Derry has told me several times and written a blog entry about his wife's fondness of The Gene Pool. She's even on a mission to find me a woman. Good luck with that. Drea has asked for a picture of Tina, as have several others. Mom refuses to have her picture taken (I've tried a few times), and out of respect for her, I won't sneak a picture of her and post it. The TCC, however, will continue daily. (This is where you clap and cheer like you're at a political convention.)
Drea happens to run an Italian restaurant in Fat City. And somehow I've never eaten there. I tell Derry that I can't post a picture of Tina, but I can bring her for lunch one day. This seems to satisfy Drea, as she offered to put the lunch on the house. One of the perks of running a universally-liked Web site. Soon, I'll be a VIP at an upscale club. After that, I'll get my own personal driver.
Me: Mom, we're going to Anselmo's for lunch one day next week.
Mom: That place by the Randazzo's?
Me: Yeah.
Mom: That's Italian. I don't eat Italian food.
Me: What?
Mom: When was the last time you saw me eat Italian? It's like you don't even fucking know me.
Me: But. But. You're full-blooded Italian. I... I...
Mom: I had too much of it when I was young.
Me: Well, they have other stuff. We are going.
So Thursday we ran some errands and ate lunch at Anselmo's. We saw a bar called Cheers in Fat City. How ironic. I write an entry about the show, and the next day I'm mere feet from a bar with the same name. Mom declined to stop in for a drink.
After we sit down, I scan the room. I immediately spot Pete (a retired T-P writer) sitting in the middle of a large group of old men. A few minutes later, I walk over there to say hello, and Pete is chatting with Derry. Pete talks a million miles an hour, and I know I have to cut it short at some point or I will be stuck there all day. Pete informs us that the group of old men meet for lunch every two weeks. Many of them were involved in the sporting world. I think he may have told us what all of them did, but I only caught that one played in the NBA and another once managed the Cleveland Indians. I ask if Mel Parnell ever eats with them. Pete says he usually does, just not today.
Mom orders the chicken marsala, which she has never had before, and I get the veal parmesan. Mom enjoyed her dish, but what really got her going was the Italian salad. She gobbled hers down, then took my remains and finished that off. Both plates were completely cleaned; she got all the juice with the bread. She said it was authentic Italian, with all the olives and pieces of tomato. Next time, Tina will order a large Italian salad as her meal.
Drea stops by our table for a chat. We discuss St. Christopher grammar school because her young son used to go there, and I am, of course, a legend there. I wouldn't be surprised if my picture is hanging somewhere in the hallways. We talk about the decline in the quality of the school in the past several years. Very sad. I am shocked to find out my old football and basketball coach now also teaches Spanish. Maybe I should visit.
How did I enjoy my meal? As soon as I finish typing this up, I'm devouring the leftovers for dinner. That's some tasty red sauce. Besides, who doesn't enjoy a free meal? Oh, and my mom behaved herself. Not one 'fuck' came out of her mouth during lunch. I was hoping one would for Drea. Sorry.
THE TINA CURSING CORNER
My mom went to Wal-Mart the other day. "There's still no Sam's water. I'm like, 'What the fuck?' Then, I found some on another aisle. They're so clueless over there."
Mom and I are getting ready to head out Thursday afternoon. I tell her I just need to take a quick shower. "You still have to take a shower? Hurry up. You are so fucking ridiculous."
Mom is ready for summer to end. "I'm sweating my fucking ass off in here."
The rest of today's cursing took place in the car while running the errands.
She gets to a confusing turn. "What the fuck?" She has to turn around in an apartment complex as a result. "This is a major fuck-up."
Mom tells me that Deborah Phelps has her own sponsor now (a clothing line). "Can you fucking believe it?" (Umm, yeah.)
Mom is about to pull into a parking spot at Best Buy when she sees that the spot is reserved for expecting mothers. "What the fuck? I never had that."
Mom is listening to the "news" on the radio; I'm not. "What the fuck? Somebody put ashes on Teri Hatcher's chest?"
Mom checks the price of season 5 of CSI:Miami at Best Buy. It is $55. "People spend that much? I can't see fucking doing that. I know it's 24 episodes. But, fuck!"
A commercial on the radio tells residents to make sure they have batteries in their digital cameras for the storm. You should take picture before the storm and then after to show the damage for insurance purposes. "Fuck that. I have a $xx deductible. Which means if that fucking tree falls on my house, I have to pay the whole thing."
PUTTING OUR PLAN INTO ACTION
When Gillie was at my house for an afternoon of crawfish back in May, we discovered that we both have an unhealthy love for action movies. Every action movie I said I like, she also likes it. We hatched an idea to do an action movie marathon. Since our differing schedules don't allow for such tomfoolery, we are actioning it up in installments. This started Wednesday.
We ordered calzones from Reginelli's and immersed ourselves in Die Hard. Pretty much the perfect choice with which to kick off this series. Chuck even joined us for calzones and part of the movie. He also took the time to discover the flash on my camera.
My favorite line in the movie: (Bruce Willis sees the approaching fire trucks) "C'mon baby, come to papa. I'll kiss your fuckin' dalmatian."
Gillie and I also discussed travel plans for Gustav. I got my first bad
sign that this sucker is coming. Jenna and Gillie are both flying to Chicago in the next few days. I already knew this because I'm jealous that they are both seeing Cubs games while there. The problem is that in late August 2005, they both took a trip to Greece. Clearly, they should not be allowed to travel to the same place in late August. Shame on them for not planning accordingly.(At right: Gillie inserts the Die Hard DVD. Not sure what is on the TV, but she is hooked. I'm surprised we got to the movie.)
GUSTAV TRACKER
I watch the 10 p.m. update Thursday and learn that the track has Gustav hitting to the west of New Orleans. I feel a little better, but I'm still really nervous. Bob Breck isn't so confident of a miss anymore. I'm sure the track will change by Katrina anniversary night. Might not need to evacuate with this current path, but I'm thinking of heading to Baton Rouge anyway to hang out for a few days.
I've been seeing the Planters commercial a lot. The one with the ugly chick attracting attention because she smells like nuts. It plays the song, "Can't Take My Eyes Off You." I decided to change the words for the chorus to relate to Gustav, giving us a new song: "Can't Take My Mind Off You." If you're good boys and girls, I'll do more of the song tomorrow.
You suck too much to be true (You're just too good to be true).
Can't take my mind off you.
You'd be like Hell to touch (You'd be like Heaven to touch).
I want you to miss so much (I wanna hold you so much).
At my house please don't arrive (At long last love has arrived).
God, please keep our city alive. (And I thank God I'm alive).
You suck too much to be true.
Can't take my mind off you.
Notes about Gustav from Thursday.
I counted 24 friends with a facebook status regarding the storm. That's a record. The previous high I counted was 15 during the Hornets-Spurs series.
Two phrases keep getting repeated as regards the tracking of Gustav: "monitoring the progress of (the storm/Gustav)" and "keeping a close eye on (Gustav/the storm." I don't like these. We can't see the storm so we can't keep an eye on it. And the first one sounds like something a doctor would say. ("I got your tests back. We'll be monitoring the progress of these cancerous cells, Mr. Patient.)
I also love hearing these ads for Labor Day sales around the city. I don't think anyone is looking to buy furniture this weekend.
What does Tina have to say about Gustav?
1) If this shit comes, I'm eating well (we have plenty of steak). Last time, I didn't have any fucking meat in the freezer.
2) You think those fucking levees will hold up if that thing comes again?
Today's famous Gustav: Gustave (French translation) Eiffel. 1832-1923. He was a structural engineer. He is famous for designing the Eiffel Tower as well as the armature (framework around which the sculpture is built) for the Statue of Liberty.
Did you know? In Latin, Gustav translates to Gustavus. In Italian, Spanish and Portuguese, it's Gustavo.
PARTING SHOT
My dad and I went to the Saints-Dolphins preseason game Thursday night (more on this tomorrow). We're sitting in our seats.
Dad: I'm nervous.
Me (somberly): About the storm?
Dad: No. Tonight's game. I hope both teams do well.
(Don't worry. He knows preseason doesn't mean anything.)
THE DAILY TOP LIST
Speaking of the Dolphins, here are my five favorite Miami Dolphins of all-time.
5) Ricky Williams.
Weed aside, his monster 2002 season can't be ignored. 1,853 yards and 16 touchdowns. I am glad I didn't buy his orange jersey, though.
4) Zach Thomas. Linebacker.
The most determined player I've ever watched.
3) Jason Taylor. Defensive end.
I call him JT for short. I wrote an entry on him after he was traded to Washington.
2) Sam Madison. Cornerback.
My favorite secondary player of all-time. Had 20 interceptions in a three-year span. His anticipation was something to behold.
1) Dan Marino. Quarterback.
Duh. Amazingly, my jersey I got in the seventh grade still fits. No jokes, Marcus.
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