I was lucky enough to experience many family drive-in nights as a kid back in the 70s.  Tracy and I would throw on our comfiest PJs, hop in the car with my parents and head off to the local drive-in (usually Ledgewood) to catch the latest flick on the big (really big) outdoor screen.

My two favorite things about drive-in night were:  #1.  the play area, where we’d play on swings, slides and the see-saw before the movie started (Dad had this thing about arriving really early to grab the perfect space, and to make sure the speaker wasn’t a dud), and #2.  intermission, a chance to spend dad’s hard earned cash on overpriced soda, popcorn, pepperoni pizza and ice cream. The movie was more of an afterthought for Tracy and me – drive-in night was about being our silly selves, making fun of the actors, and stuffing our faces with candy and greasy junk food.

ENJOY THIS INTERMISSION TREAT:

I fondly recall the intermission ads, touting sparkling cold beverages, piping hot coffee, Slim Jims and what the announcer called “delicious chocolate-coated candy bars”, cigarettes and a variety of tasty treats (nutritious hot dogs, they bragged).  Goodies sure to clog up the arteries of every family member.

(ITALIAN LESSON:  she devil = diavolessa)

Seeing The Exorcist drive-in style remains a vivid memory for me.  I was flying solo in the back seat that night, mom and dad figured I’d fall asleep soon after the late show started.  Not me! I popped my curious eleven year old head up in between theirs and watched the entire gory enchilada!  I think it took a few nights (weeks!) to get that freaky image of Linda Blair’s famous head spin out of my head.  To me, The Exorcist is one of the best horror flicks ever, which I religiously (pun intended) watch at least once a year.  It continues to deliver the creeps for a day or two after, and I think that’s part of its charm.

Regan and Captain Howdy say get yer arse back to the home of MADNESS before their head’s spin!  www.MadnessMomandMe.com

Most parents have a ridiculous threat they keep in their pocket to throw out when they want to keep their kids in line.   My mom had one which shut me up pretty quickly, because the thought of being away from my quirky family (insanity and all) made my knees knock together in terror.  Also, how the heck could I ever live without mom’s lasagna?

Her threat?   HELGA MUNSON!

This is the beaut I pictured playing the role of Helga.  Mom’s actual threat was that schoolmistress Helga Munson would come to our house to collect me, and take my sorry little talking-back ass to Camp Marymount reform school!

(ITALIAN LESSON:  Threaten (speak threats) = minacciare a voce)

Of course, Helga and Camp Marymount are fictional, but this trick of mom’s worked like a charm (I think she even had my dad involved in her Marymount scam a couple times).

Word to the wise:  if you have kids, be sure think up a few reusable threats today. This way, you’ll be ready to toss one out to your brats at a moment’s notice!

 HELGA SAYS: “Get back to the home of madness now at www.MadnessMomandMe.com !”

 I just found out that my ninety one year old Nan got a tad pissed off at my two cousins yesterday.  Nan cursed the hell out of them (said she’d f*cking kill them is they mess with her) and yeah, she wanted to cut them THREE ways: long, deep and repeatedly! Why? Because once you hit ninety, you have the right to get pissed off whenever you feel like it, do you need a reason?

(ITALIAN LESSON: swear/cuss/curse word = parolaccia) 

What really ticked nan off was the discovery of my cousins touching her personal piles of paper “stuff” (paperstuff, mind you, that’s been accumulating mold and mildew in old stinky cardboard boxes for at least three decades, but to my nan, this old crap is as important as it was back in the early seventies).

Today I called my loony lovable mom to fill her in on her mom’s recent cursing and knife-wielding spree. Her reply?
“Well, I guess it’s never too late to start swearing.”  

True ma — and I’m thankful nan doesn’t have her own Italian heater!

“It’s not a gang, it’s a club”  Gilda Radnor used to say in her SNL skits about New York street gangs.  Oops, I mean clubs.  I’ve heard that phrase  over the years  from my brother Paco (well, he calls his club a Nation).    

Paco claims he doesn’t get into much trouble, but I often see R.I.P. splashed across his myspace page when a King brother or sister falls, usually from a bullet or stabbing courtesy of a rival club, but to keep this on the lighter side, I’ll share this story about Paco, my mom and Andrew Jackson.

A few years ago, Paco stopped by mom’s house, threw five crumpled up twenties on the kitchen counter and asked, “Yo ma, can you to iron up some ’funny money’ for me, and sh!t?” 

(ITALIAN LESSON:  Counterfeit = contraffatto)

So, there mom is ironing out the additional wrinkles in Andrew Jackson’s face, while browning the garlic for one of her perfect vats of tomato sauce.  Yup, just a typical day with the Romano’s – always something different, and mom always had a hard time saying no to her baby Paco.

Mission accomplished. Did mom keep any Jacksons? No. Paco offered up a couple as a thank you, but mom replied with “are you out of your friggin’ mind?”

Crazy indeed, head back home for more insanity www.MadnessMomandMe.com

Here’s a funny story, no wait – it’s funny to me now, but it really wasn’t all that funny a few decades ago when I was a stoned teen about to have my brain jostled around for an entire afternoon!  Here’s what happened:   I was about fifteen, it was a beautiful warm and sunny Saturday in Dover …  my friends and I were hanging out doing what many of us little punks did back in the late seventies – smoking a joint.  No harm done, right? I mean I never got into anything heavier, so the whole “gateway” drug stuff seems like total B.S. to me.

There I am with my friends having a good time, talking, laughing and most likely stuffing our faces with a zillion Doritos, and along comes a dark blue Chevy Impala.  Damn! You see, this Chevy happened to have my dad behind the wheel, and his passengers included mom and my cousin Tracy.  They were on a mission: to find me, get my ass in the car and head to Bertrand’s Island Amusement Park for the day.  HOLY SH!T!

(ITALIAN LESSON: amusement park =  parco dei divertimenti or luna park)

Bertrand’s Island was usually a thrill for me, but going to an amusement park high was not on my agenda that day.  I almost tossed my Doritos on The Tilt-a-Whirl, my brains got scrambled on The Scrambler, and flying around on that huge old rickety roller coaster – geez, what a nightmare!

That night when we arrived home, I swear I was the happiest kid in town, and my little stoner secret stayed with me – until now.

Why couldn’t Dom turn the car around THAT day? Oh well, head back to the home of Madness here: www.MadnessMomandMe.com.

MADONNA MIA! I could just go on and on, so let me gather up some snippets to share and I’ll be back with more decades of true-life lunacy.

If you have a weak bladder, pop on your trusty Depends and hang on for the ride!

Crazy or not, head back to the HOME PAGE here: www.MadnessMomandme.com

ITALIAN LESSON: Guest of honor = ospite d’onore)
 

I had a humble upbringing. I wouldn’t say we were poor, even though dinner often consisted of one vegetable, usually beans, and a slice of buttered white bread, the kind that never seemed to go stale. But if the Middle Class were a train, my family would have been clinging for dear life off the back of the caboose.

All this is by way of introduction to what my mother did, so many years ago, on a rare occasion when we actually had dessert. A neighbor, who was several train cars ahead of us in the economy, dropped off a freshly baked pumpkin pie and a can of some new-fangled cream in a can called Reddi Wip.

Mom wanted the pie to last a while, so she cut out one-inch slivers for each of us and handed the can of Reddi Wip to my father, who shook the can furiously for several minutes before sputtering foamy cream all over his slice until it disappeared. My brother did likewise, followed by me and my sister. Finally, the can was passed to my Mom, who dutifully upended it and pressed the nozzle, only to hear not a cream-filled sputter, but an airy Pffft.

The can was empty.

At first I thought she was going to scream. Then I thought she was going to cry, her expressions changing by the second. Finally, a look of calm determination came across her face. She slowly pushed back her chair and went to the kitchen doorway, where we had a wall-mounted can opener. She upended the can, inserted it into the can opener, pressed down on the lever, and started to give the crank a turn.

And the rest is history.

I’ve seen a lot of I Love Lucy shows and know how wonderful Lucille Ball was at “comedy takes,” but I think for one brief moment my mother was her equal as she stood there, covered from chest to forehead in whipped cream.

About our guest author: Len Boswell was born in a hospital that has since been torn down, and grew up in a house that has since changed its number, on a street that has since changed its name. Everywhere around him his life seems to be erasing itself. Before the erasure is complete, he spends his time on both sides of the publishing equation, managing a small press by day and writing whenever possible. He is still wary of Reddi Wip.

Pfffft! Read more and head on back to Madness home page: www.madnessmomandme.com  

After trying to call my mom for a couple days (she couldn’t speak on the phone, because she was out of Parliaments, and you know, you MUST HAVE a smoke to engage in any phone chats.)  Friends? Screw ’em! Family? Nope – let the whole friggin’ world wait – mom needs her smokes!

When I finally get ma Romano on the phone, the first words which spilled out of her mouth were about how old and decrepit she is -or should I say FEELS (really makes me want to b!tch slap my own mom, because  she’s still in her sixties for Christ’s sake)!  She finishes by saying that after careful consideration, the only part worthy of her approval are  — her feet.  Peggy’s perfectly plump little piggies passed her wrinkle test, for whatever that’s worth.

Good for mom – maybe one day I’ll bronze them.   As for me, I inherited my dad’s feet.  Not as pretty & plump as mom’s, and I’m OK with that.

(ITALIAN LESSON: Feet= piede)

Head to toe, you can go back home here: www.madnessmomandme.com  

FUHGETTABOUTIT! Head back home here: www.madnessmomandme.com  

I got your MADNESS FEED right here, pal! http://madnessmomandme.com/feed /

Catching a cold is the body’s way of telling you to take it slow and chill out for a few days, because it’s ALL about them.  Colds remind me of spoiled rotten brats, and they like to show up with their entire entourage: body aches, snotty noses, fever, chills and chest congestion  — sometimes the whole damn brat-pack pays you a visit.

(ITALIAN LESSON – Fever = febbre)

Now my Sicilian grandmother (Nonna in Italian) often covered me from head-to-toe with raw pototoes (an “old world cure”), but in our household Vicks Vaporub was the ticket.  “Noooooooooooooooo, not the VICKS, dad!”  I’d shout out when Dad came to my room with that funky little blue jar in hand, ready to rub its pungent menthol-scented goop onto my chest as he tucked me in for the night.  Now that part I loved, but what came next was the WORST!  Dad would take an extra dollop of Vicks goop, smear his finger in it and rub it SMACK DAB under my nose! It was like the “Dirty Sanchez” of cold and flu season!

How I wish dad were here to give me his infamous “Vicks Vapo Smear” these days, but whenever I’m down and out with a bad cold (like last week) I consider it a gift to give myself a good ol’ smear, as it offers up some of my fondest memories shared with my dad.

I love you Dad, and I miss you beyond words.

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