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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When I saw online over the weekend that there were pictures of the Khloe Kardashian “wedding” I was so excited to get to the shots of that, surely, oh so magic day that I nearly…

Kidding. I didn’t “nearly” do anything other than come to the realization that eventually there might be babies from this union and if Khloe and her family are any indication of what’s to come then surely the folks at MENSA are already preparing for future members.

My weekend was spent in the attic painting (the real attic that I work in, not the figurative one in the mind of this blog). Actually, it’s the continuing to paint now that the taping and sanding of the sheetrock is finally done. Some important discoveries have been made during the painting process and I thought I’d share with you some of these said discoveries so, if you have a similar project in the future, I might be of some assistance.

Now, first, I should note that when I say discoveries I’m really saying mistakes just in a kinder light because, on second note,…I’m a DJ, I don’t make any painting claims on my resume.

For instance: Sheetrock is just a little on the porous side so when you’re laying down the first primer coat don’t think you’re going to save time buying into the “primer and paint in one!” scam. I never trusted shampoo and conditioner in one so I should have been wary. No you should listen to your sheetrocker, Rob, when he tells you that Melanie, his better half and the painter in the family, always lays down a flat white first. Three coats each of two awkward walls in one room later (and still needing another coat)? Yes, I listened to Melanie by proxy and bought a flat white paint for the other room. See? Lesson and time removed from life learned.

For instance 2: When putting tape along the edges of the other two walls that dream of being a different color from the first two don’t let the paint dry completely. Pull the tape when still tacky (that’s a painting word and, again, I’m a DJ) if not you’ll hear the 3 coated walls scream as you pull off the paint like skin from a body in a horror movie. Or you’ll just hear many expletives from the novice painter when his Maria makes the same discovery…down the edges of an entire wall.

For instance 3: When Rob your sheetrocker says that he can put the small wall above your stairs flush above them don’t instead imagine a cool little recessed cubby spot for a knick knack or two that you’ll never use because you can’t get to it. Stairs tend go down as you descend. The cool little recessed cubby that you imagine for a knick knack or two above your stairs that you’ll never use? It stays where it is. Way above your freakin’ head. With two other flush walls on either side. And however cool your little paint roller extendo stick might seem, it really sucks in practice when using it to paint that cool little recessed cubby spot for a knick knack or two that you’ll never use while descending down the stairs. Really, it does.

For instance 4: Small helpers (our Jagger) can be of great assistance when you direct them to a wall with a little paint, a small roller and some simple directions. Just make sure they’ve discovered a new site at NFL.com that they can immerse themselves in when they become incredibly bored with some paint, a small roller and simple directions. Just be ready to “Come look at this!” every thirty seconds at their new online find.

For instance 5: However much you love your Benny & Shoes they have paws and noses…which step in and sniff at stuff…cat curious like…and leave paw prints…everywhere…and, by the way, have you ever tried to clean a cat’s nose?

All in all though, the attic is finally shaping up. I’m hoping that the other room will prove to be easier and less time consuming now that I’ve learned some valuable painting lessons. Some of the for instances will still be on hand as the learning process doesn’t necessarily make our Jagger or Benny & Shoes learn the lessons at the same rate that I’m trying to. But precautions can be taken to try and assure that painting room two runs more smoothly and has less distractions and cat paw touch ups.

New for instance: I’ve been saving scrap paper to crumple up into balls for Jagger to chase down the stairs and I’ve made sure that the saved WWE “Smackdown/Raw/Kick some Wrestling Butt and Check out this Ladder as Weapon” special events that seem to happen every day are not deleted from the DVR so that Benny & Shoes will be occupied.

New for instance 2: Let my Maria know it’s OK to go shopping for sexy shoes while I work.

Hopefully I’m at the top of the learning curve, at least for the moment, but do I realize that it is a curve. Curves do come down. So I’m mentally preparing myself for new for instances like, say, a small bird landing on the one weak spot in the roof that we weren’t aware of causing the ceiling to buckle and ruin that perfect line I had between a wall of one color and a wall of another.

Actually I’m not sure exactly what my mental preparedness is for that for instance is but I’m at least telling myself that I am ready for it. I can always call sheetrocker Rob and painter Melanie. They’re experts. I’m sure that they’ve faced similar for instances and I now have them on speed dial.

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An old friend and dear memory found me online the other day through one of them fancy networking sites the kids are so crazy about these days. Actually, older folks are kind of fond of them too and I would be one of those, with the emphasis on ‘older’ as the finding of me by this friend from years gone did age me a touch.

I’ve been contacted by a lot of past friends and school pals over the last number of months this way and I have to say it is nice to catch up and find out where people are at in their lives and how they’ve achieved or weathered over the years, whatever the case may be. A lot that have found me have just wanted to “check in” after a short recess. Others have used the finding to actually try and do whatever networking is while a good number have expressed relief that I’m still breathing, a feeling that I share by the way.

Most of these are expected and usually come in a flurry after you first succumb to the latest site and get yourself a user name, a password and a few requisite photos to start your “profile.” I’m sure a better word could be found than “profile” as that just inspires images of the authorities poring over your files to see if you fit the crime, but I guess that word is the given jargon and who am I to argue with the semantics of fad?

Occasionally though, in the midst of all the contacting, replying, requesting, silly to moronic in site games and trivia quiz’s, someone does reach you that you’re not prepared for. That’s what happened to me with this old friend and memory I mentioned earlier. My first love. Now we all have our memories of that one, some fond, some not, some indifferent. For some it may not even be the actual first one that is considered to be the beginning of that wonderful, difficult road. Whatever the case, almost 30 years later, my first wanted to know “is this the Steve Frankenberry I knew when I was in 8th grade and he was in 9th?”

The melancholy kicked in almost immediately as I remembered church. Now I don’t usually have melancholic moments recalling being at church. It’s often more in the vein of standing, sitting, kneeling, standing, kneeling, sitting and then nodding while hoping we were going to Rodak’s afterwards for roast beef subs. It’s also remembering priests I wasn’t a fan of or discovering hypocrisy and being taught how to be judgemental and decidedly un-christian far too young.

This though was indeed different as I remembered, instead, the really pretty girl from another school sitting with her big family across the way in the pews to the right of the altar and she had me transfixed. Now keep in mind that at this point in my life, noticing that girls were pretty at all was something that didn’t happen very often. I know it was 9th grade but I guess I was blooming a little late, next Saturdays pitching start was always a bigger concern. But I did notice her and looking at some of the older photos in her “profile” reminded me of that and I was transported back to the butterflies and the first real concerns about how I looked.

She was “The” girl, I thought, and somehow we were able to meet eventually in the flowing out of parishioners to the parking lot where my dad always said you would find the true Christians once they got behind the wheel. That one still makes me smile.

The phone calls followed, lots of them and long ones. I would sit on the stairs to the upstairs of the house, choking the chord on the door that closed them hoping for some privacy. It wasn’t an easy task, as mom, dad and my brother lived up there. For her it was tougher, as there were brothers and sisters everywhere including older ones who wanted the phone for exactly the same reason. But, around that, talking happened, and so much of it. The pressures of the beginning of high school, the trying to fit in, the mundane things we did that day, sharing the things we thought were profound and, of course, the liking of each other. We discussed family and feelings and future. We talked of the differences in our two schools and how much we really wished we were in the same one and didn’t live on opposite sides of the world, as it seemed at times. We set appointments for the next call or even better, a possible meeting depending on whose mom or dad would drive. Of course there was music, always the universal, and what meant something to us or what was just crap. Knowing me, she even once chose to do a report for school on my favorite band at the time, Styx, so she would have a good excuse to come over to my house to “work” on it. Mom’s and dad’s were always very amenable if school work was the “intention.” We took ages to end our phone calls in the silly way we all make fun of now but was hugely meaningful then.

I’m not quite sure if there was any other time for me that was so innocent and revealing. There were inklings of the things we wanted to do but they were kept at bay by just the plain liking and, I guess, at the time, lack of proximity. But the two of us reveled in the simple joy of liking someone that liked us back at the same time. The want to do? It was part of the frightening, frustrating, fantastic, wonderful and painful part of why that time was so special. It was also our only concern. It was a time that is dearly missed because of what we didn’t yet know and that’s the main reason to not want to go back. All you would do is corrupt the memory with the baggage you still lug around whether you want to or not. I was still young enough to believe in the magic in my Terry Brook’s Shannara books and my Mary Stewart Merlin tales. The Pirates would have another world series in them and I still thought I could be a ballplayer on my own merit, never even fathoming that there could be any other way to do it except through hard work. My father hadn’t yet been completely beaten down by his government job for having a heart or been diagnosed with cancer. My marriage hadn’t yet collapsed, collapsing me at the same time. I didn’t have crippling credit card debt or a draconian student loan. I wasn’t yet made to be as cynical and jaded as I am now courtesy of religion and politics, mostly religion. No, all there was at that time were dreams of a limitless future and the anticipation of the next time I would see her, even if it was just in silence across the pews.

We eventually drifted as the distance and the separate schools taught us how life can be unfair. She dated in her school and me in mine and it always seemed that when one of us got back to liking the other, the other was taken. But, as we also learned, unfair doesn’t care.

There were more girls to come, too many to tell you the truth, and some loonier than me, but she was always in the back of my head. I wondered if she had made it and survived because part of me remembers that I worried about her back then. Well she’s done even better than just survive as she’s prospered in 23 years of marriage and motherhood, with an obviously loving guy and 2 teenage daughters that are positively beautiful. Her? She still looks great in the pics I see now, though I’ll always see her face in that halo of pretty feathered hair.

As to the melancholy I mentioned earlier? Don’t let any of this give you the impression of suddenly pining again after 30 years. It’s just melancholy over a very special time in both of our lives that we were able to share, learn and grow from but whose innocence has sadly passed. I’ve always credited my mother and her with my appreciation, respect for and understanding of women (as best as I can ladies, but I’ve always tried sincerely so). I’m also fully aware, like I said earlier, that no time like that can be returned to, nor should be, even if it were possible. She said she remembers the pain that can come with that time as she watches her younger daughter experience it and I’ll get there eventually myself with my Maria’s son I’m sure.

I’m hoping instead that when she first got a chance to see me on the other side of the computer that she felt the same way as I did looking at her. That she felt satisfied to know after all these years that I too had survived and, yes, prospered as well. That she was happy I was able to feel that tingle in the stomach again when I met my Maria because how could I not have with the obvious love that’s spread all over our pictures? That she was pleased that I finally had my own house replete with four-legged furballs and a really cool small human in it?

No, I’m happier than I’ve ever been, just older, and she seems to be in the same boat. Even though some of the aging has come jaded and with a price, a lot of it has been rewarding for just the getting there and using what we’ve learned from our loves to keep going and get stronger. I left a lot of my baggage behind once I met my Maria and she was able to do so as well after meeting me. It makes us lighter and offers comfort, and that, sometimes, is all you need.

I’ve carried the joy and hurt I learned from that special, unique time in my life with me for 30 years and am reminded now that if I hadn’t taken that first welcome step I wouldn’t be able to be as happy as I am now.

Thanks Missy.

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We have a softball team here at Cumulus. It carries the moniker “WPDH Screaming Eagles.” Not just regular old eagles, but eagles that scream and thus inspire fear as screaming could break out any moment and then you’re in trouble mister. A lot of the screaming of these eagles, recently, has been out of frustration though a win will come, I’m sure of it. Our team is helmed by Jeremiah from promotions and has a roster that includes “Noggin’ Glove” Shmonty from WRRV, Maggie and Kerry from upstairs here in the offices, M.K. from the road crew and a guy named Chris who’s a real Hoover at shortstop. There’s also Jeremiah and Shmonty’s much more attractive better half’s, Ally and “Need a Snack” Kari, Brian (Kerry’s guy), ace pitcher “Mountain on the hill” Danielle, pair Katy and Geoff and Eric, Doug, Mike and Corey. It is as fine a lineup as can be found in the league. Especially with the fact that not a single one of them is “that guy,” the one has to take the game too seriously and want to impress on every play while trying to recapture some magic from their youth. This is “for fun” co-ed softball that has, at least for the screaming eagles, one purpose: to provide that “for fun”, hopefully not get us hurt and then lead to a beer and good company after the game.

Now I’ve only been able to play in the last few games so I’m kind of the “new kid”, the kid called up for his first cup and the rookie initiations have run the gamut from none to me wearing women’s clothes (actually that was Saturday night and a story for another time). I also use the term “new kid” liberally as I’m probably old enough to be everyone’s dad but I’ve played these few games like a young phenom from running the bases in slow motion like I have a piano on my back to falling down on fly balls hit to me in left field. Safe to say that I’ve impressed.

Our most recent game was rained out, and it was funny because I was suddenly 12 again, in little league and cursing mother nature because I was really looking forward to playing, even if it was poorly. (Note: mother nature cursing was done quietly as she controls lightning). I haven’t played softball or any ball for that matter in quite some time and I can’t tell you how much I miss it. To get out there with a group of friends and to make new ones while having a good time and getting some much needed exercise is absolutely fantastic. There is a therapy there for long days that can’t be measured and I, for one, can’t wait for my next stumble in the outfield or on the basepaths in the name of camaraderie, good times and that eventual beer. Mother nature willing of course.

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I’m back and sorry, a little tardy on the Blog front. Life, the aliens who keep borrowing my thoughts and my macramé projects have me behind. Here is an update from the Attic…

A couple of months ago Brandy Hunter from WRRV’s Music all Morning had a great idea, no, not duct tape and a large mailing crate with an Anchorage destination for Boris but a chili cook off between the Cumulus gang here to be judged by a chef from the Culinary Institute of America. All interested were invited to fashion huge vats of their own signature style chili (regular size crock pots) in the hopes of being crowned chili champion. It was an eagerly anticipated event that drew throngs of chili aficionados from all across these great states (Bob from Production) to revel in the odors and tastes of all types of chili.

When the time came for the judging by our revered special guest from the Culinary there was a hush. He tasted, wrote notes, gave scores and made judging faces. As he went from crock pot to crock pot breaths were held by those being judged depending on the particular judging face of the moment. Thankfully none of the judging faces made by our culinary guest were those of spitting, regurgitating or dying. Eventually he was done, scoring sheets were handed in and the tension rose a notch to “Don’t we have work to do?”

The scores were then tabulated by an independent and impartial group that specializes in events such as these and likes eating free chili (Jeremiah from Promotions and an intern) and the results were revealed.

Sadly my five cans of Hormel with half a bottle of Saranac black & tan were not among the finalists. To everyone’s great delight though, Boris from WRRV was named Grand Poobah of the chili cook off. Now when I say great delight it is because we knew, if Boris were to be deemed grand chili master, it would be with a sense of humility and grace that doesn’t often come with competitions as large as this. You would normally expect a certain level of gloating and glee at the expense of the “non-winners”, as this was big, but in Boris’s case we knew we needn’t worry. He would take his “Cumulus Chili Cook Off” Champion trophy, congratulate all on a fine day of fun and quietly anticipate another spirited competition.

Then came the “Apple Pie Throwdown,” another fantastic idea from Brandy Hunter that had the staff all abuzz. Could we top the Chili Cook Off that had generated so much excitement in the building? Difficult I know, but, believe it or not, it was done. As with the chili cook off, aficionados of apple pies from across the nation were on hand to marvel in the tastes of the staff’s apple pie creations (Bob from production) and the game was on.

I decided to venture into uncharted territory. I was actually going to create an apple pie, from scratch, on my own, for the first time with no help from the folks at Hormel or Apple Pie Land or anyone else who builds this stuff for your purchase at a local supermarket. I intended to make an apple cheese crumb pie. Daunting would be the best word for such a task.

So I searched for help. First, of course, was mom. “Hey mom, I’m going to bake an apple pie”… “Don’t burn the house down Stephen”… “Ok”…

Then I sought out Beth Christy from The Wolf. “Hey Beth, any tips?” tips followed, a lot of them. She’s good at this baking stuff. She recommended I do my best to not light my house on fire.

Then I found Brandy who is also good at this. She googled apple pies and printed things. I think fire safety tips was in one of the searches.

Back to mom. “Hey mom, do you think I could have your recipe for cheesecake?”…“I thought you were baking an apple pie”… “I am” … “Ok, don’t burn the house down”…“Gothca.”

My Maria was next. She played along, made me think I was on the right track and showed me where the hose was while checking the batteries in the smoke detector.

I was set.

Talking to the experts had convinced me that I could, indeed, bake an apple pie with cheesecake involved all on my own without setting anything ablaze. After all, we just bought the place and that would probably be bad.

I then when out and bought and meticulously double checked every item on my lists. Cinnamon, sugar, vanilla, cream cheese, dog biscuits (a distraction for Shana from the odors of cooking), eggs, pie crusts, oatmeal, brown sugar, cat treats (refer to dog biscuits), 37 gallons of lard, salt, a t-shirt that said “Blessed are the Apple Pie Bakers and Silk Undergarment Makers,” and skittles (for the 9 year old – same concept as dog and cat). I also bought apples, plenty of them in case I screwed up the first attempt but didn’t destroy the house and still had a kitchen for a second try. On the advice of Beth Christy who, like I said, is good at this baking stuff I actually bought specific apples, Golden Delicious and Fuji. No, I didn’t know either. I also got oatmeal for the crumb topping instead of flour, an inspired tip from Beth.

The peeling, mixing of ingredients, extremely anal attention to the recipes and eventual baking commenced. Two and a half hours later I had, I hoped, finished building an apple pie that would be worthy of the competition that would follow the next day.

The judging for the Cumulus Apple Pie Throwdown was done by the competitors and other co-workers that just wanted to eat some free apple pie. The only requirement was that they fill in a few scale of 1-5 judging sheets and not spit anything out in disgust in an overtly obvious way. Napkins and a sense of class were provided.

When the judging was done another hush came over the throng as once again the votes were tabulated by an independent and impartial group that specializes in events such as these and likes eating free apple pie (Anthony and Jeremiah from Promotions).

The results were in. The hush hushed. The runnerups were announced, six through three (I wasn’t one of them). Then came the call of the second runnerup. It wasn’t me either. Yes, I had somehow built an apple pie, on my first attempt, that was not only not spit out in disgust but was deemed to be pretty damn good.

My apple cheese crumb pie was the People’s Choice Winner and came with a trophy and everything. Cool Huh? Boris, who had hoped for a sweep of our first two cookoffs was gracious in defeat as always and even offered to mention my name on his radio station which I’m sure came with a grand announcement and fireworks sounds. Ahhh, the magic of radio.

I’m not sure what the next cookoff is going to be, Gary Cee from WPDH offered the suggestion of a lumpy porridge competition and I certainly have some ideas for that, including one that’s just right, but whatever it is I will enter with a new found confidence and the knowledge that I didn’t have to make any insurance claims on the house. Satisfying and great ala mode.

Cheers to specific apples, a layer of cheesecake and an oatmeal crumb topping,

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So this past weekend I went shopping with my Maria. Now this wasn’t a day of shopping where you hit a local mall or strip shops for a few (note following italics) specific things or you go to the grocery store for the week’s needs plus ice cream. No this was (again note following italics) a day of shopping and I for one am exhausted. The day’s itinerary was fairly simple, like a day of regular shopping: get up, go, shop, do other stuff, grab a bite, maybe do a quick stop for something forgotten and head home. The difference for this day though was the shop part and the noted first italics above, specific. A regular day of shopping isn’t really a day as you’re generally just out for a few things on a list with the occasional impulse. No, this was actually a day (refer to the second noted italics) with no stone set specifics. We left at noon, returned around 10pm and a lengthy ride on a thruway was required.

After arriving, following said lengthy thruway ride, in the far off land of a place named New Jersey we entered the strange and mesmerizing world of a monster mall, a labyrinthian maze of shops, small and big, with peddlers of all types and sizes shilling everything from clothing to shoes to hats to shiny accessories for all the previous. From the extravagant to the mundane, all were covered in fantastic fashion by all walks of life and, for my Maria, this was her element. She navigated this bazaar with aplomb and gusto, leading me from vendor to vendor with the vigor of a woman possessed, carrying just a seemingly thin plastic bartering tool and a handy liege encumbered only with confusion and a lot of freakin’ bags. Though some compensation did come with the liege’s simple request of a pretzel product covered in cinnamon sugar, his shoulders are still sore and his legs still ache.

There was a vendor offering gold gilded sweatshirts with hoods and t-shirts of audacious design sold by peddlers wearing strange sideways headgear and oversized glasses that promise to, not only block out the sun, but make you look damn silly.

There were other vendors sporting tattoos that displayed their personal uniqueness and, I’m sure, their affinity for alcohol.

There were some vendors so colorful that the brightest of finely coifed cockatoos or magnificently dressed peacocks were left envious in their wake.

The patrons were equally adorned, some with extra tight jeans that amazingly still hung around the middle of their bottoms in a baggy, just pooped myself kind of way, some were of the same fashion as the vendors with the sideways headgear that always appears moronic while some looked in desperate need of a belt. Whatever the adornment, all the patrons walked confidently in the manner of persons who felt themselves to be in fashion.

There was music in every establishment, some subtle, some…actually there was no subtle music. It was a cacophony of noise mostly perpetrated by artists espousing such noble lyrical content as to make the most refined artists quake in the their non hip hop shoes. I mean, what person of artistic merit isn’t swayed by “I want to get with you tonight but I can’t….so kiss me through the phone” or maybe something that rhymes with Ho’s?

It was quite a display and all the while my Maria’s humble liege soulj’ad on while she not only bought many things but also returned many unwanted things from previous trips to other bazaars that were credited to her bartering tool as a sort of justification for the continued purchasing of new items.

Strangely though, a number of items in this intricate return/purchase dance were quite similar, at least in the mind of her trusted companion. There were shoes for boots, jeans for dresses, blouses for blouses just of differing design. But to my Maria none of these return/purchases were similar at all, in fact they were all very much different and unique in their own moment. She was the experienced choreographer of this complicated two step while I, alas, was just a grip in this shopping production.

Eventually a day wound down. The faithful liege was compensated handsomely for his servitude throughout with more items from the bazaar bodegas including hot dogs and even at one point, dipping dots and eventually was allowed to fetch the carriage from the cold and escort his lady home, new pieces of trade in tow.

All in all it was a fine day, if for nothing other than the grand company this liege’s Maria always provides and for the smile it received when she was safely charioted home to view and revel in her bounty.

For some you might say that bearing with this all this shopping just for her is true love. For myself (liege) I say that it’s true love, not for dealing with it, but because it was a day. In the world we live in now, with constant deadlines, new workloads for many and throttling schedules, getting a day is the greatest purchase we could have made at the bazaar. I would gladly do the same any time the chance for another a day presents itself.

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I’m going to congratulate myself as I doubt there is anyone else that might give me a high five for it (except for my Maria who has experienced this a different way) but I made another stride forward into dad-like territory the other day. I embarrassed the 9 year at the bus stop. The 9 year old? Maria’s son Jagger. The bus stop? The end of our driveway. The embarrassment? I dress like a guy that you warn your kids to stay away from.

Moms and dads have been embarrassing their kids since the beginning of time. Lincoln’s mom probably sent Abe to school with a diorama made of Lincoln logs. Confucius may have given his kids fortune cookies with their lunch. Nostradamus, no doubt, had kids that knew how he was going to do it. And me? Well I just wake up, take him to the end of the driveway and wait for the bus.

For myself it’s as simple as that, though for Jagger it’s a little different. Where I see myself in a winter coat with a hoodie, Jagger sees a guy that lives under an overpass smelling of gin and sweat that shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near a 9 year old, never mind one that has to face to the kids on the bus who think said underpass dude needs a shave among other things…and pants. I’m not, not, wearing pants mind you, but I am wearing my pajamas. I realize I’ve slept in them but they’re not overly wrinkly, all I have to do is stand in them and they cover my lower half to the ankle, so to me, they’re pants enough.

To Jagger though they are confirmation that I don’t care one iota about his emotional well being on the school bus as the kids stare out the window at the freak in the military surplus looking jacket, menacing hood and ratty sneakers topped off with the jammies that should have me, not escorting a child to the bus stop but instead living on a supervised ward waiting for meds with my pudding.

He actually asked me if I could wear something nicer. Now I have to be honest, he was incredibly diplomatic about it, being just 9 and all, as he first asked me how he looked. I said his John Cena t-shirt looked cool and his hair was well haired…or combed…or well something-ed that would get across the fact that he looked fine and could we now start moving before we miss the bus and I don’t get to nap for 45 minutes? He then said that maybe I should try, you know, to maybe, kinda look as cool and well haired as I said he looked. And could I just maybe do this for our walk to and stay at the end of the driveway?

That’s when I knew. I know I shouldn’t be high fiving myself and applying congratulatory noogies to my own noggin but at the same time I’ve passed another important test, one that puts me on par with parents all across this ball. When you have embarrassed them, just by being you, you know you’re on the right track. Hopefully Jagger will be able to step back, years from now, and realize, as I did, that moms and dads are just being mom’s and dad’s. Priorities are a touch different.

My only concern is that he’s dressed warmly, gets on the bus with everything he needs and that he gets on safely. Doing it while looking cool enough for the job isn’t high on the checklist. Plus I figure it’s our jobs to embarrass you because if we don’t then we’ve tried too hard to be cool and we have most probably stopped being ourselves. (unless you’re just inherently cool to begin with, if so, then pthppt! tongue sound effect to you).

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