The Defense Will Not Rest

To paraphrase Ron Burgundy - I'm not sure you're aware of this but my Father is kind of a big deal.  For the last thirty-five years my Dad has been a quasi-celebrity in Northern Maine.  "Amongst the whole sixty-thousand people that live out there on the edge of the world?" You ask mockingly. I nod and avoid punching you.  I'm back to punching by the way.  I figure when your Father is slowly passing away you've got a pretty solid excuse.  Not that I ever really left punching.  I'm a huge fan of solving problems with violence.  Not with guns, knives or explosives mind you and never with a family member, loved one or friend but a good old fashioned fist-fight with a stranger in a bar/traffic/the mall never hurt anybody.  Okay, the guy getting hit in the face was probably hurt, I'm talking long term damage.  I see know that this last paragraph kind of jumped the tracks, let's start over.

For those of you that don't know, my Dad has been one of the preeminent criminal defense attorneys in Maine for the last three decades.  He's been making an argument his entire adult life.  His Go To Trial Over Anything mentality made him notorious amongst DA's and famous amongst Criminals.  Some of his more commonly referenced quotes are:

"Not prepared for a DUI trial?  Let me tell you something, somewhere right now a guy is getting drunk and is going to try to drive home.  I'm already ready for that trial!"

"You're damn right I put you on trial as a bad mother and the reason your son committed the crime because guess what - you're a horrible mother!" 

"Why did I call him a beady-eyed pedophile?  Because he's been convicted of having sex with children and his eyes are too close together."

And my personal favorite.  "Lady, I'm the smartest person you're ever gonna meet."

In many ways his love of the good fight crossed over into his personal life.  Not that he's taken any family members to court - that I am aware of.  It's that there was always an argument in my house.  I'm not talking about in a screaming and yelling sense (most of the time), you just had to be able to Defend Your Point.  You had to be able to make your case the same way he did.  Only problem was nobody can out argue my Old Man (and if you did you were probably sent to your room, unless he needed somebody to come change the channel then all was forgiven).  It's the reason why I can be such a colossal prick at times and my Sister is capable of being a total pain in the ass.  Even my Mom (the Saint of the family) would admit she's far less likely to hold her tongue on a topic now then before she met her husband.  As my Dad likes to say, they didn't raise any victims. 

Today was a good day with my Dad.  He was far more coherent.  As it turns out far more coherent equals far more argumentative.  That's okay though.  We were happy to have him participate in the conversations even if his positions crossed well beyond the ridiculous.  This morning, the Old Man argued with a doctor over his oxygen count.  It's important to mention here that my Father, as smart as he is, has ZERO medical training.  Until his oxygen levels became an issue I'd bet he didn't have a clue as to what a proper oxygen levels was.  Today he debated it like an expert on the topic.  He argued with us as to what day it was - not so expertly but to the entertainment of us all in the room.  He argued over the Sox/Yankees game.  No one disagreed with him on this point but doggonit did he argue.  We loved it.  We joyfully engaged in each silly one.  More than anything we were thrilled to know he was still fighting. 

Jim Croce was Right

My Father, the selfish, cancer riddled bastard, is in the hospital.  On Sunday afternoon he slipped and fell on the garage steps.  It didn't seem like much but when we had trouble getting him back up we called the EMTs.  Once he was on the gurney the decision was made to take him to the hospital and get him checked out for saftey's sake.  He seemed fine.  He said he had no additional pain and based on how he was bossing everyone around he appeared to be his usual pugnacious self. 

I only stayed at the hospital for a little while because my Dad was doing well and as my Sister pointed out chemo takes a toll on an immune system so a germ factory like a hospital is no place to be.  Personally, I think this was her attempt to get me out of there and convince the Old Man in his weakened state to write me out of the will.  I wasn't worried, my Mother was there and I'm clearly her favorite (she doesn't even try to hide it), I knew she had my back.  Also, you'd need to have some kind of money or property to have a will, my Father has gone to great lengths to have neither.

Last night I spent the night at the hopital with him until I was nodding off in a wooden chair so uncomfortable it could have been used in the Spanish Inquisition.  The hospital was still a germ factory but my Father's condition had not improved.  It had worsened and I did not want to be waiting at home for an emergency call to rush in.  His oxygen levels were low and he was getting a blood transfusion.  On the plus side my Sister had gone home around nine so I got my chance to work my way back into the non-existent inheritance.  You here that Sis!  That 1990 red, white and blue Honda Prelude (that has trouble going into park) is all mine!

But here is why I call my Father selfish.  I don't know how much longer the Old Man has and I haven't had time enough to do all the stuff I planned on doing with him.  I've never been able to surprise him with a classic car.  A trip to Canton or Cooperstown.  A chance to share in my eventual success.  A chance to hold his eventual grandchildren.  If I'd have known that the time I had left with him was so precious I wouldn't have wasted so damn much of it.  If he'd had bothered to just tell me, maybe I could have made things happen a lot sooner.  If at anytime over the last nine years of him fighting off his cancer - with what seemed like the strength of thousands - he'd said "I don't know how much longer I can do this."  Well, I don't know what I would have done but I feel like I would have done something.  

So for now, we wait for some kind of real life Dr. House (I've never seen the show but from the looks of the previews he's a pretty fair doctor and if I'd referenced Quincy or Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman he'd either be undergoing an autopsy or having leeches stuck to his chest) to stride through the door and tell us he's got it all figured out.  Until that happens, we pray.

Just like this one, only older, slower and without the professional paint job.

The Powers that Be and Don't Be

Hurricane Irene has finally struck the House of Jules.  Power has been out for a little over an hour now and after rummaging through a dozen or so drawers looking for candles (my parents have long lived by the old saying hope for the best, fight through the worst and plan for none of it) I am typing this by candle light, computer battery and a verizon hotspot.  Part of me wishes this blog posting was by inkwell, quill and parchment but since my handwriting looks like that of a moderately trained gorilla I'll settle for my keypad and the whimsical feelings of ye olde timey communication. 

Having recently made my way through half of David McCulluogh's John Adams I couldn't help but wish I had on a long nightdress and stocking cap while walking around the house in the dark.  It's a great book, an amazing mini-series and if you are a fan of the freedoms that we used to have in this country it's pretty inspiring.  I hope you'll excuse me if I throw in some colonial times lingo here and there. 

Whither to this morrow... kidding, kidding.  Not even sure what that means really. 

The other thing I was thinking about while I was stumbling around in the dark is how many bad horror movies begin like this.  A sickly but classically handsome man at home alone in the middle of a storm.  The power suddenly goes out.  He thinks its the storm not realizing that a deranged serial killer just escaped from the nearby mental institute.  While I type this someone could be creeping up behind me.  I could be in grave danger and not aaggghhh... gkghjyrmvlhy.

I'm fine.  The candles are burning, I'm still wickedly charming and I've still got perfectly curable Hodgkin's Lymphoma that I've managed to get way too much attention and sympathy over.  All is right in the world. 

Beware of the Shadow Warrior

If growing up in the eighties taught me anything it's that Ninjas are real and you never know when they will strike.  Remember The Master Ninja staring Lee Van Cleef and a young, poorly facially manicured Demi Moore (don't worry, nobody else does either.  But check out those eyebrows!)?  Master Ninja [VHS]  As a boy I was always diligently on the lookout for poison darts and throwing stars that could appear seemingly out of nowhere.  As you can imagine I was a very nervy boy and had to constantly explain why my hands were up in a defensive posture.  Although I am not extensively trained in the martial arts I have seen all five American Ninja movies (watch them in order or you may have trouble following the intricate storyline) so I feel preeeetty well versed in the matter. 

I bring this up because thanks to my recent surgery I am feeling unprepared for the first time since I was eight-years-old for a possible Ninja attack.  Over the last two days I've had trouble standing up quickly and karate chopping the air, diving behind pieces of furniture and adopting the crane pose.  I know the last one is from Karate Kid but come on, that's a kick ass movie right?  Just last night I couldn't manage to hold up a book with my left hand while in bed - how am I to avoid possible decapitation when I can't even hold up a book?  What am I doing wasting my time reading anyway?

I am taking great risk with this posting.  Once the Ninjas know you are at your weakest that's when they are most likely to strike.  I am hoping for a speedy recovery but in the mean time I will take in a double feature of Gymkata and The Octagon to look for tips.  

   

 

Would Vegas Make Odds on This?

I had surgery today.  That Picc Line that had dangled from my arm for the last month and infiltrated my formerly enjoyable Football Dreams is gone and a Port-a-cath in my chest has taken its place.  For the record I had the Picc Line taken out on Tuesday (which lead to the founding of Raft City) but I didn't want to mention it here for fear of jinxing the Port-a-cath procedure. 

I had been warned that if it turned out the glands in my chest were still too swollen for the Port then I would have to go back to the Picc.  A doubly whammy of sorts - unsuccessful surgery plus another insertion of the infernal Picc Line.  As every Police Officer that has ever warned me in the past knows, warnings mean nothing to me.  I figured pull it and be damned.  I got to live a solid 48 hours like a regular, properly hygienic, person and not a cat in fear of the water.  Now we're back to sutures and dressings and having to avoid getting wet - but only for a day or so and not a whole damn month.  Once the stitches heal I can shower and go swimming and chase tennis balls again.

I realized something while laying on the gurney waiting to be wheeled into surgery - I am a bizarrely competitive person.  Once they had hooked me up to the EKG, the IV and all the rest I found myself laying there with nothing to do but stare at my monitors.  So I started competing with my body.  I began laying odds on myself, creating over/unders on my diastolic, systolic and beats per minute.  I got so competitive that I started cheering against my own heart as I somehow managed to bring my numbers down.  A nurse asked me if anything was wrong - I told her "Nothing's wrong, I'm winning."  She responded that she too thought Charlie Sheen was hysterical. 

That comment brought an end to my game.  Plus they pumped some kind of anesthesia into my veins and I began to get loopy.  Once I came to after surgery I tried to re-start the game with my body but I was too doped up to keep track of each previous set of numbers.  I do remember my lowest pre-surgery numbers.  112/62 and 68 bpm.  I thought that was pretty impressive considering the whole "white coat" symptom you're supposed to suffer from in those situations.  I challenge anyone to go have surgery (necessary or un-necessary, I don't care) and beat that.  Go on, I dare you.

Fair and Balanced Football

In the interest of full disclosure I want to state that I am a life long Steelers fan.  I can assure you that this will in no way influence my AFC preview.  I merely wanted you to be aware in advance but I promise that it will not be reflected in my predictions.  You have my word. 

Additionally, in the continuing effort to please my female readers (are you feeling pleasured?) I will pepper this posting with mildly sexist (overtly sexist) images and links for your viewing.  And if you could grab me a beer while I talk to the guys that'd be great, honey. 

AFC EAST

NEW ENGLAND - 6-10 - Bill Belichik's a genius, Tom Brady's the greatest quarterback since Jesus refused to handle pig skin on the Sabbath, blah, blah, Fuckin blah.  I am sick to death of the constant hj's handed out to this team.  This year I predict Brady admits he's actually a eunuch and Belichick is caught trolling for Tranny hookers. 

NEW YORK - 5-11 - Mark Sanchez is easily the dumbest starting quarterback in the NFL.  Would you even trust him to figure out a proper tip without offering to lend a hand on the math. 

BUFFALO - 4-12 - I feel so bad for the people of Buffalo.  Not because of the Bills fortunes but because I've been to Buffalo. 

MIAMI - 2-14 - Hey Dolphin fans, remember all those years when Miami was one of the best teams in football and a perennial Super Bowl contender?  Hang on to those memories.

Hey Girls, for those pesky chores,

AFC SOUTH

INDIANAPOLIS - 5-11 - All I can picture is Payton Manning trying to take snaps while wearing one of those neck brace halos.  This image makes me smile.

JACKSONVILLE - 4-12 - It's tough for me to say anything bad about such a lame city, a team that has never been important and a fan base so apathetic.  I look forward to the Los Angeles Jaguars in 2012.

HOUSTON - 3-13 - Fourth in population.  First in dangerous neighborhoods.  I used to love to hate the old Oilers.  The new Texans don't matter to me.  I still can't tell if they matter to Gary Kubiak.

TENNESSEE - 2-14 - Won't the Titans be pissed when they wind up in the middle of the Andrew Luck sweepstakes after wasting a first round pick on Jake Locker.  The only thing that will make this better is when Chris Johnson blows out an ACL after signing his eventual cap killing contract.

Ladies, when running errands for your man,

AFC NORTH

PITTSBURGH - 16-0 - This team is loaded.  Great coaching, amazing defense, the best quarterback (both as a player and as a person) in football, loaded at every position plus it's been reported that they have an extremely handsome fanbase. 

CINCINNATI - 3-13 - As long as Mike Brown owns the Bengals they will always be my second favorite team in the league because they happily hand over two victories a year to The Burgh.

CLEVELAND - 2-14 - I went drinking in Cleveland once and I couldn't believe how ugly everyone that lived there was.  U-G-L-Y you ain't got no alibi. 

BALTIMORE - 0-16 - Besides the Packers this is the biggest bunch of cheaters in the league.  It's fitting that a team of criminals and convicts resides in a town of thugs.  Here's to Hurricane Irene touching down at M&T Bank Stadium over the weekend.

He works so hard all day so let's not forget dinner,

AFC WEST

SAN DIEGO - 5-11 - I love Norv Turner!  I loved him when he crushed the Washington Redskins as a franchise.  I loved him when he ruined a competitive Raiders team and I love him now for decimating a talented Chargers team.  I vote Norv as next coach of the Patriots following Belichick's hooker arrest.

KANSAS CITY - 4-12 - As much as I loath the Patriots I do find it hysterical that they saddled the Chief with such a mediocre quarterback.  How long before Ricky Stanzi is taking snaps, week 7, week 8?

OAKLAND - 3-13 - Al Davis is my favorite owner in all of sports.  I know he's not the best owner.  I didn't say that.  He's just my favorite.  Jerry Jones is second.  Any time a guy that's probably battling dementia makes all the calls on coaches and players you know you're in for a good time.

DENVER - 1-15 - Tim Tebow not being an NFL caliber quarterback is the greatest story in sports.  Isn't his game essentially the same as Charlie Ward's?  Does Tebow run the point, is there a chance he could move onto the NBA?  I was thrilled when the Bronco's took him in the first round last year.  It cemented Josh McDaniels future career as a mid-level assistant.     

He appreciates all you do and you deserve a break sometimes too,

Of course he got that for you and not him.  Stop being so selfish.

PLAYOFFS

NFC CHAMPIONSHIP - ATLANTA v NEW ORLEANS

AFC CHAMPIONSHIP - SAN DIEGO v PITTSBURGH

SUPER BOWL - PITTSBURGH v NEW ORLEANS

SEVEN TIME SUPER BOWL CHAMPIONS - THE PITTSBURGH STEELERS

Incorporated August 24th, 2011

I had a busy day yesterday.  While I should have been pouring over players and stats from the AFC  for my AFC Preview I was sitting in a leaky rubber floatation device, on a lake, tending to a campfire and having a few PBR's in a can.  Okay, it wasn't that busy of a day.  But I did manage to found a city in between Pabst Blue Ribbons (they don't hand out the Blue Ribbons to just anybody).  I should say co-founded.  SugarDust (that was the blog handle he chose) is also a co-founder.  We call it Raft City.  Population 2.

There isn't much for bi-laws at Raft City other then you have to float on a raft.  Preferably one scavenged from the piles of abandoned rafts in the woods nearby.  Seriously, it was as if we had come across an Ancient Indian Rubber Raft Burial Ground.  No fancy pants rafts are allowed at Raft City.  If you've got a shiny new store bought raft - you ain't welcome.  

Acceptable Raft



High Falootin' Raft

Unemployment is preferred in any Raft City applicant.  If you want to sit around in a raft on the lake all day you can't have some kind of "job" dragging you down.  We will consider Fully Employed applicants but only if it appears your "job" situation will improve in the coming months.  We're betting that sucking down beers at Raft City during the middle of the week can help propel that along. 

To take the Raft City oath you must recite the words to Bob Seger's Against The Wind.  Or at least hum a few bars and agree with the co-founders that Bob Seger Rules!  Also, at your induction ceremony you must provide the co-founders with packages of polish sausages and cold beer or promise to bring some next time you visit.  We take a man at his word in Raft City.

  Huge Fan of Raft City

This may all sound like the ravings of a madman but I swear I have never been more clear headed.  I guess when you make it to Raft City you'll understand.  Don't forget the polish sausages and cold beer.

Raft City - where every man sits on a raft and every raft is slowly sinking.

Glee Cancer Club

Yesterday was my Mother's birthday!  Happy Birthday Mom!!  The whole family got together for a night of Indian take-out and television watching.  That's how we roll in the Cancer Family.  Excitement is our middle name. 

Since it was Mom's birthday, my Dad relinquished control of the remote and she got to pick one of her shows.  She picked GLEE.  GLEE is the show I was forced to sit through in an effort to spend quality time with my Mother on her birthday.  Truth is I couldn't make it through but a few minutes at a time without having to excuse myself for an acid flush on my eyes.  Luckily with a show as moronic as GLEE you only need tidbits of scenes to understand the entire inane plot line. 

My Mom loves musicals.  She loves musicals so much apparently that things like insipid dialogue and annoying characters have no effect on her enjoyment of the show.  I even questioned her as to how she could sit through such horribly bad writing.  Her response was that she likes the musical numbers.  I should have offered to sing and dance a little ditty in the living room as an alternative to another moment of the show but that didn't occur to me until just now. 

Many of you who have known me for a long time time are probably thinking "Jules, you were always the lead in our high school musicals.  I thought you loved to sing and dance."  That's true.  I chewed up the scenery in multiple high school musical productions.  It was those glowingly adequate reviews that propelled me into my current career as a non-working actor.   Now some of you that do not know me that well are thinking "Lead in musicals plus a star football player?  This must be one hell of a man!"  This is also true. 

So I tried to watch GLEE.  Between repeatedly banal conversations about how we are all the same on the inside I realized something - this ultra inclusive show is actually excluding me!  There is not a single character on GLEE that has cancer.  It doesn't even have to be Hodgkin's Lymphoma but for God's Sake you bend over backwards to include everyone how could you be so remarkably un-PC as to exclude a massive group of people.  What would be really great is if they revealed that the entire cast were Stage Four Cancer Patients and in the season finally they all passed away.  Hell, why wait for the season finally, do it now I say. 

So I would like to submit myself to the GLEE producers as their next perfectly politically correct character.  I can come on and talk ad nauseum about my feelings and how cancer doesn't discriminate so neither should you - you misogynistic, racist, homophobic bastard!

Finally, is there never a moment on that useless show where someone says "How ya doing?" and the other party just responds "Great!"?  Does it always have to be "How am I doing?  I can't walk!  That's how!"  or "I'm confused sexually, how about you?"  I feel like we are teaching kids the wrong lesson here.  "How ya doing?" does not mean I actually care about how fucked up you are.  It means I'm saying hello.  Leave it light and move on.  Keep your problems to yourself pushed down deep inside.  It was that kind of attitude that lead the US of A to the gold medal in a couple of major wars and through The Great Depression.  Not all this talk about our inner-most feelings.  You know who likes to talk about their feelings - the French.  How'd they do in WWII?   

Jules the Italian

I used to love Jimmy the Greek.  I learned a lot at an early age about sports betting thanks to Jimmy and the rest of the gang at The NFL on CBS.  My Father always helped explain it.  We used to write down all the spreads for the games and make our picks.  It only got awkward when my Dad sent his Goons to collect from me.  I learned my lesson though.  Deadbeats get their thumbs broke no matter what elementary school grade they are in. 

So it is with the late, great (and as it turned out a little racist), Jimmy The Greek in mind that I unleash for the first time ever my NFL preview and predictions!  Additionally, in an effort to keep my growing legions of female readers happy, I will be interspersing my predictions with things that I know Ladies like.  And if there is one thing Jules knows better than football it's what Ladies like.  How you doin?

NFC EAST

PHILLY - 13-3 - They'll be very good but I'm not buying all the Dream Team nonsense.  I just don't see Michale Vick making it through a whole season meaning Vince Young has to play and nobody wants that to happen - not even Vince Young.  My bet is like every other Andy Reid and/or Michael Vick team they put up a great regular season and eventually take a nose dive in a playoff game.  Kind of feels like such an obvious situation that the pattern has to change at some point.  This season won't be it.

NY - 11-5 - They look snakebit to me.  I don't know if Coughlin just wears his guys to a nub or they have had a string of bad luck and that's why for several years now they keep having injury issues.  Either way, they'll grind out a winning season probably even a wildcard spot but in the end I doubt they will have the horses to make it out of the first round.

DALLAS - 7-9 - I know they are loaded with talent but I just don't see a guy that looks like a life size version of Howdy Doody consistently leading a team to victories.  As Funny Eddie Murphy (that's pre-Another 48hrs) would say - I just can't picture Little Opie Cunningham doin it!  I can't picture nobody wantin to do it with Little Opie Cunningham neither!

WASHINGTON - 3-13 - Terrible.  Just awful.  Mike Shannahan, meet George Seifert.  George, please explain to Mike what's happening to his Hall of Fame chances.

Ladies, thanks for hanging in - this one's for you.

 

NFC NORTH

CHICAGO - 12-4 - I never know what to make out of Lovie Smith, Brian Urlacher or Jay Cutler.  All of them seem terrible to me most of the time and yet somehow they all have jobs, wind up with winning records and even in Championship games/Super Bowls.  Lovie Smith got there with Rex Grossman for God's sake.  So I'm changing directions here and going big with the Bears.  No other reason then I'm so confused by what to me seems like an awful coach and a talentless team that inexplicably keeps doing well.

GREEN BAY 11-5 - I want to start by saying Fuck Green Bay.  Fuck that Fucking team and their bullshit Super Bowl win.  Aaron Rogers molests collies.  Okay, that's it.  All done... Fuck The Packers!  That's really it.  Moving on, I think they'll suffer from a bit of a Super Bowl hangover during the regular season then crank it up in the playoffs, the dirty cheaters.

 Leave these dogs alone, Aaron Rodgers!

DETROIT - 7-9 - Love the D not so sure about Stafford and his arthritic shoulder.  I have a feeling they will have a number of heartbreaking misses and wind up as one of the best covers for the season and Ndamukong Suh will get tagged as one of the dirtiest players in the NFL - taking the heat off of Hines Ward and the rest of The Steelers.  Thank you in advance, Mr. Suh.

MINNESOTA - 4-12 - I like Donovan McNabb.  I have always felt that he's gotten a bad rep.  With the exception of his one year with TO the man has never played with a top flight receiver in his prime.  The one year he did they lost in the Super Bowl.  That being said, he is no longer a quality starting QB in the NFL.  Good luck on your first NFL start in game five, Christian Ponder!   

Gals - check this out!

NFC SOUTH

NEW ORLEANS - 14-2 - I admit it, I have a man-crush on Drew Brees.  I write him letters, drive by his place to see if his car's out front, leave pet rabbits boiling in stock pots in his kitchen.  As much as I like Ben Roethlisberger as the Steelers QB, I would love - LOVE -Brees as The Burgh's starter.  For that reason alone this team wins the NFC.

ATLANTA - 12-4 - If I didn't have my man-crush on Brees I'd probably have Atlanta first in the South.  This team is loaded and even though Mike Smith looks like the aging body builder at your local gym that you avoid because you know he wants more than anything to give you unsolicited advice on how to "Up Your Bench," he is a rock solid head coach.  A Super Bowl winning head coach?  Not this year.

TAMPA BAY - 9-7 - I'm picturing a lot of tough breaks for this team.  I'm not sold on Josh Freeman as a big time QB - yet.  I admit that could change.  Raheem Morris strikes me as a great motivator but not necessarily a great coach.  That starts to look a lot like a high paid male cheerleader if things don't go well. 

CAROLINA - 2-14 - I wouldn't let Ron Rivera lead a boy scout troop let alone an NFL team.  Although the Boy Scouts would probably be frightened and as a result take longer to catch on that you shouldn't listen to anything the man says.  On the plus side, I'm looking forward to the Cam Newton debacle. 

Girls,

Now please sit quietly while we continue our man talk.

NFC WEST

ARIZONA - 8-8 - In the land of Awful the Average Man is King.  I have no clue what Kevin Kolb will do.  Best guess is very little but for a team that started Derek Anderson, John Skelton and Max Hall last year very little is preferable to Nothing At All. 

ST. LOUIS - 6-10 - I believe Sam Bradford will be the next big thing plus they get to play six games against three of the worst teams in football.  Other then that they are Mediocre City.  Average D, average run game, average coach. 

SEATTLE - 4-12 - As long as Pete Carroll is head coach here (with the added bonus of  Tavaris Jackson at QB) whoever the Seahawks are playing against will be my go to bet.  Forget Red Bull and Vodka, Carrol and Tavaris are the true Gamblers Delight.

SAN FRANCISCO - 3-13 - Jim Harbaugh once helped me win another guys entire paycheck back in 95 during the Harbaugh's Heros days.  On top of that my eventual Father In-Law is a hardcore Niner's fan, not riot in the parking lot hardcore but shave a few years off and I bet he'd have been in there.  Neither my former winnings or an easy way to curry favor from my future In-Laws is enough for me to believe that Jim Harbaugh will succeed as a coach with the 49ers. 

Last one ladies,

     

AFC Post tomorrow.  After that I swear I'll start talking about cancer again.  I just love football so damn much!

This Is Not a Sports Blog

This is, however, a sports related posting.  You lady folk can stop reading if you like.  I won't be offended.   There will be no discussion of feelings or knitting in this post.  Okay, suit yourself but don't say I didn't warn you. 

I'm a fan of all sports.  Not lame or sissy sports (i.e. Running, Swimming, Rhythmic Gymnastics - basically all Olympic sports with the exception of Wrestling and Hockey), real man sports.  Violent Sports.  Football would be at the top of this list.  For as long as I can remember I've been a Steelers fan and possibly more importantly a fan of defense. 

When I was old enough to play (about eight I think) I immediately knew that linebacker was the position I was born for.  To this day I still think of myself in many ways as a middle linebacker.  I know that doesn't make a lot of sense.  How on earth could someone think of themselves as a middle linebacker in everyday life and how could it help?  Head to the local market, tackle an unsuspecting shopper then come talk to me.  Go ahead and go now.  I'll wait.

Back already?  Amazing right!?  A total rush.  Did you tackle a Working Mom or a Senior Citizen?  Either way, I'm sure they will be okay.  Varsity plays hurt I like to say.  Imagine several hours a day of that rush, five or six days a week, over four months a year for a twelve year period of your life.  It's going to stay with you.  You're gonna dream about it.  You're going to want it to last forever.  Kind of like sex only without the annoying cuddling and having to care about your partners satisfaction.  So for me, just like sex.  You know what I'm talking about whichever loyal ladies are still reading.

I still dream about it.  The football that is.  The dreams usually start around July.  I start with dreams about double sessions.  As the summer progresses so do the dreams.  Scrimmages, weight training, new uni's, and so on leading up to the Big Game.  There's been a new wrinkle in the dream lately.  I'm having the same dreams that I've always had only now I'm in a hospital gown.  I'm spending too much time trying to make sure my ass isn't hanging out and not enough time covering the Running Back on a swing route out of the backfield.  I'm constantly worried about my Picc line hanging from my arm and it's keeping me from taking on the lead blocker.  My Glory Days dreams have turned into a sort of surreal medical stress dream.

Under the circumstances this should be the ideal football season for me as a spectator.  I have nothing but free time.  Time to line up my first few weeks of betting.  Time to bone up for a fantasy draft.  The recurring hospital/football dream has completely colored my anticipation of this years football season.  I say all this because tomorrow I will be unleashing my pre-season predictions and I want it known that I am not on my A-game.  I am hedging my bets.  I'm handicapping my new handicap.

I told you Gals, all sports and no feelings in this post.  I warned you.  Okay, just for hanging in there I'll give you this.

And this.

You're welcome.

Serpentine Shelly, Serpentine

It's amazing how far some people will go to get their In-laws to like them.  They'll change their jobs (I didn't but you have to of had a job in order to change it).  They'll change their clothes (I'm usually dressed like a lumberjack or a beachbum so there's not much room for improvement).  They'll change their drinking habits (here's an actual conversation between me and my Lovely Girlfriend's Mother - "Are you a heavy drinker, Jules?"  "I like to think so, I'm 265.")  I've even heard tell of people that will get cancer in an effort to make their In-Laws like them.  Okay, I did that one.

I'm typically never concerned when I find out people don't care for me.  I figure if they are somehow immune to my rakish charm chances are there's something wrong with them, not me.  Eventually they'll come around and realize I truly am as adorable as I believe myself to be.  After a two plus year stand-off I was no longer certain of that outcome.  I was starting to wonder if I wasn't totally irresistible after all.

You'd be surprised what a little cancer can get you with your In-Laws.  I call them the In-Laws because eventually they will be and until that time they still manage to drive me as nuts as any actual In-Laws could so I think it's appropriate.  I'm not 100% sure how I rated with them before the cancer.  My best guess would be somewhat lower than a 24 hour flu virus and slightly higher than a broken finger.  As in if they knew they had to spend time with me they'd rather hang out with sick kids in an effort to catch something but they wouldn't be willing to slam their hand in the car door.  I think my Lovely Girlfriend's Father was almost in my camp.  My Lovely Girlfriend's Mother wasn't even in the same National Park.  Funny how what sounds like a terminal illness but is really just a huge inconvenience can change things. 

This blog has gone a long way to help.  My Eventual Mother In-Law is no longer convinced that I am a talentless hack.  I've been told that she enjoys the blog (we'll see if that's still the case tomorrow) and has shared it with her friends.  My Lovely Girlfriend has even reported to me that they are thinking about moving closer to us -- this is the part where the recordplayer makes that scratching noise and everybody freezes. 

I'm not certain I want them to like me that much.  Hell, I'm not certain I want my own parents to like me that much. 

I'll take The Boob Tube for Three Hundred, Alex

There are two things I can put on the TV that I know will always drive my Lovely Girlfriend from the room.  Surprisingly, neither one of them is late night skin-o-max (I've got the coolest girlfriend).  They are, in no particular order, Ultimate Fighting and Classic Car Auctions.  It only takes a second of air time before she is out of the chair and headed to the bedroom to watch an episode of My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding.  Granted, the gypsy lifestyle can be engrossing but as far as trash TV goes I'm partial to Flipping Out. 

I mention this for two reasons.  One, I miss my Lovely Girlfriend.  Two, almost as much as I miss my Lovely Girlfriend, I miss driving my Lovely Girlfriend nuts.  In my house my Father has always ruled the TV set.  Until we got a television with remote control, I watched shows while standing next to the TV waiting to be instructed as to what channel to go to next.  I don't think I got a full view of the screen until I was twelve.  Even now, twenty-six years later, he has the run of the remote and after all these years he still channel surfs like Unfrozen Cave Man Lawyer.  How could you not ever memorize the channels!?  How is that possible?!

Honestly, I don't mind.  We agree on almost all the same programming.  Baseball - check.  Football - check.  Classic Car Auctions - check.  Never Watching Women's Sports - double check.  So I'm in no way complaining about what we're watching.  What I'm complaining about and what I've come to realize is Classic Car Auctions are even more enjoyable when your viewership leads the person you care so much about to go batty.  The violence of Mix Martial Arts is that much better when someone in the room has to look away. 

Part of me knows that posting this will ruin Classic Car Auctions and Ultimate Fighting for me.  Whenever it is that I do return to my couch and my 52" flatscreen and the moment comes that I put them on the screen instead of hearing a rather miffed "I guess I'll go upstairs," I'll be hearing "Awww, you really love me."  Then, instead of watching said programs alone I'll be forced to cuddle (we call it C-time in my house) and will very likely miss the bloodshed or the chrome entirely.  Despite all that, it will also mean that my valiant battle against the most curable form of cancer known to man is over and I am home again.

Bloodshed and Chrome - great name for a band.

Sausage Saves Lives

202!  From 1200 to 300 to 202! 

What do these numbers mean?  Honestly, I couldn't even begin to explain them to you but I know they are good news.  202 is my Father's new PSA number.  PSA stands for Prostate-specific antigen.  I just looked that up.  Despite reading the description repeatedly the only thing I can explain to you with any certainty is that the lower your number the better your chances.  Kind of like golf, only involving life or death and not silly pants and white patent leather belts.

Approximately two months ago I made an emergency return trip to Maine when my Father's PSA was 1200, his blood pressure low with a rapid pulse.  At the time I was concerned this would be my last trip to Maine to see my Father.  As it turns out my Sister had been slowly poisoning our beloved Patriarch.  She claims it was not intentional but her defense is filled with holes. 

A week prior to the "accidental" poisoning, my Nana suffered a stroke at her home in New Jersey and my Mother flew down to take care of her.  Nana's doing well now, thanks for asking.  Truth is she's so cantankerous she'll probably outlive us all.  While my Mother was away my Sister volunteered to cook dinners for my Father.  He's not an invalid but after forty years of having my Mom wait on him hand and foot I'm not sure he knows where the kitchen is. 

Her menu consisted of extra spicy italian sausage and... well, that was just about it.  Double helpings of extra spicy italian sausage.  My Dad, never being one to worry about calories or saturated fats, gobbled these meals down.  With gusto.  Trust me on this.  G-U-S-T-O.  Little did my Father know he had a bleeding ulcer.  I'm not quite certain how my Sister recognized this developing weakness in the Old Man but clearly she did and she tried to capitalize on it. 

So it was with great concern that I flew home, not realizing my Sister's assassination plot had been thwarted by the diligent nurses at Cancer Care.  In my mind I'm imagining my Sister twirling her pencil thin mustache - this is not an exaggeration, she's Italian so she has a pencil thin mustache - and angrily stomping around some old railroad tracks.  We would soon find out that he wasn't the only one in the family with cancer. 

Since stepping off the plane I have lived with my folks for a solid two months.  I'm no longer worried about a final visit to Maine to see my Father as I am now desperate to leave.  We still eat sausage on a semi-regular basis, what can I tell you, in my family it's practically a food group.  Plus sausage helped save my life.  Had it not been for my Sister's failed attempt on my Father's life I never would have been talked into seeing a doctor (I go every ten years whether I need it or not), never would have discovered the Hodgkin's Lymphoma and who knows when I would have gotten treatment. 

I'm still trying to figure out how my Sister gave me cancer.

There's always a sequel

Cancer Roadtrip Part II

Thursday August 11th - Once I was able to rouse The Colonel from what appeared to be his surprisingly comfortable slumber in the tub, we found his pants and headed for NYC.  How his pants got on our neighbors balcony I have no idea.  We parted ways at the New Rochelle MTA stop and he told everyone within ear shot "I shall return!"  I tell ya, The Colonel is a hoot.

I scarfed down my first slice (technically three slices but who's counting) of New York pizza at Two Boots in Grand Central Terminal.  I'm partial to what I think is their original location in the Village but I was getting remarkably close to punching an old woman that kept bumping into me so I thought some food would take the edge off. 

It didn't.  She went down like a ton of bricks.  You'd think somebody with a walker could take a solid shot but no.

After a quick getaway I checked into our hotel - Free Coffee and Cookies in the Lobby - and awaited my Lovely Girlfriend.  We'll skip over the particulars of her arrival (Smiley Face Emoticon would go here if I wasn't All Man and refused to use such sissy things) and jump to our Historical Drinking Tour. 

August 12th, 13th & 14th - If you are unfamiliar with Historical Drinking then you clearly haven't been following my blog, shame on you.  In brief, it's visiting the oldest bars you can find, drinking your face off and claiming it's all in the name of higher education.  Here's the list - The Fraunces Tavern, 1719.  The Paris Cafe, 1873.  The James Brown House aka The Ear Inn, 1817.  McSorley's Old Ale House, 1854.  Pete's Tavern, 1864.  PJ Clarke's, 1884.  The Palm, 1926.  Donohue's, 1950.  The Hi-Life, 1991 (okay, some of them are just bars.  So sue me).  The Subway Inn, no known date, also nothing even remotely historical here, kind of dangerous really. 

We also hit Coyote Ugly, which has never been the same since Tyra Banks ruined it.  I know Piper Perabo was the star and Tyra Banks only a supporting part but I think Piper Perabo is kinda cute and Tyra Banks has that annoying talk show so I'm placing all the blame squarely on her manly shoulders.

If anyone reading is a venture capitalist (or just has a bus and some free time) I'd like to start a tour company that specializes in Historical Drinking.  There's got to be at least a dozen major US cities where this would absolutely work.  Boston, NYC, Philly, Chicago, New Orleans and San Francisco would be no-brainers to start.  We'd hire Well Educated Lushes as tour guides, I've got a few friends in mind already.  This is the stuff you come up with when you sit around all day fighting cancer.  Sorry, but I am contractually obligated with blogspot to drop at least one cancer reference in each post.  Seriously, this is a killer idea, someone come up with some cash for it.

We ended our trip with a visit to the new apartment of our LA Friends that recently re-relocated back to New York and their Adorably Giant Baby Boy.  This kid is a monster and about as cute as any child can get without crossing over to the cartoon zone.  That's when someone stops appearing human and instead takes on the looks of a caricature that you would take home from a street fair.  It's not cute, it's just sad.  But this kid is not there.  He's just damn cute.  And big.  And his folks are the salt of the earth and I wanted to include them in this blog so the kid gave me that opportunity.  So there.

Anyway, it's past midnight and I'm getting a little punchy from the chemo so I will sign off with a big Thank You to all that made the Cancer Roadtrip possible.  The Colonel/Admiral/General/Commandant, My Lovely Girlfriend, Our LA Friends, Our Feisty Insurance Adjustor and The General's Brother.  I couldn't have done it without you.

Finally, I was recently informed that my Father needs to take a trip down to Boston and visit Dana-Farber.  He'll need someone to drive him (me) and of course my Mother will want to come.  If we can only talk my Sister into joining us...

Cancer Family Roadtrip!!!

Better than a slide show!

Tonight I reveal my Cancer Roadtrip Re-Cap, in Two Parts!  It does not have any of the Cancer Movie Moments I had so hoped to capture but it does have a close approximation to them.  Either way I had a hell of a good time.

Tuesday, August 9th - The World's Youngest Ever Lieutenant Colonel (he may make General before this post is through) and I head for Manchester, NH.  Weather is spotty for the FisherCats game, we've got a cooler filled with beer for The Rear Admiral and four little red wine bottles for me.  We pre-game at the hotel.  I manage to sip down a single serving of vino.  I don't feel comfortable revealing how much my traveling companion had since he's an upstanding member of the military and his wife reads the blog.  I will point out that I finagled the keys away from the good Colonel but only after hearing how he has flown multi-million dollar planes far drunker then now.  The rain held off, the FisherCats lost to Erie and the Colonel staggered through the stands trying to pick fights with children. 

*A few of those last parts may have not really happened. 

Wednesday August 10th - We hit the road early with Mohegan Sun in our sites.  We check in to The Spa of Norwich (an extremely romantic find for two dudes.  Thank you, Priceline) and hit the casino Race Book.  Cocktail waitresses are scarce plus the bartender keeps track of how long it's been since your last one. Telling The General's Brother who drove down to join us (no relation to the John Travolta stinker The General's Daughter) to come back in twenty for his next freebe six ounce beer.  Six whole ounces!  You shouldn't have.  We hit a couple of winners, splitting up about seventy bucks in winnings.  One ticket could have been a 1500.00 payday if we'd played the superfecta but hey, no guts no glory.  The Commandant ordered several strangers to drop and give him twenty in response to the loss.  He's crazy with power, I tell ya.

After gorging ourselves at the moderately priced but well stocked buffet we hit the craps table.  It was a star studded event.  We had Corsican Albert Finney, Senile Jerry Adler, Charismaless Billy Shatner, his unhappy wife (Caucasian Uhura?), and an Undershirted Lester from The Wire on what can only be described as The Heater of his otherwise totally unlucky life.  Lester from The Wire was betting huge on the Don't and looking back it's stunning that no one joined him.  This table was so cold you could have chiseled an ice slide in it for vodka shots.  Despite it all I grounded out a five dollar windfall before calling it a night around 1:30am.  The General made it back to the room closer to three, rambling about single-handedly crushing Communism and threatening to put me on KP duty.

Part Two Tomorrow!

Andrew Carnegie's got nothing on me.

I am not a joiner type.  I'm not an activist.  I'm not a protester or a marcher.  Sure, I'm friendly.  I'm engaging.  I'm supportive - not so much as to actually get involved but I'll click "like" on some one's cause on Facebook.  Provided I'm not in a rush or don't want to engage in a lengthy online discussion of how important whatever that cause is.   

Basically, I'm a selfish prick most of the time.  No, probably all of the time.  Having cancer is a big boon for this kind of behavior.  I can say and do as many selfish things as I like with the perfect excuse at the ready.  "I don't care about your stupid play, I've got cancer damn it!"  "Don't you know I've got cancer, this place is a dump!"  "Man, your new girlfriend is a bitch!  No offense, that's the cancer talking." 

Having cancer means never having to say you are sorry.  At least until you're cured.  Once that happens I'm sure I'll have to make the rounds like a Twelve-Stepper.  That's were my Dad really lucked out.  He hit the mother-load with his inoperable, incurable prostate cancer.  Nine years of treatments with no end in sight.  Nine years of blaming every outburst on cancer.  A cool cane.  A handicap sticker.  Free blankets.  Some guys have all the luck. 

As further evidence of my selfishness I am now joining a cause.  But Jules, that's incredibly philanthropic, you say, without knowing what it is but assuming it must be since I am finally getting involved.  I am joining a cancer cause.  Essentially, My cause is Me. 

I am driving with my Father (that lucky cancer riddled bastard) in Champion the Cure Challenge.  A fifty mile road rally to raise money to help find a cure for the many diseases called cancer.  We will be driving in his 1990 Honda Prelude Si complete with 160hp and the always tasteful red, white and blue paint job.  Not since I was a child and unable to make totally selfish decisions without severe parental correction have I participated in any kind of walk-, run-, dance-, or rock-a-thon. 

Secretly, I'm hoping that a cancer road rally is as funny as it seems in my mind.  A sort of Cannonball Run for the infirmed.  A convoy of Lincolns, Olds and Buicks filled with driver's that are only able to go a few miles at a time before needing to stop for bathroom breaks or long naps.  If that's the case I will dominate this thing.  I'll be the Mario Andretti of Cancer Racing.  Gentleman, Start Your Engines.

**For Donations send a check or money order to Champion the Cure c/o Healthcare Charities One Cumberland Place Suite 300 Bangor, ME 04401.**

Or you can send Cash, care of Jules.

. 

A Remote Location

Don't ever let anyone accuse the people of Northern Maine of wanting to be found.

I've always appreciated the remoteness of Maine. The stillness. The tranquility. But My Good God, it should not take a twelve hour day of travel to go 450 miles!

This is how I ended my Cancer Roadtrip, slogging through Amtrak terminals, chasing down connecting T-lines and barreling through a down pour to make it home. It should not take more time to travel from New York, NY to Old Town, ME then it does to fly across the entire Continent - with a lay over.

But your trip down seemed so effortless, what changed? You may ask. Or don't ask, see if I care. I'm the one with cancer here, not you! Unless you are reading this and you actually have cancer, in which case - Fight on Brotha or Sista.

I'll tell you even if you didn't ask (selfish for not asking). My buddy, the Youngest Ever Lieutenant Colonel in the history of the Air Force, that took me on the Cancer Roadtrip, had to return to his wife, child and job - as the Youngest Ever Lieutenant Colonel in the history of the Air Force! Or maybe he isn't, the records are spotty at best. I tried to get him to take off more time to chauffeur me back up to Maine, promising him even more cliched sick-kid-on-a-roadtrip happenings but he couldn't do it. I know, I know, he's even more selfish than you are for not asking.

This is also what prevented me from posting yesterday, no wifi on either of my trains. They advertised wifi. According to the little logo on the outside of the trains we were supposed to get wifi but to no avail. As a result not only was I inconvenienced (a crime in it's own right) but so were my throngs of readers (almost 5000 views at this point and less then half from me hitting refresh!).

Now for the good news. A double post day! That's right, since yesterday I failed to fill your minds with stories of my valiant battle with cancer... okay, mundane daily activities, today I will give you Double the Jules! You ladies out there know what I'm talkin about.

So stay tuned. Same Cancer Time. Same Cancer Channel.

Calling Warren Zevon

After polishing off a perfectly rare 24oz ribeye steak last night at The Palm (thank you, Lovely Girlfriend's expense account!) I excused myself from the table. I took a moment to take in the famous caricatures covering the walls, many from when they opened in 1926, checked out the private upstairs dinning room and used the men's room.

When I returned, My Lovely Girlfriend and our Feisty Chicago Insurance Adjuster (in town on business and able to join us for dinner) were sending the waiter away. He was taking the dessert menu with him. I assumed they had chosen something for the table to split. Instead I was informed that they didn't want dessert!

They sited the calorie count. I just ate a pound and a half of steak! Does anyone really think a dietary argument will work on me at this point? 3000 calories for the carrot cake. Okay, I hadn't planned on sharing but I'm now willing to if it means we still get dessert. They would not budge.

As I launched into a diatribe of how un-American it would be to leave this Cathedral to Juicy Red Meat (I've always considered myself a bit of a Cathedral to Juicy Red Meat) without the perfect finishing move to make our large intestines tap-out an army of waiters surrounded me. Happy Birthday to You filled the air. A hefty slice of NY Cheesecake plopped down in front of me with a candle in it.

It was not my birthday. Not for another four months. The problem, as my Lovely Girlfriend pointed out, is there is no appropriate song for Hodgkin's Lymphoma. There isn't even an appropriate song for a benign tumor.

This is were the late, great, Warren Zevon comes in. Cancer needs a Composer. Warren's 'Keep Me in Your Heart for a While' is one of the most heartfelt good-bye songs of all time. Until it was hi-jacked by that annoying boob Seth Rogen in one of the most incorrectly titled movies of all time - Funny People. After two plus hours I would have settled for just One Funny Person but it never happened.

As much as I love that song, it is a swan song. I'm looking for a Cancer Anthem that squarely puts a boot up cancer's ass. This would be a job for Toby Keith if cancer posed a threat to his First Amendment right to pen awful songs. I've been noodling a couple of tunes in my head but I'm no songwriter. Here's my best effort. *Sung to the tune of You Say It's Your Birthday.

You say you've got Cancer
I've got Cancer to ya
We're gonna have a good time.

Weak, I know. Like I said, Cancer needs a Composer.

History in a Glass

Pop quiz - What does Jules Vincent have in common with George Washington, Butch & Sundance, Teddy Roosevelt and Albert Anastasia?

No, no, besides the magnetic charisma and an innate ability to lead men.

Still no answer? Okay, I'll give it to you. All of us have had, at one time or another, an adult beverage under the roofs of the historic buildings of NYC. I doubt George Washington stopped to considered the Fraunces Tavern on Pearl St as significant at the time. As, I'm sure, Teddy Roosevelt didn't care if The Paris Cafe would ever wind up on the Federal Registry of Historic Buildings. That's what makes it so special. These spots weren't a publicity stop, they were the regular haunts of famous - and very often infamous - men.

Historic Drinking is my favorite thing to do in NYC. Any city really. I've always hunted down the oldest pubs, restaurants and hotels with the express objective of consuming a cocktail there. Kind of like time travel with a buzz on. See how George McFly survived Biff with a rye whiskey old fashioned in your hand.

That is what makes my current trip to New York so difficult. I CAN'T DRINK! I've cheated a bit. Nursing a beer while sucking down glass after glass of water. Taking a baby sip from two fingers of beautifully brown bourbon in the perfect rocks glass. Watching the bartenders mixing elegant concoctions and dreaming of having "one of those" as my next one that I know will never come.

It's pure torture. Sober as a judge while in some of the best watering holes on the planet. PJ Clarke's, Pete's Tavern and McSorley's are on the schedule today. That means a non-drink with the likes of Frank Sinatra, ee cummings, O. Henry and Richard Harris. Sure, you could slug back a beer in any old alleyway and there's a halfway decent chance that Richard Harris had one there but I doubt there'd be a plaque.

Why not visit a museum instead? That would be the obvious question. In response I say two things. First, would you visit an exhibit of Roman art when you could actually step back into ancient Rome? Second, do you know any museums that let you walk around with a Jim Beam and Ginger?

Seriously, does anyone know of a museum that has cocktail waitresses? I'll go there now.

Welcome Back, Vincent

The NU Hotel, 85 Smith St. Brooklyn, NY 11201. That is were my beautiful and talented
girlfriend got us a free room while she is on her business trip and I am on my Cancer Roadtrip. As a man of modest tastes and meager means (like any good Mainer) this is a SWANK hotel. Metal ice buckets! Over 12 channels on the tv! Clean towels and linens! Metal Ice Buckets!!!

I lived in Brooklyn in 95 and 96 but could never afford the Brooklyn Heights/Carrol Gardens neighborhood that we are now hanging in. I lived in and near by Bensonhurst. Guidoville. The Ribbed Tank-Top Capital of the World. Sausage and Peppers stands for a far as the eye can see. I could go on and on.

And I will! Where Hai Karate is in Hai Demand. Home of the Weeping Jesus Wall Hanging. The original creators of the Madonna/Whore Complex. Where every man is a king and every wife a victim of domestic violence. Okay, okay, not every wife - they're Italians not Irish.

Either way, we had a great night walking around Brooklyn Heights and a fantastic meal at Armando's. We returned to the hotel to catch Donnie Brasco on AMC and that's when it occurred to me (and the ultimate point of this blog posting, finally) wouldn't being a cancer patient be an excellent cover story to infiltrate the Mob?

Depp was Don the Jeweler. I could be Lympho Julio, maybe Jules the Pale. The FBI should be all over this. I'd happily sign up to take on the Greater Bangor mob. Plus, it appears that I'm already qualified to hit the streets. I'm Italian, I love both mob movies and cop movies (so I've got pretty extensive training already) and I've got cancer. My "in" would be an abundance of prescription meds that I'm more than willing to peddle. My cover story would check out as I eventually lost all my hair and could no longer keep down all the canollis.

I would get in so deep with these hardened criminals that I would take on almost all of their characteristics. Except I can't smoke, drink or stay up much past 1130.

I think we just found Marty Scorsese's next hit!