In the interest of speed, click on link below to catch the lastest C.I.B.F on the Patch! Thanks for reading!
http://northandover.patch.com/blog_posts/can-i-be-frank-furniture-follies
-Frank
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Friday, September 23, 2011
Confessions of a Ballroom Dance Fan
Bless me Father for I have sinned….
C.I.B.F. is in the confessional today. I am ashamed. I am embarrassed. I am repentful. And I need to bare my soul.
“My name is Frank and I am a fan of Dancing With The Stars,” (DWTS. for us creepy addicts).
“Hiiiii Frank!”, shrieked the former cast of ‘Queer Eye for the Straight Guy’
The elegance. The grace. The costumes. The pageantry.
I love it all. (Oh God, listen to me! I am sick! Please help me, Lord!)
Where do I begin? Where did it all go wrong? I am afraid I do not have the time or writing space to tell you the full story, but somewhere along this crazy journey of life I have lost my way. For my faithful readers (19 and counting) you know it has been a long road back from being unemployed. If I had to pinpoint when I “lost it” it was probably somewhere during this time period.
So, the DWTS build up has been happening for weeks. The new cast was announced last month and the folks at ABC did not disappoint.
Included in this year’s pseudo-celebrity lineup…
•J.R. Martinez: A War hero turned Soap Opera star.
•Ron Artest: Rage-aholic/Pro basketball player
•Ricki Lake: Washed up talk show host
•Nancy Grace: Soon to be washed up talk show host (yikes, Nancy You are awful…get back to screaming about Casey Anthony and stay away from the dance floor)
•Chynna Phillips: Mrs. William “The Underachieving” Baldwin
•David Arquette: Former Mr. Courtney Cox/Future babbling basketcase
•Elizabetta Canalis: Former girlfriend to George Clooney…no, really, that is all she has ever done.
•Hope Solo: The cute, but intimidating, USA Women’s Olympic Soccer Goalie.
•Kristen Cavallari: The former Laguna Beach and Hills beauty who we love to hate.
•Rob Kardashian: Reality TV co-conspirator and brother to a girl who’s claim to fame is her (insert body part)
•Carson Kressley: The Gayest Man in the Universe
And let’s not forget…
•Chaz “Chastity” Bono: the spawn/son/daughter/she-male/trans-gender mess of 1960s power couple Sonny and Cher
Impressive…I know!
Anyway, now that you know who the players are, I can further my penance.
I made a very conscious effort to avoid the media hype preceding the premier of the show this past Monday. If I saw even a glance of Chaz or Chynna on TV, I quickly changed the channel.
“I am not getting sucked into this depressing, reality massacre comprised of 3rd rate, D-List celebrities living out some pathetic, last ditch effort to claim 15 more minutes of fame. No, no…not this guy,” proclaimed my machismo inner monologue
Famous last words. (of course, if those really were my “last words”, I will have really lived more sad life that the demented dancing rejects?)
Sure enough, Monday arrived and there I sat on my couch eagerly waiting to hear that annoying, squeaky voice of America’s Funniest Home Video front man, Tom Bergeron kick off season 13!
Mrs. C.I.B.F. was teaching a class and would not be home until about half way through the 2-hour season premiere (no worries, DVR had been set for 2 weeks!). So I could not even use the typical ‘guy excuse’ of “My wife was watching it. I wasn’t even paying attention.” Oh no, I was locked in all on my own.
Right out of the gate, I began to examine, criticize and score the performers. I was disgusted with myself. By the time my wife came home I found myself making ridiculously un-manly statements like…
“She has great posture, but heavy feet”
“His lines were beautiful but tempo was way off,”
Are you kidding me?
Why do I know the technical differences between a Cha-Cha, a Viennese Waltz and a Paso Doble?
I loathe myself.
Anyway, I have about 7 Rosaries to say, so I better get going.
Amen.
P.S. God, thank you for dressing those female professional dancers in nothing but dental floss and glitter.
C.I.B.F. is in the confessional today. I am ashamed. I am embarrassed. I am repentful. And I need to bare my soul.
“My name is Frank and I am a fan of Dancing With The Stars,” (DWTS. for us creepy addicts).
“Hiiiii Frank!”, shrieked the former cast of ‘Queer Eye for the Straight Guy’
The elegance. The grace. The costumes. The pageantry.
I love it all. (Oh God, listen to me! I am sick! Please help me, Lord!)
Where do I begin? Where did it all go wrong? I am afraid I do not have the time or writing space to tell you the full story, but somewhere along this crazy journey of life I have lost my way. For my faithful readers (19 and counting) you know it has been a long road back from being unemployed. If I had to pinpoint when I “lost it” it was probably somewhere during this time period.
So, the DWTS build up has been happening for weeks. The new cast was announced last month and the folks at ABC did not disappoint.
Included in this year’s pseudo-celebrity lineup…
•J.R. Martinez: A War hero turned Soap Opera star.
•Ron Artest: Rage-aholic/Pro basketball player
•Ricki Lake: Washed up talk show host
•Nancy Grace: Soon to be washed up talk show host (yikes, Nancy You are awful…get back to screaming about Casey Anthony and stay away from the dance floor)
•Chynna Phillips: Mrs. William “The Underachieving” Baldwin
•David Arquette: Former Mr. Courtney Cox/Future babbling basketcase
•Elizabetta Canalis: Former girlfriend to George Clooney…no, really, that is all she has ever done.
•Hope Solo: The cute, but intimidating, USA Women’s Olympic Soccer Goalie.
•Kristen Cavallari: The former Laguna Beach and Hills beauty who we love to hate.
•Rob Kardashian: Reality TV co-conspirator and brother to a girl who’s claim to fame is her (insert body part)
•Carson Kressley: The Gayest Man in the Universe
And let’s not forget…
•Chaz “Chastity” Bono: the spawn/son/daughter/she-male/trans-gender mess of 1960s power couple Sonny and Cher
Impressive…I know!
Anyway, now that you know who the players are, I can further my penance.
I made a very conscious effort to avoid the media hype preceding the premier of the show this past Monday. If I saw even a glance of Chaz or Chynna on TV, I quickly changed the channel.
“I am not getting sucked into this depressing, reality massacre comprised of 3rd rate, D-List celebrities living out some pathetic, last ditch effort to claim 15 more minutes of fame. No, no…not this guy,” proclaimed my machismo inner monologue
Famous last words. (of course, if those really were my “last words”, I will have really lived more sad life that the demented dancing rejects?)
Sure enough, Monday arrived and there I sat on my couch eagerly waiting to hear that annoying, squeaky voice of America’s Funniest Home Video front man, Tom Bergeron kick off season 13!
Mrs. C.I.B.F. was teaching a class and would not be home until about half way through the 2-hour season premiere (no worries, DVR had been set for 2 weeks!). So I could not even use the typical ‘guy excuse’ of “My wife was watching it. I wasn’t even paying attention.” Oh no, I was locked in all on my own.
Right out of the gate, I began to examine, criticize and score the performers. I was disgusted with myself. By the time my wife came home I found myself making ridiculously un-manly statements like…
“She has great posture, but heavy feet”
“His lines were beautiful but tempo was way off,”
Are you kidding me?
Why do I know the technical differences between a Cha-Cha, a Viennese Waltz and a Paso Doble?
I loathe myself.
Anyway, I have about 7 Rosaries to say, so I better get going.
Amen.
P.S. God, thank you for dressing those female professional dancers in nothing but dental floss and glitter.
Sunday, August 28, 2011
A Never Ending Boy's Night Out?
Welcome back, y’all (for some reason I have been using the word ‘y’all’ lately despite being totally annoyed by this southern slang)! C.I.B.F. has been on a little of a late summer hiatus…just… because.
In any case, I have been pondering a very serious subject but one I have decided to view as a positive and possibly awesome opportunity for me. As many of you know we have a child, our only son Frankie, (yes, there is another Frank!) with autism.
The oldest of our three children Frankie, who is now 8 years old, is severely impacted by this disorder. He is completely non-verbal and faces some intense behavioral and social challenges. Since he was diagnosed at age 2, we knew he had an uphill battle with this very puzzling, incurable and incredibly widespread epidemic that afflicts 1 in every 110 children; making it more common than childhood cancer, juvenile diabetes and pediatric AIDS combined.
Needless to say, it has been a tough road for our family but that is not the moral of today’s story. While we continue to have very high hopes for Frankie’s future, there is a strong reality that we may need to care for him for the duration of our lives. Quite honestly, this possibility is, at the very least, worrisome but today it dawned on me that this situation may just evolve into a cool and fun existence…for me anyway.
Allow me to explain why…
Fathers and Sons, throughout the course of history, have possessed a very unique and almost indefinable bond with one another. Sure, some father-son relationships have been major disappointments (READ: Vito & Sonny/Fredo Corleone (Michael was a genius), George Bush & George W. Bush, Earl & Tiger Woods, and Martin & Charlie Sheen (and that strange Estevez person) but, as a rule, Dads and their Baby Boys are loyal, lifetime friends and confidants. As time rolls on and Frankie grows into a man, I may have an exclusive, and incredibly rare, access to the lifetime pass at a Boy’s Club!
In most “normal” families, fathers knowingly and willingly realize they will need to let go of those Apples of their Eyes. Whether Junior is off to college, decides to move out on his own or enlists in Uncle Sam’s Army, somewhere around the age of 18, he will want to take on this world on their own. Cut the cord. Be his own man. And it needs to be accomplished without the help of dear, old Dad.
For me, that day may never come and it struck me as a possibly perfect scenario!
I am fairly certain that our two daughters will move on with their lives someday. They will leave our nest to spread their wings which is fine (of course, I wish I could keep them under my protective custody forever). Additionally, my wife will surely grow somewhat bored with me and most certainly find my insightful wit less and less funny (actually, it has already happened!) as the years press on. Frankie, however, may just be with us for the long haul and just what the doctor ordered.
So, assuming his life skill abilities progress in a reasonable fashion, I may have an all-star roommate with no lease agreement attached. Think of the possibilities? Imagine being able to live with your college roommate, your best buddy, your wing man…forever (accompanied by your wife’s unconditional consent no less )? Think of the fun.
Once Frankie reaches a relatively adult age (I am thinking 15), I could have a backstage pass to my best pal; 24/7/365.
I can just hear it…
“Hey bud, beautiful day… let’s go golfing…Mom and I will have another anniversary next year! No worries”
“Franko, let’s hit the track and double the money you won on that scratch ticket!”
“Frank, remember, ‘Mum’ is the word (literally and figuratively) when she asks how many beers I had during our fishing weekend.”
And here is the best part? Mom (a.k.a. Mrs. Can I Be Frank?) can not utter a complaint. Not a one. Never. What mother in their right mind could ever complain about her husband spending quality time with there son – whether he has special needs or not!
On top of that, Frank, in all probability, will not be taxed with the burden, er blessing, of a girlfriend or wife. Another win for Dad! Why you ask? Let’s admit to a tried and true fact of life; as much as a boy is committed to his Old Man, the power of a good woman will trump that card; everyday and twice on Sunday. Those are just the rules – which I may have the privilege to break.
As a good friend of mine brilliantly stated, ‘When life hands you lemons…find someone whose life handed them vodka’. A wise outlook if you ask me.
Don’t want to get ahead of myself, but as they say is school, dare to dream.
In closing, break out the bunk beds, Frankie-Boy, cause we may just be roomies for life!
Love ya, buddy!
Dad
In any case, I have been pondering a very serious subject but one I have decided to view as a positive and possibly awesome opportunity for me. As many of you know we have a child, our only son Frankie, (yes, there is another Frank!) with autism.
The oldest of our three children Frankie, who is now 8 years old, is severely impacted by this disorder. He is completely non-verbal and faces some intense behavioral and social challenges. Since he was diagnosed at age 2, we knew he had an uphill battle with this very puzzling, incurable and incredibly widespread epidemic that afflicts 1 in every 110 children; making it more common than childhood cancer, juvenile diabetes and pediatric AIDS combined.
Needless to say, it has been a tough road for our family but that is not the moral of today’s story. While we continue to have very high hopes for Frankie’s future, there is a strong reality that we may need to care for him for the duration of our lives. Quite honestly, this possibility is, at the very least, worrisome but today it dawned on me that this situation may just evolve into a cool and fun existence…for me anyway.
Allow me to explain why…
Fathers and Sons, throughout the course of history, have possessed a very unique and almost indefinable bond with one another. Sure, some father-son relationships have been major disappointments (READ: Vito & Sonny/Fredo Corleone (Michael was a genius), George Bush & George W. Bush, Earl & Tiger Woods, and Martin & Charlie Sheen (and that strange Estevez person) but, as a rule, Dads and their Baby Boys are loyal, lifetime friends and confidants. As time rolls on and Frankie grows into a man, I may have an exclusive, and incredibly rare, access to the lifetime pass at a Boy’s Club!
In most “normal” families, fathers knowingly and willingly realize they will need to let go of those Apples of their Eyes. Whether Junior is off to college, decides to move out on his own or enlists in Uncle Sam’s Army, somewhere around the age of 18, he will want to take on this world on their own. Cut the cord. Be his own man. And it needs to be accomplished without the help of dear, old Dad.
For me, that day may never come and it struck me as a possibly perfect scenario!
I am fairly certain that our two daughters will move on with their lives someday. They will leave our nest to spread their wings which is fine (of course, I wish I could keep them under my protective custody forever). Additionally, my wife will surely grow somewhat bored with me and most certainly find my insightful wit less and less funny (actually, it has already happened!) as the years press on. Frankie, however, may just be with us for the long haul and just what the doctor ordered.
So, assuming his life skill abilities progress in a reasonable fashion, I may have an all-star roommate with no lease agreement attached. Think of the possibilities? Imagine being able to live with your college roommate, your best buddy, your wing man…forever (accompanied by your wife’s unconditional consent no less )? Think of the fun.
Once Frankie reaches a relatively adult age (I am thinking 15), I could have a backstage pass to my best pal; 24/7/365.
I can just hear it…
“Hey bud, beautiful day… let’s go golfing…Mom and I will have another anniversary next year! No worries”
“Franko, let’s hit the track and double the money you won on that scratch ticket!”
“Frank, remember, ‘Mum’ is the word (literally and figuratively) when she asks how many beers I had during our fishing weekend.”
And here is the best part? Mom (a.k.a. Mrs. Can I Be Frank?) can not utter a complaint. Not a one. Never. What mother in their right mind could ever complain about her husband spending quality time with there son – whether he has special needs or not!
On top of that, Frank, in all probability, will not be taxed with the burden, er blessing, of a girlfriend or wife. Another win for Dad! Why you ask? Let’s admit to a tried and true fact of life; as much as a boy is committed to his Old Man, the power of a good woman will trump that card; everyday and twice on Sunday. Those are just the rules – which I may have the privilege to break.
As a good friend of mine brilliantly stated, ‘When life hands you lemons…find someone whose life handed them vodka’. A wise outlook if you ask me.
Don’t want to get ahead of myself, but as they say is school, dare to dream.
In closing, break out the bunk beds, Frankie-Boy, cause we may just be roomies for life!
Love ya, buddy!
Dad
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