Gloriously Self Absorbed

It's been swell

2006-10-10T07:59:00.000-07:00

I am hereby closing the doors on this blog.

Swing by Filling the Page for goodies on a regular basis.

state of the union

2006-08-28T10:45:00.000-07:00

Can be found....here!

married away

2006-06-12T09:35:00.000-07:00

Marriage has me feeling extremely cheerful. It's not just that I get to wear a real swanky ring and have a month-long celebration. There is this indescribable and unquantifiable sense of join the pops up every time I realize I've got a wife. An incredibly intelligent, beautiful, sexy, funny, perfect wife. Once the dust and smoke have fully settled, I look forward to resuming all of my projects. But as for right now, it feels good to relax and not do too much of anything at all. Well - not anything.

momentary losses of dexterity yeild great rewards

2006-04-07T09:36:00.000-07:00

Not to undermine my last post's total awesomeness, but sometimes when you enter an incorrect URL you get the greatest stuff, like this wacky guy!:

You know what he's saying?

"Come see the Pharmacy Prophets at Iota! Tomorrow night, the 8th of April!"

And he goes on to say, with great exuberance: "And if the Prophets, Speaks, and/or Koshari aren't your bag, be sure to support other Six Point Music Festival acts going on that night: sixpoints.blogspot.com."

now at Summer Camp : Mortal Kombat 78!!

2006-04-07T07:27:00.000-07:00

It was a long drive to work today.

There was a heavy drizzle coming down and Northern Virginia’s best and bravest drivers were on the road make to insure that everyone following them was traveling at least ten miles per hour below the speed limit. These driving elite have a saying – if you can see the blacks of my stuffed animal’s eyes (that line my rear windshield) you’re following too close. God bless the bold and the brave, if it weren’t for them, it would have taken me far less than an hour and a half to get into the office. Creeping along as I was, I had a lot of time to admire…just about everything I passed. I passed one of the first items of interest while still in the ‘burn. It was a sign advertising a summer camp. I’m assuming this “summer camp” is run by Ashburn’s board of recreation, or something equivalent. I don’t know how that sort of thing operates down here. That’s all beside the point. The catch line on this sign – in big, bold, red letters: VIDEO GAMES. Below that, in smaller letters – outdoor activities, sports, day trips.

Um. Video games? They must’ve missed the Fox Five exclusive: America’s Children – Getting Fatter Every Day

I could be wrong. Maybe more and more parents are subscribing to the notion that it’s perfectly acceptable to send Junior off to camp with a bag of ho hos and his favorite Playstation game. Perhaps Junior doesn’t get enough XBOX360 action at home. Now, this might seem like a crazy thing for me to say, but shouldn’t parents encourage their children to be active? Don’t get me wrong, I do see the value in video games. I loved them when I was a kid, but the second Mama Rossi saw my eyes go from sparkling to glassy, the C64 was turned off and I was ushered into the back yard to engage in any activity that would raise my heart rate with out raising my blood pressure. Running around is generally a good start.

Back to Camp Sedentary.

I was a camp counselor for the Fairfield Board of Recreation for many years. My last year working for the Board of Rec, I was the director of the camp. That’s right. I ran the show. You best believe, video gaming was kept to the bare, bare minimum. How many times did I allow a camper to bring in their gaming console? That would be…never. Movies came out once in a blue moon, to be read as, rainy days, or days that were too blistering hot. Can’t have the kiddies dropping from heat stroke. Basketball, baseball, wiffleball, ultimate frizbee, capture the flag....and of course, dodgeball. A staple of summer camp.

There was an anti-social lot that would bring in their Gameboys – that I couldn’t stop. I would encourage these kids to interact with the other campers or I’d force them to shoot some hoops with me. In the end, the wallflowers would almost always become integrated with the bunch.

I’ll tell you this much, though - VIDEO GAMES was not catch phrase of this camp.

vile defiler

2006-03-28T12:30:00.000-08:00

It is disheartening that this is the master mind who stole PhilRossi.com out from under me. This imposter must be stopped.

what's inside the baby jesus' tears?

2006-03-20T13:32:00.000-08:00

Can you even wrap your mind around the picture above? Sweet merciful Jesus.

If I were to show up at home with this bad mamajama, I might get shot. Or stabbed. Or shot then stabbed. I'll tell ya, though. I have nothing but fond memories of my sea monkey friends. Once I got over the whole "what the hell? they don't even look like monkeys" part, that is. I think I went maybe three days without talking to them. After that, magic. I just might be willing to tempt the fates for this gem.

I don't know what the wand is for.

I don't care.

Did I mention I may or may not be jet-lagged at the present moment and operating very little sleep. Sleep that can only be defined as unquantifiable amounts of mini-snoozes between wakinkg up and saying "god my throat hurts. god its hot in here."

That's not important now. You know, as well as I do, what is important...

the Ladies of June 1987

2006-02-24T09:13:00.000-08:00

I made a promise many years ago. I promised that I’d never forget the Ladies of June 1987. As time spun on, I’ll admit, the memory faded. It all came crashing back to me this morning. I’m not sure why, but it did – fully, in brilliant Technicolor. It’s time this story was told.

Ladies of June 1987. This is your story.

There was a junkyard right by my house. One-hundred percent authentic, complete with a rusty chain-link fence and slavering, barking dog-beasts. You’d have to walk “the path” to get to it. The path was this “wooded area” beyond the dead end of the street I lived on. Our parents were not too keen about us exploring the path, but you can’t stop little boys from being little boys. I don’t think our parents would imagine, in one-thousand years, we’d climb the mighty pile of dirt that stood between woods and junkyard. The barking of the dog-beasts that sounded when you walked to close should have been deterrent enough. It was not. Curiosity and dreams of adventure became too much. When we did climb that small mountain, it was like we looked upon Mecca. Before us lay a field of old cars, half-buried in weeds and tall grass, rusting into near nonexistence. There were a couple dilapidated buildings, too – completely caving in on themselves. And strewn everywhere was junk. Twisted bits of metal, old appliances, and rotting tires. The sight was terrifying but ridiculously cool at the same time.

I’m not sure who was first to crawl under the fence. My guess is it was Brent Franklin. He was pretty damn fearless. The rest of us, Adam, Eric, and I were quick to follow. I was filled with a mixture of trepidation, exhilaration, and that feeling that can only be described as the “I’m gonna poop my pants” feeling. Paramount on my mind was the slavering, red-eyed dog-beasts. The fury hulks were nowhere to be seen – probably feasting on some trespasser at the other end of the junkfield. We spent some time digging through bits of broken TVs, stereos, and bicycles. There were records and old newspapers. Then the discovering that would change all our lives was made. A June 1987 Playboy magazine was lying atop a pile of random magazines. I had only spied this tome of sin from afar. I had never gotten close enough to touch one. Yet, there it was. Fate had left it there for us to find. A scantily clad vixen was on the cover begging us, in all our pre-pubescence, to look within, to take in an eyeful. Open it we did. We went page by page with scientific deliberateness. We skipped past all the articles, of course. It was pure naked-lady magnificence. It was liberation. My parents weren’t there saying “don’t look.” I didn’t have to spy breasts through the cracks of hands covering eyes.

For a while, if I recall correctly, there was a time-share involved with the magazine. Eventually, we reached the consensus that it was just not safe to hide it at home. So, we found a hole in the woods and did what any self-respecting kid will do with their treasure. We buried it. The plan worked well. Our girls were hidden from “those that didn’t understand” and always available for a peek.

Until it rained.

We should’ve seen it coming. I mean, we hid the damn thing in a marsh. A high water table and a summer rain ended up being certain death for the Ladies of June 1987. We found the magazine the next day. Snug in its muddy tomb. All the pages were stuck together. The pictures had become translucent, multi-boobed collages of soggy, soil-ridden paper.

I think Brent started crying.

There was a moment of silence for the magazine. I wished that I had the emotional fortitude to say some kind words. I was speechless in my grief. Heads hung long, we strode out of the woods. Vowing to never forget.

flashback, ah ah

2006-02-15T09:34:00.000-08:00

It’s pretty wild, the things you remember. I was chatting with a friend from way back when, one of my very first friends, incidentally and I flashbacked to all kinds of odd things. For example, the first time I went to their house, which was right around the corner, on Blue Berry lane, he and his twin (fraternal) brother were running around their home with baskets on their heads. That made for an interesting first impression. Not that I remember that impression so clearly. I’ll wager it was something along the lines of: “They are running around with baskets on their heads.” At that age, the mind draws some pretty simple conclusions.

Ah, the adventures we had together, crawling around the woods playing army and whatever else our overactive imaginations could cook up.
He used to have this black, faux-tire swing in their back yard. I was launched a good ten feet into the air by this thing. Yes, poor, chubby little me was more than the old rope could handle. SNAP and I was sailing through the air. Kind-hearted Adam tried to convince me it was the fault of the little girl next door. But, I knew better. It was the rope manufacturers fault. Not that I was a porker, by any stretch. By comparison, though, my friend and his brother were extremely thin. Maybe, that’s why I perceived myself as a little chubby. Baby fat takes time to burn. Rest assured, I was a cute kid with beautiful hair.

In other news, I’ll be launching my first PodCast very soon. Details to come.

that's cinnamon and sugar, baby

2006-02-09T08:35:00.000-08:00

So. The Cheez Its are gone. And thank god. Of course, I think they all went into my belly. Might I introduce you to the evil bastards pictured above. What these devil-spawn busy making? No, it's not plague. It's not hellfire nor brimstone.

It's Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Seriously, when is the last time you had Cinnamon Toast Crunch (the song is kinda catchy, I know). Well, the last time I had it was last night. Several bowls and and an upset stomach later I wondered how the box had gotten there. I think Jen is trying to plump me up so she can cook me and serve me to the pets...or maybe I'm just being paranoid.

Really, though. The CTC is one utterly-bastard delicious cereal. I think the progenitor of this line of whole-grain goodness, was a single square of holy wonder given to mankind by the baby Jesus himself.

General Mills has stormed my ramparts.

Current research:

i can't stop, i don't want to try

2006-02-03T08:34:00.000-08:00

I have an addiction.

Colossal, looming. It's always there. Waiting.

I have no control around Cheez Its. I’m excessive by nature. That certainly doesn’t help. But there has got to be more to it than personal nature. There is something magical about those little, orange squares. It only takes one and I’m gone, spiraling down a cheddar rabbit hole into a magical land of unknown but oh-so-palatable pleasures. I dance the night away with my Cheddar Lady. Sometimes she’s sassy, sometimes she’s spicy.

But I’ll be damned if she isn’t always completely delicious.

this post says...nothing

2006-01-23T07:40:00.000-08:00

I’m gonna say it. So don’t stop me. Here it comes:It’s been a while since I’ve blogged. It certainly hasn’t been for lack of [barely] trying. I’ve started about fourteen new posts in the past couple of months. I just couldn’t seem to get into any kind of groove. I’ll set the scene for you: I’d throw on some music and sit down at the computer. My fingers would pitter patter away and I’d get about 4 or 5 lines into it, like now. At which point, it would seem like a marvelous idea to get up and grab a cup of coffee. Stand. Stretch. Off I’d go. By the time I’d returned, whatever I had intended to write about seemed woefully unimportant. I’d spend the next five or ten minutes hitting refresh on my email. Not that I would be waiting on a message from anyone important, there wasn’t anything else I could think of doing.
Refresh.

That cracks the door on an interesting subject. Winter. Man-oh-man. As I get older, I’m finding that winter has a more of a dramatic impact on me. I can’t seem to do much of anything. Unless you consider staring at the wall a hallmark of productivity. I hit that wall right around Thanksgiving time. Like I had blown my creative load on the speed writing of the novel. I was on the road called “diminishing returns” until *poof* nothing. No returns. Nothing was being invested. I’ve felt consistently tired since about the beginning of January. Now, don’t take that as I’ve been feeling blue or what not, because I’ve been remarkable chipper. Chipper but worthless. I stay up late….*gasp* watching TV. I’ve got a book half read on my night stand amassing dust. Last time I picked it up? Early December, I think.
I’m going to go get a cup of coffee.

I made it back. And I will finish this post. So, I’ve got a lot of stuff in the mix. Work, of course. I’m working on recording an album. Gotta finish editing that damn novel. However, I’ve taken on a couple of free-lance web projects. Thus the paying thing on the side takes precedent over all else. I’m planning a wedding. Doting on many fuzzy animals and a fiancé. You know the drill. It’s a busy life. And I only make it busier.

I work better that way.

Current Research:

deck the halls

2005-12-23T08:34:00.000-08:00

Tis the season to be completely frazzled.  I’ll tell you.  When I got out of bed, chipper as could be this morning, I did not expect to be sitting in Starbucks as I am right now.  You seem, I’m working the mad, fourth quarter shuffle at work.  Time to get in that last minute revenue for the 2005.  Needless to say, things have been just a wee hair on the hectic side.  Oooh!! just now, my ‘s’ key decided to stop working.  Well, now its working again.  Sweet merciful lords.  Anyway, last night, after much wrapping of presents, I was awaked well past midnight finishing up things for work.   At one point in the evening, something had gone grievously wrong with the internet at home-base.  I didn’t realize the ramifications of this until it was 7:30am and I was flying around the house, packing, doing laundry, finishing last minute top-secret-gift-stuff, drinking coffee, jumping over cats, howling with the beagle (because that is just fun).   With dawning horror, I realize  I could not upload any files to work, or anywhere for that matter.  Why? Because god apparently hates me.  Or at least, hates the idea of me successfully multitasking.

If he and Santa are in cahoots – I will actually be pissed off.  I’ve earned this holiday, so help me.

I threw on a hat (because my hair is going every which way and I look like the wild man of borneo – with good hair).   And out the door I went, into the neighborhood Starbuck’s.  Did you know it costs you money to get on the internet there?

Neither did I.

But, desperate times call for desperate measures.  I winced and paid – and voila, I could upload my precious files to work.  Where does that put me now? Aside in a really, really irritated place? I still have to finish up stuff at home, finish packing, curse a little bit.  So, I say, come on Mukesh, send me that last file I so desperately need and I will go to the pub and rejoice for as long as it takes me to drink one of those drinks and get home.

In all truth, I love the holidays.  I might be losing my mind at the moment, but my spirits are good.  Life couldn’t be much better than it is right now.
Happy Holidays!!
Wahooooooooo!

from svelt to sweatpants, winter's delicious excess

2005-12-14T08:34:00.000-08:00

It’s really cold out. I mean really damn cold. The kind of cold that makes you want to cower in your favorite pub until spring. With the frosty weather comes an undeniable urge to eat as much as possible – probably that ol’ survival instinct kicking in. Insulation = warmth. It’s unnatural to eat salads and exercise during the gelid months of winter. Pizza-gorging, beer consumption, and couch surfing are habits laced throughout the human genome waiting eagerly for the mercury to drop. You can feel the first tickle of the gluttonous-side of self-preservation when the leaves start to change and fall. Thanksgiving gets things going full force. It boggles the mind. One week you feel guilty because you put feta cheese on your walnut vinaigrette salad, the next week you find it completely acceptable to eat a chopsteak covered in creamy mash potatoes, Swiss cheese, and bacon.

Holy shit.

That sounds good.

Its funny – even the cats and dogs are getting plump. I don’t think they’re living under the edict that “everything shall be covered in cheese”. Although, if King could figure out how to manipulate the cheese grater, he’d probably kick the kibble up a notch. BAM! I don’t think I need to name the two dogs that have been working extra hard at finding frozen treats in the backyard – cheese or no.

the adventures of shady

2005-11-30T07:45:00.000-08:00

I was at the bar last night to play in a songwriter’s showcase (where I would later confess that I’m not so sensitive after all). Of course, I over estimated the amount of time it would take to get down there, and got there early.  With time to kill, I pulled up a stool and started watching some ESPN – not because I was particularly interested in what was on the screen, but because I just didn’t want to talk to anyone at that moment.

There comes the inevitable time when at a bar by your lonesome you hear “Is this seat taken.”  No other words can shatter a sense of peace and sanctity as effectively. This skinny fellow sits down next to me.  We'll call him...Shady, because that's what he was.   He started talking to the guy at his right, kicking off a conversation punctuated with many "I'll tell you what"s and "buddy"s with the occasional "son" thrown in for good measure.  I learned Shady's friend - we'll call him Weirdo with the Long Dangling Earring and Bizarre Haircut – finally got rid of his van of fifteen years by conveniently driving it into a tree.  Nice.  The Dread Pirate Ketus was really messed up.  Totally hammered.  He turned to Shady and stated that it was time to go pick up dinner for the wife and kids, and with great flourish, he stumbled away.

The next logical event occurred.  Shady turned and started talking to me. And talking to me.  And talking to me. And not shutting up.   Shady had just gotten out of his alcohol rehab meeting.  He was in dire need of a drink.  In the space of our little chat, he ordered two kamikaze shots (for himself) and multiple beers.  All the while, telling me about his twenty-four year old girlfriend who is using him for his money.  Mrs. Shady does not put out nearly enough, but he loves her.  He was going to do the right thing and stick it out.  Thank god.  Love is alive and well in Silver Spring.  The conversation then took a tangent where I learned that Nighthawk is the greatest band ever.    He went back to the subject of Mrs. Shady.  She calls him sugar, he calls her brown sugar.  The drink stirrers that I had jammed into my ear canals did not serve as an effective hint that I just didn’t feel like talking.

In the end of the conversation, which miraculously did not involve a bullet or kerosene, Shady gave me his card and promised me, should I call him, I’d be hooked up with some kick-ass seafood down at his crab shack.  You know, where he makes all the money that brown sugar is using him for.  But really, he loves her.

i'm too sexy for this quota

2005-11-14T11:08:00.000-08:00

I just cant’ let go. I’ve got a problem and it’s beginning to spiral out of control. I don’t have the stomach for deleting old emails. For someone like myself who has about five-hundred and sixty-nine email accounts, I’m taking up approximately 5.83% of the Internet. If I’m going to take up that much of the Internet, let it be with full resolution photos of my perfect hair or sound bytes of me talking about my favorite subject.

I think there are a lot of contributing factors to this problem. For starters, it’s not good to be both lazy and a member of multiple email lists. I’m on countless email groups and listservs. Okay, not really countless, but it makes this a more dramatic posting. I just cannot muster the effort to delete a message after I’ve read it. Move the pointer. Click delete. Wait. I see at least four steps there. Generally, I prefer one step – next. If I’m going to *read* these emails and maybe even respond, effort is a super-important thing not to waste. There is also the “what if” factor. For example: “What if I need this email from Steve that he sent six months ago asking me if I could bring a bag of ice to his barbeque?”

Why would I ever need to read that email again?

But if I did? And I deleted it? How screwed would I be?

I go through phases where I’ll clean up my email boxes and I’ll even delete messages after I’ve read them. I always fall off the wagon. I just don’t see this changing or getting better. So, when there is no room left on the Internet for such important things as Martha Stewart’s head superimposed on a Baywatch model’s body, or flash animations of singing poo – you’ll know who to blame.

The day may be closer than you think…

frank barbagiovanni

2005-11-08T10:30:00.000-08:00

There was this kid in sixth grade.  His name was Frank Barbagiovanni.  A name like that, you certainly don’t forget.  He was one of the more innocuous pseudo-bullies that wandered the halls of Fairfield Woods Middle School.   It’s my thought that the moustache and leather jacket (he’d wear it, even in the summer) are what gave him that air of playground authority.  I don’t know that I ever saw him beat anyone up or pick a fight.  He was, however, friends with Chris Lupo.  If I recall correctly, Chris Lupo liked to put his head through things like cinderblock walls and small children.   He was certifiable.  Frank was guilty by association.    I never really had a problem with him, though. I think we may have even been in gym class together.

Sixth grade was waning – summer had arrived.  Soon, we would be let out the front doors of the school, shrieking with joy into the sun and likely day camp.   It was time for the annual sixth grade, end of the year dance – Luau theme of course.   This was my first dance, and I was ready to woo Kate Simses, the squeaky-voiced object of my unrequited affection and catalyst for newly surging hormones.    There was a minor problem that day; I didn’t own a Hawaiian shirt.  The change of clothes I brought with me to school that morning was “summery”. I figured, well, that would just have to pass.  Momma Rossi would not have bought me something as garish as a Hawaiian shirt. God bless her and her fashion wisdom.   I knew I’d certainly be swank enough to ask Kate to dance to Stairway to Heaven at the end of the event (because all middle school dances end with the Led).   At the very least, I would stare at her from across the room, looking away any time her eyes might chance in my direction.

The magical bell that signals a day’s end had finally rang.  The dance would begin in roughly half an hour.  It was time to get changed.    The boy’s lavatory was jam packed with kids putting on their Hawaiian finery.  Did every kid in my class own a Hawaiian shirt?   My resolve was slightly shaken – maybe my mother had wronged me by not buying that Hawaiian shirt.  I decided, no, she couldn’t be wrong about that.  I stepped into a stall to change.  I felt strange getting undressed in front of my classmates.  Perhaps it was the patch of hair on my stomach that would later help define me as a man and rock and roll god.

The jury is still on out the x-factor that makes an adolescent boy behave aggressively sans warning.  Maybe, through the thin metal of the stall door, he could sense that I wasn’t getting into a Hawaiian shirt.  Maybe he wanted to expose the man-hair.   To this day, I don’t know.  But, something snapped in Frank Barbagiovanni and he kicked the bathroom stall wide open.  There I was, standing completely shocked, in my summery shirt.   Everyone was looking at me.  Frank was laughing and stroking his moustache.   I had to act fast to save face.  So, I bolted out of the stall and pushed Frank with all my might.  He hit the opposite wall.  Not hard, though, as I think I only probably used fifty percent of my might.  Frank launched at me and we went sailing into the sinks.

To this day – I don’t know where Brian came from.

In a flurry of flannel, backpack, and limbs, my bespectacled compadre erupted from the shadows and had Frank completely lifted off the ground and pinned against the wall. “Holy shit!” I thought as I ran out the bathroom door like a complete chicken.

And that was that.

My first fight was a cameo appearance.  Frank started it and Brian finished it (I gather).     My contribution was somewhere in the middle - worried about my hair and my summery vestments.  I did ask Kate Simses to dance, though and I’m pretty sure she said yes.

evil?

2005-10-31T00:11:00.000-08:00

October 31st, 2005. On this day last year, I was extremely hung-over and driving from back Fairfield Connecticut after a dear friend’s wedding. Red-wine-head + Route 81 through the wastes of PA = a living hell that I hope to never, ever experience again. Pat Garrett and his Sheepskin line of fashion, those billboards haunt me. With that being said, to be at work, instead of in a car I could still hardly drive at the time, is actually a much better state of things. Although, I am on the cusp of a potentially maiming explosion of work here, as we approach the closing months of Q4. It is a sign of dark things to come when the director of your department is asking “what is our capacity? Are we at capacity? How about [fill-in-the-blank] more reports?”

That should be fun.

There were some interesting adventures to be had this weekend. Saturday, I dragged myself out of bed early to crank out a couple of chapters for the novel. The Habit, three quarters there-of, practiced during the afternoon. The practice was fun. Driving all over the globe to retrieve my beloved bomber jacket and continuing the impossible mission to get to practice not so fun. I managed to catch every traffic light and witness every accident that occurred Saturday afternoon between Ashburn, Arlington, and Rockville. How do I time these things?

Saturday evening we went out to a “haunted house” in Leesburg, VA. Every year, there is this guy who decks his house out with the zeal of a B-horror movie director. We’ll call him Scary McScaryson for lack of an actual name. Scary McScaryson turns his unassuming home into a bonafide manor of horrors, complete with tombstones and an eerie façade that covers the entire front of the joint. There was a replica of Linda Blair (exorcist) plastered to the upper portion of the house. Hi Linda! A skeleton in a rocking chair told us the story of the “curse.” I wasn’t really listening. Words cannot really describe what Scary McScaryson has done to his house. The level of alterations was freakish in terms of scope and detail. I was told he starts the transformation process at least a month out. There was nothing inside this house that even resembled an average suburban home. I’m not sure what his wife thinks of the annual remodeling. Rumors is, she is buried in the backyard where she cannot complain. Scary McScaryson hires an allstar cast of actors (desperately in need of work) to dress up like ghoulish creatures. Skillfully, they jumped out of walls and corners, saying things like “Boo!” and “Raaaarrrrrrr.” It was definitely fun. The Jen was extremely cute with her yelping and screaming. She did almost drag me to my death in an attempt to flee from the chainsaw brandishing clown. I would’ve enjoyed the experience more if my acorn-sized bladder was not at full capacity – the result of pre-haunted house cocktails. Afterwards, we had dinner and drinks at a microbrew down the road. To Joe’s house we went after dinner and I played the longest, but best game of pool ever (in the sense that I won). To Joe’s credit, I think he was drunk. Hence, the length of the game and the overall outcome.

Sunday morning, the lovely, lovely and I headed to Starbucks for some coffee and low fat breakfast sammies (seriously, they are good). First stroke of bad luck – “I’m sorry, sir. We don’t have breakfast sandwiches here (sammies).” “Alright then, gimme a low fat blue berry muffin).”

No one said anything about bran. I do like bran, though. Really.

We returned home to much fanfare from the pets. The little fuzzies really do love us. Jen had set her coffee on the kitchen table (weird place to put a cup, right?) and went off to the lady’s room. A little cat by the name of Peanut was exuberantly weaving in and out of my legs. Peanut decided that she needed to get up a little higher. Peanut launches into the air, through a grande vanilla latte and onto the kitchen table. There is latte everywhere. “Goddamnit! Peanut! Why? Why?!” Her answer to that question was to do this bizarre little bobble head thing. A gestured that could be translated to mean: I’m really out of it. I don’t know what’s going on. I’m cute. Look at my bobbling head. There was $3.50 worth of coffee all over the table and the floor. Jen hears the “conversation” and comes dashing back into the room.

“Wha’ happened?” She asked. Well, it didn’t take long for the realization to grip her. The horror was almost too much for her to bear, as she shrugged and began to pull various articles of paper out of the spreading pool of spilled latte. I was still frozen in place, my lips moving soundlessly. Where was my latte? Had I left in the car or did Peanut take it to the basement to spread all over the walls and floor? Would I find her down there, just waiting to give me the middle finger? Fortunately for me, the latte was still in the car. I learned this as I headed out to Starbucks #2 to get Jen a new latte and a breakfast sammy. I am one hell of a guy. Once our refreshment situation was ironed out, we watched a few episodes of Lost. Then, it was down into the basement for me to engage in a painful writing experience. I did hit my goal, though. So, cheers to me!

The evening capped off with a nice workout at the gym and a tasty dinner of caeser salad, steamed shrimp, and mini-crab cakes. It was a good weekend.

What does this hallowed-eve have in story for me? I really don’t have any intentions for a Halloween Blowout. I plan on hiding from the trick-or-treaters (Probably in a tree and then I’ll drop down and yell “BOO!”). I’d like to get a solid 10K-word evening in. Then, perhaps afterwards, I’ll have a cocktail at the pub or a bit of stargazing.

Current research:

it's my island, i own it

2005-10-28T11:17:00.000-07:00

Hallelujah, holy shit. It’s Friday. That, in and of itself, is not all that shocking. What I do find shocking is that October is over in a scant few days. Clocks are to be changed this weekend, thus gaining me an unearned, additional hour of sleep. It has been a trippy and bizarre week, to say the very least. Elliot in the Morning mentioned the Pharmacy Prophets the other day on the air (Tuesday, I think it was). He did not say we sucked. To contrary, he said we were a good band and a bunch of good guys. Clearly, he did not meet me on Saturday night; I was not on my best behavior. There are numerous parties I can thank for that, but mostly, I’d like to thank myself.

After all, this blog is about me.

The halfway-through-the-set-shot of firewater (to be read as a juice glass, brimming with amber-death) was where things took a deadly turn for me. I was praying to the gods above and the devils below that there was no encore. I wanted to set the bass down and take the Nestea plunge during that next song. I’m not weak in the knees when it comes to doing a shot, but I had gorged myself on water the entire hour prior to the set – there wasn’t much room left in there for Jack Daniels. Not to mention, Captain Morgan and his band of buccaneers had already docked for the evening in the Bay of Phil.

And that’s all there is to it.

I’ve had ridiculously prolific week on the novelist front (that sounds really pretentious, doesn’t it?). I won’t get into the ugly details of it, but you can find out more about that here. I have not worked out a single day this week. Instead, I’ve eaten and sat still. Very still. I think it has been good for my psyche to not be over-obsessed with health and exercise. If you ask the Jen, I was teetering on the edge…of something. Saturday it’s over to Arlington to retrieve my beloved bomber jacket (that someone managed to walk off with mistaking it for their own on Saturday – thank god for Gavin rescuing it) and then up to Rockville I go. It was a short break for the Habit (considering we have gone for month stretches with out playing, in the past). I’m looking forward to it, as is everyone else. We’re going to attempt resurrect and rework a tune or two from the golden days.

All in all, it has certainly been a good week. I’ll be returning to some semblance of reality next week. That’s not quite accurate.

Next week will bring something different.

Two in a Row?

2005-10-25T09:52:00.000-07:00

What is this madness?

Two posts in just a weeks time? The five (give or take four) people that read thus must be shocked. I hit the 10,000 word mark this morning on the novel. If you’re interested in following the process, you can read about it here: Filling the Page. I’ve been listening to a lot of PodCasts lately. Of course, you could imagine what I’m thinking at this point. I’m really considering doing a weekly PodCast – why not? I love to hear myself speak, that is no secret. Odds are it will be tandem to Filling the Page, with a slightly broader approach. If I do pursue this PodCast idea, its lone focus will not be just on the writing of this second novel, but on music, and possibly claymation as well.

I mean, I’ve got so much free time.

exhale

2005-10-24T09:00:00.000-07:00

The CD release party came and went, as every show does. I'm sure Steve will blog far more eloquently about it than I am capable of. However, I will say that I had a good time. There was a lot of support from our friends and family. Definitely appreciated. There was even a local celebrity present. Now, the Prophets are taking a week off - a well deserved week.

What will I do with this time:

I've got several priorities for this week. The first and foremost being hanging out with Jen - she was extremely supportive this past month and deserves some foot and back rubs. Which is essentially how I spent yesterday. We spent the day wasting away with each other, watching DVDs and not moving. The pets were ecstatic.

I’m going to get the scratch tracks finished up so Zach will leave me alone.

And, I’m going to write every day this week as mentioned in my 548th blog.
I think I have to do some laundry, too.

Current research:

still i see, nothing but the good things

2005-10-21T10:15:00.000-07:00

I was shocked to discover today that I have only one version of a favorite Sisters of Mercy song - Good Things. I don't think there is any other Sister's song (save Wide Receiver) that I only have 1 version. More than one version of a song? What is this nonsense? (you're asking this of yourself, I'm not asking you.) Current tally: I have three to ten versions of most every Sisters of Mercy song.

Ten.

I guess you could say I'm obsessed with the band. A band that, for all intents and purposes does not exist. That is what makes the whole thing bizarre. It’s not that I haven’t figured it out. I figured things out a long time ago. As I see it, there are two types of Sisters of Mercy Fans.

The casual listener: The casual listener might own an album, and is probably most familiar with Floodland. The casual listener might have three to five songs (different songs) on their iPod. At the very least, the casual listener has heard the Sisters and does not refer to them as "the who?".

The fan: The fan is eenly aware of the band’s entire history. From living above the Chemist with spiggy the cat, to this past years (August 05) M’Era Luna Festival in Germany. The fan knows the finer details of the roster changes (ad nausea), and is a little concerned that Adam Pearson is now playing in MC5 (but will continue to due Sisters date anyway?). The fan believes that the band (which is really one guy, at the end of the day) will release a new album. The fan scavenges the internet for as many different versions of songs and as many live shows as they can find. The fan has at least, but not limited to two tee-shirts. Oh, and the fan thinks that Andrew Eldritch can sing.

Obviously, I fall into the latter category. I can't explain it. Perhaps there is an addictive chemical in their chicken...er music...that makes you crave it fortnightly. I'm not sure. I do know that it is some of the most lyrically compelling music I’ve heard to date. The cover art has always been extremely cool, as well. Enough about that…

The big Pharmacy Prophets CD release is at Iota tomorrow night. We finished mixing the CD last night, amidst laughing our asses of at nothing and everything. The process has been grueling. And good lord, I can’t wait to kick back, punch Steve, Trey, and Ben in the mommy-daddy box and then have a frosty beverage.

In other news, I have set up a running journal to follow my adventures in the writing of my second novel. I’ve gotten off to a strong start with it (the novel,foo'). It's pretty exciting to know that I have enough ideas for at least two books. Gives me confidence that I’ll be able to continue to write these silly things down the road.

Yet, I have only one version of Good Things.

On Dentists and Writing

2005-10-18T09:30:00.000-07:00

It’s Tuesday October 18th. An unremarkable date, at first glance. I wager, if you grabbed one of those witty "on this day, on this year" type birthday cards, you'd learn of a plethora of occurences on this date. The big moment of this date thus far: I’m sitting here enjoying some Beef Vegetable soup. Campbell’s Select, no less. I’d be a liar if I said it wasn’t tasty. I had a rough morning after a long, sleepless night. I’m attempting make this a leisurely lunch. The truth of the matter is, I have to leave the office go to the dentist in roughly 40 minutes. I don’t like the dentist very much. Perhaps, if I were a better flosser, my visits would be less traumatic. I’m sure the hygienist will show me how to floss – for the nine-hundredth time. I just want to say, “Look, lady. I know how to floss. You’ve showed me last time I was here, and the time before that. You’ve showed me every time I’ve been to this office, just like every hygienist I’ve had before you. I might not be the brightest bulb in the examination light, but, I do know how to floss. I just don’t do it.”

But you just don’t say that type of thing to someone poised over your mouth with a razor-sharp piece of unnaturally strong thread. I knew a guy once that would’ve told you that a supreme race of extraterrestrials gave us the technology for dental floss.

Last night was a favorable night of solitude while the Jen was off at school. I had a nice, long workout at the gym. Took a lengthy and hot shower. Gawked in amazment at my hair. Poured a cool, refreshing gin and tonic and…

….I started working on novel numero two. I tackled the first several chapters and got off to what I feel is a really solid start. The desire to start on the second book of the series I'm working on has been steadily creeping up on me. I felt pretty inspired all day yesterday. I took having last night free as a chance to get the ball rolling. As inspired as I felt, the first few pages were pretty painful to squeeze out. However, the gin began to serve as a verbal laxitive and I was on my way before long. I don't know much about the story of this second book yet. I know the major plot points and the general direction, but I'm excited to see how the finer details pan out.

The remainder of the evenings this week are to be devoted to hyping the Iota CD release Bash. I’m having a hard time figuring out where the past several months have gone. Ready or not – October 22nd is a scant five days away.

On a side note, I just ate some pretzels. Underrated in the snacking community as far as I’m concerned. However, I neglected to heed the fact that pretzels have a nasty knack of sticking to your teeth. It’s as if, chemically, after several chews, the crunch goodness changes into some ultra-strong adhesive. Oh, Ms. Hygienist will have her way with me yet.

If I even as much as hear Corbin Berson's voice, I'm running.

Nice, baby. Nice.

2005-10-07T10:31:00.000-07:00

I'm a lucky man. I get to marry this woman. This picture was taken when the Jen was in Chile. She and her group were getting ready to go into a mountain and check out the copper mining process. She had many adventures in Chile. Checking out businesses, vineyards, and the local culture, in general. On one particular evening, she taught some of her fellow classmates how to salsa dance (yeah, she salsa dances, and that is pretty hot), and then went on to dance until 4:00am. Apparently, we are adopting a small Peruvian man named Ricardo who likes to wear sweat pants...Really, though, I'm totally psyched for Jen that she had this opportunity. I wish I had gone with her. She might be going to London in 2006. I'm be sure to hop on that bandwagon.

She is the Jen. She looks both cute and sexy in that little get up. She is the package totale. Beautiful, smart, sexy, financially savvy (as I have no budgetary skills whatsoever), supportive, and has this amazing ability to put up with me and my mood swings.

Ah, to be young and in love.

On the wings of insanity

2005-10-07T01:32:00.000-07:00

This crazy person has been mocking me, pretty much incessantly, all week - in, of course, an anonymous fashion (read about it here). However, in a break, I actually discovered a picture of the culprit!

Welcome to the Fall

2005-10-06T10:16:00.000-07:00

I am at a loss for words. Summer came and went before I knew what happened. Work and my life-in-general have been ridiculously busy as Summer turned to Fall . I haven’t had a chance to write anything in many weeks. Amazingly, I have few minutes to spare at work. Between the last write up and today a lot has happened. I’ll try to present you with a clear, abridged play-play I finally won the battle with the Flush Master. I’d like to say I kicked its ass, but the sucker did put up a good fight to the bitter end. There were a few leaks and some other nonsense. When the dust settled, I was the victor. I can’t tell you the gratification that occurred upon that first flush.

Ironically enough, a few weeks later 2/4 flusher handles have broken, so those need to be replaced. That’s an easy job.

The next big event to go down: I gave Jen an engagement ring for her birthday. She asked for an iPod and she got a diamond. The odd part was, my heart was racing a-mile-a-minute when I “reproposed” to her. I knew that she was going to marry me, but I wanted to get down on my knee for her again. A lot has occurred in the past year that has prevented us from really enjoying our engagement, so, I wanted to start fresh. Well, apparently, she had hoped for a birthday ring all along. She said that if I got her an iPod, she would’ve enjoyed it, but would’ve thought me a complete and utter fool. I really don’t need to go give her any other reasons to think that. In the end, she is marrying this fool. Wahoo!

The Pharmacy Prophets have been hard at work on the new EP which is being released at Iota in Arlington on October 22nd. We’re down to the wire and the stress is kicking in. We had a really productive night this past week, we’ll definitely have it ready. The good night of recording worked to ease some tensions. It’s still stressful, but its dropped a couple notches. The tunes for DC101’s in studio will be ready, too. Things sound pretty damn spectacular. Ben has really outdone himself this time, as has everyone else with their performances.

El Habito Male is coming back strong now that Zach has adjusted to baby-dom and has gotten his practice space all set up. We played a show at DC9 last night and had a joyous time. We’re getting ready to record some of our new material with the end goal of either an EP or an album for release by the end of the year. There are a few more shows scheduled for the remainder of the year. I’ve also got my feelers out in Philadelphia, NYC, and some other locations for both band and potential solo shows.

My sister is presently reading/editing the novel. In the interim, I’ve taken pages of notes for the next book in the series, but have not starting writing that yet. I need to tag about four more hours onto my day. There’s just not enough time. I’m contemplating using the mornings before work to write. Two hours a day would be nice. I figure 6:00 to 8:00 am or something to that effect. I’ve been exercising in the afternoons, thus making the mornings free It’s really just a matter of can I get up at that hour? Hard-to-say, because I certainly have been hit that snooze button lately. I’ve been reading a lot, so even though I haven’t written, the writing part of my brain is still being stimulated.

I’ve had no time for stargazing. It’s a bummer that I didn’t get to enjoy some of the sparkly wonders that the Summer constellations have to offer. The Fall is a great time for astronomy, however. Hopefully I can get over to CHR when the leaves are changing, I bet it'll be really beautiful. We'll see if I can squeeze some of that in, too. I definitely enjoy it and it's exteremly cathartic to view objects so ancient and distant. It lends a sense of perspective.

My parents are coming to see our lovely home for the first time this weekend. So, between recording, Habit shows, work, recovering from a cold, and all the other general life nonsense, we’ve been trying to get the house immaculate. We’ve been sending the pets to the animal hospital for bathing and the such so that they smell more like flowers and less like dogs. (Mr. and Mrs. Rossi aren’t big animal people). Now, I’m hoping that this silly tropical storm doesn’t botch things for us. Only time and Jim Cantore will tell. Likely, what’ll happen: it’s going to rain all weekend. The dogs will no longer smell like flowers, but will smell like wet dogs. They’ll make the house all muddy, invalidating hours and hours of cleaning toil.

We’ll still have a great weekend. My parents will love our house, because it is kick ass and a major improvement from the pseudo-squalor that I used to call home in Arlington. It’s important to note that, for all the time I lived in Arlington, my parents never once were allowed to enter my apartment. One question remains: Is Momma Rossi ready for the Doobie?

Part I: Uncovering the Past

2005-09-07T01:44:00.000-07:00

The trek to Connecticut was long. The depths of the Pennsylbama and New Jersey wilderness are enough to drive a man mad. I had spent endless days creeping through the jungle. The guides had disappeared, but I knew that I was close. The idol would be mine, and I’d be hanging from the wing of an airplane in no time.

I arrived at my parent’s house to much fanfare and rejoicing. I still call the place home. I haven’t lived there in many-a-year, but regardless, the place is *home*. It was great to see my parents, as I hadn’t seen them since April. It was equally great for them to see me – a solid reminder of their strong and magnificent genes. We ordered a pizza. A pie, more specifically. If you were to order a pie in VA, you’d get a blank stare, that is, after several head swivels to the menu. “Uh, sir? We sell pizza here. Not pies.”

Well, the pie was delicious. You can’t get pizza that good outside of the New York Tri-State area.

The night soon turned bittersweet. The Commodore 64 had been sent to the dump, the circuits dead from moisture and mildew. Apparently, twenty years in a dank basement does little good for all things electronic. That didn’t stop me from engaging in a late-night, nostalgic expedition. My parent’s basement is amazing. You may have seen in the hit film National Treasure. It goes on for miles and miles and is filled with priceless reminders of what was a really stellar childhood.

It’s funny, though. Whenever I’m down there I get a “Phil? What are you doing down there?”

Here are some of the items I considered taking back to VA:
A stack of vinyls containing: The Lost Boys Soundtrack
A stack of 45s containing: Devil Inside
A bunch of unmarked cassette tapes
A coconut, shaped like a pirate’s head (Yarr!)
A stack of books containing: Moby Dick

But then I discovered a bag of Cheese Doodles on the storage shelf. I lost focus. But god, where those Cheese Doodles ridiculously delicious. It’s no coincidence, that on every visit, there is a bag of Cheese Doodles on the storage shelf in the basement. My mother knows me well.

The following evening I headed into NYC to see my college roomie’s band, the Walk Up. Alex and I had a few musical misadventures in college. We’ve followed each other’s progress over the years. I was looking forward to hearing his new band.

It was a great feeling, walking out of Grand Central. New York is like no place on Earth. Perhaps that’s why my New England countrymen refer to it as the City. If you ever find yourself in that neck of the woods, and someone mentions going to “the City” it only means one place. So, out of the terminal and into the streets I went – looking devilishly sexy, I might add. I spent a good hour walking down Park Avenue before I finally hailed a cab and went off to the club to see the band.

They were ridiculously good. Now, I knew they’d be good. I had no idea that I would be standing in slack-jawed incomprehension trying to determine if that was the same Alex that was the A in T.A.P. (that is a whole other story). Everyone should check out the Walk Up. They are that good.

Following their set, we hit the karaoke bar. I performed sympathy for the Devil as largely a spoken word piece. I couldn’t sing so well at that point in the night, but I could speak pretty well – less to focus on. I was a staggering, slurring, beautiful creature. When that joint closed down, we went to what I can only describe as a karaoke brothel. It was large building (as per my recollection) with a bunch of individual karaoke suites. A place where friends could share intimate, late night singing sessions. Great concept. It was definitely nice to sit on a couch, kick back, and let Alex’s girlfriend serenade us like only she can. A little later on, some reject tried to start a fight with me. I think he was trying to convince himself that I was not as wonderful as I appeared to be. I don’t think I’ve ever stood up some fast and assumed the alpha-male pose of “come on, Cletus, I’m right here.” It appeared that I was about to clean out his skull with a microphone, he rescinded. Suddenly, I was the greatest guy in the world (duh).

I later found out that no one liked the guy and I should have given him the beating of his life. It should come as no surprise; I am a lover, not a fighter. I hung up my gloves after Henry Brown. That was years ago.

Festivities began to wrap up. Forties were finished. The karaoke screen was blank. It was time to call it a night. I took a cab with Alex’s brother (John) back to Alex’s apartemento. I was delighted that I’d be getting a couple hours of sleep before spending Sunday with my nieces and nephew. I informed John that this was good news. He looked at me, brow arched and said, “Phil, what time do you think it is? Have you looked outside?”

Lo and behold. There was the sun, rising over the East River.

I stayed in that cab, all the way back to Grand Central Station.

Up Next: Part II: The Greatest Rallier of All

a journey's playlist

2005-09-07T01:27:00.000-07:00

I wrote such a spectacular post about my adventures in CT, NYC, and Miami. Of course, I lost the document. I will write it *again*. I bet it will be even more exciting the second time. Until I find the motivation to do so, here is my playlist from the drive.

so, what now?

2005-09-02T11:43:00.000-07:00

It’s a tragedy, in the bleakest sense of the word, everything that is going on in New Orleans. I’ve wanted to blog about my vacation and my hurricane dodging trip to Miami last weekend. In light of recent events, I can’t really bring myself to do that just yet. The stories in the press over the past several days bogglemy mind. They read like something out of a Mad Max movie. It’s difficult to think of any city in the US as completely dead and submerged in complete anarchy.

But, it is real.

Appropriately, the blame game is in full effect. And yes, people likely did screw the pooch on this one. It's hard to throw stones at Mother Nature -- of course. People are angry and that anger is going to lock its cross hairs and focus itself, plain and simple. But right now, blame is a moot point. The hurricane came and went and left little behind save destruction. FEMA, the National Guard, and whoever-else has got to take control of that city. By shear virtue that I can hardly bear to watch, listen, read, hear about what is going on there.

I’m sensitive.

I’m currently reading the Difference Engine (William Gibson/Bruce Sterling). I’m around a point in the book where London, caught in the throes of a hot and stinking summer, has erupted into chaos. Riots, looting, fires, murder – the whole nine yards. There is definitely a new, graver realism to those chapters now.

It's news to no one that gas prices are rising steadily. I paid 3.49 a gallon to fill my tank yesterday. That stings a bit, considering I drive roughly 80 miles/day to and from work. I think the jump in gas prices just might be the first tickle of the economic effects of all of this. That scares me a little bit (or a lot). It's wait-and-see-time, I suppose.

It's hard to be too worried for one's self. People are starving, thirsty, and living in complete filth not all that far away. It's best, for now, to be thankful that I have a car to put expensive gas in so that I may drive to a job, that still exists. At the end of the day, I get to come home to a house, pets, and a beautiful fiance that loves me very much. Stop and think. Just like me, most of us have it really, really good. Thank God, Jebus, Buddah, Allah, Your Lucky Stars (or charms) or whoever.

And then focus your thoughts and prayers on those people less fortunate.

look out baby, cuz here I come

2005-08-19T08:43:00.000-07:00

It’s almost time to begin my mini-vacation to the mother country I call Connecticut. I’ll be hitting the road in about half an hour. I’m extremely glad its raining as I’m sure all other drivers on the road will be on their best behavior. It’s definitely going to be a long, long trek. The Jen leaves for Chile on Saturday. Extremely wacky. I do believe this is the farthest and longest we’ve ever been apart. I couldn’t imagine not being able to see and/or touch my hair for that long. Seriously though, I will miss the crap out of her and probably be worried the entire time. I’m sensitive like that. I think its pretty awesome that she is getting the opportunity to get down there. And, I get to meet up with her in Miami for some debaucherous fun.

I’ve been obsessing over the fact that I didn’t get in a run yesterday and ate half a pizza last night. I actually contemplated squeezing in a run before beginning the journey to CT. Alas, I was insane for ever contemplating that. So, waht do I hope to accomplish in Tri-State area?

Relax with my family

Finish a couple short stories

Get magnificently drunk with Alex and the Walk Up in NYC

Get in a boat

Unearth the C64

Be glorious

I think all of that is well in my reach. I’m sure I’ll end up with at least something witty and cute to blog about.

Because that’s what I do.

game over, man. game over.

2005-08-17T03:36:00.000-07:00

I'm pretty sure of myself. I've faced all kinds of challenges, overcome all kinds of obstacles. There comes a time in a man’s life when he must fall victim to the talons of domestication. Its been a process, needless to say. I’ve come a long way from the time where my idea of “domestic” was sleeping under a table that had a table cloth and taking out the garbage was engaging in fisticuffs with the trashcan because it “looked at me funny.” I won that one, for the record. Little did I know, not far in the future, I would face an even stronger and more cunning foe.

I’m talking about the toilet bowl.

Man’s best friend when times are good. The toilet is a great thing on nights when praying becomes necessary or for some quality time spent with a magazine. When times are bad, it can be the source of great irritation. One of our toilets has been acting ornery lately. The thing would start running for no other good reason other than to prey upon my sleep problems. In the middle of the night, the soft sonance of water escaping beneath the loose flapper sounded to me like I had my head permanently superglued to the base of Angel Falls.

A few days ago, matters took a turn for the worse. A jiggle was no longer capable of stopping the flow. I removed the top of the tank. She was full, the floater was at its peak. Water gushed unabated from that infernal and tiny hose unabated. There were more problems at work here. Upon further inspection, I soon realized that every bit of rubber inside the tank had rotted. It would be a matter of days before water was leaking out around the bolts. Not on my watch.

It was time to get serious.

I paid a trip to Home Depot and returned with the Fluidmaster 4000 per Steve’s recommendation. “These things are the best. I’ve got them in all my toilets.” Apparently, every rocker must own the Fluidmaster 4000 at some point in theirlife. My time had come. I was about to engage in some bizarre, aqueous rite of passage.

I didn’t expect the fight of a lifetime.

It took me ten minutes or so to disengage the water line from the toilet. It took me a good thirty minutes of cursing to get the bolts off the tank. One of the rubber washers had disintegrated and seeped through to the other side of the porcelain, where it then had congealed around the screw and wing-nut. I thought it was all over, when finally I got the thing to give. My hands were black and the index finger and middle finger of my right hand were stained bright blue thanks to the residue from one of those miracle flush wafers that really do nothing except make the water so blue that you can’t tell if your bowl is dirty (okay, that is brilliant). It was time to get the main tube assembly separated from the tank so that I may install the Cadi-Flush 5 billion or whatever the thing is called. At the time, I might’ve called the flush kit a dirty whore.

Twist. Turn. Wiggle. Tug. Curse. Turn. Tuggle. I invented that one on the spot – a combination of twisting, wiggling, and turning while praying to the baby Jesus that he give me the resolve not to throw the whole tank through the bathroom window. Despite my efforts, I could not get that sucker out. I was missing one vital piece of gear – a plumber’s wrench.

I stumbled into Jen’s office. I was drenched in sweat and covered in the black mystery liquid. My right hand looked like I had stolen it from a Smurf (definitely not Handy). My hair actually looked pretty good, though. All tousled and such. I said to Jen, “This isn’t going to happen. It’s not the easy job you thought it was.” I received a sort of blank stare, followed by: “Do you want me to come look at it?”

“Sure, but I’ve been working at it for a while now.”

She proceeded into the bathroom and turned to me with wide eyes.

“Why did you take the whole thing apart?” She gasped, clearly, the horror was creeping in. “We didn’t need to replace everything!” She wasn’t angry, but there certainly was some exasperation going on. Can’t say I blame her. She had Flusho, the swamp-thing Smurf-man and a destroyed toilet desecrating the sanctuary of her bathroom.

“Everything. Bad. Toilet. Rubber. Leak.” I managed between clenched teeth. I trembled on the threshold of blowing my top.

The beastly bowl had beaten me and was now showboating in front of my woman.

“We’ll look at it later.” Jen said and returned to working on her MBA finals. I stood in the bathroom for a while, staring in disgust at the three-quarter disassembled toilet tank.

Game over.

For now. We have secured a plumbers wrench. And when I have the time, I’m going to go to town.

have a good weekend, from the both of us

2005-08-12T16:07:00.000-07:00

It was a long drive home. Long and full of Screaming Trees. And as the journey of the week comes to a close, my hair and I wish you a weekend full of good drinks, good music, and good lovin'.

top ten

2005-08-12T10:35:00.000-07:00

I thought it’d be funny to put together a top ten list of hobby/project/complete-lack-of-focus endeavors I’ve come up with over the past year. I had a big pool to choose from. Amazingly enough, I actually managed to accomplish some of these things.

10. Write a novel.
9. Train for a marathon
8. Create an old-school videogame.
7. Write a screenplay
6. Photography
5. Painting
4. Cooking (in the culinary genius sense of the word)
3. Start reading again
2. Record

And number 1 on this list…by a huge margin:

1. Claymation (and I’m not shitting you).

So. What haven’t I accomplished? I have not created an old-school videogame. There is a lot of nostalgia to these games of yore. I sat in front of that C64 for hours as a whipper-snapper. I felt a burning desire to be part of that nostalgia – to make it a living breathing thing. The brilliant idea was hatched months ago. I proposed a creative partnership with good ol’ Brian. He went along with me, full well knowing this project would be forgotten in a week. I scribbled some notes. I might’ve even made a map. Suffice to say, she died on the table. I still think it’s a neat, albeit geeky idea.

I can’t say that I’ve written that screenplay yet, but that is on the near-long term list of goals. By near-long term I mean, those things I can’t quite fit into my schedule right now, but anticipate on making time for them in the next several months. I’ve put photography on that list. I don’t have a professional-grade camera, but I do see a lot of great subjects on my commute to work. Photography is a beautiful art from, and it certainly wouldn’t hurt to try. Painting is on this list. The painting thing is a little more long-long term. It’s dependent on Jen McBusy-MBA-student-erson having the free time to show me the ropes. I think it’d be a good co-activity.

I love to eat. This is no secret. It seemed a logical progression that I would love to cook. I do enjoy cooking, don’t get me wrong. But, come the end of the day (on the days I actually make it home), I’m usually pretty wiped. Cooking from scratch thus becomes a painful, uninspiring, and quite messy ordeal. That’s not to say I won’t cook from time to time. Jen certainly enjoys it. However, serious-cooking likely won’t be a frequent event. A couple times a month I might get creative. Until then, the world is welcome to enjoy a mean veggie-burger/pita/melted-cheese-tomatoey-treat. Lean cuisine has these kick ass frozen meals in a bag. There is some stirring involved, but I can stir “occasionally” without feeling too pressed. A meal in a bag. Brilliant.

Probably one of the most ridiculous things to ever flow past my lips: “Jen, I’m going to do claymation.” It was an odd mix of emotions on her face. Mostly, her expression said something to the effect of “Who are you?” I really don’t know where this idea came from. I mean, I loved playing with clay as a kid. Not to mention, claymation is truly a great lost art. I think the clay I purchased came out of the box once. And as I write this, I’m completely cracking up. I think I was serious about it, too.

So, what did I accomplish this year? I wrote that novel. Related to that, I’ve start reading again and have read some damn good books. Suffice to say, my drive as a writer is both healthy and present. I’ve recorded over the past 8 months, and I am still in the process of recording for both bands. Now, I haven’t officially started training for a marathon, but I do run four to six days a week. I think that’s a good start.

My ass looks so spectacular.

that's justice, chubby.

2005-08-11T16:34:00.000-07:00

WashingtonPost Story Uno

I’ll admit. I’ve been irritated all day for various reasons. I’ve been looking for an outlet - target upon which to spew my venom. I innocently hit the front page of WashingtonPost.com for some news. Apparally, (to use a cutting edge word, that you just might not be familiar with yet) Scott Sullivan (WorldCom) is [finally] getting sent to the federal-pound-me-in-the-ass prison for fraud. Scottie is getting five years. I can’t say I kept up-to-date with the whole MCI WorldCom debacle. I do know that there is a massive and largely empty compound bearing that infamous moniker not far from my house. Scottie’s little miscalculation in judgment caused a lot of jobs (I’m assuming by the evidence ion hand). I am also assuming, as with these other big-time fraud cases, that many inculpable people, in addition to losing their jobs, lost their retirement funds. That is crappy. Really crappy. Now, Scottie isn’t the lone keeper of the blame. However, he is still an idiot that fucked a lot of people. Five years seems a little light for the number of people that Scott n’ the gang corn-holed. Perhaps, the sentence should’ve been five years and then, at the last hour, of the last day of his sentence, he gets doused with kerosene and set on fire.

That’s justice, baby. And it smells like KFC.

Then there was this gem that shared the front page (along with all the other breaking news bits).

WashingtonPost Story 2

Is society that culturally depraved? Someone would rather watch a show with this guy than, say, read a good book? Now, I can’t say I read the entire article. Attention deficit prevents that from happening again and again on a regular basis. Not to mention, I was pretty beat after Scott’s article. I did click through the first several pages. Now, if this “comedian’s” end-goal is to cure herpes or cancer, I’m a bastard. I’m sorry funny-man. Be funny and save the world.

However, I don’t think page 4 held any such information. It’s just very sad. Considering that I’ve got such great hair. My hair could (and should) really have its own talk show.

I’ll take two orders of extra-crispy, please.

if you're not going to love yourself.....

2005-08-10T14:47:00.000-07:00

It's like Jim Henson is god and I'm his beautiful, beautiful fraggle.
- Phil Rossi

Tonight I'm playing at Stellas (www.stellas.com) along with the lovely Ann as part of Steve Key's acoustic showcase. Short, short set. 9:00 sharp.

the sand pit

2005-08-10T13:06:00.000-07:00

We used to have a pool when I was young – that threshold of conscious memory young. The pool was one of those above-ground numbers, circular, with a deadly metal ledge. My sister had a pool party for her birthday one year. I will call it her twelfth birthday party. There were kids galore - running, screaming, frolicking, and of course splashing. The pool was alive with small arms, legs, and the occasional swimmy. We called them “fugles” in the Rossi house.

I still call them fugles. As if that’s a problem.

A plan was hatched, unbeknownst to Ma and Pa Rossi.. The kids in the pool decided they would swim around the circumference to generate the mother of all above-ground whirlpools. They were successful. It was amazing. A vortex of swirling, chlorinated goodness, right in my backyard! Amazement turned to parental horror when the side of the pool blew out, spewing gallons of water and tangles of twelve-year olds onto the yard. Oh, how I wanted to traverse that mighty river. My little feet carried me in the direction of the flow. A restraining hand on my little arm prevented any such adventure whatsoever. Mom was quick.

So, away the water went, down around the big tree, and into Auntie Hilda’s yard. I wonder if any of it went into her pool. I can’t quite recall. Either way, that was the end of the above-ground pool.

The death of the pool brought the sandpit into existence – a pool size indentation in the earth full of sand and pebbles. It became the canvas for imaginary, epic struggles between marauding hordes of monsters and immobile, but fierce, green army men. I loved that sand pit. I excavated canals, built forts and encampments. Created natural disasters. Anything that would leave me covered head to tow in dirt and grit. The sandpit was the backdrop for whatever world I thought up on any given day. I’m not sure what made me think of it just now.

Welcome to my new blog. I’m self absorbed, pretty much anyone that loves me can a test to that. I’m a musician. I play in two bands. I’m a writer. I just finished my first novel and I’m busy on several short stories, and the planning of the next epic. I’m an amateur astronomer (don’t believe me?). I’ve been called a renaissance man. In truth, I just have an attention deficit problem. For years, I had trouble finishing things I started. I still have difficulty. What I do have is a new determination and a supportive woman to make sure that I do actually finish some of my various projects. Project that thus far have turned out to be worthwhile.

So, enjoy this blog. I’m sure there will be many entertaining anecdotes.