Thursday, January 31, 2013

One Dad

A few of my good friends lost their Dads recently. My heart aches for them because I know what is going to happen now.

They are going to be driving somewhere in their car and a song is going to come on the radio and they're gonna' think:

'I gotta' call Dad.'

Or a political leader will stand up and say something stupid and the first impulse for Chuck and George and Chris will be to grab the phone and dial the number.

It's going to happen.

And I know that there will be moments when something that their Dads said will ring around in their minds as they deal with someone who doesn't deserve every ounce of their kindness.

And they will laugh.

The real sad part of it, for me, is that I knew Chuck's and Chris' and George's Dads a little bit. Not enough, of course, but enough to know that they were hardworking, honest, good men who lived full and happy lives and did it the right way, of course, with a love of family, the country and a few laughs.

Just like my Dad.

Yet there is little comfort in all of that on the day when you lose your Dad, or on any of the days that follow.

Because you only get one Dad.

And whether you're five or fifty...if he did it need him there. And you all still need your Dad. They did it right.

My Dad got sick in the 90's and needed an operation. I remember walking away from his hospital bed in the immediate moment after he got out of surgery and thinking:

"Dad can't be sick. He's invincible."

And that was the first time when I knew that he wasn't.

And I haven't been the same since.

But there was also a moment during the wake for Dad when my Mom turned to me and simply said:

"He was a good man."

And I, of course, lost it.

I still lose it when I think of that.

But Chuck and George and Chris, know one thing from a guy looking at it from outside.

Your Dads were good men.

No one will ever be able to strip you of that, and you know how they will feel at every important moment for the rest of your lives.

Because your Dad loved you.

And that's one of the most pure loves that this life has to offer.

Dedicated to Chuck Leone, George Ray and Chris Miller; three good men, borne of good men.

Wednesday, January 30, 2013

Good Day for a Rant

You know who I'm sick of?

1). Justin Bieber.

First off, every time I get one of his songs on SongPop I miss it because of one very fundamental reason:

I think it's a woman singing.

Secondly, in the last few weeks I've heard about a photo of him smoking pot. I read an article about a camera guy getting run down and killed while trying to get his picture, I saw a photo of his ass crack on Twitter. (Believe me, I wasn't looking for it), and then I find out that he's down in the dumps because he got dumped by his hot girlfriend.

Please go away.

You know who else I'm sick of?

2). The two freaking Harbaughs

I don't care. Football is a couple of brain injuries away from going to flag football and I've already had enough of the jokes about the Har-Bowl and how sad one of them will be to see the other one lose. I just want to win a square or two and see a little of the actual game without having to look up Ray Lewis' nose as he weeps because he's so in love with Jesus.

Which brings me to my next point.

3). I'm sick of people saying that it's 'old news.'

The murder of those two people back in 2000 or whenever the hell Ray murdered them is still in the news for a very real reason: no one paid for the crime.

I read an article about the circus of the trial and how so much was never really figured out. I hope that every time the wind blows Lewis hears about those kids. Death doesn't go away. Those kids shouldn't have died that night and if it turns out it was entirely their fault why do we still have secrets?

I can't even read about it anymore.

And I sure as hell don't want to see that dancing freak weeping on television...unless he's sad because he's really going to jail.

4). The Gun Discussion

I'm so tired of arguing that one of my New Year's Resolutions was to not get caught up in an un-winnable argument. The gun discussion is not one that can be won on any of the social media sites. All it does is infuriate everyone. I'm also sick of the Hollywood crowd taking aim at things when they don't help the cause either. Bullet to the Head is the new Stallone movie? Really?

5). Ah-nold

Have you seen Arnold lately? He dug out of the muck and mire of having banged his maid and hiding a child to tell me how sorry he was and how much he loves his wife. Then he's back in the freaking movies! I can't name one movie of his that I thought was good. I heard he sucked as the Guv-ernator too. See ya.' Apolgize somewhere else.

6). And I'm Sick of the Apologies Too

There's a story out saying that Douche Armstrong lied about 50 times in his apology with Oprah when he was trying to 'set the record straight.'

First off, who made Oprah the one they all confess too?

Secondly, why do we care to hear them cop to the lies that they told.

Haven't you just dismissed these people as goofy losers?

I'm so sick of Bieber and the Kardashians and Manti Te'o, and Docuhe Armstrong and Oprah and Arnold and Lindsey Lohan, and even freaking A-Rod.

We need new people to follow around.

And then we can tear them down.

Because all people truly suck.

I'm longing for a good does of Tim Tebow, I guess.

Imagine how that's gonna' go when they tear the crown of thorns off of him?

Tuesday, January 29, 2013


I woke up on Sunday morning knowing the date...January 27th...a shitty day. One of those days that we, as a family dread, as it was the day when Jeff was stricken.

I headed off to do some of the chores that are critical to a shopping, mainly. I tried to ignore the date on top of the paper, on my phone, and on the Yankee calendar that hangs in my office.

Then I saw Sam running around and he mentioned it. And I grunted a bit. Then he asked about my Mom.

"What's she doing today?"

I didn't know yet.

A little while later I went to Facebook. Sam had written this:

‎4 years ago today was a horrible day for everyone. The funniest man on the planet was hurt. And that just shows that you should spend every single waking moment with your family because you never know when it will be the last. Our family isn't even close to being the same after that. So even if your mad at someone you should just forgot about it because your family. Every family party is not the same without uncle Jeff. He would just brighten the mood. Uncle Jeff would come in with a joke and will just go the whole time making the family laugh. This is one of the worst days in the Fazzolari's life.

I had to acknowledge the date. I couldn't stop a few tears from heading down my face.

"I called Grandma," Sam said when I saw him next. "She's meeting us for Bingo and then coming for pasta."

Now, know for a fact that I hate Bingo, because I never win. I never even actually get close either. It sucks!

We started playing. I got a headache. The women were shouting out 'Bingo' all around us.

"This sucks," I said. "If I ever win at this damn game I'm gonna' dance."

Sam laughed. "We'll spike the marker and dance like we scored a touchdown."

Mom laughed too.

An hour later I gave up.

"My streak is going to continue," I said. "49 years old and I've never yelled 'Bingo.'"

We started the last game. It was a coverall. I had little hope after the outside edge prize was claimed.

"I need 3," I said.

"50 numbers called," my mother said. "You better get 'em fast."

"G 60," the lady called.

"I need two," I said.

"O 61," the woman called.

"One more," I said. "Get ready to dance," I told Sam.

The woman called an N number.

"I need I 16," I said.

Sam made the sign of the cross.

"Come on, Uncle Jeff," he said.

"I 16," the woman said.

"BINGO!!!" I yelled, and without even thinking about it Sam joined me behind our seats and we did a terrific dance.

Half the crowd laughed.

Half the crowd gasped.

My mother was laughing.

"I've never seen anyone dance before," she said.

As we hit the door Sam was still laughing.

"I asked Uncle Jeff," he said.

"And he heard you," I answered.



Monday, January 28, 2013

What the Hell Happened?

That photo was taken in the 4th grade. I swear to God my mother laughed all the way from the optical joint back to the car knowing that she'd just sentenced me to a tortured life of ridicule.

How I hated those glasses.

Corinne and John called me Clark Kent.

That, of course, is the shot from my high school yearbook senior year. I weighed 135 pounds. I had so much hair that it was just plain unmanageable. Chicks didn't dig me despite the fact that I was handsome.

Am I right ladies?

And I have just one question.

What in the hell happened?


135 pounds?

I'll never see it again, and if I start to go in that direction, please shoot me at 150 because it'll be a bad illness.

That's erosion, pure and simple.

And you know what the worst part of it is?

I still feel bad about the Clark Kent and four-eyes comments.

It's passed so quickly.

I oughta' be a real sight in 30 more.

Sunday, January 27, 2013

Being Brave

I heard a Bruce song the other day - go figure - that took me back to another place and time, and while it's strange, the lyrics popped into my head from this song - None But the Brave while I was considering another song - Beat It, by Michael Jackson.

It's funny how the mind works.

It tricks us, from time to time.

Let me set the scene.

I returned to the Buffalo area on my very first break from college. I'd only been away for a month, but it seemed like forever as I had been anxiously awaiting visiting an old high school girl.

I stepped into the bar, and unbelievably headed to the dance floor with her. She seemed as if she really missed me too, but the first chords of the biggest hit of the year - Beat It - blasted through the speakers and that girl looked right past me, her eyes searching the place.

For someone else.

Right then. Right there, I knew that my high school crush was over. As Michael Jackson played she searched for someone else.

Now, of course, it's not a huge story in the grand scheme of my life, but for one reason or another, I remember it as a cautionary tale of not being able to stay in one place, or getting caught in a moment.

I F-ing hate the song Beat It, by the way.

Years later I heard this song from Bruce, and I realized that it had captured that moment of youth.

And you want to be a writer!

This is the crap that haunts me!!

None But the Brave

From passing cars
Their voices sing out
And empty bars
Where guitars ring out
We'd walk and talk about
Who'd be the lucky ones to get out

You said
None baby but the brave
No one baby but the brave
Those strong enough to save
Something from what they gave

None baby, but the brave
No one baby, but the brave

In my dreams these nights, I see you my friend
The way you looked back then
Ah, on a night like this
Now I know that girl no longer exists

Except for a moment in some stranger's eyes
Or in the nameless girls in cars rushing by
That's where I find you tonight
And in my heart you still survive

None baby but the brave
No one baby but the brave
Those strong enough to save
Something from the love they gave

None baby, but the brave
No one baby, but the brave

Now, tonight once more
I search every face on that crowded floor
Looking for, I don't know what for
Just waitin' to see you come walkin' through that door

There's a girl standing by the band
She reminds me of you and I ask her to dance
As the drummer counts away
I take her hand, we move away

Now tonight, I see old friends
Caught in a game they've got no chance to win
Gettin' beat and then playin' again
'Til their strength gives out or their heart gives in

Now who's the man who thinks he can decide
Whose dreams will live and who's shall be pushed aside

Has he ever walked down these streets at night and looked into the eyes of

None baby, but the brave
No one baby, but the brave
Those strong enough to save
Something from the love they gave

None baby, but the brave

And Bruce didn't even put that song on a CD.


Listen to the words.

Saturday, January 26, 2013

Anyone You Want to Be

I was listening to the Jay Thomas Show on Friday morning and of course they were in on the Manti Te'o story, making fun of how goofy the kid sounded as he got fooled by his 'girlfriend' who may have actually been a man. I love Jay, believing that our senses of humor are similar but he seemed as confused as I felt.

How can someone be tricked so badly?

The one nagging question for me being that if you truly love someone and there's trouble in their lives don't you try and help them?

Whatever...the story is a dead-issue to me. The kid is a dopey bastard. He should be just fine making a king's ransom chasing someone carrying A BALL.

What got me about it is the way that social media plays such a role these days.

I like to consider myself a Facebook Artist. If I could, I'd add it to my resume. There are a few things I look for:


I love finding someone who is amped up on a issue. The issue isn't important. What's essential is knowing that these are truly vulnerable people. I like to jump all over them with the completely opposite opinion. The goal, of course, is to make their head explode. When I find myself in this circle I'll usually give them 3 or 4 counter points and wait until they are writing their messages back in all caps and then I'll mention that I don't really care.


Life can be tiresome. When I feel that the Facebook conversation is lagging, I'll actually pick the fight. This gets a lot of people into the conversation. It truly doesn't take much. The other night, after the Sabres first loss of the season I wrote just a seven-word message:

The Sabres are tied for last place.

Not sure that I should throw out such inflammatory comments in such a trigger-happy society, but forks don't make people fat, right? Which brings me to the next one:


This can be a full-time job if you allow it to be. There is so much misinformation out there that people accept as fact that if I wanted to I could just stay on all day writing the counter-points. Of course, we can all be fact-checked as well, and I know that while I've never truly made a mistake, I can honestly emphasize a bit when I need to really make a point. Usually you can slide one by.


This may actually be my favorite category. I love reaching out and making a connection with someone I got drunk with and ate goldfish at an old frat's really cool to see how it all worked out for them...especially if they are trying to be ultra-serious about raising their kids right or something inane like that.

"I'm worried about my son heading off into the real world," they might say.

"You didn't seem worried when you were pounding goldfish in a pool of your old vomit thirty years ago," I'll write.

This usually gets the desired LMFAO answer.


My Dad had a million one-liners. My brothers and friends are all very funny people. They usually don't visit these types of sites so I do what all writers do best - I steal their shit - I absolutely love making people laugh with a well-placed sentence, and I spend a lot of my social media time looking for just the right line.

Truth be told, as well, I think of my brother Jeff and what an absolute dynamo he would have been on the social media sites. I think hard about holding back a line and then I hear his voice in my ear.

Do it! That's hilarious!! F&*K em, if they can't take a joke.

So I hit the send button.


Dad once told me that I should stay away from those who are smarter than me. There are actually folks out there who know how to do really clever things like put my head on the body of other people caught in really compromising positions. (Yeah, you, Renaldo).

The best thing to do in those instances is to laugh, and then retreat. I know when I'm beat. I don't send a snarky response in that situation. If I did I'd end up with a whole book filled with such images.

Oh, that's right. I already have one of those.

Crafty bastard.


All right. I own a mirror.

If a 20-year-old woman with a supermodel body tells me how much she wants me and admires me, I'm heading for the hills. My own beautiful wife doesn't even want me in such a manner, and besides who can truly compete with Kathy Fazzolari anyway?

If someone mentions that I can get rich while working three hours a week, I'm out.

When it starts with: 'Eat all you want and still lose weight,' I scroll right on by. I eat all I want and I'm husky.

That's how that works.

You have a billion dollars that you need me to help you get from a bank in an oppressive country and all I need to do is send you a check for the bank fees and then you'll split it with me?

Really? People fall for that crap?

And don't tell me about the woman who was crafty enough to break free from the bad guys in the Wal-Mart parking lot, or any of those other urban legends.

I'm too smart for those.

Then again, I seem to be falling hard for a beautiful Hawaiian woman named Hakuna Mattata.

She says she loves me.

Friday, January 25, 2013

The Fazzolari Ball

I saw a shot of Obama and Michelle at the big gala and it got me thinking:

First off, doesn't anyone temper the president's remarks?

If so, someone should have mentioned to him that saying that he "liked the first lady's bangs," could have been construed to have a different meaning in the mind of a warped blog-writer.

Secondly, can you imagine the festivities if I were ever sworn in at anything?

The president looked gracious. He was dressed to the nines. Nary a mustard stain. He extended his hand to his wife and she demurely reached out to grab his. Elegantly they danced with all the moves deftly performed.

Cut to Cliff and Kathy at their ball.

And here's the first lady in her brown sweat pants from Target. She's wearing a matching brown top with a hood that is attached but rarely used.

The president is wearing a Yankee t-shirt with the name Ruth on the back and the number three below. The president, of course is a fan of the 27-Time, World Champion, Greatest Franchise in the History of Sports. The bright yellow stain on the top of the Y in the interlocking NY is mustard. Weber's Mustard.

Once our descriptions are out of the way we could hit the dance floor, of course.

The first lady was a dancer back some time ago and is capable of keeping time to the music, which is more than what we can say about the president. However, the first lady has quite a bit of trouble on her feet these days as years of hard work have rendered her nearly incapable of anything more than a tortoise-like movement.

And here comes the president. He was never great on his feet, of course, but the Jerry Lewis-like moves that he makes on the dance floor usually bring people to tears - with laughter. The president likes to loudly sing along with the music, yelling to everyone to 'Listen to the Words!'

Once the dance is over, of course, we need to make our way to the table to eat the big meal.

The first lady appears to be looking for chicken of some sort. She leans in to ask the waiter if there are chips and dip on the menu. She barely picks at anything, and actually throws a broccoli spear to the ground and grinds it under her sneaker heal.

AND MY OH MY, look at the president go! This has to be a record for the most food consumed at this blessed event. It's either Fazzolari or Taft! This is going to be a fun four years.

The after-dinner party would, of course, be cut real short.

The president and first lady have left the hall. She was muttering something about 48 Hours and the president, while putting in a dip of copenhagen said that he had to see 'a man about a horse'.

Thursday, January 24, 2013

Uh, OK, Buffalo isn't Cold

So, there comes a moment when while traveling around this great nation that you'll have to answer the question about where you've settled down to live your life.

"Where are you from?"

"Buffalo," I'll say.

There are usually two responses to that.

"What the hell happened to your football team?"


"Seriously? Don't you freeze there? Why do you live there?"

Since I don't truly have an answer to the first response I did my best to go on the defensive about the weather this past weekend.

"We haven't gotten much snow over the last three winters," I said.

The guy from the Oakland-San Francisco area just laughed.

Out loud.

Real loud.

"Seriously," I said. "And besides, what're you laughing at? I lived in the San Francisco area for awhile, you don't have a lot to brag about when it comes to weather. It's 40 degrees there in the summer."

"We don't get 150 inches of snow a year," he answered.

As our plane made its descent the pilot said the following:

"It's 18 degrees in Buffalo and there are slight snow flurries. Go figure."

Again, I wanted to scream that we don't get a ton of snow, but I was wedged in my seat because the guy next to me was about 800 pounds, smelled like cheese and had these big sores all over his hands that I didn't want to touch.

(But that's a whole 'nother story).

"People always make fun of Buffalo's weather," hefty, cheese-eating, Edward Sore Hands said.

"I know," I answered, "And it's really not so bad."

Cut to Tuesday afternoon.

I was walking about three hundred yards from my car to a huge job site in the downtown area. The wind was howling, the snow flurries were blowing directly into my face. My lips were chapped by the cold. My face was burnt by the wind and my forehead was throbbing as if I'd just eaten a half-gallon of ice cream in under thirty seconds.

"This sucks!" I screamed out.

In answer to the three questions posted above:

Q: Seriously?

A: Shut-up.

Q: Don't you freeze there?

A: Like a popsicle.

Q: Why do you live there?

A: We love the football team.

Wednesday, January 23, 2013

A Great Night

The New England Book Festival was really cool.

That was what I remember thinking as I sat on a panel with 4 other authors and we spoke to an audience about our writing journey. I felt relaxed and comfortable, and I can remember thinking that I was getting my message out. The message about my family. The message about the Women & Children's Hospital of Buffalo. The message of Anthony Stinson and Olivia Stockmeyer.

But the night was about meeting the other authors who received awards.

I had dinner with John Brubaker a New England based author, speaker and coach. A great guy -for a Steelers fan in New England -(He also likes the Yankees). John is a family man, a lover of spring rolls and a well-thought out, marketing genius (compared to me, for sure).

I had an after the ceremony drink with three authors. Jeanne Selander Miller, a woman who's book 'A Breath Away' also won in the non-fiction category, which is tough because she suffered loss. A beautiful woman with a story to tell.

'A Special Journey From Sister Mary Kateri to Sister Mary Vodka,' is also a story that I will be reading soon as the author, Patty Ptak Kogutek, had a change of habit going from a life as a nun to a life as a truly spiritual woman of grace and style. She brought the party to life and her hubby was the perfect compliment to her - "We will be a better world when we go from the love of power to the power of love."

(I hope I didn't screw that up).

Another connection that I made was with the Doc. The book is called, "Nigger for Life," and the message contained is so powerful and Dr. Neal Hall is such a presence. A great guy with a brilliant message and a light that shines.

The world needs more people like those mentioned above.

And for the first time at any of the events I felt like a peer. It took 8 awards and 10 books to get that feeling!

"Your heart is too big for your chest," Dr. Hall messaged me on Monday. "I enjoyed every minute of our time together."

Me too, Doc, and John and Jeanne, and Sister Mary Vodka!

It was a great night.

Special thanks to Bruce and Lisa for doing a great job.

As usual.

Tuesday, January 22, 2013

Miserable Lying Bastards

I really wish I could just lie to people's faces.

It must make life easier in some respects, but truth be told, I'm not a great liar.

Perhaps it was the nuns who beat the honesty crap into me, but I just marvel at a guy like Lance Armstrong. I remember marveling at Bill Clinton too when he was being deposed all those years ago.

What happens with a lie? Do you really start to believe it? Lance said that he didn't think he was cheating.

That's a lie, isn't it?

You know what's funny, but my wife had the line of the weekend this weekend, and she wasn't even in Boston.

She had hooked up my travel arrangements and when I called home to check in after the author panel she had one question:

"How's your room?"

"Small," I answered, "And the bed might be too small for the after-the-ceremony-threesome."

"I would imagine," she answered. "With the two 250-pound women you'll be with."

Caught me by surprise. I tried a funny lie and she smothered me with a lightning quick comeback.

And that's the thing about lying.

You have to be good at it.

You not only have to convince the person you're talking to, you also have to convince yourself so that you can keep saying it.

My boys got a good lesson from the Lance crap. Matt defended him at all costs. Our text exchange went like this:

Me: "What did you think of your boy last night?"

Matt: "If he helped one person with cancer, I'm still with him."

Me: "Not the point. Just want you to get, as you get out there, that there are people who will lie to your face and not feel a moment's remorse. They are all about themselves."

Matt: "I hear ya'."

I hope he does because the more you listen the more lies you hear.

Damn, I wish my old nuns were around to beat some sense into these people.

Monday, January 21, 2013

Empty Spaces

Dedicated to David Miller and my buddy Chris and his family. Keep the faith.

There has never been a person who's walked this planet who's come away unscathed. Standing next to the person in the checkout line at the grocery store and just listening will allow you the opportunity to hear some of the pain that living brings.

A co-worker spoke to me yesterday about a friend who held a golf memorial for his son - an 18-year-old who died when falling down the stairs at school. An unspeakable accident that left holes all over the county.

Try reading the paper every day. Scan the obits and see the ages of the people listed therein. For every person listed there were hundreds of people who's life was affected. In some cases, thousands who feel the void.

Everyone I've ever met is walking around with some sort of void in their heart. The heartbreak of life is all around. Until the great ball stops spinning, pain will be on the menu.

And what to do with those voids? How do we fill the empty spaces?

Believe it or not, there are choices to be made. We can eat ourselves into a coma, or do the same with drink.

We can fill the hole in our heart with anger, or eternal sadness, or hatred.

We can drink, gamble, carouse, engage in all sorts of sexual deviant behavior, shoot people down (literally and figuratively), gossip, threaten and cajole.

There are so many freedoms afforded us in this country, in this life, and in our own minds that we can fill those voids anyway that we see fit.

That's why you have religious services doing a brisk business as some of them prey on people who are searching for an answer.

That's why there are hundreds of robberies, break-ins and murders each night.

That's why people fill their evenings watching dogs fight or cocks fight, or drunk driving their asses home, not caring who or what they destroy along the way.

Millions of people are walking around like zombies every day. There's so much anger; so much hatred; so much jealousy and so few viable avenues to chase the demons away.

We all carry the seeds of self-destruction in our pockets and in many ways we spill those seeds, trying just to fill the empty space that is there just because we have lived.

I wish I could say that I always fill the voids with love - I try to - I really do. At the very least I am able to recognize that the empty spaces should be filled with things that allow me to feel better not worse.

Through 44 years of life, I've surrounded myself with people I love and people who love me, and the idea is to suffer through together, as a team, until the other side comes calling.

Yet that's an easy thing to forget. There's no doubt that you can sink into an abyss of sorts as you try and burn out the traces of pain.

Through my life I've shed my skin many times in an effort to become the man I need to become and to make it sync with my own heart.

And I will continue to do so because for some reason, today, I woke with the idea that the empty spaces have to be filled.

For me they must be filled with Faith in the Lord above, the love of my family, the love of my country, golf, Yankees, Bruce, pasta, the dogs, the way that the waves rush to the shore, the way the sun sets, the stars that fill the sky on a summer's night.

It ain't easy. Sometimes the choices we make to fill the empty spaces presents us with a whole new set of circumstances to self-destruct.

Day after day, moment after moment.

No one promised that it would be easy.

Saturday, January 19, 2013

Off to Boston!

Gotta' take the show on the road once in awhile.

The afternoon is a round table discussion and book exhibition.

The evening is the Awards Show.

Bringing a few friends along for the ride.

They travel with me everywhere I go.

Of course Bruce is coming too, on the I-pod.

Wish us all luck. The rest of you are also along for the ride. From North Collins to Boston.

It's gonna' be a helluva' speech.

Friday, January 18, 2013

Meet My Girlfriend

I thought I was confused yesterday.

This story about the Notre Dame football star Manti Te'o is certainly bizarre.

I don't watch a lot of college football but I did catch an ESPN tear-seeking piece about how Te'o was having a great year because he was playing in honor of his grandmother in September and the tragic loss of his girlfriend in November.

Te'o said that her last words to him:

"I love you."

I remember thinking:

What a great guy. He's about family, dedication and love.

Uh, maybe not.

Turns out, or so it seems, he didn't actually have a girlfriend. The girl who tragically succumbed to leukemia it seems never really existed.

Te'o is of course backtracking saying that he was part of an elaborate hoax.

Please, please, please tell me how he's gonna' try and spin that.

His father never met his girlfriend.

His friends never met his girlfriend.

Turns out he didn't either.

Te'o is saying that he only met his girlfriend on-line and through Twitter.

Damn, if that's true I'm Alysa Milano's boyfriend. She's on my Twitter feed.

And of course, there was money to be made.

Te'o was gunning for the Heisman. What better way then to try and garner sympathy?

I can't imagine what is coming next.

What the hell?

If these stories keep coming out of the real world I'm never going to be able to write a real fiction story.

Sorry for your loss, Manti.

Thursday, January 17, 2013

So Confused

2013 isn't off to much of a start.

The nation is in for a real battle on guns.

The Fiscal Cliff has given way to the debt ceiling.

I've been to a wake.

I have another great friend who is sick. Feel better, Hawk, please!!

Then I found out Lance Armstrong was cheating.

Can we get a restart on it, please?

One day it's 65 degrees, the next day it's 32.

The Bills didn't make the playoffs!!

I still have no idea who will hit homers from the outfield corner positions for the 27-Time-World-Champion New York Yankees.

Hell, the Yankees are talking about being fiscally responsible!

And now, to make matters worse, freaking hockey season is starting and I'm gonna' have to hear about the Sabres winning the cup right up until the day they are eliminated.

And Lance Armstrong cheated!!!

What's next?

O.J. is guilty??

Jodie Foster is gay???

Tim Tebow gets cut from his team????

They say that the longer you live the more clearer the picture becomes.

I say they're all a bunch of liars.

2013 has been a confusing time for all.

Here's hoping the smoke clears soon.

Wednesday, January 16, 2013

Shut Up!!!!!!

So my boy Douche Armstrong is back on the news telling all of us that he REALLY DID CHEAT.


Are you also gonna' tell us that your bike had handlebars and wheels?

We know!

Some of us always knew!!

What we also know is that you did a lot of it to make yourself rich and famous.

I can imagine the softball questions tossed out by Oprah as she holds your hand and cries with you.

I'm just not buying it.

"The French hate me!"

"I will sue you!"

"The allegations are false!"

"People are jealous!"

I wonder if Douche remembers cashing the checks when he 'won.'

I wonder if he remembers making the commercial for Nike when he denied all wrong-doing.

Yet I speak to people who still find his cartoon character as inspirational!

Seriously, there are people who still defend him despite all the evidence to the contrary.

I just don't get that.

Ah well.

Perhaps he did do some good along the way.

Maybe we can just use him as a cautionary tale.

But I don't want to see him cry now.

And I won't feel sorry for him for even a split-second.

He was calculating, conniving, and selfish. He can talk about the money raised in his name. He can speak of the hands he held and the eyes he lied directly into it.

Cry, cry, cry, Douche.

And then get on your bike and pump those cheating legs.

And ride off into oblivion, please.

Tuesday, January 15, 2013

House of Miracles Chronicled

House of Miracles is being honored at the New England Book Festival on 01/19/13. This is the story that the Buffalo News ran to highlight the book when it was published. Thank you to Jill Kelly, Trina, Nick & Anthony Stinson, Kim, Kevin & Olivia Stockmeyer and all the others who made the book possible.

‘House of Miracles’ chronicled
By Louise Continelli NEWS STAFF REPORTER

Updated: 04/23/07 6:55 Sharon Cantillon/Buffalo News Author Cliff Fazzolari and Jill Kelly visit Aaron Parrette, 5, and his mother, Tabitha Cusack, during Aaron’s stay in Women and Children’s Hospital. Fazzolari’s “House of Miracles” is a collection of accounts about the hospital.

Jill Kelly admits that a hospital “is more than likely the last place you want to go.” “We dread going there because we are fearful,” said Kelly, wife of former Buffalo Bills quarterback Jim Kelly.

That is, unless “you have been faced with an issue requiring specialized care,” she added. “When faced with the greatest heartbreak of our lives, our family had no choice but to become very familiar with our local children’s hospital — Women and Children’s Hospital.”

Kelly offers her praise in “House of Miracles,” a collection of accounts about the hospital assembled by Cliff Fazzolari, whose son’s life was saved by the hospital’s doctors. Fazzolari’s book also contains short stories based on interviews with Women and Children’s employees.

His son Jacob was successfully treated in 2001 at the hospital for a tumor that covered his entire chest cavity.

The Kellys’ heartbreak was being “told that our infant son, Hunter, would not live past his second birthday. As a result of a very rare, degenerative, genetic disease called Krabbe leukodystrophy, we were told to take our son home and basically wait for him to die.”

“There are no adequate words to describe the pain and frustration we experienced when told such devastating news,” she noted.

However, as the Kelly’s dealt with Hunter’s illness over 8 years, their “relationship with Women and Children’s grew.”

It was an experience shared by many other parents, like Trina Stinson, also in “House of Miracles.”

Trina calls her chronically ill son, Anthony, a “special needs” child.

“The hospital and the staff have saved Anthony’s life on many occasions,” she said.
Stinson cautions other parents to never “take your children for granted! Show them each and every day that you love them, no matter what. Be thankful that they can play, or even fight with their siblings, or that they can fall and scrape a knee, or are able to be put in timeout — I know that these are things that are frustrating to parents, but trust me, I long for it daily.”

“We will not forget all that we learned through our experience and we will continue to support not only the medical team at the Women and Children’s Hospital of Buffalo, but the families as well,” Kelly said.

For many parents, Women and Children’s is a home away from home — “a place where hearts were woven into a tapestry of lifetime friendships,” testifies Kelly, co-founder of the Hunter’s Hope Foundation. “Relationships involve trust and respect. Over time, we learned to not only trust the experts at the Women and Children’s Hospital of Buffalo but also respect them.”

Fazzolari, who belongs to a hospital family-centered care group, said he wanted his documentary to shine “some light on people who do more than what’s expected.”
He also includes the story of Olivia Stockmeyer, who was 14 months old when a patient.

The daughter of Kevin and Kim Stockmeyer entered the hospital for surgery for a cleft palate. After ensuing complications, she spent weeks in the intensive care unit in an induced coma, on a breathing machine, and through the development of serious lung problems.

“Olivia is currently a healthy, vibrant child,” Fazzolari notes, “whose life was saved at the hospital.” And so is his son.

“Jake is extremely healthy, happy and wonderful — a great boy!” exclaims Fazzolari.
He will donate a portion of the proceeds from his book to Women and Children’s and give a reading this spring there when “House of Miracles” is published. Copies will be available at the hospital.

Contact Info: Cliff Fazzolari (716) 870-6115

Monday, January 14, 2013

The Wind Beneath My Wings

I'm writing this entry on Sunday morning as my buddy Gag races through the streets in the Goofy Marathon Challenge to raise money for M.D.

Talk about a real inspiration.

And I'm doing my part, getting text messages that update me on Gag's progress as he runs, and hurts, and as sweat races down his back and into his eyes and as he thinks about getting a drink and the cramping in his old legs.

"When you're at your worst," I told him. "Think of me as I lie down for nap."

I got an 'LOL' back.

Yet what is inspiring about it is that my legs hurt just thinking about running such a distance.

"You're the wind beneath my wings," I said.

"I run for the people who can't," Gag answered.

And that answer made me reach hard for a breath.

Life certainly is about being there for other people. Gag has a stake in the claim as his brilliant son, Michael, is one of the people who can't race beside his Dad, but do me a favor and don't feel sorry for either of them, because they don't think of it much.

They run side-by-side, with their beautiful wife and Mom - Suzanne - every single day.

You won't read much about the race in your local paper, but Ray Lewis and Lance Armstrong will be pictured somewhere there.

I like the picture in this blog better.

Oops, I have to get back to work...I just received another text telling me Gag's pace.

He should finish it up just in time for me to see his final marks...

...when I get up from my nap.

Great job, buddy.

You are the wind beneath my wings.

Sunday, January 13, 2013

What's A Life Worth?

The line stretched out the door and snaked down the sidewalk. Person after person standing in the cold January air to pay their respects to a woman who's physical life came to an abrupt halt.

The town felt comfortable to me as I shook hands with people who I hadn't seen in quite some time. The faces looked worn, there was a considerable limp to the gathering as our eyes darted down and away, scared to say how lousy we felt for a strong family who's members we'd known since we were children.

I thought about the fact that there is a great debate going on in our nation as people speak of their rights to have and hold their guns. That's an argument for someone else, I'm done with it, but what captures me now is the thought of death, and how every single digit in the accounting of who died from what comes with a story.

"The stats are wrong," someone texted me. "There aren't 30,000 deaths from gun violence. There are 'only' 17,000."

In the context of standing on line to pay my respects, the 'only' 17,000 was lost on me.

My mind shifted to that little town in Connecticut and the endless parade of wakes and verses of 'Amazing Grace'.

And I spoke a lot and wrote a lot about life being a gift and that it is meant to be lived with the tears, the smiles, and the work, and the play, and the filling of empty spaces with moments of love. The full catastrophe of it all. But mostly, I was feeling love.

Just love.

We forget the love when we throw out a statement like:

"More people die in car accidents; shall we ban cars."

We forget the gift when we mention that the majority of those shootings are inner-city, gang kids.

As if their lives are disposable.

We forget our faith when we pass judgment on folks who are looking for assistance to survive.

We chase away thoughts of compassion when we talk about the 'worthless' people who are trying to cross the border to find opportunity.

And I realize that my heart bleeds for others and that I take a lot of flack for it from folks who don't quite get feeling pain for someone that they might consider not worthy.

Life is a gift, but it is not just a gift for you. It's a gift for all of us. It's a gift that doesn't make mention of how much money is earned, or how smart one fancies themselves to be.

It's just a gift, and we are all entitled to share in it, and we shouldn't decide who's gift ends when or why. None of us are truly quite as disposable as one might think.

I got back into my car and made all the small turns around the neighborhoods of my small hometown. I crossed the street where I was tossed from my bike with my buddy Jeff following close behind. We could've been killed right there.

I drove past the spot where the shortstop for my softball team DID lose his life. I eased past my buddy Al's childhood home. I thought of his Mom and Dad, and how hard I cried at their funerals.

I felt warmed and comforted in the arms of that little town on a dark, unseasonably warm night.

"What took you so long?" my son chided me when I returned home.

"There were a lot of people there," I said.

"There aren't a lot of people in the whole town!" he said.

"But they all feel it," I said. "They all appreciate the pain. They all show up because they know life is tough. They show their love."

So as we discuss all the issues that confront us on the streets of a whole bunch of small towns I pray that we remember:

Every life is a gift.

Every one of those numbers means something to hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of people.

Perhaps when we value one another...

Perhaps when we value one another.

Saturday, January 12, 2013

Don't Shake My Hand!!!!

I've rounded a corner when it comes to being afraid of germs.

I'm not sure what has me cringing the most when someone extends a hand to me.

The flu is rampant and everyone it seems is being knocked down for the count, but more importantly, one of the things that scares me about shaking someone's hand is what I heard a comedian say on Howard one day:

"Everytime a hand is extended in my direction I think, 'That hand has recently wiped an ass.'"

And it's freaking me out.

I enter a business meeting and the first thing that people do is stick out their hand.

"I'm not interested in touching you," I have become fond of saying.

For one reason or another I am pretty good at delivering a line and when I say that people usually laugh.

At other times I'll do the much less intrusive fist bump, but even then I spend the rest of the meeting thinking:

"Don't go to your mouth with your hand...get the sanitizer...get the sanitizer...get the sanitizer...."

I carry a bottle in my car but I'm starting to think that I have to start carrying it in my pocket.

I'm becoming a bit like Howie Mandel, I'm afraid.

Yet what is the answer?

Who was the first person to come up with the idea to shake hands?

Isn't there a less intrusive custom that we can come up with?

I'd rather kiss someone than touch their filthy hands.

Consider this:

People pick their noses.

People pick their asses.

People sneeze into their hands.

People pick shit out of their teeth (hopefully before they pick their asses)

People wipe boogers.

People touch other people.

People play with dirty money.

People pick crap out of their ears.

People wipe sweat from under their armpits.

People suck.

I'm not interested in touching them.

Yep...the plot thickens as my mental stability takes another nosedive.

Friday, January 11, 2013

Silver Palomino

It's been a few days of reflection. I thought of this song written by Springsteen for a neighbor of his after the death of a young mother. I think a lot about the line...and mother your hand slipped from my hair...and the loss...the great loss...Bruce sings it with regret...deep regret. The silver palomino is a symbol of the lost Mom and the boys who see the horse in their dreams when they sleep at night and in the waking hours when they want to recall their Mom. They come to think of the silver palomino of the Mom coming back to check on them. A beautiful thought.

It's just been that sort of week.

Silver Palomino - Springsteen

(A mother dies leaving her young son
to come to terms with the loss.
In remembrance of Fiona Chappel,
for her sons Tyler and Oliver.)

I was barely 13 years old
She came out of the Guadalupe's on a night so cold
Her coat was frosted diamonds in the sallow moon's glow
My silver palomino

Sixteen hands from her withers to the ground
I lie in bed and listen to the sound
Of the west Texas thunder roll
My silver palomino

I track her into the mountains she loved
Watch her from the rocks above
She'd dip her neck and drink from the winter flows
My silver palomino

Our mustaneros were the very best, sir
But they could never lay a rope on her
No corral will ever hold
The silver palomino

In my dreams bareback I ride
Over the pradera low and wide
As the wind sweeps out the draw
'Cross the scrub desert floor

I'd give my riata and spurs
If I could be forever yours
I'd ride into the serrania where no one goes
For my silver palomino

Summer drought come hard that year
Our herd grazed the land so bare
Me and my dad had to blowtorch the thorns off the prickly pear
And mother, your hand slipped from my hair

Tonight I wake early the sky is pearl, the stars aglow
I saddle up my red roan
I ride deep into the mountains along a ridge of pale stone
Where the air is still with the coming snow

As I rise higher I can smell your hair
The scent of your skin, mother, fills the air
'Midst the harsh scrub pine that grows
I watch the silver palomino

Thursday, January 10, 2013

It's a Miracle

A beautiful young woman lost her life this week. The details of the accident aren't real important, but the pain left behind certainly is. Once more my hometown was rocked by tragedy.

There was a lot of head-shaking going on and my heart was certainly heavy as I thought of the family...the loving family...and all of my friends who were hurting.

On Wednesday morning, thinking about life and love and death and pain I headed to a convenience store in the Syracuse area. Just another little store that had coffee and the USA Today.

I must admit I was looking for more, but you can't buy such things over a counter.

I was opening up those little creamers and dumping them into the 16 ounce coffee cup when an old man entered and stood in front of the cash register. He was real old.

About 90, I thought.

He wasn't talking to me when he said it, but I took his words as mine anyway.

"Everyone is looking for a miracle," he told the girl behind the counter. "I get two miracles every day. The first comes in the morning when I'm able to get my pants on, and the second one comes at the end of the day when I hit the pillow."

I looked up.

He caught my eye.

"Everyone is looking for a miracle," he said again. "Life is a gift. It's all a miracle."

I don't much believe in coincidences.

Ever since I felt loss so profound I look around for the little miracles that life brings.

On Wednesday it came in the form of a little old man who was still excited to be able to get his pants on and make his trip to the store.

The death of a beautiful young woman shook a lot of people to the core this week. Every day that she lived was a miracle.

That is the difficult thing to remember as we grieve for her.

RIP Connie.

May the rest of us appreciate the little miracles.

Every day.

Twice a day.

At least.

Wednesday, January 9, 2013

Am I Wrong?????

The Ray Lewis Show on Sunday really got to me.

Especially after a couple of things happened.

First my son posted a shot of Lewis celebrating a tackle and poor Sam wrote:

The Greatest Defender Ever.

The second thing that happened was that I read an article about the murders back more than ten years ago and how Lewis covered up a lot what happened that night. There had also been testimony by the limo driver that Lewis was directly involved in the fatal encounter.

(Check out the Orlando Sentinel for the article. It's heartbreaking).

The limo driver recanted at the trial.

Lewis went free. No one was ever charged.

We know all that.

Yet what got me about it was the grandmother of one of the victims who spoke about how sickened she was by the Lewis dance and the glory he gets every year as the face of football.

The longer the game went on, the more aggravated I became.

Finally I told Sam to take down the picture of him glorifying Lewis.

"He's a great football player," Sam argued.

We went back and forth. Sam is a pretty formidable arguer - I have no idea where he learned to argue every point - but after some time I grew real weary of discussing the matter.

After the game was over I read Sam the account of the murder all those years ago and the words of the woman who missed her grandson who died on the streets after being stabbed by Lewis or one of Lewis' buddies.

Three hours later I went back on Facebook.

Sam had taken down the shot of Lewis dancing.

He had posted the article about the murder victims.

He didn't say he was wrong. In fact we didn't talk about it again.

I suppose that I should use the time to talk about forgiveness, or second chances in life. Yet no one paid the price for that crime, and Lewis is treated like a god of some sort.

I don't feel like forgiving him.

Tuesday, January 8, 2013

Stay Away!

Will people really flock to the arena to watch hockey in a couple of weeks?

How can you?

For the last three months I've been reading angry post after angry text after angry tweet about how greedy the players are and how greedy the owners are and how the fans are being screwed.

Show them then.

Now I'm not naive enough to think you won't be back soon enough raising your foam finger and shouting out your love, but how about one game?

One game.

Just vow not to go to the first game back.

This is not the first for a pro sports league. The NHL has had a bunch of these situations. This will be the second short season in recent memory and they skipped one all together.

The NFL has had unrest.

The NBA shortened last season.

MLB skipped a freaking World Series or the Yanks might have 28 right now.

Just skip one game.

That's all I'm asking.

Don't turn on your television. Don't go down to the arena. Don't even pray to Pegula that night.

Show the players and the owners that you won't stand for it again.

Can you do it?

I know I won't have a problem.

They ain't getting dime one from me.

Greedy bastards.

Monday, January 7, 2013

I-Tunes Strikes Again

A long time ago, in another man's body, at a college about an hour and a half from here I had to make a video where I lip-synched a song. I could have chosen any song, but there was one that just tore me apart.

After a little back and forth I used my Christmas gift to buy the album on I-Tunes and I played the song for my boy.

The Final Cut by Pink Floyd.

"Why the heck would you listen to that?" Sam wondered. "The guy wants to kill himself."

The Final Cut

Through the fish-eyed lens of tear-stained eyes
I can barely define the shape of this moment in time
And far from flying high in the clear blue skies
I'm spiraling down to the hole in the ground
where I hide.

If you negotiate the minefield in the drive
And beat the dog and cheat the cold electronic eyes
And if you make it past the shotguns in the hall
Dial the combination, open the priesthole
And if I'm in, I'll tell you.

There's a kid who had a big hallucination
Making love to girls in magazines
He wonders if you're sleeping with your new found faith
Could anybody love him?
Or is it just a crazy dream?

And if I show you my dark side, will you still hold me tonight?
And if I open my heart to you,
and show you my weak side,
What will you do?

Will you sell your story to Rolling Stone?
Will you take the children away and leave me alone?
And smile in reassurance as you whisper down the phone.
Would you send me packing?
Or would you take me home?

I thought I oughta' bare my naked feelings.
I thought I oughta' tear the curtain down.

I held the blade in trembling hands
prepared to make it
just then the phone rang.
I never had the nerve
to make the final cut.

Sam was looking at me kind of weird as I sang every word to a song that I haven't heard in twenty years.

"It's the writing," I said.

And the song struck me the same as a 48-year-old as it did as an 18-year-old.

"It's so depressing," Sam said as he walked away.

But looking at the words and reading them over and over again it dawned on me that it was still just perfect.

So many thoughts, such beautiful emotion. Every single word fits.

After all the words I've written. I felt alive in the craft again.

A song about thinking about giving up had the same influence as it always had.

It fired me up to go forward full blast.

Roger Waters is a genius.

Sunday, January 6, 2013

Kim & Kanye

I suppose that I'm feeding into it by talking about these two, but when I heard that Kim Kardashian stands to make $416 million off her pregnancy I felt inclined to step in.

First off, fresh off seeing Kanye West's pitiful performance in between The Who and Billy Joel I must confess that I think Kim is the talented one in the mix.

Secondly, she is talent-less.

How in the hell will that child generate $416 million on behalf of his slow-witted parents?

I have three hoodlums here and as of yet there hasn't been a single penny raised by any of them.

They are more into the taking it away element of the money game.

I don't know, I suppose that I've laid eyes on Kim once or twice, but I'm not sure I could pick her out of a lineup.

Something about a big ass is all the I can really recall.

Yet I'm sure that there will be a reality show, the sale of the first photos, the divying up of the umbilical cord, Kanye's hit song, "I lub the Lil' Bastard."

All money-making endeavors.

Of course, then there will be the big wedding and the helicopters flying overhead and then the bitter divorce and custody fight.

Kanye will be on the covers of all the rags when he tells the world she's a 'ho.'

But Kim will fight back saying that Kanye is a gold-digger and she ain't no broke....

Ah, whatever.

I just wish little Kim-Kanye luck. That kid is going to really need it because the reconciliation show probably won't work real well, and twenty years from now when the kid is in rehab the reality show will be much less compelling.

I ask this a lot as I evaluate our pop culture


What the hell are we doing?

Saturday, January 5, 2013

Flowing Like a River

Where does the time go?

It seems like it was about two weeks ago when my buddy Jeff asked me if I could babysit his son Jason so that he could go out for an evening with his beautiful wife Kathy. I can remember how scared I was to watch an infant and I also remember wondering if they were crazy for allowing me to do so.

All ended well as Jason fell asleep on my chest as we watched a college football game.

Fast-forward to now.

If Jason fell asleep on my chest he'd crush me and it certainly wouldn't look right.

Jeff and his beautiful wife did a wonderful job of raising three great kids and their middle son - a true wise-ass who owes me $50 in Yankee bets - is about a month away from making Jeff and Kathy a grandma and a grandpa. (Well, his wife is).

That's just crazy to me!

Then to top it off, their beautiful daughter Hannah - my God-Daughter - is now on my Twitter Feed and a Friend on Facebook and she's in college and she's funny and beautiful!

And I suppose that life would be awfully boring (and awfully expensive) if the kids stayed small, but it sort of catches you by surprise, doesn't it?

And you try as hard as you can to think about all of the things that went into the time when you were nervous about babysitting to where we are now.

Just plain nuts.

Yet, to be honest with you I'm really writing this blog about a wonderful, tremendous family for just one reason:


Okay, two reasons.


And that's just awesome.


And please let A.J. know.

I don't babysit anymore.

Friday, January 4, 2013

Vital Stats: Two Dead

I knew that this day would come and yet it is as nauseating as I imagined it to be.

Ray Lewis is a sure-fire, First-Ballot, Hall of Famer, the guy on ESPN gushed.

He was responsible for 50 turnovers and no one ever hit harder.

He was also at least partially responsible for two dead people.

In fact, he was convicted in the deaths and paid money to both victims families, but in the biggest joke of all-time, he was charged only with a misdemeanor.

And then it was hardly ever mentioned again.

Did you know they never found the white suit that Lewis was wearing that night?

I wanted to scream that at the guy who was gushing:

Ray Lewis is a superb football player, a great Christian and a supreme human being.

I'm not kidding one of the ass-kissers was actually saying that!

A supreme human being??????

What is wrong with us?

Why was that man the face of football?

Why didn't they ever mention the victims again?

We all know Nicole Brown Simpson and Ronald Goldman, but quick, who were the two men stabbed to death as Lewis and his cohorts raised away from the scene in their limo in what is presumed to be a quickly-turning-pink-white suit?

Lewis doesn't talk about it. He claims that he had nothing to do with the actual murders, other than standing around while it happened, presumably getting blood on his threads, and then lying to the cops who came by.

He is a great family man who adopted Jesus Christ as his Lord & Savior. He's done so much good for the youth in the Baltimore area.

Yeah, Bundy and Gacy believed in God too, after they were caught. Every guy in prison finds the Lord.

To ease their conscience.

I don't know. Maybe I'm just thinking too much into this, but do you know that Lewis was the only one convicted in the deaths, and that he offered to talk about who really did it, but he never has?

O.J. is still looking for the real killers too.

Yet what gets me isn't that he got away with a double-murder because the victims were not 'first-class' citizens.

It's just that he is now getting his big ass kissed all over the world.

A supreme human being?

He made about a billion dollars running into other people.

Go to the Hall of Fame.

O.J. is there.

I hope they put you two side-by-side because after 2000 there was only one stat that mattered to me.

Two dead.

Where's the white suit?

They should use it for your plaque.

Thursday, January 3, 2013

Gag Provides A Blog


One year, I decided to buy my mother-in-law a cemetery plot as
a Christmas gift...

The next year, I didn't buy her a gift.

When she asked me why, I replied,

"Well, you still haven't used the gift I bought you last year!"

And that's how the fight started.....


My wife and I were watching Who Wants To Be A Millionaire while we were in bed.

I turned to her and said, 'Do you want to have Sex?'

'No,' she answered. I then said,

'Is that your final answer?'

She didn't even look at me this time, simply saying, 'Yes..'

So I said, "Then I'd like to phone a friend."

And that's when the fight started...


My wife and I were sitting at a table at her high school
reunion, and she kept staring at a drunken man swigging his
drink as he sat alone at a nearby table.

I asked her, "Do you know him?"

"Yes", she sighed,

"He's my old boyfriend. I understand he took to drinking
right after we split up those many years ago, and I hear he
hasn't been sober since."

"My God!" I said, "Who would think a person could go on
celebrating that long?"

And then the fight started...

My wife sat down next to me as I was flipping channels.

She asked, "What's on TV?"

I said, "Dust."

And then the fight started...


Saturday morning I got up early, quietly dressed, made my
lunch, and slipped quietly into the garage. I hooked up the
boat up to the van and proceeded to back out into a torrential
downpour. The wind was blowing 50mph, so I pulled back into the
garage, turned on the radio, and discovered that the weather
would be bad all day.

I went back into the house, quietly undressed, and slipped back
into bed. I cuddled up to my wife's back; now with a different
anticipation, and whispered, "The weather out there is

My loving wife of 5 years replied, "And, can you believe my
stupid husband is out fishing in that?"

And that's how the fight started...


My wife was hinting about what she wanted for our upcoming

She said, "I want something shiny that goes from 0 to 200 in
about 3 seconds."

I bought her a bathroom scale.

And then the fight started......


After retiring, I went to the Social Security office to apply
for Social Security.

The woman behind the counter asked me for my driver's License to
verify my age.

I looked in my pockets and realized I had left my wallet at
home. I told the woman that I was very sorry, but I would have
to go home and come back later.

The woman said, 'Unbutton your shirt'.

So I opened my shirt revealing my curly silver hair.

She said, 'That silver hair on your chest is proof enough for
me' and she processed my Social Security application.

When I got home, I excitedly told my wife about my experience at
the Social Security office. She said, 'You should have dropped
your pants. You might have gotten disability too.'

And then the fight started...


My wife was standing nude, looking in the bedroom mirror.

She was not happy with what she saw and said to me,

"I feel horrible; I look old, fat and ugly. I really need you
to pay me a compliment.'

I replied, "Your eyesight's darn near perfect."

And then the fight started........


I rear-ended a car this morning...the start of a REALLY bad day!

The driver got out of the other car, and he was a DWARF!!

He looked up at me and said 'I am NOT Happy!'

So I said, 'Well, which one ARE you then?'

That's how the fight started.

Wednesday, January 2, 2013

Cleaning Up Our Messes

Who was shocked by the fiscal CLIFF agreement?

Who even knows what it IS other than we are only going to get screwed by taxes instead of being ROYALLY screwed?

We worked to clean up the mess around the house that the holidays brings. All of the packages and wrappings and the STUPID tree are gone. We can get back to putting everything into its proper place.

MOST of what I received in the way OF gifts was something to read or clothes without mustard stains. The kids are spending their days looking at a screen of some sorts but I began taunting them about their return to school a couple of days ago.

Yet THE thing about it is that the changing of the calendar always makes me feel as if what is in the past is gone and that there is still TIME to do things the right way.

BUT I suppose that it won't take long to get into the same old bad habits, and before long YOU are looking to get on to the next year.

STILL I don't know many of the answers.

There will be more time to READ and write, and laugh and cry. And I'm not sure that if we still need to fight about what is HIS or what is hers, or if the WORDS mean anything at all.

All we can do is live each and EVERY day to its fullest and hope that with the passing of each DAY that we are doing the right thing.

SO let's start by seeing if there are any messages hidden inside to figure out WHO'S right and who is THE DOPEY ONE NOW.

I got it!

We'll just use the bold and capitalized words.

See what you think.

Tuesday, January 1, 2013

Fight the Good Fight

Heard this song by Triumph yesterday. The words seem fitting for the start of a new year. A great song too.

The days grow shorter and the nights are getting long
Feels like we're running out of time
Every day it seems much harder tellin' right from wrong
You got to read between the lines

Don't get discouraged, don't be afraid, we can
Make it through another day
Make it worth the price we pay

The Good Book says it's better to give than to receive
I do my best to do my part
Nothin' in my pockets I got nothin' up my sleeve
I keep my magic in my heart

Keep up your spirit, keep up your faith, baby
I am counting on you
You know what you've got to do

Fight the good fight every moment
Every minute every day
Fight the good fight every moment
It's your only way

All your life you've been waiting for your chance
Where you'll fit into the plan
But you're the master of your own destiny
So give and take the best that you can

You think that a little more money can buy your soul some rest
You better think something else instead
You're so afraid of being honest with yourself
You'd better take a look inside your head

Nothing is easy, nothing good is free
But I can tell you where to start
Take a look inside your heart
There's an answer in your heart

Fight the good fight every moment
Every minute every day
Fight the good fight every moment
Make it worth the price we pay

Every moment of your lifetime
Every minute every day
Fight the good fight every moment
Make it worth the price we pay

Happy Birthday

There are so many moments... ...that I recall. Over and over again. So many times when I think: “Damn. He should be here.” Today is ...