Be it ever so humble...

So, I'm walking through the living room to get to the kitchen when Mom shoots me a dirty look and shouts, "Hey!"

I look at her confused -- I'm not blocking the TV and I'm wearing pants. What grievous infraction have I committed now?

Apparently, I was walking "too loud."

I was barefoot and weight 97 lbs.

Yeah.

Something tells me I'm gonna miss all this real soon...

Balsamic, Bugs and Bodyslams

Yesterday was a good day -- quality time shopping and lunching with my sister. $21 and a handful of change at Forever XXI = two dresses, two pairs of super cute underwear, a skirt and an incredibly cozy sweater. Gotta love the summer sales. For lunch, we headed to Buca di Beppo. The balsamic vinegar there is divine. I should have stolen a bottle so I could bring it home and splash it over some strawberries and basil (if you've never had this, you're missing out. It's delicious!)

Today was a better day -- The Boyfriend became an uncle again and my parents and sister finally got their green card! After fifteen years, they're finally on their way to citizenship. As for me? Uhh...I'll get back to you on that.

In other news, I'm fairly sure that God is sending a plague of creepy crawlies into my life. A couple of days ago, I found a scorpion (!!) in my room and yesterday, Mom found a snake hiding behind the TV. I feel like I'm living in the Bug House exhibit at the Science Museum

Random nonsense aside, there was something I wanted to discuss.

Earlier this week, professional wrestler Chris Benoit, his wife Nancy and their seven-year-old son Daniel were found dead in Benoit's Atlanta home.

I'm not a wrestling fan in the classic sense of the word. I've never been to a live event, I don't own any paraphernalia nor do I subscribe doggedly to the notion that it's really real and that the Undertaker has risen from the dead countless times. But, I've been watching pro-wrestling since its golden era in the 80s and although I don't really watch it anymore and couldn't tell you who hold what title or which two wrestlers are currently embroiled in a bitter rivalry, I like to keep an ear out for backstage rumblings.

The initial news came as a shock and when it was discovered that Benoit had strangled his wife, smothered his son and hanged himself -- I was completely dumbfounded.

Chris Benoit was a workhorse. A quiet man with very little of the bravado, bluster and magnetic flair associated with most pro-wrestlers, Benoit got into the ring, he did his job and then, disappeared backstage. Reticent and boring, yes, but a cold-blooded killer? That's something that I can't wrap my mind around.

I keep trying to figure it out -- what would drive a man to commit such an ungodly act? There are no justifications, no rhyme, no reason. Just conjecture.

'Roid Rage (or steroid withdrawal, for that matter) coupled with the stress of working for the WWE (the near Spartan brutality the wrestlers put their bodies through night after night, the exhausting travel schedule, months away from family), strained family relations and a history of cranial damage (one of Benoit's signature moves was a swan dive -- essentially, a headbutt executed from the top rope of the ring) may have pushed Benoit to his snapping point.

Does any of this excuse the carnage enacted on the Benoit family? No. Of course not, but it may provide a window into Chris Benoit's madness and hopefully, this tragedy will serve as a catalyst for the WWE to look into their absolutely deplorable policy regarding the abuse of anabolic steroids.

Steroid abuse has been a part of the pro-wrestling industry for years. Not only do steroids allow wrestlers to bulk up to Hulk-like proportions, but also give them the edge they need to maintain the company's exhausting tour schedule. In 1994, Vince McMahon (head honcho of the WWE) was put on trial for allegedly distributing steroids to his talent. Although McMahon was exonerated of all charges and swore to put a comprehensive drug-testing plan into effect, steroid abuse runs rampant within the company to this day and the company, horrifically enough, allows it.

Roided-up wrestlers have a bigger, more imposing physique which always plays well in the gladiator games of pro-wrestling. Steroids help them deal with the grind of working house show after house show for 200+ days a year, thus bringing in the ducats for the corporation.

But at what point does the health of an individual become more important than profit margins? In the past decade, dozens of pro-wrestlers have died due to steroid-related cardiac problems -- Eddie Guerrero, British Bulldog Davie Boy Smith, Miss Elizabeth and Mr. Perfect Curt Henning to name a few -- what does it take and how many more have to die before the WWE realizes what a heavy toll this lifestyle is taking on its employees, both physically and psychologically?

Will this tragedy bring about a change? Sadly, I doubt it will, but here's to hoping I'm wrong.

Happy Father's Day

This is my dad (the one on the right. Not the one rocking the idiotic sunglasses. That would be me).

I've never called him 'Dad', though. He's always been Papa. I think that suits him better.

He's funny, but thinks he's funnier than he actually is. He comes up with absolutely crap idea for movies. He embellishes the most ridiculous details. He's a complete smart-ass and because he's married to my mom, has the war wounds to prove it. He's infuriatingly stubborn and equally infuriatingly endearing. He'll never ask for directions, he hurls abuses at the television while watching sports and his sense of spontaneity and adventure are parallel only to his sense of humor.

All in all, he's a good man. The kind of guy you could count on in a pinch. The kind of guy you could knock back a couple of beers with. The kind of guy who will engage you in a passionate debate and not once cross that line into 'pompous jackass' territory. The kind of guy who believes in you like you want to believe in yourself.

The kind of guy who was born to be a dad...or in this case, a papa.

So, to Paps on Father's Day -- thanks for being a good guy and setting the bar so high. I'm lucky to know you and luckier still to be your daughter...but Walthamstow is still a completely crap idea. Really.

Why I love hip hop

Tupac Shakur's When We Ride On Our Enemies features the lyric:

I murder you then I run a train on Mobb Deep!

The very next line is:

Don't fuck with me/Nigga, you barely livin'/Don't you got sickle cell?

Now, the bit about running a train doesn't affect me in the least, but that line about sickle cell? It's like, "Tupac, come on. Was that really necessary? That was kinda harsh, dude."

I couldn't find a streaming version of When We Ride On Our Enemies, so the musical selection of the day is my sister's "jam" -- Changes.

Enjoy!

What? No fuckin' catharsis?!

It's not TV. It's HBO a complete mindfuck.

I've been "miffled" for a while now. Don't get me wrong, I appreciated the first half of the season and actually really enjoyed the Vito storyline. Homosexuality in the mafia is something that hasn't really been explored by the media and it was interesting to see a realistic portrayal as well as Chase's take on it. But the second half of the season with the bizarre Vegas episode (and I'm usually a fan of the more surreal episodes of the show) and Chris' completely anticlimactic death were staggering disappointments. Christopher Moltisanti -- the man who committed the first murder on the show, the man who signed the death warrant for his own fiancee, the man who was going to hell for Tony Soprano -- deserved a warrior's death. Not a cold, merciful snuffing out.

In Sopranoland, people die in a hailstorm of bullets. They are suffocated, garroted and beaten to death. But, Sopranoland exists in the realm of reality and in reality -- car crashes claim lives as well. Sometimes, the Reaper appears down the barrel of a nine, but more often than not -- he pulls alongside you at 70 mph. I should have seen Chris' death as foreshadowing for the finale. Death can be violent and gloriously cinematic but it can also be understated and entirely realistic.

I gasped alongside the millions last night when the screen cut to black and immediately blamed a technological error. When I saw the credits roll, I stared at the screen incredulously -- "That's it? Six fucking years and that's it?!"

But, given a little time to ruminate, I've actually come to the conclusion that the finale was perfect. Did I want to see a blaze of bullets and bloodshed? Sure -- I take the same macabre glee in it as the rest of the country does, but if Chase gave in to our blood lust, it just wouldn't be the same.

The Sopranos has never belonged to the collective conscience. It's always been David Chase's show. He doesn't care what the audience wants. He does what he does and if you like it, great. If not, fuck you (New Jersey to the very core).

The last five minutes of the show gave the audience the most crystalline peek into Tony Soprano's life to date. The man is wrought with constant paranoia. The Members-Only Jacket guy headed into the bathroom -- is he going to come out brandishing a gun like Michael Corleone in The Godfather? What about those two black guys who just walked in? Are they coming for me? Meadow outside trying in vain to parallel park -- is someone going to come up to the window and slam a bullet in her brain because she's my kid?

No wonder the guy needed therapy.

No resolution, no catharsis and no heart-stopping climax. In the words of the immortal Steve Perry:

Some will win, some will lose
Some were born to sing the blues
Oh, the movie never ends
It goes on and on and on and on.

It goes on and on, but unfortunately -- we don't get to peer into the fishbowl anymore.

P.S. -- My theory on the finale? Chase was just gonna snow globe the whole thing -- Tony Soprano would be nothing more than a figment from the imagination of a comatose Kevin Finnerty. Thank God I don't write for the show.

These rocks don't lose their shape/Oh, diamonds are a girl's best friend

That is a Tiffany's Lucida engagement ring. It's platinum with a one carat diamond and costs more than my life is worth (possessions and all).

And about four hours ago, Dan's mom and I were oohing-and-ahhing over just how pretty it sat on my left hand.

Oh, that's not good. That's not good at all.