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Thursday, December 25th, 2008

Dear Friends and Family:

First off, let me apologize for the cold, informality of a form letter. But the truth is, we send cards to many of you simply, for reasons that remain a mystery to Tracy and I, because we continue to find ourselves on your Xmas card distribution list. We don't necessarily feel that you deserve a unique, personalized letter. And while we'd just as soon be removed from your card-giving register, and in turn save the forty cents that it costs to remit a reply, we don't want to suffer the indignity of not reciprocating the sentiment, thereby allowing you to say "we sent the Caruso's a card this year but didn't get one from them!"

So, that being said, here is the news from the 2008 Caruso camp.

I turned 35 this year. By American male standards, my life is therefore 74% over. With my pending demise looming over me, I decided to take a hard look at myself and make some wholesale life changes. I first began by crafting my "bucket list". For those of you unfamiliar with this term, it is a list of the 50 things that I'd like to do before I kick the proverbial bucket.

Tracy has generally been supportive of my list, though there are certain things (like #13 - Sex with an 11 year old Thai prostitute and #22 - Murder a nun) that she has whole-heartedly disapproved of.

In March, I crossed the first item off of my list, though it certainly didn't go as swimmingly as I'd have liked. Number 18 - Experiment with hard drugs - quickly devolved into a relatively hard-core heroin addiction that landed me in rehab for a month and a half and forced me to miss two more months of work. My short-term disability insurance did little to provide for my family (I knew that Aflac duck was full of shit) and Tracy was forced to work the glory hole at the bus station in order to make ends meet.

I thought briefly about joining her in the bus station as her description of her second career sounded not only more profitable but actually more enjoyable than being an accountant. My choice was made for me, however, when I lost my job in July due to "budget cuts" (which is a fancy way of saying that I got caught using office supplies to make a bong!). Rather than get another job I now spend my days eating Ho-Ho's, writing my memoirs and working on home improvement projects. First on my list is the unplanned renovation of our kitchen - pesky meth ovens! I've also been doing a lot of reading. I recently finished Anne Frank's Diary of a Young Girl. I found it to be fascinating, though I can't escape the feeling that me reading it on the pot with a mouthful of chewing tobacco was not really the way she intended her message to be heard.

But enough about me. . .

Lainey turned two in November and is without a doubt the smartest and cutest child to have ever lived. If she had been alive in biblical times, the Magi would've stepped on baby Jesus just to lay their gold and myrrh at her feet. I actually feel really bad for the parents of other children with whom she comes into contact with. For the inferiority complexes that she must create in other children will no doubt ruin their childhoods and leave them pathetically scarred for life. Hell, for all we know, she may have already spawned a serial killer or two!

She began going to daycare in March after we lost our au pair. "Lost" probably isn't the right word as we're well aware of where the body is buried, but that's a story for another day! She has made a lot of friends so far, but we're still leaning toward private school when the time is right. The public school district is nice but a little too "ethnic", if you will. After all, the last thing I'd want to do someday is have the Land Rover bullet-proofed just so I can drive Lainey to a classmate's birthday party in the PJs!

2009 promises to be a big year for the Caruso's as well with the upcoming birth of our son. We are excited to be parents for the second time, though getting pregnant was anything but easy. At times it seemed like Tracy had Patrick Roy guarding the entrance to her uterus! But eventually my boys were able to slip by and the heir to the vast Caruso fortune should arrive in April.

Well, that's the news. We hope your 2008 was as pleasant as ours and that your Holiday season is a joyous one. To quote Jesus in my favorite Christmas story - "We're not birds, we're a jugband!". Wait, maybe that was Emmit Otter. I always get the two confused!

Merry Christmas!

Love,

The Caruso's

Thursday, November 27th, 2008

Thanksgiving (Stolen Pen Style!)

As I sat down to write a toast for this year's Thanksgiving dinner (which included an anniversary turducken (look it up if you don't know) just for me courtesy of my beautiful wife, Tracy), I began by reflecting back on some of the more significant events that took place during 2008.

In a move that our racist forefathers could never have seen coming, America elected its first black president.

Yet despite the courageous and radical steps that our country has taken, in this advanced day and age we still find ourselves living in a world where college football's national champion is decided by computers and hack journalists rather than on the field of play.

Now thoroughly disheartened I turned to the one exercise that always cheers me up - thinking about my favorite things. So without further ado, here they are:

Sonic cheeseburgers and hot chicken dippers

Chocolate milkshakes and big-breasted strippers

Fiori's for pizza and Fatheads for wings

These are a few of my favorite things

Fantasy baseball and ultimate fighting

Smokeless tobacco and creative writing

Premium liquor from top of the shelf

These are the reasons I don't kill myself

When Penn State lost

Each day at work

When I'm feeling sad

I simply remember my favorite things

And then I don't feel so bad

The conflict in Darfur and serial killers

The Lakers, the Penguins and also the Steelers

Watching Sportscenter and resting a while

These are the reasons that I have to smile

Lainey and my son (whose yet to be born)

My motorcycle and internet porn

Getting through customs with Cuban cigars

These are the reasons that I thank my stars

Christmas light time

Doing yard-work

When I'm feeling sad

I simply remember my favorite things

And then I don't feel so bad

Happy Thanksgiving one and all!

Thursday, August 7th, 2008

A Strange and Bizarre Culture

Well, it's been a while since my last blog. But in conjunction with the recent makeover at www.stolenpen.com, I, too, have decided to turn over a new leaf and make a more concerted effort at keeping the ol' blog up to date.

I wish there had been an exciting reason for my prolonged absence from blogging; such as I took a sabbatical from my job to, despite very little formal medical training, join Doctors Without Borders in Biafra; or that I've spent the last year and three months in Amazonia, locating lost tribes and converting them to Christianity; or that, in the spirit of Ernesto Guevara I took off on my trusty motorcycle and rode off to Tibet to join the monks in the rebellion against the Chinese government. But the truth is when it comes to excuses, short of good old fashioned laziness, I'm at a loss.

I thought I'd write today about a recent run-in that I had with what can only be called a very strange group of people - a group of people that do things differently than most - a group of people with a rather odd system of customs and traditions. Most of these people live in the state of Pennsylvania, speak in a strange almost-foreign dialect and wear funny straw hats.

No, not the Amish.

I'm talking about myself and the group of 15 or so other guys that turn out each year for the annual Father Son Weekend. I should note that the straw hat reference refers to my brother-in-law Mike who, despite what any of us would have bet, managed to accompany Jimmy on an errand to Amish country and purchase a souvenir without causing a jihad. The reference to the foreign dialect refers to the strange mix of Klingon, Pig Latin and Pittsburghese that only Sonny and Brincka can seem to speak and understand. As for the rather odd system of customs and traditions....read on!

This year marked the 18^th installment of this most storied event - a fact that was only confirmed after Jimbo produced a piece of memorabilia from the 66 Museum and Hall of Fame which stated clearly that the first Annual was in 1991 (do the math - that makes 18). As with the seventeen before it, our group - a mix of sons, fathers, brothers, cousins, in-laws and friends, all with ties to Pittsburgh's South Hills - descends upon our buddy's camp near Lake Pymatuning in northwestern Pennsylvania. Check in time is anywhere from Wednesday evening to Saturday afternoon (Hello, Buck!). Upon arrival, a porter takes your bags to your room (actually, you drop your duffel bag near the spot on the floor where you hope to pass out) and you have only a few minutes to change clothes, grab a cold beer and embark upon...

Strange Custom #1 - The Game

With an occasional break for a round of golf or to grab a bite to eat, nearly every waking moment (and even some under the guise of sleep) is spent playing 66, a card game similar to Euchre.

First, the cards are dealt (a surprisingly difficult task for some to accomplish). Each player gets six. If you're Gary Jr., two of those six must be aces.

Now, 66 is a team game. If you're lucky, you'll get a partner whose slick play can bail you out of some tight situations. If you're unlucky, you get Dave!

Players can "bid" or bet on how many points they can make based on the strength of their hand. Bids are two, three, four or six points. You may also "pass" by simply saying "pass" or knocking on the table. With my shitty cards, I passed so much this last weekend that my knuckles looked like Ike Turner's after Tina got lippy!

The suit of the first card dealt is "trump". Like all decks of cards, a 66 deck only has four suits. This would imply that it is therefore relatively easy to keep track of which suit is trump. Far from it. Solving one of those mathematical theorems from Good Will Hunting is easier than remember what trump is at 1am on Friday night!

Players then "follow suit" (which I fail to do at least once during any given card-playing get-together) or "beat the trick" (ditto!).

A king and queen of the same suit is called a "marriage" - also the only time during the weekend that word is allowed to be spoken! When the pair is played or "mentioned" (by playing the queen when it's your turn to lead) your team gets forty points. At the end of the hand, the points are counted to determine if the bid has been made. At this point in the game all four players, most of whom are at least smart enough to perform simple addition, add together 11 points for an ace, 10 for a ten, four, three and two for a king, queen and jack, respectively.and come up with completely different results!

Once agreement is reached, the scorekeeper logs the score into the book. Scorekeeping is an interesting job. It basically entails writing down one number every three to eight minutes. Sounds simple enough, right? Yet for some reason scorekeeping is avoided like a prostate exam given by a dude with cold fingers.

While the game itself may not be that strange, our infatuation with it is. We basically play the same game for 72 of the 96 hours that we're there. No one gets tired of it. No one is bored. If your cards suck, you revel in the fact that tomorrow, fate may be on your side. If you're playing well you dread seeing the tide turn and old Moe change jerseys. We play until ungodly hours of the night then get up and begin again as soon as the fourth person wakes up and stumbles out of the cabin.

But perhaps the strangest thing about this is....that we don't find it strange! A typical conversation that takes place when you call your wife daily to check in (hey, we're only human) goes like this:

Tracy: What are you doing?

Matt: Playing cards.

Tracy: What time did you get up?

Matt: Around 9.

Tracy: Did you throw up again?

Matt: Yes.

(Don't ask!)

Tracy: What have you been doing since nine?

Matt: Playing cards.

Tracy: What did you do last night?

Matt: Play cards.

Tracy: What are you going to do tomorrow?

Matt: Play cards.

Now, here it comes....wait for it..

Tracy: I don't understand how it can be fun to just sit there all day and play cards!

Of course you can't! No one can!

No one except us!

Now, as with most guy's weekends, ours involves a good bit of drinking. Let's talk for a minute about just that.

Doing a shot of rum with a Jamaican waitress at Seacrets is cool. Doing a shot of tequila with a Mexican bartender named Isabella, likewise. Doing a sixth shot of V.O. which once again you've made the conscious decision to "top off" with a splash of spearmint Schnapps leads us to...

Strange Custom #2 - The Shot

Nearly two decades ago when our forefathers (actually, us - but younger) set upon Bonetti's camp to lay out the guidelines for the Father/Son weekend, we apparently reached the conclusion that the three to four barrels of beer we'd consume would not be sufficient. We must, therefore, supplement our beer drinking with shots of V.O. whiskey and spearmint Schnapps.

Now these two spirits, sufficiently vile on their own, combine to form a drink that actually tastes worse when you drink it than the vomit that it later inevitably induces! Called a "moron", presumably named after those of us who not only drink it but can actually claim to have invented it, the shot lives up to its name by actually making you dumber than before you drank it (if such a decline was, in fact, still possible).

Now, don't get me wrong - we don't just do shots at any old time. There are several scenarios in which a moron (or one of its two ingredients on their own) may be consumed.

Each scenario begins with someone, we'll call him the "instigator" stating aloud "I need a shot!". Upon hearing this, anyone may then choose to join the instigator in the drink.

Scenario A - "The Squeezer": In this scenario, the drinker opts to do a shot prior to a particularly bold (or in many cases, stupid) bid, sometimes referred to as a "flyer".

Scenario B - "The Test": In this scenario, someone suggests a round of shots just to see if Jeff will continue to look up from his game and shout "I'll have one!".

Scenario C - "The Shame": This shot occurs after a 66 player makes a near-unforgivable blunder. For most, myself included, it usually takes place several minutes after Scenario A.

Scenario D - "The Salute": The most common shot, this one occurs whenever someone thinks of something toast-worthy. It could range from just seeing someone again after a long absence, to a congratulatory shot for a new or expected baby, to a way to thank our hosts for the weekend.

And of course, we all raise our glasses at least once per day in tribute to our friends and loved ones who aren't with us any longer. Most often, the salute is offered to Cracker, who watches us from above, sipping a beer with Patsy Cline and George from Next Door and commenting more than once "what a bunch of assholes!".

It's difficult to explain this weekend, I know. But there is something about these traditions, these customs - our culture - that keeps us coming back year after year after year. And I'm certain that the words I've laid out here don't do it justice.

It's a feeling - something intangible. It's the smile that crosses your lips when you walk past the laundry room and catch a wiff of a shirt that you wore to Father/Son that still smells of the campfire and Chal's cigars. It's that realization when you wake up on Memorial Day that the next Father/Son is less than three months away. For me, it was the sudden sickness I felt at my desk Tuesday when I realized that the Nineteenth Annual was still almost a year away.

It's something that no one can seem to understand.

No one, that is, but us!

Sure it's difficult to explain, yet still we try. And when we do, we're left with folks just shaking their heads in disbelief. We shrug as they laugh at our simple ways. We steadfastly defend our traditions and beliefs from their sneers and their mocking. We enjoy each other's company and therefore keep to ourselves.

Maybe we're a lot more like the Amish than I thought.

It's a good thing Mike kept his hat!

Monday, May 7, 2007

The Queen and The Pawn

Our eyes met.

For the briefest of instances I could swear I noticed a faint trace of respect; the same hint of mutual admiration that passes between two boxers before they touch gloves. And I was certain that my opponent noticed the unspoken tribute in my gaze as well.

A battle of wills was about to begin; a game of mind chess that belonged alongside the most monumental of confrontations. One worthy of mention when discussing the wars waged between the likes of Anatoly Karpov and Garry Kasparov. But I was no grandmaster and neither was my adversary, who stared coldly back at me across our imaginary chess board...then burst into tears!!!

It was quarter to nine on Sunday evening and I had one remaining task to complete before I could settle into the cozy confines of my couch and watch the Sopranos.

I had to put Lainey to bed.

I should've known that when Tracy, whose patience and resolve clearly dwarf my own, handed her off to me after thirty minutes of futility, that I was in for more than I bargained for.

I cradled the infant (who is battling a cold and the emergence of teeth) in my arms and settled back on the overpriced rocking chair; the same routine successfully employed on numerous prior occasions. But this time my slow, rhythmic swaying did not result in gentle cooing and a head on my shoulder as it had in the past. Instead, it brought about an all-out assault that made the Crusades look like a friendly game of freeze tag.

Now I had seen this happen before; over the last few nights, mostly as a result of feeling under the weather, our daughter resisted her bedtime by crying and squirming until I eventually gave up and took her back downstairs. Defeated, I would hand her over to Tracy and sulk away to lick my wounds.

This night, I decided, would be different.

I did not plan on letting this miniature person get the best of me. I would stay in my chair, rocking and cradling until the job was done. She would not get the best of me this time. She would not win.

It was almost as if Lainey could sense the newfound determination in her father. She knew at that moment that if she were going to keep her unbeaten streak alive she would have to reach deep inside to places she didn't even know existed.

She reared back her little head, and struck a Heisman-like pose, stiff-arming my chin as she pushed away. Her tiny legs followed suit, bracing themselves against my stomach and pushing out until they locked into place.

Looking hard into my eyes she breathed in deeply, stuck out her bottom lip and let loose with a barrage of tears that rivaled the Johnstown flood.

I held my ground. By turning my head to the right I was able to not only soften the audible blow but also avoid looking into her cute, little, red, puffy eyes.

Ten minutes passed.

From across the nursery track number three on the CD, the sound of a mother's heartbeat, gave way to track number four, a vacuum cleaner. The vacuum clearner roared, slightly drowing out the infant, but not sucking nearly as much as what I was enduring.

Ten more minutes.

The vacuum cleaner faded out and was replaced with a track consisting only of background noise from a restaurant. Clinking silverware and muffled conversations filled the room. I couldn't make out what the people were saying but imagined that it went something like this:

Mystery diner #1: He's actually going to do it!

Mystery diner #2: No way. She's too strong for him. It's just a matter of time.

Mystery diner #1: I have faith in the old man. He can do it!

Lainey apparently sensed this too and doubled her efforts, mixing in violent coughing spells with the ear-splitting howls.

Then, just as the restaurant ambiance switched to the sounds made by a pod of whales (don't ask me!), the momentum shifted. Several times in a matter of minutes her little head rested on my shoulder, lingering a bit longer each time.

Not finished yet, she unleashed another fit of crying and threw a Tyson-like uppercut across my jaw.

It served only to make me stronger.

At this point, I knew that victory was within my reach. This truly was a battle of wills, and I did not intend on losing to someone who had only been on this planet for six months. I would continue to rock until she fell asleep or passed out, whichever came first. It didn't matter. The next time my ass would leave that chair it would be to walk four feet to the left and deposit the child into her crib.

Lainey began to sense that the end was near as well. With my extra thirty-three years I would likely pre-decease her. That was her only advantage. And she knew it. Unless she were plucked from my lifeless arms, she was headed for that crib.

Finally succumbing to this realization, she placed her head on my shoulder once again. Within seconds, the pained cries were replaced by gentle breathing and even a faint snoring.

Like Buster Douglas, the Miracle Mets of 69, or the 1980 US Hockey Team, I had pulled off the unthinkable. Carefully rising to my feet, I planted a kiss on Lainey's head and gently set her in her bed.

I stood above her for a few seconds, basking briefly in the glow of my upset victory. Not one to gloat, I turned on the humidifier and the monitor and quickly exited the nursery, nodding in reverence to my opponent's noble effort before pulling the door shut.

Three minutes later I was in my basement; glass of iced tea in one hand, the remote in the other. But alas, before the first f-bomb was dropped on the Sopranos, the baby monitor lit up like a Vegas slot machine.

Taking the steps two at a time I arrived upstairs, burst into the nursery and scooped up the crying baby. She threw her arms around my neck as I patted her back and rocked back and forth to the sound of waves crashing on the shore.

After a few minutes, I realized that sleep was in fact not in this kid's immediate future. With a deep sigh, I clicked off the CD player, flipped off the night light and made my way downstairs.

As I descended toward the family room Lainey's crying stopped. She pushed herself away from my shoulder long enough to look at me with a smug sense of accomplishment. Defeated, I smiled and kissed her on her cheek. She made one of those funny noises that only babies make and flopped herself back against my shoulder to enjoy the rest of the ride downstairs.

And as we reached the bottom landing of the stairway, I'm almost certain I heard her utter her first word. Strangely, it sounded like "checkmate"!

Monday, April 23, 2007

Sugar and Spice

At last, I am emerging from my winter hibernation to post another long-awaited BLOG. My self-imposed exile came on the heels of the completion of my third novel, Jerry (see new webpage, aptly titled, Jerry for more details). Following the completion of a novel or screenplay, I generally like to take time away from writing to kick back, relax, recharge the proverbial batteries...and of course, take care of the kid!

Lainey has recently passed the five-month mark and has rapidly evolved into a little miniature person. No longer a tiny, swaddled, immobile bundle, she looks and acts just like I would expect a little girl to. That is, she cries when she doesn't get her way, bosses me around and has amassed a wardrobe that makes Imelda Marcos' shoe collection pale in comparison.

I too have grown over the past five months. I've learned to become a father; I can change diapers like I'd been doing it forever, know all of the words to "Snuggle Puppy" and have become quite adept and rocking my daughter to sleep. In fact, the only aspect of fatherhood that I have yet to master (and, if Lainey could speak, I'm certain she would attest to) is dressing the poor child.

Now, I've been dressing myself for the better part of 30 years, most of which has involved a button, snap or some basic form of fastener. Yet you'd think I was seeing these contraptions for the first time. I dress that baby with all the skill and grace of a sophomore boy fumbling with his prom date's bra clasp. "All thumbs" doesn't begin to describe me. More like "one thumb...with no fingers!"

Lucky for me, Lainey has either opted to spare me the humiliation of pointing out my shortcomings or simply doesn't comprehend that I am, in fact, trying my hardest. After several long minutes of trying futilely to get the tiny shirt over her little head, she thinks we're playing and comes up giggling rather than gasping desperately for air, as I fear she might.

The struggle lasts for another fifteen minutes after which it becomes clear that the outfit I've chosen doesn't come close to fitting her (nice upfront planning, asshole!). Maternal instinct (or perhaps hearing the barrage of four-letter expletives emanating from the nursery) kicks in and Tracy finally comes to relieve me. I am quickly dispatched to the laundry room to retrieve a clean bib. In the thirty seconds it takes me to make my way down the hall and back, Tracy has changed the baby three times and is busy combing her hair.

Then it dawned on me; I have nothing to be ashamed of. I'm a guy; this sort of thing isn't in my genes. Our genetic make-up (snips and snails, if you believe that old adage) results in the ability to change the oil, re-wire a ceiling fan, trim the hedges (OK - in my case call the mechanic...or the electrician...or George, who does my lawn). But the point is - girls are bred for this sort of thing. Think about the toys we give little girls to play with; babydolls! Lainey already has about a dozen.

I realized this as I watched Tracy with our baby on her lap, combing her hair, and an involuntary smile plastered across her face. This is what little girls dream about and practice doing for countless hours. It is their childhood fantasy brought to life. This would be like me opening the door one day and standing face to face with my very own Stormtrooper!

Aside from child care and enjoying the brief interlude between the successful completion of yet another novel and the flurry of rejection letters from literary agents that inevitably follows, I've also been focusing my time away from writing on something I've never done before; seeing my New Years resolutions through to completion! I'm happy to report that I've lost ten pounds and purchased a new pair of both brown and black shoes (what? - I never said I was setting out to cure cancer!). All that remains is to get my autographed Willie Mays jersey a proper frame!

Finally, the timing of my return to blogging has been influenced by certain events taking place in the world. Given the fact that I have a forum from which to spout my beliefs (albeit, a self-constructed one that few people actually pay attention to) I feel that I must at least briefly comment on the events of the past week.

The students returned to class today at Virginia Tech. Memorials were erected to all of the victims - including one for Seung-Hui Cho. It seems like many students have been able to find forgiveness for him. Well, I haven't. Nor do I plan to. Cho, I hope you rot in hell for all eternity, you worthless, spineless coward!

I'm tired of him being painted as a misunderstood kid that just needed a few more hugs. No - what he needed was to be placed in a burlap sack as a toddler and drowned in the village well.

I'm tired of him being referred to as "the author of several plays". Gimme a freaking break. "Richard McBeef" and "Mr. Brownstone" weren't contributions to the literary realm. They were ten pages of gibberish written in about five minutes to be handed in as an English class assignment. I could smear one of Lainey's diapers on a sheet of paper and the result would be more meaningful and probably smell better.

And finally, I'm tired of hearing about his family. You know what...screw them too! I'm sick of reading about the hell that they're going through. They had a quarter of a century to figure out that something was wrong with that douchebag and get him the help that he needed. That's more time than the families of these poor kids who died had to spend with their children, all of whom were contributing members of society with endless opportunities ahead of them.

The question that I would be asking if I were the family of the victims is how did someone with the personality of a turd, third-grade writing skills and only a minimal command of the English language get accepted at such a prestigious university?

But that's not for me to answer. That's one for the university to grapple with. And at the same time we'll let the theologians and geneticists argue among themselves and try and figure out what the hell can make a person act that way.

All I know is it ain't sugar and spice...or even puppy-dog tails for that matter.

Thursday, December 14

Merry F-ing Christmas

Greetings once again!

Before we get too far into this installment of the BLOG, let me get one thing off of my chest. I'll admit it, I felt a little slighted when People Magazine opted to leave me out of their "Reality TV Stars - Where Are They Now?" segment in the most recent issue. I'm human. If you cut me, do I not bleed? However, I am extremely pleased to announce that, thanks largely to the tremendous outpouring of support from the loyal fans of Stolen Pen, People has agreed to include the following in their next "Where Are They Now?" segment:

Matt Caruso - Many of you may be asking, "Who the hell is Matt Caruso?" And trust us, you're not alone. Following a pathetic one episode appearance on the sparsely watched "Situation:Comedy" on Bravo, Caruso quickly faded back into relative obscurity. Despite advice from nearly everyone, Caruso has not yet abandoned his dream of becoming a successful writer. In the meantime, he supports his family through an accounting job and by working the glory hole at the bathroom in the bus station men's room. Though having garnered little success here in America, Caruso has become somewhat of a sensation overseas. A recent poll conducted in a small tribal village in Niger ranks Caruso as the third most popular celebrity after Yahoo Serious and some guy with no arms that swallows dung beetles in the village market. Most recently, Caruso made headlines when a London tabloid snapped photos of the aspiring author, half-dressed, sneaking out of the Buckingham Palace guesthouse where both Kate Middleton and Chelsy Davy were staying. The girls were on hand to celebrate the Queens 104^th birthday with boyfriends Prince William and Price Harry. Caruso's publicist could not be reached for comment and is, in fact, not believed to actually exist.

Thanks again, fans!

I hope everyone is preparing for a wonderful holiday season. With apologies to Fantasy Baseball Draft Day, Christmas* is the greatest holiday of the year. But let's face it, the preparation leading up to Christmas, much like the wind that brought Frosty his magical hat, completely blows! I'm talking about two activities in particular here; shopping and decorating.

Christmas shopping begins for most people before all of the leftover turkey in the fridge is gone. It amazes me that a holiday which embodies peace on earth and goodwill toward your fellow man can begin with a shoving match over a doll that pisses itself.

For your friend Matty, Christmas hell began with a shopping trip to the hardware store to buy exterior lights (see that - a shopping trip to buy Xmas decorations - that's a double kick to the mistletoe!)

Tracy sent me to the store to purchase whatever lights I liked (as long as they were clear lights on a dark strand that didn't flicker). A helpful sales clerk pointed out the perfect lights for me. Now, there were three boxes of said lights sitting on the shelf in front of me. I picked one up and perused the label to ensure that I had the right ones. After all, the last thing I wanted was a disappointed look followed by a return trip later that evening.

After having confirmed that these were indeed what I needed, I reached for another box. At that same moment, this wrinkled, snotty twat next to me, whose arms were already overflowing with other boxes of lights, reaches over and snags the last box. Apparently sensing the pending uppercut, she quickly turns to me and mutters something along the lines of "I hope you didn't need all of those because I need one too".

Lucky for her, I didn't need three boxes...or a felony assault charge.

I simply smile.

And nod.

Merry F-ing Christmas!

Next I hopped in my sleigh and ventured on down the road to Barnes and Noble. Let me go on record as saying that if I'm ever elected president, or to a more important position like Commissioner of the NFL, the first thing I'm going to do is outlaw the Starbucks at Barnes and Noble. These are the worst, and I finally figured out why. They provide an outlet for people who are too intimidated to go to a real Starbucks.

I think they should post a guard at the entrance to the Barnes and Noble Starbucks and ask a simple Starbucks trivia question. Get it right, you get to proceed forward and place your order. Miss it and get doused with a venti, extra hot, no whip, half-caf, macchiato.

But no; instead, every half-wit who wanders into the store is given the opportunity to purchase coffee. And most of them do.and slowly at that. Ordering Starbucks coffee is a process; one that must be practiced and one that is not to be taken lightly. And doing it poorly directly impacts other customers who just want to have their goddamn gingerbread latte to sip while browsing for books on anger management and how to get published.

You want examples? Here:

The woman two spots in front of me kicks off her order with the line "I want something with no fat in it," clearly words she has never uttered before. The friendly gentleman behind the counter suggests a latte made with skim milk.

At this point, the blue-sweatered behemoth wrinkles her nose and counters with "What about the double chocolate, triple peppermint, mocha frappachino?" Well no, you see, THAT HAS FAT IN IT!!

Let's not kid ourselves here, tubby. You don't want something without fat in it. What you want is the double chocolate, triple peppermint mocha frappachino. Your concern is just whether or not those hideous stretch pants can handle another 25 grams of transient fat without bursting apart like the space shuttle Challenger.

Eventually, she settled on the skim latte but quickly added "If they want to put some chocolate in it that would be ok too". I'm sure it would. I was waiting for "If they want to deep fry the cup that would cool as well".

The even-tempered barista then informed her that she can add her own chocolate at the bar at the end of the counter. And boy did she! And not just chocolate -- but cinnamon, honey, vanilla. I thought she was going to need another cup!

Next in line was no better (believe me, I wish I was making this shit up!)

"What is the difference between a latte and a cappuchino?" You gotta be kidding me! Just fucking order for Christ's sake.

At this point, I am tempted to lean forward and inform her that she need not be concerned with the difference between a latte and a cappuchino. Instead, she should be concerned whether or not I'm going to beat her to within an inch of her life with the blackjack I carry with me for just these occasions. Keep in mind -this is pre-caffeine Matty!

She then turns to me and says "Sorry. I'm new at this." You don't say.

I simply smile.

And nod.

Merry F-ing Christmas!

Then it's back home to put up the Christmas lights. I can truly say that, short of the death of a loved one or an extended hospital stay, putting up the Christmas lights is my least favorite day of the year. Think about that for a minute. There are 365 days in a calendar year including at least two trips to the dentist, probably a week's worth of vomiting and diarrhea due to illness, one or two days with a flat tire/dead battery, and at least one day where something accidentally hits you in the balls. And I would choose any of them over a day spent putting up Christmas lights.

As I enter my garage my mind races to come up with a plan. I quickly realize that, aside from impaling myself on a rake, there is nothing that is going to get me out of doing this. After a few tries, the rake just leaves a black and blue mark across my chest. Dejected, I wipe away my tears and walk over to the bin where I store the lights.

Now, when I took down last year's decorations, I carefully rolled up the individual strands of lights so that my job this year would be so much easier. I open the bin and...yep! Houdini couldn't untangle this fucking knot.

Eventually, I get everything straightened out and plug in each set of lights to test them. I do this before I put them on the trees to avoid having to start over from scratch (a lesson learned during the infamous Christmas 2002 meltdown!). As I fully expected only about 30 lights on each string of 100 actually light up. Excellent!

Luckily, the thoughtful manufacturers provide you with a few replacement bulbs. I therefore embark on a grail-like quest to identify and replace the faulty bulbs. Finally, everything is in order and I set off to wrap the lights around the five trees in my front yard, creating a veritable winter wonderland!

After a few hours of wiring, cross-wiring and hooking up more outlets, power cords and extension cords than a Pink Floyd concert, I'm ready for the grand unveiling. I flip the switch and...nothing!

I check and recheck all of my connections but nothing does the trick. Finally, I decide to head back to the garage to retrieve a can of gasoline and a lighter. Along the way, a small Christmas miracle occurs; the lights suddenly come on. I stand there for a moment, gazing at them as if I were a wise man staring at the fabled Star of Bethlehem.

Despite the sudden electrical phenomenon, I'm still thoroughly pissed off and haven't yet ruled out setting my house and yard on fire. Just then, my wife steps outside holding our newborn baby. Her eyes well up with tears as she smiles, hugs our child tighter and says, "The lights look beautiful!"

Yeah, I guess they do.

I simply smile.

And nod.

Merry Christmas!

* - Stolen Pen Politically Correct Footnote #1: This applies as well to Hanukkah, Kwanza, Festivus - whatever winter holiday you celebrate. Fact is, Christmas has no more religious meaning for me than, say, Arbor Day.

Monday, November 27

Dirty Little Secrets

The other night I had a girl piss on me, shit on me, throw up on me and I woke up with scratch marks all down my chest. No I didn't decide to get my old job back as a fluffer on the set of a Japanese porno film, this is just one of the many perks of being a new father!

You may have noticed that the last couple of blogs have come with the rapid fire succession of an automatic weapon wielded by a teenage Janjaweed warlord. I credit my daughter for this as well, as having a baby has provided me with immeasurable amounts of literary fodder.

Take the other night, for example. I settled on to the couch for the midnight feeding; Lainey, a bib and a burp cloth in one hand, a bottle and the remote in the other. After some careful maneuvering, I affixed the bib around baby's neck, draped the burp cloth over the shoulder of my non-pitching arm, rested my right arm on top of two throw pillows in order to get her situated at the appropriate 45 degree angle and flipped on my DVD. As I planted the bottle in her mouth, her piercing cry instantly ceased, leaving me glowing with the same smug pride as the little boy who used his thumb to plug the dike. Suddenly however, her cry was replaced by another sound; a strange high-pitched electronic wail coming from my DVD player.

Uh-oh. This is trouble.

As Lainey sucked down the first ounce of formula I tried in vain to listen to Lindsay Lohan attempt to pull off her role as a successful Manhattan-ite in "Just My Luck" over the unyielding shriek. Eventually, I gave up.

More than a bit dejected, I turned off the DVD. The TV automatically reverted back to the last station to which it was tuned; one of the thirty-two HBO's, on which I can rarely find any film worth watching.

The screen was filled with a panoramic shot of some high plains area, interspersed with horses and sheep. A western...not my first choice, but not bad. Suddenly, a character comes into focus, and its...Jake Gyllenhaal. Oh no! Panic began to set in just seconds before the image of a naked Heath Ledger appeared, squatting in the background doing who-knows-what to his you-know-what.

My eyes scoured the family room for the other remote - the one that changes the channel on the television (the concept of the "universal remote" is foreign in the Caruso household). I finally spy it but, as I feared, it's well out of my reach.

Risking another thirty minute cry-fest, I removed the bottle from Lainey's mouth and reached my hand across the room, channeling my innermost Reed Richards. Nothing.

Nestled within the confines of the corner of our couch, and laden with various baby-feeding gadgets and whatnots, I quickly realized that the Titanic had a better chance of being raised than I did.

I briefly considered yelling for Tracy before deducing that the decades of endless suffering that would be doled upon me for summoning her from the few hours of sleep that she gets to change the channel on the TV was a worse alternative than watching this movie. Yep, ole Matty was stuck between a rock and a mountain.

A Brokeback Mountain.

Now, let's just get it out of the way - this movie is gayer than a tree-full of birds (or as my friend Timmy says, queerer than a football bat!). But worse that that, it is boring beyond belief. This movie makes The 700 Club look like Die Hard! I'm not even sure that substituting Angelina Jolie and Jennifer Aniston for the two male leads would have salvaged this flick.

Unfortunately, I'm now faced with a dilemma. I fell asleep just as the two main characters were about to rekindle their romance, so I don't know how the movie ends. I think it's the same section of the brain that forces me to stare with wide-eyed wonder at each and every traffic accident that compels me to know how every movie I begin to watch ends, no matter how bad it is.

Being stuck watching Brokeback Mountain as the result of a combination of a cranky baby, a single-tasking remote and short arms is one thing, but now we're talking about a conscious decision to sit down and take in the rest of the film. I'm not sure I can bring myself to do it.

Or maybe if I do, I have to then quickly switch the channel and watch some hard core girl on girl action. That might work. The two would cancel each other out, and the net result would be a completely sex-less, boring and terribly painful movie.

Like "Just My Luck"!

Tuesday, November 21

Expert Testimony

Over the last two weeks, my wife and I have received hundreds of gifts from friends and family all welcoming our new addition. However, conspicuous by its absence is the coveted urn of frankincense. And I can count the casks of myrrh we've received on one hand. Instead, it appears that the gifts of choice these days are stuffed animals and tiny one-piece outfits bearing the likenesses of ducks, birdies, puppies, turtles, frogs and hippos.

Hippos?

Correct me if I'm wrong, but aren't hippos considered to be one of the most dangerous animals on the planet?

Since I haven't seen a commercial for Hungry Hungry Hippos in over twenty-five years, I just figured that people finally realized that those gluttonous, marble-chomping behemoths had no place around children. Now it appears as if they're back in full force.

According to one website, hippos are known to kill crocodiles and lions and are responsible for more human deaths than any other African animal! What kind of message are we trying to send here, people? As if caring for a child wasn't stressful enough, now I have to worry about Lainey thinking its alright to approach a hippo should she run across one in the wild since it seemed harmless enough as her hooded bath-towel?

The good news is I've now got two weeks of fatherhood under my belt. And seeing as how when I left home this morning my daughter was still alive and kicking, I think I can safely say that I've graduated to the title of "Expert In Childcare".

I say this because it has become quite evident to me in the two weeks that Lainey has been alive that no one, my wife and I included, has any freaking idea what to do with these adorably helpless, six to ten pound creatures whose health, well-being and, well, life, we have suddenly been entrusted with. Someone once said "make three correct guesses consecutively and you will have established yourself as an expert". I'd like to take that a bit further: "Have a kid...and you've established yourself as an Expert In Childcare!"

This title is not meant to be taken lightly. With it comes a great deal of responsibility. Primarily, you are now an authorized mouthpiece for the unofficial band of brothers and sisters comprised of everyone on earth, at any point in the recorded history of our existence, that has ever had a child. It is now your right...nay, obligation...to pass on your wisdom to anyone else who has a child.

Every dialogue I've had since the birth of my child has begun with the phrase "has the baby been sleeping?" or some variation thereof. While this may seem like an innocent conversation-starter, it is in fact an invitation for every Expert In Childcare within earshot to voice the tactics that have worked for them, as well as those which have flopped worse than Gigli. I even found myself imparting my newfound wisdom to others.

"I found what works," I heard myself say at a cocktail party while I sipped my first and only allotted beer of the evening, "Is to hold the child while she cries. That way the baby still feels the comfort of the parent's arms."

I then snuck off to the bathroom where I proceeded to slap the shit out of myself. Did I really just say that? What the hell do I know? Two weeks ago my primary concerns were hitting a five-trick combo in Tony Hawk's Underground and finding a suitable back-up tight-end for my fantasy team. Now all of a sudden I'm spouting childcare advice like I'm Doctor Fucking Ferber.

Then it dawned on me - while I clearly have no idea what I'm talking about, perhaps no one else does either. This was confirmed via a late-night call lobbed by Tracy and I to my parents.

After staring vacantly for a half-hour at the peacefully sleeping child who was now well overdue for a feeding, we decided to call the most qualified Experts in Childcare we know - Mom and Dad (after all - look at the tremendous job they did with yours truly!).

Matt: Hey. It's past time for Lainey's bottle and she's still sleeping. Should we wake her up?

Dad: I would.

Mom (off-camera): No! Don't wake a sleeping baby!

I'm not sure how she knew the question I asked, but somehow Mom had an answer prepared. What followed was about thirty seconds of mumbled discussion among my parents. Then...

Matt: Well?

Dad: Let her sleep. She'll wake up when she's hungry?

Mom (off-camera): Unless you think she's hungry now, then wake her up!

Sensing the frustration implied by my bewildered silence, Dad went on to explain that there are two schools of thought here; one that would tell you to wake the baby and one that would tell you to let her sleep. Thanks Spock!

But unfortunately, that's the reality of it. There is no right or wrong answer when it comes to raising a child. There's a reason why babies don't come with instruction manuals and it goes beyond the fact that no one knows how to say "poopie-diaper" in four different languages.

As a new parent, this truth was a bit hard to swallow. I mean "trial and error" may be sound advice when it comes to figuring out the optimal ratio of Red Bull to Vodka, but it hardly sounds like the appropriate strategy for ensuring the continued existence of another human being.

But who am I to challenge a system that has worked for centuries. Sure, there are modifications introduced here and there; babies should no longer sleep on their stomachs, murals in the nursery should not be painted with lead-based paint, etc.; but the underlying principles remain unchanged. They worked for our parents, and they'll work for us. Love your child. Use common sense.

Oh, and watch out for hippos!

Thursday, August 17

A Blurry Line

My how time flies. Just over a year ago, I started this website to help launch my lucrative writing career. I chose topics that were important to me to write about in my weekly blog, such as politics, terrorism, the Miss Teen USA Pageant and a really good jambalaya recipe! One such topic that I chose to write about back in August 2005 was our annual Father/Son Weekend at Pymatuning Lake in Northwestern Pennsylvania. Now, here we are, one year later, another year older and with another Father/Son weekend under my belt.

As we posed for photos this year at the 16th Annual Father/Son Weekend, we divided into two groups - Young Guys and Old Guys. While I still happily find myself in the former, someone did make a comment along the lines of "Wow, in a few years there won't be any young guys left". This reminded me of an earlier comment that my wife had made when I checked in with her on Friday morning (the second day of the "weekend"). I mentioned that I wasn't feeling so well (lack of sleep coupled with treating your body like a garbage dump generally has that effect!). Her response was "See - you're getting old!"

I couldn't believe it! Two comments about me getting old! This called for some immediate introspection - not to mention a few more beers.

Throughout the weekend the old guy/young guy debate wages on, culminating in the annual tournament. You may recall from the blog following last year's weekend that our card game of choice is "66". Now unless you, or someone you know, graduated from the now defunct St. Wendolyn's High School in the late 50's or early 60's, you have no idea what that is. Not to worry - just stay with me.

This year the old guys managed to avenge past tourney losses and claimed victory over the young guys. I promised Uncle Wayne that I'd mention it in the blog this year, especially since most of us shunned them after our defeat and even refused to acknowledge Gary Sr.'s presentation of the money to the winners.

Now there are two schools of thought as to how this loss by the young guys may have occurred - that of young guy Jim "Jimbo" Bonetti and that of old guy/'tweener Michael "Tahool" Ackerman (incidentally, Cracker just rolled over in his grave at the notion that there may indeed be a "Tahool School of Thought"!). Tahool theorized that (and I'll have to paraphrase here since I was so drunk at the time of the quote that I nearly pissed myself) "In the end it all comes down to age and experience." Perhaps; but I think I'll opt for Jimmy's opinion: "Anyone can win when you get the right cards".

That aside, let's focus on the real issue at hand - growing old. I think this has particular importance to me now as I am expecting my first child in November. I just turned 33. That being said, whenever someone asks my age, I need to stop and think about it. Why, you ask? Because I can't possibly fathom being 33. It seems like just yesterday that my friends and I were drinking behind the high school and trying to figure out how to get sophomore girls to play strip poker. That was fifteen years ago but it seems like just yesterday. So, fast forward ahead fifteen years. I'll be 48. FORTY FUCKING EIGHT!!! My kid will be 15 years old! Think about that - a teenager! If he's a boy, he'll probably drinking behind the high school and trying to figure out how to get sophomore girls to play strip poker. If she's a girl, she'll be wishing she were 18 and off to college so she would be allowed to leave her room.

That really got me thinking. In what may amount to the blink of an eye, I will have a teenage child. Great, now my psychotic paranoia is working overtime. How can I raise this kid to be a good person? What can I do to make sure that he/she is successful and happy? That they have good friends and find true love; that they don't bully others and aren't bullied themselves; that they do well in school, but still have fun; that they make their own choices and decisions and that those are the right choices and decisions. This is a life we're talking about. A life that I (along with my lovely wife) are to be entrusted with. I can't even set up my new stereo and that came with an instruction manual!

Then it dawned on me. Maybe I shouldn't worry. Maybe I need only replicate what I've been taught. My dad and I have a great relationship - always have. He can correct me if I'm wrong (and often does) but I never remember us having a strained relationship when I was a teen. We've always been best friends. He raised me with what in my opinion was the right mix of discipline and autonomy. He showed me respect. He showed me love. He taught me how to think on my own, but never made me walk a tightrope without standing below and holding the net.

And this weekend (apologies to the mothers, but this is a blog about Father/Son weekend) I witnessed much of the same. These young guys, my friends, dream about this weekend for each of the 360 days of the year that we are not hunkered down in Bonett's garage. And why? Because their fathers (and uncles and cousins) have also raised them right. We are adults now; free to make our own decisions, our own conscious choices. And the one undeniable, unquestionable choice we make each year is that we will do whatever it takes; travel any distance, take enormous amounts of shit from our wives, whatever; just to spend this weekend with our fathers! That is what I have to work for. That is the kind of relationship I want with my child.

Looking around that garage and seeing the old guys, the fathers, hanging out and spending quality time with their sons made me realize that they won more than just this year's card tournament. They did it right! And if becoming an old guy means being like them; being able to someday sit down with my son and share a beer and a laugh, and know I raised him right; then bring it on! Maybe getting old isn't so bad after all!

Anyway - that's enough of my ramblings for now. It's been several days since Father/Son and I'm finally close to feeling human again. My rehydration (non-alcoholic, that is) process, several naps and even more trips to the bathroom are all on the menu for the foreseeable future. And if successful, I should be back on track in no time and should manage to avoid a trip to one of the places with which I'm all too familiar - down the proverbial junta!

Wednesday, June 7

An Exercise in Futility

OK. I'm a Star Wars buff. I'll admit it. On more than one occasion I've gathered up what spare parts I could find and attempted to build my own Death Star. I've even gone as far as drawing the schematics to turn my back yard into a replica of the Ewok's home on Endor. But it was actually my wife that I can thank for helping to make my dream of living in a world popularized by the holy trilogy into a reality. For, by agreeing to take part in a community garage sale, for one long morning, my humble home was transformed into the Mos Eisley Cantina.

Ben Kenobi, in his sage-like way, commented about Mos Eisley that "you'll never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy". Apparently, Obi Wan missed my garage sale!

Only a crystal meth cook-off at a trailer park in West Virginia would bring together in one place a more deplorable crowd than that which descended upon my home last Saturday. Tracy conveniently disappeared to her girlfriend's home in Philadelphia for the weekend, leaving me, her mother and her best friend to deal these tasteless, humorless, penniless vultures.

I'm not trying to sound stuck-up or anything, but the fact of the matter is, most of the shit we were looking to unload was pretty nice stuff. A lot of it was gifts we received but never used from our wedding, which wasn't all that long ago. There were a lot of candles, which, based on my experience around women, are the universal gift: Is your friend having a baby? Give her a candle! - Is your mother not feeling well? Give her a candle! - Has your friend been recently severely disfigured in a grease fire? Well, you catch my drift!

There were purses upon purses upon purses. There were purses that held money. There were purses that didn't hold much at all. There were even purses that held other purses. Most of these, I was told, were expensive, in great shape and practically brand new (which begs the question - why the fuck are you selling it? - but I knew better than to ask!). Yet I had to stand there and watch these old women morph their faces into a scowl and turn their noses up when I told them that I just couldn't go any lower than four bucks.

Old Scavenger: Will you take $2 for this purse since its defective?

Unhappy Matt: What's wrong with it?

Old Scavenger: It's missing a few vowels on the tag.

Unhappy Matt: That's DKNY.

Old Scavenger: It's not supposed to say ?donkey'?

Unhappy Matt: No. Could you please stab me?

The lowlight of my day came when an elderly woman of about 160 years old tossed a recipe holder back onto the folding table in disgust when I informed her that it cost a full dollar.

"I just came from the grocery store. I only have change," she scoffed.

"Well, if you have four quarters, you're in business," I informed her, but she didn't seem to grasp my wisdom.

The more I thought about it, I should've pressed her further. Let's think about that for a second. She just came from the grocery store and only has change. That would mean that, after examining her shopping list, she brought to the store, to within a dollar, the exact amount of money she needed. And that includes any specials that the store may have been running; instant coupons, double coupons, buy one get one. What foresight! What a gift! This old bird may be my golden ticket to riches! We could strike a deal, go on TV together, win the freaking Showcase Showdown!!

Instead I just lunged over the never-used treadmill and threw an uppercut that just barely missed her as she waddled off in disgust at our exorbitant prices.

When it was all said and done, I managed to waste an entire Saturday and had a whopping - get ready for this now - forty dollars more than I started out with. Most of what we brought in was in singles. I, myself, never saw one measly dollar from my efforts (probably the result of one too many jokes involving "making those ones disappear" and "g-strings").

An interesting post-script to this tale: Since the garage sale was a bigger flop than Waterworld, my garage continued to be packed full with all of the stuff that we didn't want in the first place. After repeated attempts to contact Goodwill, the AmVets and other do-gooder organizations, my wife was finally successful in convincing one of these outfits to come by the house and take all of this shit away. So last evening, I lugged boxes and bags, and of course the dreaded treadmill, up two flights of stairs to my front porch where they will be picked up and given to less fortunate, exercise-starved citizens.

Now the treadmill has been a sore spot with me for years. It began its existence at my parents' house. Showing its versatility, the treadmill quickly abandoned its original calling and served dutifully as a clothes-rack for about a decade. Although it still technically works, technological advances (see: the Ab Lounger) have rendered it as obsolete as the appendix. Following an off-hand comment by my wife about "wanting a treadmill or something" my old man seized the opportunity to rid himself and his household of this unnecessary burden. He showed up at my house several days later, wheeling in this metal monstrosity with a shit-eating grin plastered across his face. Despite my objections and threats of violence, the beast found itself a new home in my storage room. To date, the only exercise I've gotten out of it was hauling it up the fucking steps (see previous paragraph).

Which brings us to today...I just received word that someone (presumably Goodwill; potentially thieves) showed up at my home this afternoon and took away all of the junk on the front porch.....all except for the treadmill! I'm now forced with a dilemma. My initial reaction was to smash the machine into manageable pieces which would then be mailed one by one back to my father. Instead I've decided to choose one reader from the Stolen Pen community and send to them, as a gift, this bane of my existence. So, sit tight, dear readers, and if a white, barely-used treadmill shows up at your door, you'll know who it's from.

Don't forget to pay the shipping!

Wednesday, April 12

Travels with ~~Charley~~ Matty

First, let me apologize for my extended absence from blogging. Following the Steelers' Super Bowl win, I embarked on the "Let's Pretend My Life is Better Than it Really Is Tour" of 2006, which consisted of a week-long Southern Caribbean cruise, a Vegas bachelor party and a three-day weekend in New Orleans (not to mention two fantasy baseball drafts that alone consumed two full weeks each with thoughtful preparation).

I now return - a little older, somewhat wiser and with thousands less brain cells than before my journey started. But with those that I have left, I have conjured up the following blog in order to once again impart upon you all, my worldly wisdom.

First, to my female fans, I must apologize. The age-old and strictly enforced guy code prevents me from divulging what took place in Las Vegas as well as on the Thursday before the wedding in N'awlins (the boys flew down on Thursday, the girls on Friday - don't ask me how we pulled that one off!). But, in order to not let down my fellow men, I will briefly summarize both events in a language that only guys can understand. So ladies, please just skip a few paragraphs ahead. Boys, enjoy!

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MAJKLanotherbloodymaryDFPAOIMJCIM;DIDJFdoubledownACMIELAFHMCJMKADFJCMIOECMPO8MUQ89MYCA7

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Whew! Now back to content that is appropriate for all genders and ages. My recent experiences have taken me all over the spectrum when it comes to the different aspects of travel and leisure. I've experienced a wide range of culinary delights; from a five-star dinner aboard the cruise ship to a Lucky Dog with chili at four in the morning on Bourbon Street (I shudder to think what that might've tasted like had I been sober). I've drank everything from a 1994 Mondavi Reserve with dinner to a red bull and vodka with breakfast. My accommodations have included a tiny stateroom on the boat and a plush suite at the Palms. And I've been entertained by some of the best jazz musicians in the world as well as various interpretive dances all done to Aerosmith's "Pink" (I'll let you figure that one out!). And so, I would like to share with you now, some of the highlights (or lowlights) of my journeys. Hey, it beats looking our pictures (except for the one below!):

Air Travel: They say getting there is half the fun. Guess what? They're fucking wrong. Now I know I'm not as svelte as I was in high school but it can't just be me - these planes have to be getting smaller. There are few situations that I can think of where a person is asked to remain in such an uncomfortable position for such a long period of time. Shit, even a prostate exam is over in a few minutes.

I try my best to get myself seated in an exit row. Call me crazy, but I take great comfort in those three additional inches of leg room. I'll admit I do feel a little guilty when the "flight attendant" (it seems "stewardess" suddenly carries with it insult value on par with the N-word) asks for my verbal affirmation that I am capable, and willing, to help out in an emergency. The truth is; I'm not willing. Not in the least. If that flying sardine can at any point becomes a hunk of burning metal, I'm looking out for numero uno and that's it. I don't care how many women, children or elderly I need to knock out and climb over to do it, but one way or another my ass is getting off that plane. And maybe more importantly, as I limped into my exit row seat following 48 hours of gambling and drinking en route from Vegas to Pittsburgh, it suddenly dawned on me; I wasn't sure I was capable of lasting the duration of the flight without shitting my pants, let alone aiding the flight crew in pulling passengers from the sinking airplane.

But without a doubt, in my humble opinion, the most annoying thing when it comes to air travel is having to take your shoes off to go through the metal detector at the airports. Let's walk through the logic being employed here, shall we. One idiot, one time, attempted to ignite his shoe, which may or may not have been a bomb and may or may not have worked. America's solution: X-ray everybodys' shoes! Well done, TSA. Talk about a proactive approach! Terrorists were able to plan simultaneous attacks on airports in three major American cities within minutes of each other. Our response? A rainbow color-coded security alert system that has no more real meaning than rap lyrics.

Food: The guava berry grows only on the small island of St. Martin. Think about that; the only place in the world that this fruit grows is on a small 30 square mile island in the middle of the Caribbean. I find that fact fascinating. Not to mention delicious. I was almost reduced to tears when I spilled my guavaberry colada on the water taxi back to the cruise ship.

Drink: Amstel Light is horse piss. It's lesser known Caribbean cousin, Amstel Bright, however, is a delicious and refreshing brew. Drink with a lime. It's like Corona but without the aftertaste. Word of caution: Juan Carlos, the bartender at the outdoor caf� in Curacao warned that Amstel Bright can give you quite a hangover if you drink too much. Then he tried to sell me some cocaine.

Shopping: I offer this advice to my good friend who suffered a black eye and lacerated face hanging out with us the night before his wedding. In this world, there are few sorrows that a woman may have that can't be solved with diamonds. Just ask my wife. She's been putting up with me for over eight years! Additional advice: Don't hang out with idiots!

Bars: The Ghost Bar in Vegas is one hell of a venue. A swanky interior, a breathtaking view of the city and ultra-sexy clientele highlight this sultry bar on the top of the Palms Hotel. It is the perfect place to hob-nob with the bold and the beautiful of Sin City. The waitresses were really nice too, although not as nice as we thought they were. It turns out the seven bottles of Grey Goose that they kept bringing us at $375 a pop were not just their little way of welcoming us to Nevada.

Music: The new CD by the Arctic Monkeys is being hyped as the greatest to come out of England since any record released by a certain quartet from Liverpool. It's good, but check out Elbow's "Leaders of the Free World". It'll make you long to be British.or at least make you wish we hadn't fought so hard for our independence. Here is a song list that accompanied me on my voyages. They're good for relaxing on the beach, falling asleep on a plane, or just plain jamming to.

I Bet You Look Good On The Dancefloor - The Arctic Monkeys

Landed - Ben Folds

God and Money - The Ike Reilly Assassination

Please Stand Up - British Sea Power

Forget Myself - Elbow

If You Talk Too Much (My Head Will Explode) - People In Planes

These Things - She Wants Revenge

Run - Snow Patrol

Nobody Move, Nobody Gets Hurt - We Are Scientists

Leaders of the Free World - Elbow

The Mixture - The Ike Reilly Assassination

All these things that I've done - The Killers

Hate me - Blue October

See ya in a few!

Monday, February 6

Bringing Home the Gold (& Black)

Greetings once again! I realize it has been a while since I've added yet another gem to the Stolen Pen BLOG vault, but I wanted to wait until the holiday season was officially over. And for me, the holidays don't formally come to a close until two things happen: the Xmas decorations are taken down...and the Steelers' football season ends. And unless you're living in cave (or if you're from Indy or Denver, living in complete denial) the latter did not occur until late last night when my beloved Pittsburgh Steelers smacked the taste out of the mouths of the Seattle Seahawks!!! (incidentally, the former was only completed on Saturday - following weeks of endless nagging!).

To celebrate the fortieth installment of the most storied championship in sports, my wife and I fired up the "Matt Signal", beckoning friends and family to our secret hide-out in Southwestern Pennsylvania.

Our city, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania - the Steel City - situated where two mighty rivers join together to form a third, was thrust once again into the national spotlight. Our Super Bowl celebration was a carefully planned tribute to this beloved city that we call home. A city that, despite its place as a leader in medicine and education, is still unjustly thought of by many as dirty and polluted. A town whose economy is now powered by banking, biotechnology and robotics but still retains its tough steel mill image. A city that will always be thought of as blue-collar; whose people return from work each day, set down their metal lunch pails, brush the ash and soot from their overalls, crack open a cold beer and kick their feet up on the sofa.

That's how the world sees Pittsburgh...and that suits me just fine! I like the fact that my hometown is thought of as a tough-as-nails city where values such as family, work ethic and tradition are still taken seriously. Myself, along with the two million others who call Pittsburgh and her suburbs home, are proud to raise our families in a town with a low crime rate, access to some of the most respected hospitals and universities in the world, a rich cultural scene, and some of the friendliest people you'll ever meet. We're also fiercely protective of our city...and of each other. Charlie Daniels summed it up best when he sang "You just go and lay your hand on a Pittsburgh Steelers' fan...and I think you're gonna finally understand!"

Sunday evening we tried to pay tribute to the many different cultures that chose to settle on the banks of the Allegheny, the Ohio and the Mon, and helped turn Pittsburgh into the diverse yet unified society that it is today.

Our kitchen became Bloomfield, Pittsburgh's Little Italy, and we served hot sausage sandwiches with onions and peppers on fresh baked Mancini bread. The family room turned into Polish Hill, where pierogies and haluski (look 'em up if you don't know) were the order of the day. Our dining room was transformed into the North Side, where the city's rich German tradition was symbolized by the kielbasa and sauerkraut and Penn Pilsner beer. We honored the South Hills, where much of the family grew up, with a game of 66 and Isaly's chip-chopped ham barbeque sandwiches. And finally, the basement became the South Side, Pittsburgh's most popular spot in terms of nightlife, where everyone gathered to watch the game and drink Iron City or I.C. Lite.

It wasn't easy - and it wasn't always pretty - but in the end, the black and gold prevailed! As Hasselbeck's fourth down pass sailed incomplete, my family, friends and I let out a collective sigh of relief. I like to think that at that moment in heaven, the Chief (Art Rooney to you infidels!) cracked open a fresh beer and handed one to my father-in-law, Ray.

"There's our one for the thumb!" Mr. Rooney would say.

"Took us twenty-six years!" my father-in-law would reply.

Meanwhile below, the celebration was underway. My brother-in-law let off a confetti bomb that decorated the night sky; streamers and tiny black and gold specks mixed with the fresh falling snow. My wife fired up the stereo and, as promised, I celebrated the win by dancing with my mother-in-law to the Pittsburgh Steelers Polka. Children screamed. Grown men sobbed. Women hugged.

The older generation sat back and watched with delight at the revelry unfolding before them as their sons and daughters and nephews and nieces celebrated the victory. We shouted and embraced and cheered the efforts of Big Ben and Hines and Troy just as they once did while celebrating the play of Terry and Rocky and Mean Joe in 74 (and 75...and 78 and 79). But something else was happening as well...something magical. In the front of the room, directly in front of the television where Coach Cowher was receiving the Lombardi trophy, but still small enough so as not to obscure the view, another celebration was happening. The children, a black and gold mob all under the age of four, danced wildly as they waved pom-poms and twirled toddler-sized Terrible Towels. The torch was being passed right before our eyes. A new generation of Steelers fans was being born. And someday, decades later, we'll sit back, as our parents did yesterday, and watch them jump around like savages when their heroes bring home the trophy. It won't be Franco or Swannie or even the Bus, but, as with the fans, a new generation of Steeler heroes will emerge. And who knows, maybe one of the kids jumping up and down will someday be doing that victory dance on the screen rather than in front of it. And we'll raise our Irons in salute to the heroics of Jacob or Luke or Nathan or Joshua.

And as I finish typing this entry, I'm reminded of one last great Super Bowl tradition - the hangover. As with any great party, I drank too much, ate too much and drank way too much, and will therefore spend a good part of the remainder of today in the bathroom...which, in keeping with the spirit of the weekend, is an area of my house which I've appropriately dubbed...Cleveland!

Wednesday, December 14

Putting the "Pun" in Capital Punishment

At 12:35am on December 13, 2005, Stanley "Tookie" Williams, the alleged co-founder of the Crips street gang was executed by the State of California. As with all state-sponsored deaths, this execution brought about the usual outpouring of support for the doomed, and protest against the very idea of capital punishment. Throw into the mix Jamie Foxx, Snoop Dogg and C-listers Bianca Jagger and Mike Farrell, and this particular execution had all the makings of a Hollywood blockbuster, right down to the final "hasta la vista, baby" delivered by Gov'nor Conan on December 12^th.

So why all of the interest in this particular death penalty case? What makes Tookie so special?

Basically, many believe that he was reformed during his time in the clink (forget about his claims that he is innocent -- everyone on death row claims to be innocent). He has apologized for starting the Crips and has written several children's books preaching the evils of gang-life. If that's not reformed then I don't know what is! Forget about staying his execution, I say we should have just let him go!

Articles in support of Tookie also noted that he had been nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize every year since 2001. OK, this one I had to dig deeper into. I mean, this is huge, right? Maybe Tookie was reformed. Maybe he did become a new man in prison (after the 6 � years he spent in solitary confinement for repeated attacks on guards and fellow prisoners, of course). After all, in recent pictures he is depicted as a graying, aging man, with somber eyes and an almost peaceful expression; a sharp contrast to the photos from the time of his arrest that show him with 24-inch pythons and a hairdo that makes Mr. Kotter look like Kojak.

But still, the Nobel Peace Prize? Come on. He wrote a couple of children's books for Christ's sake. Was there really no one more deserving? Did his actions, noble as they may be, really earn him a place alongside Dr. King and Mother Teresa, who, without having done the research to verify it, I can still say with a high degree of certainty, didn't also kill four innocent people?

As it turns out, however, just about anybody can be nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize. The Nobel Committee keeps the nominees a secret for 50 years, and asks the nominators to do the same. It has, therefore, never been officially confirmed that Tookie was nominated. Interestingly enough, however, in 1939 a man named Adolf Hitler was.

One death penalty protester's primary concern was that once Tookie was gone, who would take over the task of writing books encouraging America's youth to stay away from gangs? Well, I got just the solution: ME!! Think about it; I'm looking for a writing gig and I managed to stay out of gangs my whole life. Not even Tookie can say that! In fact, you may therefore argue that I'm even more qualified than him to be the mouthpiece for the anti-gang movement!

All kidding aside, however, I think it is a very narrow-minded view to think that only Tookie, or someone like him, has the ability to preach to children the dangers of gang-life. How about finding a success story; someone to write a "how-to" book on surviving the hardships of growing up while doing it the right way; avoiding gangs and avoiding jail. To me, this type of person is much more valuable, and their words resonate much louder than someone who spawned an urban army of armed killers, only to later repent about it.

And believe me, these heroes do exist. For every Tookie there is someone out there who beat the odds and avoided gang-life. Maybe through art or music or sports or education. I once knew a guy; I met him at a leadership retreat in college. I've since lost touch with him but sincerely wish I hadn't. He was one of the strongest individuals I've known. He told me a lot about himself during the week we spent together, and in doing so, taught me a lot about myself. This guy, we'll call him "Randall", grew up in South Central Los Angeles; the heart of gangland. He managed to avoid gangs for a long time, but eventually gave into the temptation of the money and power that they can offer. Finally, he and a friend decided to sell drugs. But at the last minute, Randall thought better and decided to back out. That evening, on what would have been his first drug deal, Randall's friend was shot and killed. Randall packed up his things, scraped together enough money for a car, and drove himself to a college in the Midwest, where he put himself through school and even became the student body president. Forgive me, but that's the kind of guy that I want talking to kids. Someone who everyday faced the difficult decision of right versus wrong, and always chose wisely.

But back to Tookie. Maybe he was reformed, and if so, good for him. A lot can happen in twenty-five years and maybe in this case it has. That, however, doesn't change the fact that he was found guilty on four counts of murder. In my opinion, the real crime here is a state that takes over a quarter-century to carry out its verdicts. Had Tookie Williams been executed in 1980, the reformation argument would be null and void. Of course, we'd still have the capital punishment argument to contend with...but I think I can help out there as well.

Each time an inmate is executed, the accompanying newspaper stories always include one detail: the last meal! I don't know why, but this fascinates me. For some reason, I am captivated by what these death row convicts choose for their one final repast. Maybe it's the magnitude of this decision. Think about it; this will be the last thing you ever eat. Ever! I would start planning for that on day one of my incarceration. Tookie declined a last meal, thus robbing me of the one thing I was really looking forward to reading about in yesterday morning's paper. Other inmates in the past were not so insensitive.

A few years ago, prior to his execution, one inmate ordered for dessert "banana pudding or banana pudding ice cream". Now, I've eaten my fair share of ice cream in my day and have never once heard of banana pudding ice cream. Then it dawned on me...maybe it doesn't exist. Could this be a loophole in the justice system? Perhaps by ordering something that is difficult or even impossible to make, you could, by default, stay your execution! Depending on the obscurity of the request, you may be able to postpone it indefinitely! What a brilliant solution to one of the most contested social issues of our day! So here it is: I've compiled a menu of impossible to get items. If you're on death row, feel free to use it, with my compliments.

The Stolen Pen Last Meal Menu

12 oz unicorn steak topped with poached dodo egg

6 Passenger pigeon hot-wings

Half rack of barbequed mammoth ribs

Glass of water from the fountain of youth (served in the Holy Grail)

There. I may have just single-handedly eliminated the death penalty. Hey...maybe now someone will nominate me for the Nobel Peace Prize!

Friday, December 9

A Society of Lies

****SPOILER ALERT****

Do not let children under the age of 12 read any further! In fact, they probably shouldn't be on this website anyway!

We all tell lies. There are innocent little lies ("The check is in the mail!" or "It's only a cold sore!"). There are lies we tell because we don't want to hurt someone's feelings ("They look real!" or perhaps "A toupee? No way!"). There are lies we tell for our own protection ("Fat? You? Come on." or maybe "No officer...ok maybe a glass of wine with dinner!"). And of course, lies we tell when we're trying to get laid ("I love you!" or my favorite "I like you a little!"). And all of these (especially the last grouping) are understandable and in fact, quite encouraged!

But there is one lie so egregious, so reprehensible, that it is beyond forgiveness. And yet, it's one we've all heard, one we all likely believed for years, and one that we have or most certainly will at one point use - that is, the lie that is Santa Claus!

Let's analyze this myth that we so recklessly impart upon our offspring each winter, shall we? An apparently ageless man lives in an uninhabitable section of the world with his equally ageless wife, an undefined number of persons of a race not proven to exist and caribou which can, despite the laws of both physics and nature, fly. Throughout the year, this gentleman and his assembled workforce, most of whom appear to be adolescents or younger, a clear violation of child labor laws, manufacture toys. Although traditionally depicted with only the simplest of wooden tools, they are able to create anything from an Xbox to a live pony. These children work ridiculous hours, are provided rations of questionable nutritional content, are forced to participate in spontaneous sing-alongs and are discouraged from pursuing semi-legitimate professions such as dentistry. "Saint Nick" (who is neither a "saint" as canonized by the Catholic Church, nor named "Nicholas") takes periodic leaves of absence from his home and manufacturing plant in the North Pole to visit local shopping malls, where drunks and teenagers dressed as elves place small children in his lap. Then, despite the logistical impossibility, this man, over the course of one evening, visits every residence in the world, squeezing his bulbous ass into a chimney which may or may not be open and may or may not have a raging fire at its bottom. Each home he visits, which, assuming an average of four persons to a household, exceeds one billion, provides him with milk and several cookies. This would equate to approximately 5 billion cookies which, obvious health implications aside, is a feat impossible even by Jared's pre-Subway standards.

This, dear friends, this steaming pile of holiday bullshit is what we begin telling our young ones as soon as the tryptophan-induced Thanksgiving coma wears off.

You're laughing (or maybe you just think I'm an asshole) but guess what? You fell for it!!! And if you're a parent, you're probably dumping this shit on your children like the Dave Matthews tour bus! Shame on you, America! Shame on us all!

But take heart, readers, because your old friend Matty was right there with you. Despite being as smart as I like to think I am, I too fell for the Kris Kringle myth hook, line and sugarplum-flavored sinker! I remember one Christmas being very worried because the house we lived in had no chimney and therefore no means for Santa to trespass and leave behind several hundred dollars worth of free loot. Instead of doing the right thing and back-handing my na�ve ass back into the real world of home invasion and credit card debt, my father simply smiled and promised to leave the front door unlocked. Happily, I went upstairs to bed, comfortable in the knowledge that all of the time that Santa's eleven-year old workers put into my Batcave Action Set would not go wasted.

But alas, as with all things that bring us joy and happiness, eventually the Santa Claus myth must someday come crashing to an end with the force of a paparazzi-chased limousine. I vividly recall my own personal awakening. I had laced the milk and cookies that I left out for Santa with a powerful sedative. Certain that by capturing old Saint Nick I would win the adoration of not only my closest friends, but millions of non-believers the world around. The next morning, wide-eyed and wild-haired, I tiptoed downstairs to find not a well-sedated Santa and a tree-full of presents, but rather my parents, passed out on the kitchen floor, their tell-tale milk mustaches and chocolate smeared fingers a harsh introduction to the reality that is parental deception. Since that day, I can't wash down a valium with a swig of 2% and chase it with a Kit-Kat without conjuring up those awful memories.

But as my wife likes to point out, I am wrong about most things, almost all the time. Maybe this is one of those times. Maybe there is a Santa Claus. And if so, I know I'm not passing up my opportunity to grovel for a bunch of stuff I don't deserve. So without further ado, I present to Santa Claus, with copy to you all, my Christmas list!

Monday, November 21

Dropping the Torch

OK. Time to take the Stolen Pen Quiz!

These are:

With the Teletubbies, anime's version of the Crips and the Bloods
The last remnants of your college "experiment" with LSD
Farmhands at the Neverland Ranch
The cause of at least four fist-fights at Toys-R-Us as Christmas gets nearer

If you guessed none of the above, you are correct (you also cheated since that wasn't one of the choices!)

These five characters, the "Friendlies", as they're so cleverly named, are the official mascots of the 2008 Olympics to be held in Beijing. If you weren't fired up for the games before, look out now!!!

Their names are "Beibei", "Jingjing", "Huanhuan", "Yingying" and "Nini" (apparently named by the same geniuses who name all the pandas at the world's zoos). Their official website informs readers that when put together their names say "Beijing Welcomes You" (my guess, "Beibeijingjinghuanhuanyingyingnini" was apparently incorrect).

Before I posted the picture of the Friendlies on my website, I wanted to make sure I wouldn't get in trouble. So I visited the Friendlies' website and found a section entitled "Beijing Organizing Committee for the Games of the XXIX Olympiad Makes the Following Proclamation Regarding the Protection of the Intellectual Property Rights of the Mascots". As I read through the proclamation, I came across item number 9, which I found most interesting. It reads:

9. Under any circumstances, organizations and individuals should uphold the legitimacy and seriousness of the Mascots."

Come again? Maybe it's just me, but poorly drawn cartoon renderings of a panda, a fish, fire, an antelope and a swallow (I don't make this shit up, I swear) generally don't warrant being described with words like "legitimate" and "serious". They don't even look like what they're supposed to represent -- OK, maybe the panda is somewhat discernable, even with the three chronic leaves sticking out of its head. That being said, I didn't see anything that looked like it would preclude me from including the picture you see above. And if I do get punished, hopefully it will only be a slap on the wrist and not a few years in a Chinese prison (although, the good thing about Chinese prisons -- if what you see in the movies is true -- when you get released, someone trains you to be Batman!)

Now, I don't mean to bash Beijing or the upcoming games, I'm just a little frustrated overall with the Olympics. In 2004 (the last summer games) I decided to try and watch a little more than I had in the past. Yet without fail, it seemed like all I could ever find on TV was sailing (a "sport" in only the most liberal definition) and women's judo. Now, I know what you're thinking, but believe me, women's judo is nowhere near as exciting as the name might imply. I cracked open a beer expecting to see a re-enactment of the Miller Lite commercial only with hot chicks from such exotic locales as Eritrea and Belarus. Instead I was treated to what appeared to be women in hospital scrubs tugging at each other like they were fighting over the last pair of shoes at a Bloomingdales' clearance sale. No bikinis, no wardrobe malfunctions -- not even a good Karate Kid-style crane kick!

Maybe I just tuned in at the wrong times. Maybe they show the exciting, crowd-pleasing sports like boxing, wrestling and table tennis at times when I can't watch. Or maybe the Olympics just plain suck!

But at least in 2008, we have the Friendlies!

Friday, November 11

Viva le Poulet!

I was all set to use today's blogging space to expound on the deteriorating social situation in France. Having lived there for nearly a year, I came to grow quite fond of both my adopted homeland and her people. It pains me to witness the urban violence that has overtaken many of the arrondissements in Paris, Marseille, Lyon and other great French cities. As I said, I was all set to discuss this current hot topic...but then I went to a chicken cooking class - now that's worth talking about!

To set the stage for how I ended up in the chicken cooking class, here is a brief interaction that took place between my wife, Tracy, and I (if you're reading this with a friend, feel free to act out the dialogue below!):

Tracy: Are you ready?

Matt: Ready for what?

Tracy: To go to our cooking class.

Matt: Excuse me?

Tracy: I said, are you ready to go to...

Matt: I heard what you said. That wasn't the confusing part.

Tracy: I signed us up for a cooking class. You've known about this for weeks.

(Aside #1: Here is where the reader learns that I either have a severe paint-huffing habit that even I'm not aware of, or my wife carries on conversations with me when I'm not around)

Matt: Look, I'm not going to any cooking class. If you want to go, go by yourself!

Scene II takes place approximately three minutes later in the car on the way to the cooking class.

Tracy: Take route 79 north.

Matt: OK, dear.

(Aside #2: OK, in the past two postings we've learned that she made me write a poem to win her free jeans, and now I'm being dragged to the cooking class -- it is now evident who wears the pants (free or otherwise) in this relationship!)

On the way to the cooking class, I peppered my wife with questions, hoping to garner as much information as I could about my impending evening. What I learned sent me on an emotional rollercoaster that can best be described with baseball euphemisms:

Matt: What is this class?

Tracy: It's called "Two Hot Chicks Making Five Hot Chicken Dishes"

It's a deep shot heading toward the bleachers!

Matt: Are these "chicks" really hot?

Tracy: Um, it's more of a clever marketing tool.

Caught at the warning track.

Tracy: But you get to eat the food that they cook.

Wait, the outfielder drops the ball! The runner rounds first!

Tracy: Well, you actually just sample it. You know...a few small bites.

The runner trips!

Tracy: But you get a glass of wine.

He's back on his feet. The outfielder accidentally kicks the ball into foul territory!

Tracy: I thought it would be a nice way to spend time together.

Picking up steam, he rounds second!

Tracy: Besides, I'll be able to make some good dinners for you this weekend.

He's got the green light! He's being waived home!

Tracy: Oh...you'll probably be the only guy there!

Heeeeeeeeeeeeeee's out!!!!

Fast forward ahead...we arrive at the chicken cooking school and are given name tags. I'm happy to see that mine reads "Matt Caruso" and not "Pussy-whipped Dork". We find two empty seats (front row's open -- go figure) and settle in for a hand's on demonstration on how to cook poultry.

Now, all over-reacting aside, I'm pleased to say that the experience was quite enjoyable. I was not the only guy in attendance (apparently there are at least two other eunuchs in Pittsburgh). The two hot chicks (Jeanne and Cindy were their names, I forget their last names or I'd give ?em a plug here) were very entertaining and the food they prepared was wonderful. And maybe most importantly, it didn't seem all that difficult to make. Tracy has promised to try out at least one new dish this weekend. And who knows, maybe I'll even take a shot at one myself.

Which leads me, dear readers, to my gift to all of you. Since my chicken cooking class has now placed me in the same ranks as Emeril Lagasse or Julia Child, I no longer need my favorite recipe, which I now proudly pass on to all of you. Cheers!

Wednesday, November 9

A Dream Come True?

Finally it's happened! What every man (or at least every lazy man) dreams about for his entire life - and it's come true for me! I found...a handicapped parking pass! You should see it: it's blue, fully laminated, in pristine condition...and it doesn't expire until September 2007. That's almost two years from now. Two years, I say! For one-fifth of a decade I will only need to drag my lazy ass a few feet to enter my favorite bars, restaurants, movie theaters, malls, strip clubs - you name it.

I can still remember seeing it lying there in the Giant Eagle parking lot. It was as if God herself cast down a beam of light; illuminating it; drawing me over to it. Not wanting to appear too anxious, I slowly reached down and lifted it up for a better look. Could it be? Was it really? Yes - like finding a winning ticket in the lottery of life. I glanced quickly in all directions, instinctively clenching my fists, preparing to ward off would-be attackers who threatened to pilfer my newfound treasure. None came. Deftly, I slid back into my car, closing and locking the doors for added security. With a shit-eating childlike (two adjectives rarely used together) grin, I reached up to fasten my golden ticket to the rear-view mirror. That's when it happened.

Poof! Poof!

Like something out of a bad movie or good cartoon, they appeared. The little angel on my right shoulder and his horned, pitchfork bearing counterpart on my left.

"Don't do it!" the angel said, in a voice that sounded strangely like my mother's.

Now keep in mind, over the past thirty-two years, the little devil's record in head to head contests against the little angel would make the Yankees of the 1920's tip their collective caps in reverence. But something was different on this fateful day. Like Don Larsen in Game 5 against the Dodgers, or John Elway when he took the ball at his own 2 yard line against the Browns, fate seemed to be on the side of the little angel.

I began to think about the poor person who may really need the spot I was parked in. Or the unfortunate soul who received a ticket because I had their pass hanging from my mirror.

And where would I go that I really needed to park that close? The gym? Perhaps. It's funny, I go to the gym each day (OK, you caught me, occasionally) to work out; to get back in shape. Yet I will circle that goddamn building three times until I find a spot near the door.

A restaurant? Come on. Unless I'm eating at Disney World, restaurant parking lots are not all that big. I'm sure I can manage.

Then I realized, it's not about the distance to the door or saving the treads on my shoes. Finding a great parking spot is...well...it's being able to say "I found a great parking spot!" It's like finding your way without directions. It's coasting into the gas station on fumes. It's a macho thing. It's the loudest belch, or the biggest bubble. And having the pass? Well, that kind of takes away from the sporting aspect of it, doesn't it?

Having figured that out, I gave the little angel a smile and stuffed the pass into my glovebox. He winked back and disappeared. "We'll let him have that one," I said to the little devil, who flipped me the bird before vanishing as well.

So that's that. If you live in the greater Pittsburgh area and lost your handicapped parking tag, let me know. I'll drive back up to the supermarket to meet you and will happily hand it back. I'll be driving a black BMW.

Oh, and if the parking lot's full, I'll probably be in a handicapped spot!

Monday, August 29

No Passport Required

This weekend, my wife and I visited our favorite foreign country; Disney World! I was actually a bit surprised to see that, for all the painstaking efforts that Disney undertakes to accommodate its guests, there did not appear to be a greater effort to cater toward foreign tourists, which appear, at least to me, to make up the majority of visitors.

Disney seems fascinated by teleportation. In Tomorrowland, galactic prisoners are teleported to the prison. At MGM, you are teleported into the hangar to begin your Star Wars voyage. I wonder what would happen if Disneyworld took some of the billions of dollars it spent on its attractions and rides and paid some real scientists to figure out how to teleport!

Now, let me preface the rest of this BLOG by saying that I love Disney World and we both had a fantastic time. That being said, if I ever had a doubt about my belief that 99% of the Earth's population is annoying beyond comprehension, those doubts have been duly squashed!

If you've never been to Disney World and would like to know what the experience is like, go outside and walk for, oh I don't know, six days! Each theme park (we visited four) is enormous and getting around on foot is almost always required. Now granted, occasionally you may have to stop and look at a map, or adjust everything that you're toting around, or simply get your bearings. But the number of people who choose to just stop wherever the hell they are, as opposed to stepping out of the way of traffic, is mind-blowing. I can't tell you the number of times I ran into the fools in front of me who decided that the middle of the walkway was the perfect place to re-fasten the Mickey Mouse ears to their kid's head. Or the number of times I had to pull off a Barry Sanders sidestep to avoid rear ending the moron who had to stop and use the map to find the enormous silver Epcot ball. I think when you purchase your ticket, they should also hand you a claw-hammer. And if someone stops suddenly in front of you, it should be your right...no, duty, to bludgeon them.

But by walking amid the masses or by parking my weary carcass on one of the free buses, I was also treated to an onslaught of jaw-droppingly stupid comments. I'll share my two favorites with you. Disney owns two hotels, the Swan and the Dolphin, both of which are adorned with likenesses of the animals after which they were named...sort of. While the swans do look like swans, the dolphins look nothing like what supposed to represent. This prompted one genius on the bus from the hotel to the Animal Kingdom to state that these were in fact based on the "European fish drawings from the 15^th or 16^th centuries that were popular for a few years." Come again?

Then, as I waited in line for the MGM movie tour, one lady approached a Disney employee and asked "Is this ride safe?" Um, sure lady. Just be sure to keep your head down during the mortar fire. Oh yeah, and a few of the boats you'll be riding in may contain poisonous vipers! C'mon...it's Disney for Christ's sake!

Ugh! Luckily as I said above, our good time was not spoiled by the inherent stupidity which seems to have overwhelmed our population. We got to experience almost everything that Disney has to offer, from the best (an incredibly cool hang-gliding attraction called Soarin' at Epcot) to the not-so-great (The "It's a Small World" attraction whose recent renovations unfortunately did not include a new freaking verse to that song!). But in the end, when the vacation was over, it was nice to be back in the good ole US of A!

Wednesday, August 9

First Belgium and Now This!

The other day I took a break from writing and decided to use the internet for its true intended purpose; checking fantasy baseball stats and downloading soft-core porn. As my fingers hung ten on the information super-waterway, my eyes caught a glimpse of the following teaser: "Click here for the newest craze sweeping Europe".

I'll admit it. I bit.

I expected to be magically transported away to the Champs-Elysees to view the newest chic rags from Paris. Or perhaps to taste a new brew from Munich's Oktoberfest a few months early. Or maybe to one of London's underground clubs to hear the latest tracks being spun by the deejays. But no...I got to meet...the Crazy Frog!?!.

You gotta be kidding me! The latest and hottest European trend is a freaking ringtone? Not only that, but it has to be one of the stupidest things I've ever seen. Despite this, it is, at least according the website, all the rave across the pond. I wonder if our brethren in France and England, hell, even Lichtenstein, know what's being said about them on the internet. What's worse, this thing is actually still on some of the Top Ten charts in London. That's it. I better never hear anyone criticize the Good Ole U.S. for launching the career of Fat Joe!

Then I actually saw a commercial on TV for the Crazy Frog. If I wasn't convinced before that it stunk worse than a dead raccoon stuffed with old cabbage and lit on fire, this was the clincher. They actually interviewed the genius who "invented" the Crazy Frog. He announced his plans to launch his creation on America. I hope we're ready! He even summed up his expectations for the Crazy Frog invasion by saying "Americans are either going to love it...or hate it!" Wow! Bold statement there, chief!

It's not bad enough that cellphones have become omnipresent. They're in cars. They're in movie theatres. Teens have them. Farmers have them. Soon dogs will have them. Then, just when we thought it couldn't get any worse, someone decided that the standard ring wasn't quite annoying enough. So, someone got the bright idea to replace it; first with top-40 songs by Kelly Clarkson and now...with the Crazy Frog. I wonder if they give a Nobel Prize for idiocy. If so, I've got my nominee ready. Well done Europe! Thanks.

On another note, I promised a couple of newly-married friends that I'd give 'em a shout out in this week's blog. They're still on their honeymoon (despite my glowing recommendation, they still chose Tortola over Conneaut Lake) but they'll read this when they get back. Jen and Steve, the wedding was beautiful and I had a blast. Since my wife was in the wedding, I got to sit with all of the other "dates" at a separate table. It was like Christmas Dinner in the Land of the Misfit Toys! But nonetheless, I had a great time and also learned a valuable lesson: Red Bull does a fantastic job of masking the taste of vodka!

Anyway, that's it for now. I hope you enjoyed this edition of the Stolen Pen blog. The way I see it, you'll either love it...or hate it!

Monday, August 1

The Guys Weekend

My nearly-consecutive day streak of blogging was interrupted this weekend as a result of my participation in a time-honored tradition: The Guys' Weekend!

Each year for the past fifteen years, my father-in-law, before he passed away, brothers-in-law and a group of old friends that have known each other for what seems like forever, journey up to our buddy's camp at Pymatuning Lake for a weekend retreat. My marriage into the family earned me an invite over five years ago.

While there this weekend, as I struggled to pour myself another beer from the tap without falling over, something occurred to me. This wasn't just something that was fun to do, or an excuse to get out of household chores for a weekend, it was something so much more. For a guy, a weekend like this is a freakin' necessity!

The girls may not understand this, but guys need a weekend of complete and utter debauchery to, well, feel like a guy! We need a weekend of drinking, of golf, of card-playing. We need to chew tobacco and smoke stogies (on a side note, I once again failed at my attempt to find a cigar that tasted great at midnight but didn't make me feel like someone filled my mouth with sawdust soaked in bull urine the next day!). We need to stay up all night arguing about sports, and listen to oldies, and grill large amounts of meat. We need to relive old moments, tell old stories, laugh until our heads hurt. Did I mention drinking?

I'm not saying this is something we need to do every weekend, but once, maybe twice a year, we should be given the hall pass to go away, enjoy ourselves, recharge our batteries, refill the testosterone tank! Now, granted, for the first two or three days back in the real world you generally feel as if you just sailed across the ocean during a storm while boxing Mike Tyson the entire voyage. That's what happens when you spend four to five days treating your body like a garbage dump (yes, you read that right, Father/Son "weekend" begins on Wednesday). But after that, after having the opportunity to take a deep breath and reflect back, you find yourself feeling refreshed; feeling...like a man!

Part of the reason that this concept is so foreign to our lovely wives, girlfriends, mothers etc., is that the female equivalent of the guys' weekend is nearly the polar opposite. While we were at camp, the women headed down to the spa for a day of pampering. Their idea of a good getaway involves sitting quietly by the pool, or reading quietly by the fire, or having an aromatherapy bath with hydro-soluble essential oils (whatever the hell that is). In other words, quiet solitude. On the other hand with fifteen guys crammed into one space, most of whom snore like jackhammers (myself included) there is not even peace and quiet while we sleep! I'm not saying there is anything wrong with the girls' weekend, only that its stark contrast to ours is the main reason why they shake their heads when we start talking about next year's weekend some ten months in advance.

Guys believe in tradition. And that's also what this weekend is about. Our fathers and uncles went to Steeler games together, kicking off the tailgate at some ungodly hour when most are still asleep. When we were old enough, they opted for a place on the couch, passing the tickets and propane tanks on to us. They taught us how to play Sixty-six, a card game (or, at least our version of it) with its roots in Pittsburgh's South Hills where they grew up. Maybe they even taught us too well as the "Young Guys" swept the old-timers in this year's tourney! And in a few years, some of our sons will start to come up and take their place around the table. And that's what it's all about. Everyone, together in one place, if only once a year. That's what keeps us driving across that state each year, or flying in from California, or blowing off a term paper that's due next week. And that's what'll keep us coming back for years to come.

So to Sonny, Jimbo and Stevie (who may be the greatest outdoor cook on the planet!) thanks again for having us. To Cracker, we miss you. It'll never be the same without you. And to the ladies, remember, this isn't just something that we want to do. It's something we have to do. Now where are those Tums?

Wednesday, July 27

Kept down by the Man!!!

I've now had nearly a full day to reflect on the Situation:Comedy premiere last evening. All in all, I thought the show was great. I wish the best of luck to Shoe, Mark, David and Andrew as they continue to 'invite' us into their lives over the next few months. I am very excited for the 15 minute premieres of "Stephen's Life" and "The Sperm Donor". Congratulations also to Jen and Brian for making it to the top 5. On a side note, it's too bad the cameras didn't follow the three of us on our "cast-offs" bar tour of Hollywood the night after the final pitch. There was definitely some funny material to be had there!!

In his BLOG on Bravotv.com, when asked what his top two choices were (for the Situation:Comedy finalists), Stan Zimmerman, Executive Producer said: "I chose Stephen's Life and On Your Mark."

Woo-hoo! Props for Matty!!

He then goes on to add, "But then they picked two white boy teams. Shocking."

Um...wait a minute...last time I checked...I'M WHITE TOO!!! Ok, so I may have been mistaken for a Mexican here and there on some of my vacations to the Caribbean; but that is usually cleared right up once I exercise my vast knowledge of Spanish. 'Hola!' 'Dos cervezas, por favor!' After that, I'm out (unless a wolf happens to run by and I can yell 'Lobo!').

And although my Italian heritage is clearly evident, aside from a three-day trip to Rome, the closest I've been to the old country is Fiori's Pizzeria in Brookline!

All kidding aside, I was very flattered by the comments made by all four of the executive producers during the show. Having someone who has achieved so much success in the industry read my script, let alone offer a favorable comment, is one of the most rewarding feelings I've experienced.

On that note, I'd like to offer a little more from Stan and Maxx's BLOG:

MAXX

Here's why I wanted The Sperm Donor. It was a strong premise and the right age range for NBC. And to me, it was a fresher point of view.

STAN

Yes, and to me that's why I think NBC thought On Your Mark was too close to other shows they've tried...about a single 30-year-old guy and his dating life.

MAXX

Which they have tried unsuccessfully many, many times.

STAN

But that's not a reason not to do it.

Amen! Stick it to the Man!