Here’s Johnny

My dad, John Picetti (far right), pictured adrift somewhere in the 70s.

You may know him from the posts of this blog as the Italian-American Man-Servant. Or perhaps you know him by the names UJP, Uncle Grump, or even Little Johnny. Emma calls him Papa. I call him Dad. And now everyone in the blogosphere will recognize him as the special guest contributor of this entry.

Ladies and gentlemen, give it up for John Picetti.

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Sex, Drugs, Rock & Roll, Cars and Soccer Moms

Wow, this sounds pretty interesting, sex, drugs, rock & roll and that other stuff, but this is just a cheap attempt to lure you into the article about an epiphany that has just happened to me. It’s funny how you can go your whole life being something, and then in the honk of a horn, your life has spun 179°.

As far back as I can recall I have always considered my self a cool guy. There was never a need to try to be cool because I just was. I’ll admit that I wasn’t the smartest, the most handsome, the most athletic, the (oh how I hate this one) tallest, BUT I always was the coolest. Later in life this coolness factor manifested itself in my choice of motor vehicles. I won’t bore you with a litany of all the cars I have owned, but there have been a few great (again cool) examples of the automobiles industries finest. My very first car was a 1960 Falcon station wagon, ok, not cool to the average eye, but it did haul my drums, and for dates, because of the seats folding down… enough said. A few years later I owned a baby blue 1962 Chevy Impala. The word COOL does not really do this beauty justice. The first new car we owned (I’m married now) was a 1968 Ford Mustang. It felt like we were driving around on wet streets in a new car commercial. Black exterior, black interior, long, and shining, the 2005 Buick is the type of car Frank Costello would be seen riding around in if he were alive today, that’s how cool our current car is.

Now, lets get to heart of the matter. No, I don’t officially own this mode of transportation, but I do drive it an awful lot. An awful lot. Do you have your seat belts on, because we are now tooling around the greater bay area in a 2007 Dodge van. That’s right fun seekers, a van, and it’s red too. The reason for this updated Wally wagon is to transport the two most precious pieces of cargo that I could possible have, my son and his daughter. The time Jason and I spend in the Dodge is very special to me, it’s our alone time, the time we can laugh and cry and share minutes together in our own private world. This is a world only a father and son could share, be it a ice cream cone after a little league baseball game,  here put this money in your pocket and don’t tell your mother, and I am so, so very sorry this has happened to you.

So now due to the car I drive, I have become a soccer mom, and I wouldn’t change it for a second. At least I’m a cool soccer mom.

Following in My Footsteps

Twenty-three years ago during the summer after my junior year, I was invited to represent my beloved Capuchino High School at the annual Boys State conference in Sacramento. Attended by a pair of male delegates from every high school in California, we descended upon the Sac State campus with the express purpose of immersing ourselves head-first into an investigation and exploration of government at the state level for five glorious days.

Unfortunately for the powers-that-were who thought that sending me was a good idea, I am sorry to inform you that this delegate from sunny San Bruno has absolutely no recollection of participating in anything government related at all. I do, however, remember these things:

1. My first taste of freedom away from the parental units. College couldn’t get here fast enough for me.
2. They have a Burger King on campus, OMG.
3. They have college women on campus, too. OMG, OMG, OMG.
4. Which group of friends could I talk in to going back up to Sac State the next week for Girls State. (We, being Tim, Dan, Mick, and me, were on our way until Mick’s car broke down in Pinole).

The one thing I remember most about that week was a book I was reading. It was a collection of comic strips by future Simpsons creator Matt Groening called Life is Hell. I enjoyed it so much that I went out and scored his other two books Love is Hell and Work is Hell.

Apparently now, Emma has discovered them, too.

Double You Tea Eff: The Contest

Directions: You will be asked to examine a series of photographs. It is your happy task to determine exactly what (tf) is going on in those pictures. The first correct entry in the comments section below will earn a redeemable prize. Special consideration will be given in the form of an equally redeemable prize for the most original, creative, and out-of-the-box entry as well. Sorry Emma, but members of my immediate family and employees of ALS Boy, Inc are ineligible to participate.

Good luck.

Rules of the Road, N/A

Driving home from the East Bay this past Saturday night, we rolled up to the scene of an accident on Industrial Blvd. in Hayward near the on-ramp to Highway 92. In addition to the crumpled-up car on the side of the road, there were at least two police cruisers blocking the street, lots of flares burning red, and a man in a crane repairing a street lamp that was damaged in the accident. Except for the elevated worker in the basket, the crash site was devoid of any significant activity at the time I responded to Fehmeen’s question about what she should do with a nod of my head that said drive forward. We were immediately approached by a uniformed officer who asked us what we thought we were doing. As Fehmeen explained to him that it was all my idea, I vaguely recall Emma saying ‘hi’ three times from her seat in the middle of our van. The policeman then noticed me seat-belted to my wheelchair in the front and said, “Since you’ve got an injured man in there, I’m going to let you go through.” It wasn’t until we were on the incline portion of the San Mateo Bridge did my shit-eating grin subside. Big or small, I love getting away with something.

Get ‘Em While They’re Hot

But then again, judging by the photos I’ve seen, they don’t come any other way.

The Always Looking Sexy 2010 Calendars are available now.

Click here to purchase copies for you and yours.

A Weighty Matter

One of the first things they tell you (over and over again) when you catch ALS is not to lose any weight. They want you to maintain as much of your poundage as possible because once it’s gone, it’s hard to get back. I must have royally pissed them off when I dropped a quick fifteen right out of the gate in the three months between my first and second clinic visits thanks to a no dairy, no wheat, no fruit, no sugar, no carbs, organic meat and vegetable only diet that I was on at the time. Truth be told, I was tippin’ the toledos at about a buck-ninety in those days so the el bees that were lost as a result of spending so much time and money shopping at Whole Paycheck were worth every dire warning and stern reprimand I received.

Once I came to my senses and began eating food for the taste again, my weight plateaued at one seventy-five for the next six month interval. While that was good news in and of itself, it was becoming readily apparent to those around me that I was struggling mightily with feeding myself. Despite my family’s valiant effort to stuff my pie-hole with yummy and carby foodstuffs, I still managed to lose ten pounds by my next clinic visit. This time, in addition to the usual choral arrangement of “Don’t Lose Weight” (sung to the tune of “Three Blind Mice”), they added an extra verse of “Feed Ing Tube” to the already catchy song. We vowed to redouble our efforts at feeding my face and we got the hell outta Dodge for the next four and a half months.

By my next appointment, we at Team ALS Boy felt quite confident that I had not only maintained but actually gained weight. Our optimism eroded the instant we saw the readout on the scale: 152.3. I was down another ten pounds. Despite my protests, there was no recount, no reweigh. I made my concession speech and agreed to get a feeding tube installed at my earliest convenience. They were happy with my decision to go through with the procedure, of course, but I knew in my rather protruding gut that theirs was an ill-gotten victory.

Fast forward five days later to my thrice yearly breathing test at Kaiser. As per usual, protocol dictated a trip to the scale prior to the scheduled examination. Because I was having an impossible time climbing up on the scale under my own power, an alternative method of weight measurement was decided upon. Here are the results:

ALS Boy + power chair ………. 535 lbs

—— MINUS ——

power chair by itself ………….. 372 lbs

—— EQUALS ——

ALS Boy & gut by themselves .. 163 lbs

Either I gained ten pounds in 120 hours or I should have pushed harder for a recount in the clinic that day. Now that I have a modicum of vindication weight-wise, I still want to get the feeding tube. I have big plans for that thing; just don’t tell Fehmeen.

Baby Elephant Walk

Emma @ 19 months, Halloween 2009

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In Words:

Transcript of an actual conversation between mother and daughter.

Fehmeen: What do we say when we go up to someone’s door on Halloween?

Emma: Knock, knock.

Fehmeen: That’s right, but what do we say when they answer the door?

Emma: Hi!

Fehmeen: Ha, ha, good. What do you say after that?

Emma: Trick or treat!

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In Pictures:

Living at the Movies Volume 2 Issue 3

Before I dive in to my latest batch of movie reviews, I would like to ask for some help from you, my esteemed readership. With the sudden closure of our local video library, I am planning to reactivate my old Netflix account. I want your help in setting up my queue. Recommend movies that are:

• your current favorites
• your all-time favorites
• your least favorite
• truly awful
• completely out of left field (in a good way)

Please don’t feel obligated to complete the entire bulleted list. Just give me whatever comes to mind. I thank you in advance for your thoughtful selections. Now, on to the reviews.

Zombieland - What do you get when you combine a pitch-perfect cast with a visually stunning opening credits sequence with an unexpected cameo by actor B.M. and more creative zombie kills than should be legal?  You get the feel-good film of the Fall movie season. Grade: A-

My Life in Ruins – Since Fehmeen wears the remote in our family (and subsequently chose this movie for us to watch), maybe she could review it and grade it in the comments section. Thanks, Babe.

The Jerk – Do yourself a favor and watch this movie again for the first time. It’s worth it for the phone book scene alone. Grade: B+

Educating Emma

Early on during dinner at the Cantina restaurant last night, I asked Fehmeen to teach Emma how to say “trick or treat” in preparation for Halloween this coming Saturday. Last year, due to both her age (7 months) and her lack of walking skills (again, 7 months), Emma was relegated to the role of Halloween spectator. But this year, we have BIG plans to roam around the neighborhood begging for candy from strangers.

Now, the Bug is an extremely quick study. When she wants to, she can repeat almost any word or short phrase she hears. However, last night the little Miss had a major distraction in the form of an overflowing bowl of tortilla chips in front of her face. Boong-yah, anyone?

In order to get Emma to say the phrase that pays, Fehmeen had to bribe her with chips. Once she had a fistful of chips, the trick or treats flowed like candy corn flavored wine. Until the ride home when Fehmeen asked her to say to trick or treat again.

Emma’s one word response: “Chips.”

A Pea-in-a-Pod, Halloween 08

What will she be this year?

B.Y.O.D.C.

I recently paid a visit to Ross O, my dentist, for my quarterly teeth cleaning and gum bleeding. As I maneuvered my new powerchair down the office hallway, Martha, the hygienist, suggested that rather than struggle with a transfer into the dentist’s chair, I could simply back my chair into her room and press the recline button so she could get to work on reinvigorating my million dollar smile.

Once the appointment was done, it was a breeze rolling out of there (no need to reverse). Unfortunately for his next patient, Ross O joined us outside to watch me drop the hammer in my chair on the open road and to behold the spectacle of the Big Red Van.