I took 5-Year Old Daughter to the local town Halloween parade this afternoon. [9-Year Old was away at a birthday party at the Silverball Pinball Museum in Asbury Park. The Zombie Walk was also on tap for the Asbury Park boardwalk. I was wishing I was there.] After the parade, I watched some football. It is the clearest evidence yet that Fall has arrived. Time for thick sweaters, all-day pots of hot coffee and roast beef sandwiches. I love the change of the season and don’t know how those who live in a uni-climate can stand it.

The suburbs have their Autumnal charms; the colorful leaves, the fragrance of burning leaves in the air, the hay rides and Fall festivals. New York City is lacking any of these natural beauties, but there’s definitely a feeling of change in the air when Autumn arrives. Theater activity is picking up. [A play written by and starring Jesse Esienberg last week and Love’s Labor’s Lost at The Public this week.] I’ve posted this video for the past couple of years. Billie Holiday really captures the essence of walking through town on those shorter days and cooler nights.

I did a big photo-dump of my iPhone and found a bunch of food shots taken over the summer. I had intended to provide my usual droll commentary for each but never got around to it. Does that happen to you? Do you have a big backlog of material that never actually makes it to Publish Post? I think I throw away more than I post. Lucky for you.

Summer is synonymous with eating scrumptious dishes that might not necessarily be in my best interest from a health and wellness standpoint. I should be more mindful of what I put in my body since I have very young children and need to be around for a few more decades. It doesn’t help that I bought our healthcare plan from some guy in the Times Square subway station who was selling policies off a card table. But I simply CANNOT HELP MYSELF when faced with these masterpieces of culinary artistic endeavor. These hard/bad choices are almost exclusively related to our annual trip to Cleveland. Make of that what you will.

It’s probably because it’s what I was raised on, but I feel there’s no better pizza than what’s served on the great North Coast of Ohio. The style of crust in Cleveland is thicker than the weak, thin-crust variety served on the eastern seaboard, but it’s not nearly as thick as Chicago deep dish pizza. Like it’s place on the map, Cleveland crust is somewhere between the two.

This is the supreme-ninja-grandmaster-combo of all time; pepperoni, anchovies and onions. I’ll bet you’re having trouble breathing right now, aren’t you? Back in New Jersey I am surrounded by the IRISH, who apparently have a broad cultural disdain for the delicioso tiny, salty fish, so the only time I ever actually GET an anchovy pie is in Cleveland amongst my Italian brethren. You can’t have everything. The Italians are lousy playwrights.

For years, I have been writing ad nauseam about my bro-in-law’s ribs. Their miraculous quality. The soulful essence that billows up from the grill when he lifts the lid. They have a narcotic, almost addictive quality. This past summer’s batch were, as always, perfection and grace. It’s October and I’m still having dreams about these beauties.

There was a new item on the menu this summer. He served homemade baked beans. He MADE them! I always assumed baked beans came from a can. I didn’t know you could actually make the damn things from scratch. Boy, did they taste better than the ones that come dribbling out of a can. They looked more enticing, too. Just out of camera range: a bottle of Dortmunder Gold from the Great Lakes Brewing Company. Viva!

If I’m clutching a big fist full of Clevo ribs, that can only mean one thing; the marinara sauce is only a day or two away. I know the “old-world recipe handed down through the generations” is a tired, worn-out cliché, but that’s exactly what you’re looking at here, folks. It migrated over from Calabria, through Ellis Island to Cleveland, then to my grandmother, then mother and now sister. That’s how it’s done! One of my nieces had better learn how to make this. There’ll be a pop quiz one day.

No, I didn’t arrange the sausage and meatballs on my plate like that intentionally. I didn’t even notice it until just now. What would Freud say?

Mom’s parents immigrated from Italy but Dad’s parents immigrated from Poland. Growing up, we weren’t as steeped in Polish cuisine as we were Italian, but I still have a soft spot on my palate for it. The perogies that come off of Grandma Ski’s Polish Food truck at the Cuyahoga County Fair are pretty much an exact replica of the ones that Grandma P used to make. As a child, I didn’t have a great affinity for them and turned my nose up. But now, I gladly pay good money for something that was once free.

Take a look at “Grandma Ski.” It looks like Grandma Ski can set up a little side business as an arc welder or mob enforcer.

After your big, heavy County Fair perogie orgy, for desert you can treat yourself to one of these:

Or not. New taste sensation, indeed.

For the past year, I’ve written a monthly column over at the Undie Press on collecting rare books. Specifically, I tried to convey why certain authors got under my skin and how I obtained some of the more rare pieces in my library. The quality of the column was uneven but overall I am pleased with the results. Having a monthly column taught me that a deadline can suck all the joy out of writing.

This month will be my final column. Undie Press is moving towards more traditional long-form publishing (as opposed to monthly bits and bites). Also, I’ve pretty much exhausted the subject of egomaniacally prattling on about my books.

Explicit warning: This last column contains nudity and sexual situations. Hence, it is one of my best. I’m glad to go out on a high note. Bukowski’s Admirers is about how literary fame changed an alcoholic, pock-marked Charles Bukowski into an object of desire.

Many thanks to Tim Hall, Undie Press editor and publisher extraordinaire, for the opportunity.

I stumbled across this post from back in 2008 when I first opened this space and since most everyone reading today wasn’t around back then (and since I have NOTHING to write about right now), I thought I’d rerun it. I’d forgotten all about it and it gave me a chuckle.

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You can’t see it in the photo, but he had quills running all down his chest and legs and some in his back, as well. He had to be anesthetized in order to have them removed and is sleeping it off behind the sofa. C.’s bank account is $400 lighter for the trouble (x 6 = $2,400). Oh, Buddy. Stop chasing porcupines. They’ll always come out on top.

“Daddy, I don’t want to go to school anymore. They tease me.”

It has come to light that my little 5-year old peanut of a daughter is being teased in kindergarten. At recess, she walks around the playground by herself. Kindergartners who have older siblings are taught early on how to stick the knife in. 9-Year Old Daughter has sailed through school without any of this nonsense, so this is new to me. Something biological kicks in when you discover your child is being picked on. A chemical reaction. It has fostered a swelling of anger in me that I’ve never experienced before.

Every class has one kid who is singled out and relentlessly hammered by everyone else. I had a bit of a problem with being picked on back in Eastpark Elementary School, but it was nothing as compared to what happened to poor Joy Keck. You didn’t want to get near Joy or you would get “Joy Keck germs.” Her torment continued straight through Midpark High. I don’t recall her having one friend. I’d love to report that after high school, Joy gave Cleveland the middle finger and is now a successful cardiologist with homes in Beverly Hills and Geneva. But the truth is she committed suicide.

My greatest fear is that if we don’t get a handle on this, it’ll snowball and there’ll be no end to it. She’ll end up with the same low self-esteem her father is plagued with.