This wouldn’t happen if she were a Laker Cheerleader.

Needing to take a “moment” the other day I went to one of my favorite websites Neatorama.com and started….well…momenting. It’s a great site to do just this, with wonderful brainfood in the way of videos and links to out of the ordinary content uploaded by friends of Neaotorama.com on a regular basis. Do you want to find a video of a napping cat responding to calls from his Japanese owner while still half asleep? This is your place. Maybe the only known video of Mark Twain? You’ll find it here too. How about pictures from deep space probes or maybe a link to the history of some of the oldest trees on the planet? Neatorama.com has this and more. I know that there are many such websites like this out there, but Neatorama is my “moment” website of choice and it will lead you to many of the others.

Anyway, as I was “momenting” at it the other day I came across a link, courtesy of Misscellania.com, about some folks writing a book called The Art of Manliness: Classic Skills and Manners for the Modern Man. In the link they talk of the research for the book and how they came across some great old-time 19th century slang words that they were going to sprinkle into the book for fun. They came up with a quick glossary of some of the words and phrases they found that manly men of the 19th century might have uttered, possibly while passing time in saloons. Though as the link states “These colorful words and phrases probably won’t ever come back into popular parlance” I thought I’d try to find some context or instances where a few of these slang terms could be used today.

Thus my moment leads to time wasting…one of the greatest endeavors you can partake of in this world that doesn’t shine to such…

Anointing: A good beating. A case for the application of salve.
My beloved Pittsburgh Pirates have received an “anointing” in the standings for the last 17 years. My emotional fan well being has received the same “anointing.”

Bellows to Mend: A person out of breath; especially a pugilist is said to be “bellows to mend” when winded.
I was “bellows to the mend” after playing football with the J.G. on Sunday reminding me how terribly out of shape I am.

Blind Monkeys: An imaginary collection at the Zoological Gardens, which are supposed to receive care and attention from persons fitted by nature for such office and for little else. An idle and useless person is often told that he is only fit to lead the Blind Monkeys to evacuate.
You don’t even have to use this one in a sentence to know it can be another term for politicians or conservative right wing talk radio and TV hosts.

Bone Box. The mouth. Shut your bone box; shut your mouth.
How many times a day could you use this?

Bunch Of Fives. The fist.
This one would work well in tandem with “bone box” as in “…shut your “bone box” or I’ll be forced to give ya’ a “bunch of fives” ya’ baastaad!”

Cat-heads. A woman’s breasts.
Not going there without getting a “bunch of fives” from our fairer halves.

Crab. To prevent the perfection or execution of any intended matter of business, by saying any thing offensive or unpleasant, is called crabbing it, or throwing a crab;
While doing some channel surfing the other day I accidentally caught a bit of a commercial for the Kardashian’s and then landed on Fox news longer than I wanted to when I dropped the remote and it went under the couch. Talk about having a “crab” thrown at your intelligence huh?

Cut. To renounce acquaintance with any one is to cut him.
Early form of “unfriending.”

Dash-fire. Vigor, manliness.
Something I used to be full of. Refer back to me being “bellows to the mend” after playing football last Sunday.

Draw the Long Bow. To tell extravagant stories, to exaggerate overmuch; same as “throw the hatchet.”
Hey, I “draw the long bow” and “throw the hatchet” every day on the air especially when talking of how I used to be full of “dash-fire.”

Drumsticks. Legs.
Refer back to me not going there where our fairer halves are concerned.

Earth Bath. A grave.
Eternity Box. A coffin.
Don’t want either of these to come back into fashion as I feel my mortality. They’re creepy.

Fart Catcher. A valet or footman, from his walking behind his master or mistress.
Now that I think about it, this could be of some use in describing some jobs I’ve had in the past. You as well I imagine, if not your current one. Some stuff rolls downhill or some stuff wafts down wind.

Fimble-Famble. A lame, prevaricating excuse.
Tiger woods and all the others out there who pull the sexual addiction card have been using some serious “fimble-famble” to try and get us to think they’re sick and show empathy while they’re in “therapy.”

Fizzing. First-rate, very good, excellent; synonymous with “stunning.”
Early precursor to Snoop Dog lingo, though he would probably find a way to make it rhyme with ho’s.

Flag of Distress. The end of a person’s shirt when it protrudes through his trousers.
Just damn embarrassing to fly the “flag of distress” when leaving a public restroom isn’t it? Also just as embarrassing when the “flag of distress” is toilet paper on the bottom of your shoe.

Follow-me-lads. Curls hanging over a lady’s shoulder.
I think there’s an innuendo here that would, again, lead to me getting in trouble.

Go By The Ground. A little short person, man or woman.
Use this only if you want to get kicked in the shins.

Gullyfluff. The waste—coagulated dust, crumbs, and hair—which accumulates imperceptibly in the pockets of schoolboys.
So, finally a name for what I find in my belly button.

Hogmagundy. The process by which the population is increased.
I think this one has been sufficiently replaced by something a little more obvious and vulgar.

How’s Your Poor Feet! An idiotic street cry with no meaning, much in vogue a few years back.
Much in vogue now in and outside at Town Hall meetings.

Can’t see a hole in a Ladder. “Can’t see a hole in a Ladder,” said of any one who is intoxicated. It was once said that a man was never properly drunk until he could not see a hole through a Ladder.
I think there were a few times in college where I “couldn’t see a hole in a ladder” but I don’t remember.

Monkey with a Long Tail. A mortgage.
This could be amended to “Monkey with a Long Balloon Tail” and then it would be right back in fashion.

Muckender. A pocket handkerchief, snottinger.
“Hey honey have you seen my snottinger? You used it for what? …hey why’d you hit me?!”

Off One’s Chump. To be crazy is to be Off One’s Chump.
This one is definitely right up there with “bone box”, “bunch of fives” and “blind monkees.” Just living in this current world has us all a little “off one’s chump.”

Pocket. To put up with. A man who does not resent an affront is said to Pocket it.
Can be used in the same instance with “fart catcher.”

Rain Napper. Umbrella.
My maria has one of these and it’s Coach. The “napper” part is when she hid the price tag while i was sleeping.

Rib. A wife.
Some folks that are “off one’s chump” would applaud this when interpreting the Bible.

Scandal-water. Tea; from old maids’ tea-parties being generally a focus for scandal.
A lot of this gets drunk at bingo and church socials I would imagine.

Sit-upons. Trousers.
I like this much better than trousers, a word that has always made little sense to me. There’s nothing better or simpler than the obvious.

Sneezer. A pocket handkerchief.
Also to be used as a “muckender” and “snottinger.”

Snotter, or Wipe-hauler. A pickpocket whose chief fancy is for gentlemen’s pocket-handkerchiefs.
After “muckender” and “snottinger” this one’s just gross.

Tune the Old Cow Died of. An epithet for any ill-played or discordant piece of music.
Pearl Jam’s recent single “Breathe” and the last couple of American Idol winner songs.

So after someone, maybe cheating at cards back in that 19th century saloon, started berating me for calling him out I just might have stood up and said…
“…why don’t ya’ quit crabbing me and shut your bone box or you’ll get a bunch of fives with a nose-ender (a straight blow delivered full on the nasal promontory) that’ll put ya’ right on your sit-upons and leave ya’ with a serious blinker (a blackened eye) fella!…keep it up and I’ll call ol’ rusty guts (a blunt, rough, old fellow) over there in the corner to back me up, and he’s still rumbumptious (haughty, pugilistic) and full of dash-fire enough to not go tail Down (to lose courage) on a snotter like you.”
He’d then make a comment about my rib’s cat-heads and I’d threaten to put him in an eternity box with my barker (a pistol) and all hell would break loose.

Actually I probably wouldn’t have gotten past telling him to shut his bone box before I got a floorer (blow sufficiently strong to knock a man down) on my sit-upons ‘cause, well…I’m a wimp and these guys were hard drinking tough asses.

Until the next time I Draw the Long Bow.
Cheers,
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This will bring a tear and hopefully a good reminder of our less than fortunate furry friends who are just looking for some love and attention…

Still mired in snow here as write in the attic in Newburgh, NY.

(Note: Newburgh; one of many towns/cities in this area often referred to by New York City residents as “upstate.” Now, technically, and obviously, the city of Newburgh is upstate from the grand city of New York, any simple map will attest to that. Their inference with “upstate” though is “sticks” or “boonies,” that the second you leave their center of the universe your best chance at fun is talking up a cow at a local watering hole until you get it drunk enough to take it outside and tip it. I don’t envy the self-important arrogance that comes with living in NYC).

So as I sit in my attic pondering the snow here in “upstate” New York I’m remembering some of the beauty of it before the morning has me cursing it, again. The way it sits in the dark like a child’s nightlight behind the slats in a window blind or around the edges of a curtain. How it falls, slowly and deliberately past the lamp on the porch. The quiet and comfort it can bring on a snowbound night when everyone is safe and secure and the furry ones are curled up in their favorite spots…Okay, enough of this pondering stuff. Let the eventual AM cursing commence and…

– Pitchers and catchers and the rest of the gang have finally reported to less snowy climes and with it comes the promise of spring as well as the only time this, or any Pittsburgh Pirate fan can experience the feeling of hope. Sportscenter can also now, finally, back off on the most boring “exciting” highlight in all of sports…the slamdunk.
– On the topic of Sportscenter, I was watching early one morning this past weekend when ESPN reporter Tom Rinaldi said Tiger Wood’s lame apology press conference was “13 minutes or so of absolutely riveting theater.” It will be “one of those moments where people will recall “where were you?” when Tiger Woods addressed the public for the 1st time.” Now, not to take away from Tiger’s calculated earnestness to explain himself and start making money again…oh, wait…I just did do that didn’t I? I called it lame and calculated…hold on…redo. My much more brief apologies to Tiger, but a “where you when” moment? Yes, that one ranks right up there with scores of historic events and will be etched in my memory for…“what honey? Did I pay the cable bill? It’s automatic, it was taken out yesterday…what?…yes I cleaned the litter box too…well, earlier, I can’t help it if Benny or Shoes just pooped again…it’s what they do, eat, sleep, scratch stuff that gets me yelled and poop…” Now, where was I? Tiger did what?…
– I just voted in the over or under challenge at Cottenelle.com from their recent commercial campaign. According to the current results I’m in the majority as an “over.” 78% to 22% versus the “under.” Take that Bob Miller. He was very adamant about the “under” by the way. Weirdo.
– Were there Olympics happening somewhere recently?
– Finally got the attic finished here at the Franken-Greco Ranch (well, 90% of it, the molding is still left) and I just wanted to say kudos and thanks to Lenny and George from “Perfect Combination Painting” and the gang from “Floors like Glass,” two great local companies. After Lenny and George did a fantastic job finishing mine and my Maria’s not mistake free painting job (refer to an earlier blog from the attic “Old DJ, New Paint Brush” for painful details) Lenny recommended checking into sanding and finishing our pine floors instead of putting flooring down. He thought it might be a touch less expensive. “Less expensive” caught the ear and he was right. Thank-you Lenny! In comes “Floors like Glass” and holy cow the floors look like…well, glass. Beautifully golden new pine colored glass. Gotta love truth in a companies name when it actually happens. With my desk and computer back in, a new desk for my Maria and some decorating (she prefers Kiss and Stevie Nicks frames while I went with a Beatles, Pittsburgh Pirate and 3 lamp motif) the attic now has a cool office on one side and my Maria’s son Jagger’s rumpus room on the other replete with cat Benny hairing up the new futon and getting me yelled at. I’m loving my new space and I’ll get some pics up soon.

Well, that’s it from the attic at the moment. My Benny and Shoes the cats have their spot in the attic, by the way, but it includes the litter box, two cat beds they’re, of course, not using at the moment and Shoes’s chair moved upstairs from the living room covered with orange hair. This along with the aforementioned Benny haired futon on Jagger’s side and the smell of the litter box is getting me yelled at. Gotta go.

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Being a few snowstorms into the winter and halfway through February we were doing pretty well here at the Franken-Greco Ranch avoiding snow incidents. There have been no expensive discoveries with the roof (wood knocking as I write), no sledding accidents involving trees, cars or squirrels and there have been no children in white winter coats misplaced. I haven’t accidentally covered our neighbor’s dog Molly while shoveling our driveway as she nips at me and I’ve successfully allowed our mailperson the opportunity to keep her “in any element” mantra intact by clearing the mailbox well enough to keep her delivering those vital Valuepak coupons and other pieces of bulk we couldn’t live without. But, alas, the shoveling is where I ruined our perfect, incident-less, winter snow record. It was last week and I’m walking around hunched over like some crippled character from a snow covered Grimm’s tale. I was doing so well too. I had gotten the driveway down to a science of anally parceling off sections to be shoveled one at a time in quick, easy push and throw kind of motions. Easy if the snow is a little on the fluffy side that is. Snow on the wetter, heavier, side? Not so much.

I know you’re thinking, if you’ve been here with me in the attic before, “Hey Frankenberry, don’t you live with a chore age child who could help you out with the task of shoveling this driveway at the Franken-Greco Ranch?” Now in that thought you would be spot on. We do indeed, here at the F-G Ranch, have such a chore ready child, age of ten, nimble and wiry, tall and with strong teeth and gums (no, I’ve never put him up for sale at a 4H auction or in a Dicken’s fiction, it’s just..um..noticeable). The only thing is, viable thought or not, said chore age child is my Maria’s son Jagger. The last time I recruited him to assist with the driveway he shoveled the front lawn.

So, needless to say but saying it anyway, I handle the driveway chore. I also consider appointments with chiropractors and sleep in a painful fetal position that Shoes the cat finds just perfect for laying in the cusp of.

If you want to come over for a visit, by the way, there’s a fine piece of front lawn I can have cleared for you so, in your surveying of the beautiful Franken-Greco Ranch property, you don’t get any snow in your pant cuffs.

Happy “Ouch!” Snow Days

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Well here we are entrenched in the cold of a new January and I was thinking, wouldn’t this be just the time to finally get a Snuggie? To wrap myself up in the warm comfort of this continuing fad on my couch with the TV remote would be the perfect remedy for a night dropping into the 20’s and possibly the teens again. But, alas, I heard that the Snuggie folks have temporarily halted their commercials and sales because I’m not the only person with this dreamily soft, fleecy vision. Apparently all of North America has the same idea and because there are one or two or a few gazillion other people on this continent with me feeling the same chill the Snuggie gang realized they couldn’t possibly supply the demand.

I’ve been forced to alter my vision a touch.

So, in the absense of donning a wonderfully warm and fashionable blanket with sleeves that I could even wear to an outdoor sporting event while high fiving my similarly adorned fellow bleacher bums I’ve instead grabbed a few long sleeve thermals, some heated underwear and summoned Shoes the cat to sit under my armpit. After the initial scratching it’s not that bad, but…heavy sigh…it’s not the same as a Snuggie. Oh, Snuggie, when will you resume your interminable commercialls and present to me your 800 number again?

As I adapt, Snuggieless, here a few thought from the Attic…

– The Supreme Court just ruled to ease the limits on big business and labor unions when it comes to political contributions. Big business can now basically spend it’s millions in direct support of a candidate, or more in the true spirit of American politics, in direct opposition of a candidate. The health care industry and big corporations will now be able to proudly buy politicians that protect their interests right out in the open instead of behind closed doors. They might even be able to get them to wear pins and logos.

– Read an article in the Daily News the other day about Hershey’s and Kraft fighting to aquire Cadbury chocolate. The News did an informal poll of some New Yorkers and they chose Hershey’s as the best. Kraft’s unedible and indecipherable “Toblerone” bar came in second while Cadbury placed a distant third. Cadbury third?! Only if it were pulled from the bottom of the pollster’s shoe! Hershey’s first? Please. Damned peasants.

– As I watch a good deal of sports I’ve noticed the latest, confusing, but must have accessorys of many athletes. The arm adornment. Be it the half single arm elbow wrap (reminiscent of 80’s leg warmers on the ladies but fancied now by basketball players) or the bicep garter on the football type, athletes all over this great globe are sporting these fashion statements and looking quite gladiator like. Now I’m sure the wearers of these new arm earings will tell you that they serve an actual sports purpose and are necessary for “game.” But in reality? Hey, I loved wrist bands when I was a kid, but they were just for looking cool and well, they still do I admit. I even put on one of Jagger’s John Cena wrist bands this morning and flexed a muscle or two to remember. But they are just wrist bands. Waiting on the next fad now. I’m thinking the bicep garter would look neat as an actual garter on the calfs of offensive lineman. Big fun at weddings in the ofseason.

– Well the New York Jets have continued their improbable run in the playoffs getting three missed field goals from a guy who hasn’t had multiple misses in a game since the mid 50’s it seems and now have just the Colts standing in the way of their first Super Bowl appearance since Broadway Joe’s pantyhose and famous guarantee. There is only one problem, and my apologies to New Yorkers, but I am not a fan of New York sports teams, at all, and now have to endure another week of the Jets being on the back page. It’s not as bad as having to do the same for coverage of the cursed Yankees and their recent World Series run but it’s damn close (never realized that World Series victories were Yankee entitlements and that when any other team won one it was only because the Yankees didn’t). It means another week of stories of Rex Ryan’s postseason itinerary going from having only golf penciled in to instead include a parade and stories of the prodigal’s unheard of rookie year (just don’t bring up how he fared in the weeks leading up to a rainbow on his wrist and the Rex Ryan claim that the Jets were done). I’m thinking of going to Lids for a Colts hat. Maybe that will help hold the headache I suddenly have at bay.

– Driving a 16 year old car, or in my current case not driving it, sucks in case anyone was curious.

– We do good number of tours of the stations in the building for Cub Scouts and Brownie’s and the like and we had another group in just the other day, Pack’s 122 and 134 from Poughkeepsie and Mohegan Lake. For me I really enjoy being able to host the kids if for nothing else than to show off for a moment, even if it is for a group of curious small people who mostly miss the showing off part. They’re just big fans of seeing a lot of cool buttons and switches that I tell them do stuff while reminding them to try not to touch the cools buttons and switches so that they don’t do stuff they shouldn’t. The mom’s and dad’s get it a little more and that’s great. Our stage is a bit solitary so being able to occasionally grab a spotlight is nice. One note, though, to broadcasters hosting such tours in the future. Try not to accidentally backhand one of the children you didn’t know was standing right behind you in front of the piece of equipment you normally just spin to and start almost blindly. You might hear a crack and see an embarrassed child who has no idea they might have, but didn’t, do anything wrong. “A little ice here please.”

– Walked past a TV the other day that had a commercial for the “Jersey Shore” on as I passed. My IQ dropped to about 7, even lower than it does whenever I see a member of the Kardashian family.

Hold up! I think I finally saw a new Snuggie ad. Oh, warm, luxurious Snuggie, answer my call as to the phone I fly…

Well another Holiday season has passed and the new year hopes to be an improvement on the last. Me? I’m all for that hope as my paycheck for one, and I’m sure yours, just wasn’t as effective at staying the wolves as it has been in the past and I know late January will test that ineffectiveness even more.

But for now I’m going to put that thought aside, remember these fine holidays and watch Shoes, my cat, fight with a Q-tip he took out of Maria’s little garbage can next to her makeup table. Apparently it said something about his mother. I was considering a year’s end kind of thing but the inundation of bests of this, worsts of that, top 10’s, year in reviews, 2009’s greatest cheeses and such got to the saturation point as always.

Instead just one thought for now from the attic about those inevitable decade controversies that popped up as usual…

With the finish of this particular year, 2009, we experienced the arguments that have gone on at every decade’s or not decade’s end since the manger. At that time, time itself and the counting of it was magically reset at a later time by self important reverent folks to change the calendar from an actual undetermined start time, that was already being counted in another way by other self important reverent folks, to instead reflect the actual start time at the manger and give us a new system of counting time thus offering a great opportunity for future businesses at small bodegas in every mall in the world to make a killing selling kitten calendars. The argument is most passionate with those who feel that at the start of manger time, there wasn’t actually a year zero, that from the moment small screams could be heard in a meager shack by an assemblage of luminaries with expensive gifts, a step dad, an angel or two, a Sheppard and some farm animals, it was year 1. Thus an actual set of 10 years would only “officially” finish 9 years later leaving the beginning of new set of ten at 1 again. So in essence, 2000 + years later if you look back the “80’s” for example they would include 1990. Doesn’t sound quite right does it? These more passionate ones even include exclamation points in letters to the editor! Pretty heavy stuff. Technically, I guess, they’re correct but aesthetically and to the general public?

Now, to the credit of these so passionate if decades were measured the way they would like “Unskinny bop” and “Something to Believe in,” which came both out in 1990, would be classified as hits in the just one decade thus rendering any claims of success spanning two, thankfully mute. But, as it is, we’re all stuck with the hits of Poison covering a couple and we just have to live with it, just like we have to live with the fact that Brett Michael’s doo rag/cowboy hat libido just won’t go away another debatable decade or two later.

My thought, though, is that because manger time started in year 1 we take into account that that crying miraculous miracle was a newborn. He couldn’t count yet and when he could it was after disappearing for a few years while working on his carpenter’s card. Then he hit the public consciousness again, in a big way, and it was fishes this, wine that, throngs of devout everywhere he turned, bringing dead guys back to life etc. He didn’t have time to also think about a new system of day counting and the cuteness of kitten calendars. Plus he didn’t even know! “Hey, this whole messiah business has me a little preoccupied you know, plus, I’m not even aware that, in the future, a whole new system of calendar time counting bearing my mark will happen, but if I were I’d just say make the first of these decade things 9 years long and move on already. I don’t want to be responsible for the overly technical ones getting in a huff every 10 years and thinking the 80’s included 1990. What sense does that make? Poison having hits in only one decade is, really, all they should get…sorry gotta go, miracles, inspirational speeches, walking on water (really looking forward to this one by the way)…”

I for one consider this the start of a new decade if for nothing else than it makes the counting a hell of a lot easier. Plus, the aughts or whatever it is people will want to label this last decade seemed so much longer than ten years for too many reasons to list here. I just hope the new year holds some promise for all of us and I wish you well in it.

To a new year? Cheers and all the best.

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Our first significant snowfall of the winter has come and gone but with it came the first reminder of winters past and the first reminder of exactly what it is that I fail to (again) remember every year.

-To not just report, on-air, the current weather but the expected weather and then remember that I don’t just do that for the listeners. I live in the same world.
-To keep the ice scraper somewhere in the car or, at least, near enough.
-To keep the snowshovel (in a place I can’t remember) away from the 9 year old when the first minor snowfall happens on a Sunday but attendance at work is still expected on the following Wednesday after the first significant snowfall happens on Tuesday.
-To buy winter boots (haven’t remembered in 9 years).
-To put away my winter gloves and comfy wool headdress’s in a place I can recall.
-To keep the backup snowshovel (in a place I can’t remember) for myself for just the moments when I forget one of the notes above.

Redux:

Our first significant snowfall of the winter has come and gone but with it came the first reminder of winters past and the first reminder of exactly what it is that I fail to (again) remember every year.

After waking at my normal time on a Wednesday morning I realized it had started to snow while I was sleeping. Did I take into account the fact that, before I got off the air the day before, I had warned of just such an occurrence in my final weather report? No. I set my alarm for the usual time.

I didn’t have the ice scraper in my car, or anywhere near it. I was late for work.

After making my way home later, slowly, during the days’ continued snow I arrived home knowing that shoveling the driveway was going to be necessary the minute I got there before the wet snow froze up and would require dynamite or spring to clear.

A half hour later I located the snowshovel…buried in snow in the backyard after being used on Sunday by the 9 year old to make some really nifty snowless paths. With this grand discovery in hand I then put on an extra pair of socks to wear inside an old pair of sneakers and donned a double pair of thin convenience store work gloves and token Pittsburgh Steeler gift mittens.

Finally I was ready for the shoveling and the 9 year old was eager to help.

Another half hour later I found the backup shovel behind a pile of stuff intended for a summer yardsale.

An argument over who would use the cooler shovel lasted a few moments and then came the actual shoveling and the help. Notions of the help shoveling the back steps quickly turned into shoveling the front lawn while I finished the driveway and made my way inside with numb toes, fingers and a distinct sense of impending hypothermia.

Now back to this entry’s headline: An ode to the first snow, a 9 year old, and the crap I, annually, cannot remember.

For snowfall # 2 though, bring it on! I’m absolutely prepared!

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Scene: Snowfall # 2.

Snow falls in the quiet night of a northern New York town called Newburgh.

Man 1 (me): “Hey honey, have you seen the snowshovels?”

Woman 1 (my Maria): “No.”

Man 1 (still me): “Dammit!”

Sigh.

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A touch late on this but I wanted to wait until after another Cumulus building event, WRRV’s Boo Ball, before I hit the attic. First off, for everyone who made it out to our Fall What Women Want at Anthony’s Pier 9 I just want to say thanks and hope you had as good a time as I did. It was a success and I think all you ladies were able to walk away knowing it was a night well…and fun spent. For myself, how many folks can say they danced the cha cha slide (or whatever it was that had me winded far too quickly) with Yolanda Vega? I know, I’m probably in some pretty exclusive company. And this was on the heels of the belly dancers and me staring at just their feet, I swear, for their whole dance exhibition (Maria did indeed slap me when I got home without knowing why).

No, it was a really nice night and again, I just want to say thanks to all that made it out and also give a big thank-you noogie to Anthony, Jeremiah, Jill, Mel and the rest of the promotions staff and interns who were responsible for making it such a success.

Then, just a week or so later, came sister station WRRV’s annual Boo Ball, this year at the Mid Hudson Civic Center and all I can say is holy cow, what a great night! Imagine 800 to 1000 costumed freaky freaks just enjoying the hell out of themselves in a fantastically adorned, rather large, rumpus room? Yes that was the night and this one also was a huge success. I really doubt that there was better Halloween party in the Hudson Valley and if you go to WRRV.com you can see the photos of all the freaky freaks I mentioned, indeed enjoying the hell out of themselves.

I do have though, a few photos here for you to give you an idea including my Maria looking as beautiful as ever as Alice in Wonderland. Me? I was the Mad Hatter, certainly not as beautiful (though the eye makeup was quite fetching) but I’d like to think I fit in well with said freaky freaks.

My Maria and myself along with a young lady who fit the “Wonderland” theme as the Queen of Hearts…..

…and me, sans big floppy hat, with the fetching touch of makeup i mentioned (try explaining this to the guy at the Sunoco later when needing to fill the tank).

Jeremiah from promotions the Kiss man, Ace Frehley and his better half, Ally as a very happening witch…

…then Matt Manfredo from WRRV as the Riddler and, one of my favorites from the night, Brando from WPDH weekends as Glenda the Good Witch. I think it was the alluring look with the magic wand and the chest hair that really made the costume.

Here is my Sis and her guy, Buck, as a Buckingham guard and a Braveheart. There were definitely some conversations about the kilt and some classic truths about a Scotsman and his said kilt were revealed. No not that but still very funny…

…and then there was the guy who came as a teddy bear claw/grab vending machine. Kudos to him being able to stay in teddy bear claw/grab vending machine character all night, including no refreshement, no pee break and steamed glass like there was some heavy petting going on in there. Now it was probably just because he couldn’t get out of the damn thing but his teddy bear claw/grab vending machine perseverance paid off to the ching of a $1000 as he won best prize. Congrats my friend and nice ears!

Here is the lovely maria in our kitchen before we took off for the Poughkeepsie Galleria’s Malloween before eventually hitting the Boo Ball. No, I don’t know what she was thinking saying yes to me either. And then finally…

…there is Shoes in an incredibly realisitic cat costume. Check out that attention to detail! Sadly Shoes wasn’t able to attend as he had more immediate engangements including napping, eating, visiting the litter box once or twice, scratching stuff and getting me in trouble and then napping again awaiting our return.

All in all it was a great night and, along with What Women Want, another fine example of what our events can be here at Cumulus. Guys? Look for What Men Want coming soon, also to the Mid Hudson Civic Center with WPDH.

Well, Maria says it’s time to stop pondering how I might have fared as a Glam Rocker, ala T-Rex and Sweet, and lose the fetching eye makeup. Oh well, I could never walk in those huge heels anyway.

Cheers,

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This entry in the “Attic” is really nothing more than a self observation and a note to my Maria because, as write this, I’m noticing that I’m very much in Guyville. I realize it’s stereotypical and it’s been written of and performed about in comedy so much so that it’s become boringly cliché’ but, as I write this, I’m in desperate need of a shave, I’m wearing a ratty t-shirt from, I think, my college days, old flannel pajamas that have holes that show glimpses of me that don’t need to be seen, not even by myself, and the underwear I have on is one thread away from not just falling off, but from simply ceasing to exist.

Shoes (the cat) is licking the condensation off the beer can and I’ve got on two socks that don’t match (they don’t just “not match,” by the way, one of them I don’t even think was designed for the human foot but seemed clean this morning). I’m definitely in Guyville but the problem is, of course, that I’m not the sole inhabitant of this shanty town.

When I think about it the women in our lives certainly deserve more credit than we give them because they continue to be the women in our lives as we roam around the house in just such outfits. When my Maria is in and just “around the house” she still looks quite fetching while I, as I’ve just described, look like a schlub. So a thank you is in order first and then, secondly, a plea is also in order to not toss the stuff if I promise to not answer the door in them, bible holders nothwithstanding, though that can be some fun

I guess there is a comfort in these clothes that goes back to the genuine days of Guyville when I was by myself and just looked forward to being done with the day. Schlubbing at the end of it was always in order even if I didn’t wear anything all that nice during said day in the first place. There is also laziness but I won’t go there as that’ll just open up a whole new can of schlubness when Maria reads this.

There is too the comfort of being together with someone but that can lead to complacency and I’m doing my best to not take that for granted and instead remember, as I said earlier, that I don’t exist as the sole inhabitant of my world now. I haven’t been reading any relationship self help books or sappy novels, sorry Oprah, but I can safely assume that looking like a schlub during most of the time that is spent together isn’t all that great in fostering togetherness.

So what I’m going to do now is be proactive and finally let my underwear no longer exist and instead find a pair that I didn’t buy 20 years ago in a super K-Mart while also picking up steaks, beer, lawn chairs and a leaf blower. I think it’s also high time that I retire some of the said ratty t-shirts and jammies (“jammies”, yes, I’m still a child at heart) and instead find a nice three piece outfit of new t-shirt, pajamas, sans holes and socks that weren’t worn by an animal at some point to keep it from chewing off its’ own foot. Then I will finish my attic thoughts, find a razor and remind my Maria that she still and always looks quite fetching “around the house.”

Plus Shoes has finally finished licking the condensation off the beer can and instead has decided that something in my overgrown face looks interesting. It’s time to exit Guyville. Now where’s that razor… “Ouch Shoes! that’s skin!”…

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Every now and then I’ll do a random dive in the Attic, pick a month in the scroll down and then read whatever that month had to say “back in the day”, see just where I was at when I wasn’t old or at least when standing back up from a sit down with Bella now and a cat toy or two wasn’t so grunty. Today? October of 2009. Sadly it seems I have regressed back to pre relationship days as the underwear I’m currently sporting  again doesn’t give a shit (hopefully … not in depends land old just yet).

This entry in the “Attic” is really nothing more than a self observation and a note to my Maria because, as write this, I’m noticing that I’m very much in Guyville. I realize it’s stereotypical and it’s been written of and performed about in comedy so much so that it’s become boringly cliché’ but, as I write this, I’m in desperate need of a shave, I’m wearing a ratty t-shirt from, I think, my college days, old flannel pajamas that have holes that show glimpses of me that don’t need to be seen, not even by myself, and the underwear I have on is one thread away from not just falling off, but from simply ceasing to exist.

Shoes (the cat) is licking the condensation off the beer can and I’ve got on two socks that don’t match (they don’t just “not match,” by the way, one of them I don’t even think was designed for the human foot but seemed clean this morning). I’m definitely in Guyville but the problem is, of course, that I’m not the sole inhabitant of this shanty town.

When I think about it the women in our lives certainly deserve more credit than we give them because they continue to be the women in our lives as we roam around the house in just such outfits. When my Maria is in and just “around the house” she still looks quite fetching while I, as I’ve just described, look like a schlub. So a thank you is in order first and then, secondly, a plea is also in order to not toss the stuff if I promise to not answer the door in them, bible holders nothwithstanding, though that can be some fun

I guess there is a comfort in these clothes that goes back to the genuine days of Guyville when I was by myself and just looked forward to being done with the day. Schlubbing at the end of it was always in order even if I didn’t wear anything all that nice during said day in the first place. There is also laziness but I won’t go there as that’ll just open up a whole new can of schlubness when Maria reads this.

There is too the comfort of being together with someone but that can lead to complacency and I’m doing my best to not take that for granted and instead remember, as I said earlier, that I don’t exist as the sole inhabitant of my world now. I haven’t been reading any relationship self help books or sappy novels, sorry Oprah, but I can safely assume that looking like a schlub during most of the time that is spent together isn’t all that great in fostering togetherness.

So what I’m going to do now is be proactive and finally let my underwear no longer exist and instead find a pair that I didn’t buy 20 years ago in a super K-Mart while also picking up steaks, beer, lawn chairs and a leaf blower. I think it’s also high time that I retire some of the said ratty t-shirts and jammies (“jammies”, yes, I’m still a child at heart) and instead find a nice three piece outfit of new t-shirt, pajamas, sans holes and socks that weren’t worn by an animal at some point to keep it from chewing off its’ own foot. Then I will finish my attic thoughts, find a razor and remind my Maria that she still and always looks quite fetching “around the house.”

Plus Shoes has finally finished licking the condensation off the beer can and instead has decided that something in my overgrown face looks interesting. It’s time to exit Guyville. Now where’s that razor… “Ouch Shoes! that’s skin!”…

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