It's been swell

I am hereby closing the doors on this blog.

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

state of the union

Can be found....here!

married away

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

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!!

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

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?

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

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.