The Jackpot Question

To be fair, Jersey isn't all evil. Nor are my parents. Well, maybe half and half. For one thing, I joined a nearby gym through the end of October. They literally play three songs: that cute little Eminem ditty about lighting his girlfriend/wife on fire and her solo about liking it; the techno ballad featuring a young fellow whose girlfriend has gone away for the night and he's oh so lonely, and the piece de resistance, the one about a nightclub that's terrifically naughty and where upon entering people go wild almost immediately and tear off all their clothes at night. I don't know the name of them, but I do know that last one is pretty similar to what goes on around Chez Parental Unit. First it's some dinner.

Recently my dad has taken to sitting on a large rubber ball at the table. Unfortunately, while sitting on it, his head barely grazes the table and he must stretch his arms up and out to reach the table to cut meat and generally to eat and see the television (Jeopardy!). It would be funny if it wasn't so pathetic, since he now has chronic pain, nearly constant.

No. Wait. It's still funny.

At 7:30 there is pure silence, because after all it's the Jackpot Question. If I'm not spent, it's onto a little House Hunters with my mom. How many episodes are there? Millions? There's the original, there's Property Virgins, and there's the International version. In fact, while visiting B. in Bay Ridge (the beautiful, elegant B., I might add), and perusing the pad she shares with her husband, I found myself falling into House Hunters speak. "I love the open concept, and I love the crown molding, and the fact that he has his man-cave and you have your more airy work space. The windows are large and I like the flow. What I'm wondering about is the lobby and the proximity to a park and the train."

After say 4 hours of House Hunters, chatting with MLAM/Some Guy and Aggy pets, there's sleep. And that's my big night in Jersey.

But wait, there is another potential suitor: Dom from the gym. He waltzed over, introduced himself. He's about 65-70 years old. He asked me some basic stats including my profession, to which he responded, "Me? I'm bi-polar!" He giggled and walked back to his other petite Italian friends who were all wearing...tanktops and you guess it, that necklace! The little, sperm squiggle to keep away the evil eye. The Corno! No, they weren't, but they should have been, because they are amazing:

http://www.ehow.com/about_5033817_italian-horn_.html