Whether you’re a soldier in Iraq, a resident of New Orleans or a driver passing over our decaying bridges, you are expendable. The loss of your life and the lives of may others are acceptable if it protects someone’s profits. Yesterday President Bush rejected calls for raising the gasoline tax to pay for infrastructure repair. Yeah, why use money we pay for petrol on repairing bridges when Exxon-Mobil needs it to further enrich Dubya’s oil buddies? During the same press conference, the clown from Crawford called Iran, “a destabilizing influence in the Middle East.” I see. And what the fuck are we? Iran is actually part of the Middle East community, whereas we have “interests.”

Man, I need a vacation and I’m starting one um, now. I plan to start by doing this tomorrow morning in the checkout line wherever I buy my new grass trimmer.

Ted Williams claimed that hitting a baseball is the hardest thing you can do in sports. It is against that backstop that I respect Barry Bonds’ 756th home run. Strength is just one part of the multidimensional puzzle of hitting a baseball. Teddy Ballgame also said, “Hitting is fifty percent above the shoulders.” Mr. Bonds intelligence as a hitter is the primary factor in how he’s achieved greatness. To hit a 90 mph fastball, you have around 2/10 of a second to decide to pull the trigger. Most humans simply cannot do that. Add in the “movement” of a fastball, change-up, curveball or splitter, and the competent are reduced to a sliver of the population.

Mr. Bonds is taking the heat for many “cheaters” in baseball because most baseball writers think he’s a jerk. There may also be a bit of jealously in there. After all, would they be baseball writers if they didn’t have a lifelong wish to be able to crush a baseball the way Barry Bonds can? Oh, and there’s also the courage to stand in the batters box while a pitcher fires the ball at you from sixty feet six inches, possibly whistling its furious music past your chin. Most of the writers who disparage Bonds feat probably don’t have the stomach for that.

The “evidence” seems to suggest Barry Bonds cheated by building strength using steroids or HGH or beef jerky. If true, there’s no telling how many of his shots (no pun intended) would have been corralled at the warning track. There’s also no way of telling how many pitchers he faced blew third strikes past him while juiced themselves on ‘roids or the also banned amphetamines. Maybe that’s what the oh-so less than contrite Barry Bonds meant when he said coldly, “This record is not tainted at all. At all. Period.”

A smooth long swath was followed by subtle dabs. Not drips of the Pollock technique; the media wasn’t of a drip consistency. The creation of art involves many decisions. What choice of canvas? Theme? Subject? Format? Size? Colors? Creation has to flow. Overthinking can destroy the emotion of the moment. There were more and furious strokes. It was coming together. Slashing. More dabs. Smears. This was inspiration! Yes, it was dark, but some of the world’s great art was born of inky darkness. Finally, it was complete. There was not a detail to be changed. It captured the moment perfectly. It was ready. Ready for the world to see. At the time, “the world” consisted of my 19 year old mother and 25 year old dad. Mom heard my voice, and the excitement in it. As she entered I could tell by the look on her young face that she was completely blown away. Young Mary Carol was awestruck. It was a moment I’ll never forget and nor will she. She called to my father; not unlike a cry from one lover to another when finally seeing the “Mona Lisa” at the Louvre. My father’s face contorted. The complexity of the work may have overwhelmed him at first. My mom leaned in toward me laughing and crying. It was an emotional moment of unusual power. She gently picked me up. My dad retrieved my first palette; a now empty cotton diaper.

The Drive-In is usually great fun regardless of the image quality projected through the night air. Last night was no exception. My brother Corey joined Mr. Kyle Daley and his dad for a twin-bill featuring “The Simpsons Movie” and the film titled above. Now I wasn’t expecting the magic of the “Ratatouille” / “Harry Potter” twin killing of two weeks prior, but man… The new Adam Sandler / Kevin James non-funny joke of a movie was so bad we split before Jessica Biel got semi-naked, and we knew she was going to!

The “Simpsons” flick was funny like a 90 minute Simpsons episode including a hilarious “Austin Powers” takeoff of Bart skateboarding in the buff. It just wasn’t nearly as good as “Upchuck” was baaaaad.

I think Kyle Smith of the New York Post nailed it: “The movie isn’t insulting to homosexuals but to comedy.”

It was sometime in 1982 that we went to see “The Wall.” Enhanced perception brought the film to life. Without getting into too many details, one of the people I attended with became the protagonist that day and has remained trapped; scared and cringing in a dark corner, shadowed by the wall. While my night ended having a couple beers with friends, his concluded atop a table in a police station, raging like the Bob Geldof character destroying a hotel room, as four of a kind armed public servants struggled to quell the madness. It ended with a stage dive attempt at the difficult 3-6-7-10 spare combination.

At the time I didn’t see the strong relation between the human and the fiction, but I do now. [He just called at 6:30AM and out of nowhere mentioned “The Wall” he brought up in “group” last night and the feeling of being cradled by it all these years…] If only the violent swings of up and down had been examined then… 25 years of pain, darkness and destruction might have been avoided, or at least lessened. Now there’s finally acknowledgment and acceptance. Add words and modern chemistry to that and we have hope.

A research study conducted in 2000 by several British media organizations including the British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC) examined the use of swear words. It included, in order of severity, the top offenders. There’s a shit-load (“shit” ranked a mild #17) of information on swearing on the web. As a public service, I’ll list a few research sites and then review the top 10 and let you know whether the bastards will be banned from fifteenkey. You can just relax, sit back, and have a cupcake.

Online magazine Slate has a brief article on how a dirty word gets um, dirty. The British are way ahead of us wankers in the States. They have schools that allow swearwords, but within strict limits. Oh yeah, the use of the f-word (or derivatives like “fucker”) five times. “Over this number the class will be spoken to by the teacher at the end of the lesson.” I wonder how that’s working out. If you’re already out of school, or not, but believe you have a problem, you probably fucking do, arsehole! (#9) If so, you can learn how to stop swearing, but you must start by “Recognizing that you have a problem.”

On Bravo’s “Inside the Actors Studio,” host James Lipton asks every guest, “What’s your favorite curse word?” Here’s a funny (if you like swears) video of some folks blurting out their favorites. The prevailing response to Mr. Lipton is “fuck,” bleeped out, but always lip-readable and said with a smirk or twinkle…

Alas, “fuck” could only manage a third place show on the BBC list. Without further ado, here’s the top ten:

10. Paki – Huh? Since when is a place you can buy beers a bad thing?
9. Arsehole – Now we’re talking. Just don’t be one.
8. Bollocks – Balls. Pills. Whatever. Plus, it’s in the title of a five star record!
7. Prick – Wow. There’s such nuance to some of these. A prick is not just a penis, but an unpleasant and rude one. Then there’s the whiney prick…
6. Bastard – Illegitimate child. Hence, the typical usage, “little bastard.” Although, an overly large man can be described, not negatively as, “a big bastard.”
5. Nigger – Even the attempted rehabilitation as “Nigga” in the hip-hop community won’t fly here.
4. Wanker – Um, I never really knew this one, but an Australian woman I work with uses this one a lot. Sheeeeeee’s baaaaaaad.
3. Fuck – Short, but not too sweet. The one syllable wonder.
2. Motherfucker – Nasty, but it flowed like Van Gogh’s paint from the mouth of the late, great Richard Pryor.
1. Cunt – I’m not familiar with this one. It must be new.

In summary, 5 is out, and 1 is questionable until I get more data…

Finally, “God” made the list. Given the number of innocent people throughout history who have lost their lives or been discriminated against in the name of “God,” I can understand how it did.

The saying, “Time flies when you’re having fun” may explain a common male malady, but time zips along quite well when you’re not having fun too. It’s hilarious that a visit to the link above includes the disclaimer, “This article or section is in need of attention from an expert on the subject.” I guess nobody’s quick to step up as an “expert” in this particular arena.

Wikipedia’s passage isn’t short, and includes an incredibly tough grading curve by Masters and Johnson, who declared we’re early earth shakers if we make the “Oh! Oh!” face before our partner more than fifty percent of the time. Um, what if that little achievement takes an hour, or two, or more? We’re still fast-lane losers? I think the more reasonable definition is the two minutes that other sex researchers have used as a yardstick. Sadly, a brief survey by Kinsey in the 1950s swiftly showed that 75% of men could not execute the two minute, um, drill, half the time they had the opportunity.

Suddenly the post ended, and she wondered why it couldn’t have lasted just a little bit longer…

A web search indicates unknown origin of the term, and there used to be this hot sauce, but “Sorry, this product is not currently available.” Now I don’t believe in Hell, or its mirror opposite “up there,” but what the hell is going on in the world?

• US astronauts, once one of the shining examples of American achievement and courage, are flying into space drunk. I guess they’re not so um, dependable, after all.

• Another place not to look for American heroes is in the professional sports world. Juicer Barry Bonds is one home run away from tying Hank Aaron’s career mark of 755. Now Mr. Aaron’s head is the same size as it was in 1957. Why isn’t Barry’s?

• The NBA has discovered one of its referees has been fixing games.

• Michael “Ookie” Vick allegedly ran a dog-fighting operation out of a home he owns. In addition to the viciousness of the fighting itself, losers were sometimes killed by “hanging, drowning, and slamming at least one dog’s body to the ground.” Oh, and apparently Ookie consulted on the electrocution of another canine who “underperformed.”

• I’d throw the stock market slide into this mix, but after climbing 25% in 2007, I don’t think a correction is anything to panic about. I took the opportunity to take some profits and move money elsewhere. Riverbed wasn’t going up forever.

• A cat is predicting deaths in Providence, RI.

• Pepsi is going to hire Charlton Heston for a new “Aquafina” campaign. Yeah, Chuck will put down his NRA sanctioned automatic weapon and scream into the camera, “AQUAFINA IS… TAP WATER!!!” Speaking of tap, I recently picked up a PUR 2-Stage Dispenser. I just couldn’t keep buying water in plastic containers.

• Attorney General Alberto Gonzales is the latest Bush Administration official involved in a scandal. It seems Mr. Gonzales is lying to the Senate about a hospital bedside visit to former AG John Ashcroft, where Mr. Gonzales allegedly pried him to overrule a deputy and reauthorize Dubya’s secret program of warrantless electronic eavesdropping. I don’t know if he brought flowers.

• In other Bush legacy news, it now appears former NFL player and Army Ranger Pat Tillman was killed from less than 10 yards away, very likely by US troops. Of course the White House is doing everything it can to support our troops and in this case, they’re supporting the late Pat Tillman by claiming executive privilege and withholding documents from congressional investigators.

• The news isn’t all bad. Our esteemed Vice President Dick Cheney will undergo surgery today to replace a battery in his cardioverter-defibrillator. Medical technology is amazing. Imagine… they can implant a cardiac device and keep the Dark Lord alive even without a heart!

Maybe it’s not so bad and we’re not going all the way to hell; just to the Purgatory of a totalitarian state.

Traversing the streets of my hometown of Wakefield, MA, I was waiting for some warm, nostalgic feeling to lift my spirits from a downer of a week. It didn’t come. In spite of the familiar Lake Quanapowitt and the etched memory of streets leading to the house I grew up in, the context of it all is foreign because I’ve changed. The alienation I felt conjured up the cliché of Tom Wolfe’s, “You Can’t Go Home Again” later in the evening when my brother Kevin and I stopped into a past local haunt for a drink. His old pal Carl suggested we’d likely meet up with ghosts from our nights in zip code 01880. Granted, the place was packed; an unfortunate situation because the walls were adorned with Wakefield sports pictures from over the years I would have liked to have seen. One beer later, and after not seeing anyone we vaguely recognized, I said to Kevin, “it’s full of townies from the past twenty years; not thirty.”

I had printed directions to the Melrose Elks club and was executing them flawlessly (um, take a right, then another…) when I saw my uncle “Mucca” (Donald) and Aunt Irene entering the Knights of Columbus hall for his 70th birthday bash. I see. (Note to self: read an invitation prior to the whole Google map thing…) The first familiar face I saw was that of my cousin Denise. She’s a beautiful woman just like her mother, but her bright face leaves no doubt she’s a Daley. Denise has two “K” named daughters, who I remember, probably incorrectly as Katy and Kaylee. Cousin Donnie couldn’t make the party, but it’s probably just as well. The thought of Kevin chasing Donnie around the party with Donnie screaming for his life is a 40 year old memory from 743 Saratoga Street that nobody would want repeated. Not at Muccapalooza.

Jimmy and his wife Nanette were there. Jim sang some Sinatra and pulled it off like a decent Vegas impersonator. Nanette spent most of the night cradling and dancing with her young nephew while her sister served a very cool cake of her own creation. From my seat in the bleachers, Cousin Jimmy is a very kind and caring guy. He organized and hosted the party, and saw to it that every attendee enjoyed it. Oh, and the food was catered by Spinelli’s in Eastie and included Piantedosi rolls… a nice touch. It’s not the first time I’ve seen Jimmy in action looking after others. Some fifteen years ago during a visit to Mucca and Irene’s, Jimmy absolutely doted on my little Megan. Jim and I made plans to catch a Sox game with the old boys while my dad is up from Florida in the next few weeks…

The scene that took place as I parked my car in a tardy haste was touching, or so I heard. Mucca dampened (his eyes, not his pants) at the sight of family and friends. I wonder what went through his mind in those moments, for the ranks have thinned considerably in the past decade. “Spooky,” “Trav” and my Uncle Mitchell are all gone. “Red” couldn’t make it. His Adeline doesn’t get out much anymore. Carol Dumont and Pauline said hi and asked how my Mom was. Not quite as good as them I thought as I watched them tear up the dance floor… I’m sure my Dad wanted to be there, but he’s still tying up some loose ends in Florida after losing his “Peg.”

I also wonder what the hell Mucca was thinking when he let the DJ dress him up like the “Village People” cop for an all-guy dance disaster to “YMCA.” I know Mucca liked and respected the DJ. Earlier he told me, “He’s from Eastie. His father was a fighter.” Still, I though it was unusual (and hilarious) cruelty inflicted on the birthday boy and a staid member of the senior set…

There were some classic stills, many in the Polaroid monochrome of prior generations. Young Mucca, his wedding day with Irene, his father Mike, and of course, Lil the Thrill… The matriarch. Of our grandmother, Jim said, “She’s the reason we’re all the way we are.”

Any frequenter of this digital destination knows I over think things now and then. In this case, I thought about how the kids of my generation in this Daley family who were raised by parents who stayed together are now themselves still together with their spouses in long-term first marriages. Those of us who grew up with divorce, um, aren’t. I’m not sure there’s a correlation and I’m certainly not blaming anyone for my own life’s choices, but it is an interesting detail. Also given thought is my own lack of involvement with my Dad’s side of the family. That’s going to change. Maybe I can’t go home, but I can enjoy more time with my family.

Those were the words of Father Mark that stuck with me as he spoke from the heart about Caroline Elizabeth (Dushinski) Daley. My Dad’s partner of 32 years and wife of 24 passed away in the early morning hours July 16th. She died of complications stemming from a back injury suffered more than fifty years ago. The last time I saw her in October, she was hunched over to the point that her back was literally parallel to the ground. As we’d walk around “The Villages,” people would stare. That would really upset my father, but not her. Caroline was good. That’s it. Just good. To the day she has hospitalized, and in spite of constant pain, she led a very active life including bingo, sunbathing and cards with the girls, volunteering at church and taking care of Dad. In the house this week, there was a sad void without her buzzing around the kitchen cooking or asking if any clothes needing laundering. She was a little dynamo. Her affliction didn’t stop her from living.

The Villages is full of people older than my Dad and far worse off physically. Just last evening before a huge thunderbolt sent us scurrying for the local karaoke joint, my brother Corey and I watched an old woman shuffle slowly to a seat in the town square where there’s music and 2 for 1 “happy hour” drinks daily. The frail and gray woman was carrying an oxygen unit and had a clear tube running from it into the point in her body where a tracheotomy had occurred. She sat with her daughter and proceeded to rock out… head bobbing and feet tapping to the music. Of course there are seniors in great shape too. One woman of my Dad’s 70+ vintage danced the whole time we were there. I mean an aerobic dance, not some slow shoe shuffling some of the guys try to pass off as dancing.

Speaking of seniors in shape, we met three of them that were 10 – 15 years older than we guessed. We met and chatted briefly with them Wednesday night at the karaoke place. The next morning Corey and I assessed their ages to be “early 50’s, 45 and 45 respectively for Joan, Susan and Ginette, a French-Canadian woman who shares the name of my lovely ex-wife. Dad disagreed and pegged Joan and the tall blond Susan to be “at least 60.” The brothers protested strongly, but figured we’d never really know. Well, Thursday night we bumped into the trio again and discovered they were looking at property. Coyly, or pathetically patronizing, I said, “aren’t you a little young for the Villages?” “I’m 66 years old,” shot back Joan without hesitancy. For the record, Susan was 60 and Ginette 55. We hung out with them until about 11 when they had to depart due to an 8:10 tee time. Living.

Corey and Dad will begin driving up to New England in the next few days. I’m on a plane home. I think the best thing for Dad is to get out of Dodge for awhile and he agrees. I’ll drive back down with him whenever he’s ready and will likely take Kyle. A tres generation road-trip with be good for all of us… It’s going to be hard for Dad in that house. Today he gave me some of Caroline’s jewelry for Megan. I also saw him walking with that cane. I bet he’ll be glad to get rid of that. One question he kept asking through tears was “What am I going to do without her?” Share life, Dad. Share life.