know much about his family, beyond the fact that they came from some town south of Naples, Italy. (I’ll find out the name for ya.) Grandpa had a twin. Actually, he was one of 4 sets of twins—and this kind of "twinning" was done the natural way, before chemicals n’ needles n’ procedures. Sadly, his twin brother drowned at the age of 18. Must've been quite a shock for Grandpa.

For those of you who met Grandpa you’d agree that he was a perpetually happy guy. He wasn’t a trained musician, but he was as musical at the core. He didn’t just talk to you, he sang to you, every word spoken in melody. He’d forgo the customary two-syllable “hello” for his five- or six-syllable version, “Hellllloooooo.” Made you feel like he was truly glad to see you. He often burst out into song, serenading my grandmother, mostly in public.

He was a whistler. And a damn good one. Never heard anyone hit the notes he hit. He’d add tremolo and vibrato for effect. Birds would double take.

He trusted everyone. Even when he was experiencing the effects of dementia in his final years and didn’t recognize his own wife and son, he still trusted them. He thanked them repeatedly, when no thanks was needed. One evening he even slipped his own wife a few bills, saying “Thank you. You’re a good person.”

Grandpa was an endlessly sweet man. I have much more to write about him. Tons of funny stories, and you'll hear about them. But I wanted to say goodbye to him first. See ya, Grandpa, eventually.

Love,
G

Stand Up and Talk

Hi there my friends. Tore myself from a fitful slumber a bit too early today for my own good. Ate my shred, drank the brown heat, brushed the pearlies and made a mad dash out the door for a possible conference call with Hong Kong. Thanks to Kris' help I managed to make the 723 train to Manhattan and was at my desk by quarter til 9 for my call on the other side of the world.

Then I find out, the call ain't happening until tonight. All's not lost though. It just means I get to spend a little more time with you.

Luckily, the train ride was a good one. No seats (again), but I met an interesting dude and told stories with him to pass the time. When the commuter trains are packed and you're standing, you tend to talk to yer neighbors. When you're sitting, you don't. I guess it's too easy just to crack open a book, or nod off. But when you're standing gets the blood going. You're more alert. If I ever get into teaching (I have a feeling I will), I'll remember that. Get the clarse off their arse.

This dude I met is also 36 years old. He commutes into NYC. He moved to Norwalk from NYC in 4 years ago. He is starting a family. He has dug up his entire yard to improve it. He muddles through the occasional Monday morning hangover. He BBQs whenever possible.

So, he's basically Greg Monaco in better clothing.

One of the reasons I like it up here is the range of folks you meet. I play on a soccer team filled with Brazillians. I live next door to Itailians, Lithuanians, English, and a few Americans, too. And NYC, just a 45 mile stone's throw, is just a loveable, mangey mutt of a city.

One of the best ways to keep yourself interested in the every day is to strike up a conversation with someone you never met. It's actually quite easy. All you have to do is ask a question, and they're off. You may pick up a few things on the way. You may annoy a few people. But most of the time, the interaction is fun.

I suppose this blog is a conversation of sorts.

GM

What did Marco say?

If you watched the world cup final yesterday, you're probably wondering the same thing I am. What would cause the world's best player in the final match of his career to snap like hormonal 16 year-old?

Zinedine Zidane, a pleasure to watch through the entire tournament, was having another fine day. He scored a goal and continually threatened the Italian defense. He was effortlessly threading neat passes, carving, slicing, dicing and dissecting his opponents—just as he had in his previous few efforts. Zidane is a hyper-intelligent player with gifts of skill and patience. He consistently plays in a different class.

I suppose everyone has their Achilles heel. And Marco Materazzi exposed Zidane's.

A lot happens in the game of soccer off the ball. That means, when the ball is on the other side of the field, players work at winding their opponents up. While the referees' attention is diverted, players are busy jawing and yapping to knock opponents off their game.

What did the Italian, Marco Meterazzi, say to Zidane to incite a brutal head-butt to the sternum, thus drawing a red card? A brilliant, albeit scrappy, play. He took France's biggest threat off the field with a few words. Nobody will know what he said, but I have a few ideas:

"Hey, is your mom bald too?"

"Hey man, ribbit ribbit, I'm a frog. Are you going to eat me? Ribbit ribbit."

"Zidane Zidane momidane banana fana momidane fe fi momidane Zidane."

"Ro-gaine. Ro-gaine. Ro-gaine."

"Hey, your initials are ZZ, like ZZ Top." (Breaks into ZZtop medley) "Every girl crazy 'bout a sharp dressed man. She's got legs. She knows how to use em. A-how-how-how-how."

Perhaps you have a few ideas of your own?

GM

Skunkville

Gotta game out in the woods of CT today. A town called Derby, which also happens to be a town in England. I've noticed that CT has a lot of towns with English-sounding names. Cheshire, Glastonbury, Wallingford, etc. Oh, and New London, of course. I suppose the settlers were homesick and wanted to re-create what they remember. I thought those folks hated England, that's why they left (or were forced to leave). So why would they want to re-create it? My guess is they just weren't creative enough.

As time wore on, maybe a century or so, people became much more creative. They started actually thinking about the town names as a marketing opportunity. They started writing them with the intent of evoking images and feelings. They made you want to move there, welcomed you in. A savvy move.

My parents live in a town called Tarpon Springs, Florida. If you liked to fish, wouldn't you want to leave your town of "Dover" for a place like that? Sounds like paradise. If you do actually go there, you'll see that the name is right on. Tarpon is a large sport fish that lives there. They can actually tolerate a wide range of salinity in the water. Some advertising great once said, "great advertising is the truth well-told."

I live in Norwalk. Founded in 1614. It's not a horrible town name, considering the literacy rate in 1614. I suppose it has that New England charm, but I could come up with a dozen more truthful names, like:

Skunkville
Gooseshitshire
Greenwichghetto
Taxeduptheassburg
Littlerico
Cantaffordmanhattan
Thedumpington

Oh, this can go on, but I gotta rush to Derby. Think they all wear hats there?

GM

Bergman and the Tramp

Top o da morn!

Wow. Cameron just came down from a grade 4 tantrum. I wouldn't let her watch Lady and the Tramp until she had breakfast and she blew her stack. Snot bubbles, hysterics, the works. Never seen that little mouth open so wide. Sends quite a shock right down the old spine. Especially before 7am.

Now that I'm awake. Guess I'll write about something I haven't done in a while: Watch a movie. Not the casual flipping on the TV, catching a flick halfway through kind of movie watching. I'm talking about purposefully putting a DVD in the player and sinking into the couch kind of movie watching.

We saw "Wild Strawberries" directed by Ingmar Bergman. Set in 1950's Stockholm (I think). It's about an old swedish doctor on his way to receive an award of distinction. He needs to go to Lund, which is in southern Sweden. He decides to go by car, a 14-hour trip. It's kind of a road trip movie with childhood flashbacks, and the occasional hallucination.

I could write a review, but I'm not gonna. Let me put it this way, the film is black and white and subtitled. If ya can't get past that, don't go there. If ya don't mind the horrors of reading and watching, it's worth the rent. Actually, any Bergman film is worth the rent. He is a freakin' master. I think everyone needs a taste of filmmaking other than the Hollywood tripe served up at your local cinemegamovieplex.

Try it folks, shift the perspective. Go for French number like "Swimming Pool." Try something from Pedro Almodovar, anything from Pedro Almodovar. Or maybe something Italian, or English, or Russian, or (gasp) Iranian like "Smell of Camphor, Fragrance of Jasmine" a delightful, funny film. Did ya ever think Iranians can be funny? Not all of them are psycho, extremist militants, my friends.

And you won't find this stuff at Clockluster, no sir. Netflix is worth the 10-spot a month. The selection is better than most any movie rental joint you'll find. And no late fees. That's big. Tell em I sent ya.

OK. Guess it's time break Cam from the spell of her Disney movie. She's mesmerized. Talking puppies. Brilliant. I assure you, though, we'll eventually work our way up to Bergman.

GM

A-holes Not Tolerated

Hallo. It's a cool and comfortable 60 degrees (or 15 degrees C for all my international readers). I love summertime up here. You have yer hot days, but relief is just around the corner. Cam and I are enjoying a little b-fast right now. I have my cup o' good mornin', she has her blueberry yogurt goatee. Half the stuff makes it in her mouth, the other half is distributed elsewhere.

I'm happy to say that my little company just started working on a brand new account as of yesterday. This was born from a relationship that started over five years ago, when ML was a wee baby. We pitched a project and for some reason or another, we didn't get the job. But I kept running into the CEO at workshops in NYC. Contact was always prevalent. Timing worked out on a project, and here we are. I'm grateful for it because I like him and I think he'll be a great guy to work with.

This may sound a idealistic, but I'd like our complete roster of clients to consist of people I like. If you like who you work with, you're spending energy helping them. If you don't like em, then it becomes a chore, a grind, a burden. It's the toxic clients you need to separate yourself from. The money may be good, but the pain n' sufferin' ain't worth it. I'd rather spend my time lookin' for the chemistry.

I say this, of course, because we happen to be busy right now. Tomorrow, I could be praying for an a-hole to call us.


GM

Torturing Kris

My favorite band is coming to town in mid August. I plan on taking Kris to not one, but two shows. One in DC and the other in NYC. I don't know if she realizes this, but that is my plan. And, knowing Kris, she will understand and will almost be happy to go.

Sporting events, music, museums, movies, plays. Whatever. She's always in. That means I get to make a lot of our entertainment decisions. And let me tell you, not all of them wise. I'd like to express my appreciation at the endless sacrifices K has made for the sake of my perpetual curiousity.

We've caught cult movies in NYC's finest "art houses," which really means "dungeon with projector." No plush stadium steating at these joints, just interrogation chairs arranged around a recoiling projection screen.

We saw plays in basements with no air conditioning, which usually gave the production an Abu Garib-like charm. We've seen music standing behind concrete support columns, or sitting on vomit-stained floors. And she's been there with me the entire time. For better, or for worse. Enduring the conditions. Soldiering on.

I must asterisk this, there was one time she actually asked to leave. We were seeing one of my current favorite performers, Sufjan Stevens, at the Mercury Lounge. Another unairconditioned beauty in SoHo. We walked into a packed house. Microwave-like temperatures. All 300 people gasping for the same 4 molecules of oxygen. We lasted 5 songs. Kris apologetically asked to go. She was 8 months pregnant at the time. I gallantly led her out.

After all, sacrifice is a two-way street.

GM

Dirty Sanchez

Oh man, last night was a rough one. Crawled in at 2am. Saw some great fireworks though. 7 of us were viewing them from a boat anchored in the Long Island Sound. We took in three different displays; Norwalk, Westport and Stamford. All equally cool. Cameron joined us and she was completely awestruck at the fireworks. "Oooh" she'd say everytime they cracked one off. I wasn't sure how she'd react, but she loved em.

I'd like to thank my new friends Mike, Steve and Teri for the invitation out on their boat. Some real laughs, and some real disturbing moments. Learned about a new website called urbandictionary.com. You'll find the title of this post there. Those of you who are a wee bit squeamish, don't go there. Trust me, it's in horrible taste. Those of you who can't help it, I warned you.

Anyway, feelin a little sluggish in this hazy, hot, sweaty July day. Played a little soccer this morning with my friend Lithuanian Mark. That's what the boys call him. I just received an email that he is no longer welcome at my club's training sessions anymore. They think he's too reckless. Poor guy. So misunderstood.

Anyway, I have jury duty tomorrow. Yay. If I get my lazy arse outta bed I'll write y'all a little something. If not, I plan on chronicling my adventure through the CT judicial system in the next few days. Could be a wild ride.

Stay tuned. Happy 4th.

G$

Introduction to Poetry

Kris has an assignment for Wednesday, she needs to pick out a poem, any poem, and write a little something about it. Up until a few years ago, I wasn't one for poetry. The stuff I remember reading always annoyed me. The meanings were locked up inside the words and I could never crack em. A frustrating experience. Maybe you feel the same way?

I happened to pick up a copy of "Sailing Alone Around the Room" by Billy Collins at the Gotham Book Store in Manhattan. I read a few lovely little poems and—this is freakish—I understood every word. I got to appreciate the beautiful subtleties of language. The precision. The rhythm. Basically, I was introduced to a new art form, which made no sense before then.

I'd like to thank Mr. Collins for becoming my gateway poet. Based on his simple poems, I have worked my way up to a wider array of poets, though some still annoy me. Anyway, in the spirit of Kris' assignment, I've chosen a poem for you by Mr. Collins. Hope he doesn't mind me republishing without permission.

Introduction to Poetry
Billy Collins

I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide

or press an ear against its hive.

I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,

or walk inside the poem's room
and feel the walls for a light switch.

I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author's name on the shore.

But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.

They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.

Ticsu Moyonash Dushin

The little princess is at the age now where she's adept at stringing together words to form sentences. The problem is the words she uses really want to be English, but they usually end up somewhere between Olde English and something vaguely Asian.

-Daddy?

-Yes.

-Dodidu mush shu sinko dishid.

She'll look up at me expecting some kind of response or action. To her, the meaning is obvious. And if I say, "What?" She'll repeat it to the syllable. It's uncanny, folks. I'm convinced she's invented her own language, and secretly making fun of me. Kinda like the Wayne's World "sphinctersayswhat?" routine. This is one of the many reasons why I think Cameron is a genius.

The apple doesn't fall far... well, sort of. You see, my brother and I also developed our own language, but it didn't happen until our teens. We called it the "ong" languange. When people first hear it, they think it's Korean. You spell the words and tag "ong" on all the consonants, and you say all the vowels.

The word "water" is said like this, "wong-a-tong-e-rong." Egg is "e-gong-gong." This language gave us the freedom to make uncensored comments about people in movie theater lines, the DMV, retail checkouts without risk. A liberating comedic experience. We actually got so good at the language we started using it to curse at each other.

Imagine two white kids yelling Korean-sounding profanities at each other in a Denny's parking lot. Yeah, that's true brotherhood.

Hey wait a sec, do ya think Cam is cursing me out? Or maybe she is talking English, only backwards. Could she be into backward masking? Reverse messages? According to the website below, The Beatles, Britney Spears, and Led Zeppelin all did it, why not my Cammy?

http://www.reversespeech.com/music_reversals.htm

GM

Oooof!

Heyho! Good Mornin everybody.

I'm in an unusually good spirit this morning despite the circumstances that transpired an hour or so ago. My lovely daughter climbed into bed with us and delivered a donkey kick right to the old nardos. Yes, the beans, the berries, the cherry tomatoes, the happy pommegranites. HELL-o. Not exactly the kind of wake up call I was expectin on a lovely July morning.

For those of you who do not get to experience the thrill and the agony of external genitalia, let me describe what a shot to them at 6:42 a.m. feels like. The initial shock isn't the painful part. That's a myth. The immediate yelp, or groan, or prolonged exhale you inevitably hear right after impact is not from from pain. It's from fear. Fear of the aftershock.

That's the low frequency pain that is pitted at the core of your soul. It starts there and ripples outward, resonating throughout the body. This pain chain-reaction will cause a stone mason's eyes to tear. You see the strange thing about nut shots is the nuts don't want to have anything to do with it. The nuts pass it on to your guts.

They just throw their little testicular hands in the air, and say, "That's it, I'm done. Recoil unit! Bring me up!"

It's not a sharp pain, or a dull pain. No, sir. It a sharp and dull pain that builds exponentially til the legs give out, and the lungs seize. At this point you can't point to the pain, because you are the pain.

Take a pair of scissors and stab yourself just above the pubic bone. Make sure they're in deep enough so you can open and close the blades a half dozen times, that's part of it. Then insert a white hot rotisserie skewer through the olde poop chute. Make sure you take it to the handle. Then funnel in a fifth of cheap Kentucky bourbon. That's part of it. Then thread a garden hose through each nostril and down deep into the esophagus. Kink the hose to let the water pressure build, then let her go. That's part of it, too.

Keep that going for a solid 5 minutes. And then you try to have a productive morning.


GM