I am not sure if the bubonic plague (is that the one that they called the Black Death?) still exists elsewhere in the world. I am, however, convinced that I have it at this very moment -- and it is proving itself immune to the powers of modern science's finest defense measure: Tylenol Cold Medicine. I should perhaps call the CDC - - they will want in on this news: Horsham businessman, struck down in the prime of his post midlife crisis years, wavers on death's doorstep. Plague fans rejoice worldwide.
Oh, sure, call my headline hyperbole -- it's not your body that is racked with sneaky little chills that a 20-minute soak in the hot -- I'm talking scalding -- tub couldn't dent, nor do you suffer with a cough that is as persistent as Aunt Nellie Matilda (she always went by two names) seeking wet kisses from five-year olds on Christmas Day, 1954 in Savannah, Georgia.
(To say I was scarred by THAT experience is an understatement.)
Anyway, the plague is here -- and I've got it -- and I am less than happy.
Let's set the record straight (a preemptive move designed to ward off any sarcastic commentary from my wife and family): I am something of a huge baby in matters of discomfort or pain. I do not just dislike it, I abhor it. I cannot stomach it. I cannot bear its stench. I cannot . . .
(sfx: man coughing fitfully against backdrop of noise coming from furniture being kicked, lamps and books being thrown about, finally a scream reminsicent of cries for Stella in a Streetcar Named Desire: "helppppp me, sweet providence, hellllppp meeeeeeeeee")
Fade to black.
Thursday, December 28, 2006
Monday, December 25, 2006
It's Kind of Like Fruitcake
Poster's Note: As a novice blogger desperate for content, I post our holiday letter, fully ready to take whatever editorial arrows are directed my way. Don't you love how I pretend that someone will actually read this?
Frankly, I’m intimidated.
For whatever reason, the quality of the holiday “here’s what’s been happening in our lives” epistles seems to have risen significantly this year.
If only I could read just one hopelessly pathetic, poorly constructed, ill-phrased, rampant with spelling errors letter, then I’d feel better and tackle this task willingly.
(And it wouldn’t hurt if just one of the letters, instead of casually mentioning that a son or daughter had recently won the Nobel Prize and will be featured in an Anderson Cooper interview, admitted instead that both kids had been imprisoned in Texas for horse-stealing . . . but perhaps that is too much to ask.)
I’m kidding, I’m kidding -- we need MORE Nobel Prize winners from among the offspring of our good friends.
Anyway, with all of those disclaimers firmly in place, here is what has been going on in the lives of the Dicciccos of 20 Westaway Lane, Warrington, Pennsylvania.
We started the year with the four of us living together in one suddenly smaller house, along with two dogs: our cocker spaniel (and old family buddy) Princess, and Michael’s dog, a rat terrier named Magic, who was prone to running about the place in a state of crazed agitation, jumping in the air, leaping from sofa to loveseat, occasionally pausing in mid-flight to bite Princess on the nose.
(I am convinced that Michael was spiking her water dish with Red Bull.)
However, for the most part, the dogs tolerated each other and (deep down) shared some sincere affection.
Their relationship was suggestive of how the four of us homo sapiens got along as well: with much love (deep down) and a reasonable amount of tolerance. Occasionally, of course, someone bit someone else on the nose.
Mariliz had a very interesting year. She moved during the course of it from working in the marketing department of a company called Scirex to a position at a children’s theater in Bethlehem (which included the job of stage managing Babes in Toyland) and a developing business as an Arbonne representative. She tells me that the Arbonne products are the best of their kind but when I asked what I could use to reduce some of the wisdom lines on my face, she suggested that it was too late for anything to work. (If you are not so far gone as I apparently am, Mariliz will be happy to provide product suggestions and pricing to help you maintain your youthful glow.)
Michael’s year moved him from unemployed college graduate to very much employed (and working hard) Assistant Media Planner for a sizzling hot ad firm in San Francisco called Venables Bell and Partners.
(Let us have a moment of silence as competitive envy washes over me – Michael’s agency recently won the $70 million Audi creative account. Watch for some great new Audi advertising to appear sometime in 2007.)
For those who know the city, Michael lives on California Street just below Stockton. He has a great view of the bay from the rooftop deck of his apartment building and is enjoying life as a San Francisconian. (Is that a word?)
Additional note: Michael does not have much furniture, but he does own a WII (the new Nintendo video game). Such are the choices one makes at 23 years old.
And what about Fran? For her, 2006 could be labeled the Year of Living Dangerously. (The snide among you may well be thinking that this title could easily apply to EVERY YEAR since she married me – if so, stifle yourself.)
Fran went to Costa Rica last July as part of a continuing education program.
Big deal, you say. She speaks beautiful Spanish so language is no problem, it’s a tourist spot, wherein lies the danger?
Oh, no place in particular. Except for the times when she was precariously hooked to some ineptly-engineered pulley and harness contraption and being “zipped” from tree to tree deep in the Costa Rican jungle and far from the reaches of even the finest Medevac helicopter pilot.
Except for those moments when the horse she was riding decided that Fran’s excellent Spanish was nonetheless inadequate to the task of directing him. This being the case, the animal summarily chose his own paths and pace going up and down the mountain until Fran was finally forced to disembark and walk the creature in what she imagined to be the direction of civilization. (Please – do not annoy me with protests of “What about the guides?” They were nowhere to be seen as soon as the afternoon monsoons struck.)
And then there was the rafting episode that dumped Fran and two others into a boiling white water froth of stage 4 rapids (a by-product of the aforementioned monsoons).
They tell you, should this happen, to simply hold onto your paddle and you WILL return to the surface. They are, however, modestly cavalier about the LENGTH OF TIME which might elapse between the going under part and the returning to the surface part. Fran was, I believe, pleasantly surprised at learning just how long she could hold her breath under water.
Eventually, though, she got back into the raft and was returned to the loving arms of her family.
(Out of concern for her shaken condition, no one bit her on the nose for a full week.)
Any aftermath? Let’s just say that Fran now wears a life jacket whenever she takes a simple soak in her bathtub, especially if the jets are on. Bubbling water seems to trigger flashbacks of her brush with the hereafter.
And me? Same old, same old. Besides, this holiday letter is running excessively long.
So that’s all for this year’s letter. Have a wonderful holiday and a terrific 2007.
And may all of you win at least one Nobel Prize before the year is out.
Frankly, I’m intimidated.
For whatever reason, the quality of the holiday “here’s what’s been happening in our lives” epistles seems to have risen significantly this year.
If only I could read just one hopelessly pathetic, poorly constructed, ill-phrased, rampant with spelling errors letter, then I’d feel better and tackle this task willingly.
(And it wouldn’t hurt if just one of the letters, instead of casually mentioning that a son or daughter had recently won the Nobel Prize and will be featured in an Anderson Cooper interview, admitted instead that both kids had been imprisoned in Texas for horse-stealing . . . but perhaps that is too much to ask.)
I’m kidding, I’m kidding -- we need MORE Nobel Prize winners from among the offspring of our good friends.
Anyway, with all of those disclaimers firmly in place, here is what has been going on in the lives of the Dicciccos of 20 Westaway Lane, Warrington, Pennsylvania.
We started the year with the four of us living together in one suddenly smaller house, along with two dogs: our cocker spaniel (and old family buddy) Princess, and Michael’s dog, a rat terrier named Magic, who was prone to running about the place in a state of crazed agitation, jumping in the air, leaping from sofa to loveseat, occasionally pausing in mid-flight to bite Princess on the nose.
(I am convinced that Michael was spiking her water dish with Red Bull.)
However, for the most part, the dogs tolerated each other and (deep down) shared some sincere affection.
Their relationship was suggestive of how the four of us homo sapiens got along as well: with much love (deep down) and a reasonable amount of tolerance. Occasionally, of course, someone bit someone else on the nose.
Mariliz had a very interesting year. She moved during the course of it from working in the marketing department of a company called Scirex to a position at a children’s theater in Bethlehem (which included the job of stage managing Babes in Toyland) and a developing business as an Arbonne representative. She tells me that the Arbonne products are the best of their kind but when I asked what I could use to reduce some of the wisdom lines on my face, she suggested that it was too late for anything to work. (If you are not so far gone as I apparently am, Mariliz will be happy to provide product suggestions and pricing to help you maintain your youthful glow.)
Michael’s year moved him from unemployed college graduate to very much employed (and working hard) Assistant Media Planner for a sizzling hot ad firm in San Francisco called Venables Bell and Partners.
(Let us have a moment of silence as competitive envy washes over me – Michael’s agency recently won the $70 million Audi creative account. Watch for some great new Audi advertising to appear sometime in 2007.)
For those who know the city, Michael lives on California Street just below Stockton. He has a great view of the bay from the rooftop deck of his apartment building and is enjoying life as a San Francisconian. (Is that a word?)
Additional note: Michael does not have much furniture, but he does own a WII (the new Nintendo video game). Such are the choices one makes at 23 years old.
And what about Fran? For her, 2006 could be labeled the Year of Living Dangerously. (The snide among you may well be thinking that this title could easily apply to EVERY YEAR since she married me – if so, stifle yourself.)
Fran went to Costa Rica last July as part of a continuing education program.
Big deal, you say. She speaks beautiful Spanish so language is no problem, it’s a tourist spot, wherein lies the danger?
Oh, no place in particular. Except for the times when she was precariously hooked to some ineptly-engineered pulley and harness contraption and being “zipped” from tree to tree deep in the Costa Rican jungle and far from the reaches of even the finest Medevac helicopter pilot.
Except for those moments when the horse she was riding decided that Fran’s excellent Spanish was nonetheless inadequate to the task of directing him. This being the case, the animal summarily chose his own paths and pace going up and down the mountain until Fran was finally forced to disembark and walk the creature in what she imagined to be the direction of civilization. (Please – do not annoy me with protests of “What about the guides?” They were nowhere to be seen as soon as the afternoon monsoons struck.)
And then there was the rafting episode that dumped Fran and two others into a boiling white water froth of stage 4 rapids (a by-product of the aforementioned monsoons).
They tell you, should this happen, to simply hold onto your paddle and you WILL return to the surface. They are, however, modestly cavalier about the LENGTH OF TIME which might elapse between the going under part and the returning to the surface part. Fran was, I believe, pleasantly surprised at learning just how long she could hold her breath under water.
Eventually, though, she got back into the raft and was returned to the loving arms of her family.
(Out of concern for her shaken condition, no one bit her on the nose for a full week.)
Any aftermath? Let’s just say that Fran now wears a life jacket whenever she takes a simple soak in her bathtub, especially if the jets are on. Bubbling water seems to trigger flashbacks of her brush with the hereafter.
And me? Same old, same old. Besides, this holiday letter is running excessively long.
So that’s all for this year’s letter. Have a wonderful holiday and a terrific 2007.
And may all of you win at least one Nobel Prize before the year is out.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
No Britney, no Paris -- gotta love Rosie and the Donald
Okay, so I am writing this quickly following one rob roy at the embassy suites manager's reception in Marlborough, MA after a long (but good) day with client. My last blog joked that I'd be writing about celebrities. I thought I was just making fun of everyone else who does. And now . . . look at me . . . just look at me . . .
The best part of my day was the Rosie versus the Donald boxing match on tv.
It will spawn millions of blog comments. Here's mine . . .
Round One -- to Rosie. Her moral compass quotes nailed him.
Round Two -- to Rosie. The best Trump could come up with is "she's a loser."
Round Three -- to the Donald*. But to earn it permanently in the record books (thus, the asterisk), he must follow up with a lawsuit to do what he says and take some money from her. (The Donald expressed it with more emphasis.)
But . . . can you really sue someone or each other for sniping?
It makes me think of many a family gathering gone awry -- I'm surprised we did not have lawyers hovering at windows and doorways, trying to get in on the libel action.
Sweet mother macree! Look at me. I once dreamed of writing novels. Is this what I've sunk to?
(I am so lucky that my lovely wife does not read this tripe.)
Note to self: No blogging after rob roys.
The best part of my day was the Rosie versus the Donald boxing match on tv.
It will spawn millions of blog comments. Here's mine . . .
Round One -- to Rosie. Her moral compass quotes nailed him.
Round Two -- to Rosie. The best Trump could come up with is "she's a loser."
Round Three -- to the Donald*. But to earn it permanently in the record books (thus, the asterisk), he must follow up with a lawsuit to do what he says and take some money from her. (The Donald expressed it with more emphasis.)
But . . . can you really sue someone or each other for sniping?
It makes me think of many a family gathering gone awry -- I'm surprised we did not have lawyers hovering at windows and doorways, trying to get in on the libel action.
Sweet mother macree! Look at me. I once dreamed of writing novels. Is this what I've sunk to?
(I am so lucky that my lovely wife does not read this tripe.)
Note to self: No blogging after rob roys.
Monday, December 18, 2006
A Blog About Nothing?
I know, I know -- it's been done.
But I want to try this thing -- because I've been reading about blogs for two days straight -- and I have to hurry or I truly will be the last person on the planet to have one -- and I don't have a thought or a big topic -- so I'm doing the copycat thing (forgive me, Seinfeld fans).
S'okay -- I've heard you have to build up readership so it's not like I'll be wasting anyone's time with this maiden effort.
My plan (hah!) is to write about whatever I find interesting. Mostly people. Like this crazy comedian that I met in New York two weeks ago, Jessica Delfino, who sings the strangest song about women's menstruation and somehow gets away with it. Or maybe I'll write about this blogger from the myspace world named Pussy Galore -- she too is a funny lady.
But I'm also going to write about bar games . . . and oddities . . . and books that I like that no one else reads . . . and song lyrics . . . and growing up with ten brothers and sisters . . . and my high school crush on Rosemary Contri. I might write about work occasionally but not often. I'll probably write about Britney Spears and Vince and Jen and Brad and Angelina too. (I'm kidding.) What DID she see in Billy Bob Thorton, anyway?
Well, 'nuff said for now. Like everything else, I guess I'll figure this out as I go along. Or I won't.
Do you say good-bye at the end of your first real blog? (My myspace blog doesn't count.)
But I want to try this thing -- because I've been reading about blogs for two days straight -- and I have to hurry or I truly will be the last person on the planet to have one -- and I don't have a thought or a big topic -- so I'm doing the copycat thing (forgive me, Seinfeld fans).
S'okay -- I've heard you have to build up readership so it's not like I'll be wasting anyone's time with this maiden effort.
My plan (hah!) is to write about whatever I find interesting. Mostly people. Like this crazy comedian that I met in New York two weeks ago, Jessica Delfino, who sings the strangest song about women's menstruation and somehow gets away with it. Or maybe I'll write about this blogger from the myspace world named Pussy Galore -- she too is a funny lady.
But I'm also going to write about bar games . . . and oddities . . . and books that I like that no one else reads . . . and song lyrics . . . and growing up with ten brothers and sisters . . . and my high school crush on Rosemary Contri. I might write about work occasionally but not often. I'll probably write about Britney Spears and Vince and Jen and Brad and Angelina too. (I'm kidding.) What DID she see in Billy Bob Thorton, anyway?
Well, 'nuff said for now. Like everything else, I guess I'll figure this out as I go along. Or I won't.
Do you say good-bye at the end of your first real blog? (My myspace blog doesn't count.)
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