La Mela - The Big Ragu

If you had not read the ramp up to this - the last scene behold the following button http://hughsmuse.blogspot.com/2011/01/la-mela.html (cut and paste).

...The boys were in big trouble. Only a few bucks left between them, after spending it on travelin' beers and road smokes, the boys feared that between them they didn't have enough to buy a single meatball, let alone the five course "last supper" before the long walk into the Hudson.
"We... um."
"White or red?"
"Red!"
"White!"
Two bottles of fine table dego red and white wines were fisted onto the table with the smashing grace of a punch by the Rocky Marciano. The two, dumbfounded just looked at each other with panic driven sweat, moving southbound upon their worried brows. The old one, revered by the others as "nonno", stood barrel chested next to their table. His hairy arms were folded like broken pythons. A single pinky finger was encrusted with gold and a single solitary diamond.
"Um... we... were just ahem..."
"Here you go! Buon Mangiare! Idiotas!"
"Um. Gracias!"
"Che di spagnolo, lei al!"
The big Ragu lumbered away from the table his eyes never leaving the boys. A maniacal smile on his lips baring a single gold tooth - a tad gaudy, but this was lil' Italy.
Mouths oozed with delight as the appetizer appeared.
"Some kind of salted meat, which is like really awesome and ridiculo 'r spinach... I don't know what this is, dude but it ain't spaghetti! And I'm cool with 'at."
The wines were poured. The table once more was cleared and replaced with who knows what. And our two intrepid rennaisance men feasted with chomping and tearing, and hardly paying any attention to the falderall that was happening on the opposite side of the room.
The table was cleared. And once more replaced with more food, quicker than either of them could say "Un momento".
Four beautiful women in the corner, one unfortunately at a loss for cash. No card.
I have travelers checks.
"We no take a the traveler check. How you gonna pay?"
Half a fork full of pasta stringing from his mouth the older of the two brothers cautiously whimpered to his brother, "We're gonna die."
He continued to slirp the remains into his mouth. And they listened, while cautiously twirling another fork-full.
"What can you do?" Nonno Asked. "He licked his lips and twisted his mustache."
"I can sing."
Oh really.
Yeah. Classical.
"Sing for us. You pay us like that. Sing."
Suddenly, the music that was softly - almost serenely playing in the background as a sublime dream steeped in garlic and blood red wine stopped playing. In hushed anticipation, the restaurant became the setting for a glorious opera. Those dining had become choir-extras as the victory unwound itself.
Mimi begins a capella. Her voice was young and rich, though the creature herself appeared pale in her fear. She rose.
Nonno closed his eyes. His arms unwound like two enormous pythons - one with a gold and solitary diamond eye at its sharpest tooth.
She closed her eyes as though accepting an invitation to perhaps fall in love with whomever might be willing to share the light with her.
The boys glistened now with sweat. The garlic and heavy olive oil churned the bellies.
The big Ragu stood in the corner eyeing any dissenters to her shedding payment.
Mimi finished.
There was a slight pause. The air in the restaurant was thick and still.
Shallow whispers.
He's gonna kill that woman.
"Sciocchezze!"
"Bravo! "
La Mela exploded. Nonno and Ragu and the other jumped up and down shouting and screaming at the top of their lungs. Ragu came to the table, and with his enormous mits grabbed our wine bottle and pummeled them without mercy or fear of them breaking into a thousand shards of glass. Cheering and ranting.
Nonno grabbed the dangling string of the enormous electric phallus. Flicking what appeared to be equivalent of a large pubic hair, so that the light would not only turn on and off, but throb,
The boys looked at one another. Terror.
The noise died down allowing the Ragu to return to their table. Coming off of his high, he smiled allowing that opulent piece of dental work to shine through his crooked lips.
"Coffee? Cappucino?"
"Cappucino."
"No! Haha."
"You?"
He knew he was dead anyways.
"Just a coffee, thanks."

Bucket - The Dog (You really need to read the first episode)

Shortly, after removing our daughter from the offense on the carpet to clean her, the dog in her natural curiousity approached the room. Before I could "shush" the dog away, she had already devoured the more chunky bits of regurgitant.
There is something in the Bible about this, I am fairly certain.
The next day, while my beloved was infirmed with forementioned illness, I felt compelled to come home for a brief moment to tend to our recovering daughter. As I was preparing her for the day at grandma's house, my wife yelled from the bed, "Hugh, the dog's throwing up!"

Bucket

The intestinal virus that hit the area, hit our daughter first. We thought that she would be immune to it. Alas, she was not.
After bringing her home from grandma’s, we had the opportunity to color, a favorite activities. She immediately was overcome with a need to remove her blue jeans. I did not think very much of it at the time, realizing that she is growing and they were tight. We continued to color her Elmo potty training book. Suddenly, she walked away from it, which again did not alarm me, because like the growth of a two year-old, she also has attention span of one. But the writhing in pain on the ground alarmed me, and I needed to get -
Blah!
Too late. "Little Girl", threw up on the carpet. I tried to grab her and run, but -
Blah!
"Are you okay?"
Yeah.
She is resilient. I went about cleaning up the goo that committed itself to the red carpet, and she went bounding about the house as she often does.
My beloved wife arrived home to find me cleaning the mess.
She was alarmed by this and the fact that it happened two more times before the night was over. I talked to a pediatrician who recommended Gatorade, and that is indeed what she got.
The next day, I went in to work, while my beloved stayed at home to tend to our clingy child. Of course she rebounded with some minor displays of her temporary affliction.
I cooked dinner that evening, and shortly following our dinner, my wife, exposed to our daughter's illness, became quite ill.
Bring on the commode, bring on the bucket.
The house, by this time did not smell very good.
"I will be very surprised if you don't get this."
I am immune.
Insert foot in mouth. Exhale. Repeat.
While at the controls of our business, my eyes became squirrelly and my attitude apathetic, I realized that I may not be staying for any length of time.
I slurred my speech like a drunkard while talking on the phone in the office. I fearfully explained the predicament to my wife that I had to drive home in this condition. I hung up, removed the garbage bag from the bucket and hung my head on the desk over the bucket and -
Blah!
Blah!
Out for a day and half. Sick.

La Mela

He had only been in New York for a few days. Cocky and arrogant. Fortunately, his brother, an artist struggling to pay for beer and cigarettes was familiar with the ins and outs of the Big Apple.
"Chinese?"
Yeah.
It had not taken entirely too long to hop the L from Brooklyn and into Union Square. The usual fare rode the train smelling of sewage, barf and Old Spice. Hanging on to the straps attempting to talk over the incessant screaming of the L bounding through the underground at breakneck speeds, they pondered whether to walk via the village or take the 6 train.
Well, it was the Big Apple and these two intrepid individuals had a pack of Marlboro Reds, matches, 4 pints of liquid giddiness and were bound for China Town on foot.
Of course, one cannot help getting to China Town via Little Italy, and these two being eager to smell everything from vomit to street crime did just that.
"Wonder what's on the menu?'
Spaghetti, du'h.
La Mela stood out to them - little shop with all the quaintness of a wayward, red speckled Mafioso movie.
"Dude, no prices."
He puffed on his cigarette, reading the tiny print on the menu.
"I wonder wh..."
"You twos look 'ungry."
Before they knew it two of la Mela's goons dragged them into the building. It was no use arguing. By the time fear had washed over them and subsided they were seated at a round table - the footmen lumbering in the sunlight casting long, lonely shadows.
Dire moments.
They stared at the walls of La Mela. They obviously did not know of interior decorating as the walls were plastered like poorly placed machine gun holes with a variety of autographed celebrity photographs. Each one thanking La Mela for the hospitality and a place to store the body. Dean Martin, John Wayne, Sinatra, DeNiro, da friggin' Pope…
Above them a ceiling filled with what may have been fingers and ears for all they had known. And the piece to cause them the greater deal of consternation – a monstrous phallic chandelier
The boys were in big, big trouble...

Ace

The nickname "Ace" has always been associated with awesome fortune or with calm coolness under adverse conditions by a man who knows no equal. "Ace" is synonymous with those who exclusively handle (and well) an impossibly difficult situation or maneuver, particularly and wrongly as it pertains to players of sports or more appropriately among men of great character, valor and ability - as in fighter pilots of yore from World Wars 1 and 2.
It is, of course, no surprise that it is often used to describe a very winning situation, as in the phrase: "He has an Ace up his sleeve.” in which the gentleman in question has been either handed a great deal of luck, or has a skill-set measured far above the task.
To be labeled "Ace", though at times, used as a sarcastic insult to describe a person of most odious character, is a reference given to a gentleman of the highest caliber. Ace conjures images of rakish good looks, high esteem, heroic deeds, the strength of Milo, and conduct a little bit off of gentlemanly. Far more of a character dare say than your author, who would hope to aspire becoming all that Ace represents.
However, to call someone Ace is mostly attributed to the design of a monarch of some standing. To refer to someone as such, one must either be of such noble breeding as to be able to decide another's fate, or to be a rogue of such malodorous being as to blind one's senses with his own fragrance.
The truth in this is that it is uncomfortable to the point of repeat to say these words. To repeat said offense is to one’s own lips entirely too intense for normal day to day conversation. One may wish to esteem another with sir or madam or boss, but attempt if you are thusly inclined to use the word.

Another New Year's Revelation

Over the years, the beginnings of each have always been permeated by the angst of (for) the future. We tremble at our past not really learning from it - just trembling in fear and regret - searching in vane often times for the tasty nuggets of true bliss as we sit drunkenly blinded by envy and disillusionment.
We wonder fervently in that same uneasiness or amusement as to what the possibilities in a newly arrived numeric value to the Earth's rotation around the sun will blossom into; wondering about the will of God, and whether or not any prophetic happening will fall upon each of us, and if any at all preferably onto someone other than ourselves.
We, that is to say some of us, embark upon the task of assigning ourselves to a mission, under the assumption of course that by completing said activity that lives will be bettered; that somehow the past 365 days prior were not sufficient enough for us to commence and continue let alone complete any improvements promised - that the ever enlarging backside that gravity allows us to press to the soft on softer sofa of life will suddenly find itself moved - overcoming inertia and friction as the Earth completes its cycle only to immediately begin anew.
We, that is to say some of us, believe that this natural occurrence has some magical power to alter weak resolve into one of greater resilience; that somehow simply by addressing the desires to conform to what society deems prudent or necessary, this celebrated few (weak in number, weaker in value), comparatively speaking, may more readily accept our renewed selves as they would not do before.
However, if I may respectfully offer a question and a suggestion:
Why resolve one's self for something so low?
Anything is possible - truly with the right backbone. But ask yourself, "Why?"
Why?
Why?
Why?
The American society, as a whole - Oh, we are a pessimistic bunch, not mentioning, of course that we are a group of lemmings so ready to jump the ledge when another of us who (by standards dictated by a powerful subculture solely bent on conformity) is prettier, thus far more enlightened than ourselves, decides to.
We do not ask "why?"
We do not ask ourselves about what our legacy can be, and instead we focus not on our health, but on "buns of steel" or "abs of iron". Our attention is abdicated by wealth management instead familial sustenance.
Family, health, happiness, empathy - the good shepherding or management of these entities is essential in building a lasting birthright.
Failure or success in any attempt at building such an outrageously wonderful creation is not only unique, but everlasting. And if one also takes to task the continued respect for a questioning mind, which is an ongoing opportunity rarely employed, the outcomes of both, no matter the cost, will be magnificent and remembered more endearingly than any wealth or six-pack will be.

Optimist Prime

Ecclesiates 1:9-10 "The thing that hath been, it is that which shall be; and that which is done is that which shall be done: and there is no new thing under the sun. Is there any thing whereof it may be said, See, this is new? it hath been already of old time, which was before us."
I have grown weary of pessimism. I do not speak simply of our country, but of my own will.
It is an age of technological warfare, and unsophisticated jargonistas who vie for our attention and hardearned wages, and our freedoms. An age where there is neither time nor talents to be wasted on the minutia of trinketries and compulsive speculation, brought on by overeducated - underwitted legalists, wishing to steal a few more precious moments with conjecture and assurances. The charlatans!
But it has been going on forever.
We yell at each other. We hurl insults about uncertainties - about things that we do not understand. We learn to hate. We refuse to remember history, and compassion, and adventure, and laughter. We rely upon our kneejerk reactions that have been injected into us by those overeducated - underwitted legalists, as some sort of fix-all elixir. It pains the veins, but its a vaccination and they tell us we need it to get along with them and others. And for lenghty moments, we forget our people - our families.
My solution: simplify! We have to get back to work. I am not talking wages in financial gain, but in life sustaining love for what some call the Unknown, and for our families and beyond.
Ecclesiastes 5:18-19 "Behold that which I have seen: it is good and comely for one to eat and to drink, and to enjoy the good of all his labour that he taketh under the sun all the days of his life, which God giveth him: for it is his portion. Every man also to whom God hath given riches and wealth, and hath given him power to eat thereof, and to take his portion, and to rejoice in his labour; this is the gift of God."
So, I will smile, eat and drink. I will love my Lord, my wife and my daughter. And I will think most fondly of and pray for each of you.