Chilling Out ...

Yesterday I watched a beautiful, mature woman walk down the aisle and marry her high school sweatheart. She is no longer Carla Caramia - the girl who grew up with me, babysat me, went to school with me and has been a good friend/sister to me.

She is now Carla Ogonowski, but I am glad to see we can still chill out together in a bucket of cold water ... likes the kids we used to be. We are all grown up.

(From Left: Dr. Chris Caramia, Carla, Krissa, Joyce, Me & Sarah)

Three's a Crowd

Over the past few days I have been trying to wrap my brain around one thing: why the fuck would you cheat on Christie Brinkley?!

Seriously, just ask yourself that question, and it is not rhetorical.

Peter Cook has been married to Brinkley since 1996 and turned to pornography and an 18-year-old wanna be for sexual gratification. You're married to Christie Brinkley asshole! Well atleast you were.

So Brinkley may have so called "anger" issues, but just look at her. I think I could live with that. And who cares that is on her 4th marriage.

She is a beautiful model, classy, successful, and the list goes on and on ...

Hey Christie, give me a call!

Watermelon & Worries: The essentials for any "alleged" home break-in?

It was around 6:30 this evening that I decided to jump in the shower and relax. I spent several hours at the hospital this morning, where my grandfather was getting triple bypass surgery, and after all went well I needed to unwind. Keep in mind, I was home alone.

So I'm in the shower, where one obviously goes when they want to cleanse themselves, and I heard my dog barking. I figured someone was home and then heard someone walking up the back staircase in the house; it is my brother, I thought. I was wrong!

So I get out of the shower and nobody is in the house so I figured it must have been the wind or one of those things you fucking use as an excuse, which is rediculous in its own right, but I carry on. So about 30 minutes goes by and I get a call from my dear and near friend, Mare. We are chatting about my grandfather's surgery, how much we hate our lives, people who give stingy gifts, relationships, suicide; you know the usual every day things you would talk about, and I look over into our kitchen and see the glass sliding door, which leads out to the deck, fucking wide open!! Wide open like a hooker's legs! Wide open like the fucking vault at a bank after its been robbed. Wide open like the mother fucking Saranghetti in Africa ... and I freeze like a fucking ice cube.

I wanted to yell "help!", call 911, send up a Goddamn smoke signal and all I could do is stand in place. I inform Mare of the situation and she, like any good friend, gets nervous for me. No, I am not going to get nervous over this. There is a perfectly good explination. I am going to be a man, stay in the house, check out the scene and give any mother fucking I see that don't belong a beat down. Then, my dog looks towards the back of the house and begins barking; I ran out of the house like a little screaming bitch and never looked back!!

I am outside talking to Mare, making phone calls, pleading and imploring someone for help. I call my mother and father who are still at the hoispital. They tell me to call my neighbor ... and to make a long story short my neighbor's boyfriend comes to the house ... packing heat.

Cocked and ready to go, this mother fucker ain't foolin' around, he has a pistol in his hand. All I wanted to do was have a fucking relaxing night and eat the watermelon that was in the fridge and now I was creeping behind my neighbor as he look in every closet, kitchen cabinet, under beds, in showers, etc.

In the end, there was nobody in the house, but that is not to say someone wasn't prancing around while I was so innocently going about my business upstairs.

I could have been the victim tonight -- but then again, aren't I always?

I may never know why that slider was open and unlocked ... but thanks to Mare's persistence in having me get help, I can sleep in my bed tonight instead of a body bag ... A DI DI!!!

Tasting on 'Live" TV

We've all been sitting at home, watching television when we see food being prepared on a live program or talk show. Per the usual, this food makes us hungry and we want to dig right in. We then see the hosts or guests on the talk show try the food and they pick up their fork and taste the most minuscule piece of food that leaves you wanting to yell, "just shove a whole shit load of that dessert in your face already!"

I have felt like this plenty of times over the years, but two days ago I experienced first hand why you shouldn't shovel food into that mouth of yours while the cameras are rolling. I was working at Channel 3 News the other day and our reporter, Susan Raff, was doing a special cooking segment on our political show, "Face the State." She informed me and my fellow producer, Teisha, that she needed two judges to taste food. Two state lawmakers were going head to head -- battling it out to see who could come up with the best Fourth of July meal.

Teisha and I were summoned into the studio to make our "grand" entrance as the taste testers and I was excited because I was starving. Then, as soon as I walked on the set I lost all desire to eat because I thought, "shit, I don't want to look like an ass shoving food down my throat on television for thousands of people to see." So I, just like all the TV hosts and guests that have come before, simply put a minuscule amount of food on my plate -- trying to be discrete in front of the viewers. I would have been so embarassed if Susan Raff turned to me to ask how the food was and I couldn't respond because I had a shit load of potato salad in my throat.

Once the floor manager yelled "clear," and I knew we were off the air I started eating like I had been stuck on a fucking island for weeks.

So folks, the moral of my story; next time you watch TV and get annoyed by the almost non-exsistent amount of food a TV personality puts in their mouth -- cut them some slack.

Been there -- done that!