Uncategorized – Can I Be Frank & Crew?

REAL MEN: Kid Dynamite

Welcome back to REAL MEN!

It’s been a while since I have penned one of these tributes about a few of the great men I have had the pleasure to know in my life. As you may recall…

What is REAL MEN?

I have only written REAL MEN columns when I really felt a spark and the undeniable affinity and affection for the subject at hand. These gentlemen are Hall of Famers in my book and this one is certainly no exception.

Dean “Kid Dynamite” Emerson!

If you don’t know Dean, he is somewhat of a celebrity in these parts? Dean is a diverse, dynamic, and, well, DYNAMITE guy. The moniker “Kid Dynamite” was bestowed to him during high school years for his athletic prowess (I guess? Haha), but the name has become much much more.

The Dynamite Brand has become a bit of a juggernaut. From sports gambling (COLLECTING!) and golf to fishing and pickleball! (He also breeds, trains and races HOBBY horses! Don’t ask. Story for another time.) Dean has spent more than a decade building this “thing” that has become wildly popular. You can find that famous dynamite logo on hats, shirts, sweatshirts, golf bags, and beyond. There are even some custom-made Dynamite Nike’s out there! If you have not checked it out – please do so and buy some swag! LINK TO SITE

More important and meaningful is the man behind the brand; Good ‘Ol Deano. Smiley, funny, huggable, squeezable, formally great-haired, Deano. And that is the heart of why I write these words.

Dean is truly one of the kindest, genuine, generous, and hilarious individuals I have had the pleasure to call a friend. I’ll start there.

Fifteen years ago I worked closely with him as we made a wholehearted attempt to build and grow the Wicked Irish brand. We hustled T-shirts from Lowell to New York to Chicago to South Bend, Indiana (yes, Notre Dame!). While we had some successes and victories, we passed it along to some more capable hands. Those were great times and when I really got to know Dean. And we had a ball every step of the way.

Notre Dame circa 2010! (*that’s Dean on the left, so you know*)

What I learned was what a man of character (and what A CHARACTER!) Dean is.

Often seen with a big cigar in his chops or a golf club in hand, Dean is a dreamer and a believer. Dean is an optimist and a glass-is-half-full type to the extreme. He believes in hard work, commitment, and passion. Passion is all facets of his life. Passion for his family and friends, passion for causes, passion for life. And Dean’s passion is what has made many of those dreams come true.

Did you know Dean has been a PROFESSIONAL golf Caddy for many years now? He has walked alongside and carried the bag for the game’s elite. He has walked the hallowed grounds of Augusta National at The Masters. He has been in locker rooms with golf’s greatest. He has been the right-hand man in the front row as young, budding amateurs became Champions achieving their dreams. You can’t tell me Dean’s energy and spirit didn’t inspire and lift them up in their biggest professional moments? Not a coincidence.

Dean has made a once sketch-pad-logo into a legitimate and ‘cool’ lifestyle company. The Dynamite Brand is here to stay and it is all fueled by Dean’s fervor and never-quit attitude.

I think the greatest part of it all is that EVERYONE roots for Dean and his success. People are fans of Dean and wish him well at every turn of his journey. In a world filled with jealousy and envy, Dean has managed to be beyond that. Why, you ask? Humility. Plain and simple. Chapter and verse.

Like all of us, Dean has had difficult trials and tribulations in his life. Some dark and dreary days when it was difficult for him to see the light at the end of that tunnel, but he certainly has. Through grit, determination, discipline, and sacrifice. Just celebrating his 21^st year of sobriety, Dean’s story is one we can all relate to, get on board with, and stand behind.

Dean will likely be embarrassed about reading these words about himself, but they are all very true and very real.

DYNAMITE husband. DYNAMITE father. DYNAMITE friend. DYNAMITE entrepreneur.

DYNAMITE HUMAN.

REAL MEN.

#collecting

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Not-So-Super Bowl Memory: Chest Pain

Well, well, well…. here we are again!

The New England Patriots are back in the Super Bowl again, and it feels so good! With just a few short years since the Brady/Belichick Dynasty, we have a new regime in Foxboro. Welcome Coach Vrabel and Drake Maye – the new Pats Dynasty officially will commence on Sunday! Good luck, boys!

But I am not looking to discuss this future phenomenon of a football organization. I am not looking to review the 20 years of glory led by Tom “I have No Skin in the Game” Brady and Bill “Cradle Robbing” Belichick. Nope, I am here today to review my least favorite Patriots Super Bowl; the 1996/7 Team that faced the Green Bay Packers in Super Bowl XXXI (that’s 31for you kids that will never learn or need Roman Numerals).

January 26, 1997, New Orleans, Louisiana

This Patriots team was commanded of legendary Bill Parcells and our Golden Boy Quarterback of the 1990s, Drew Bledsoe. The Pats we clear underdogs and it showed from the get-go. Brett Favre and Company were heavy favorites, but we were not going to let that stand in the way of us.

But the game was not the storyline of the day…

You see, I was a senior in college during that Super Bowl run. I was living in a triple-decker tenement in Worcester with seven (4 Patriots fans, a Phillie degenerate, 2 Long Island nerds, and a human bottle of maple syrup from Vermont) my best college bros. It was a wonderful time to be alive! Each and every Sunday of that season we hunkered down in that squirrel-infested shithole and watched every play of every game, into the playoffs and magically into the SBXXI!

As the big game approached, we all agreed we needed to go big time with our game day party plan. Go big or go home! We had every type of cuisine on speed dial (because clearly none of us could cook anything! I’m not sure we have an oven in the dwelling?). As the sun rose that glorious morning, we were “pumped and jacked”, to quote former Patriots Head Coach/Hype-Man, Pete Carroll.

And this is where the story begins…

As we rolled through the morning, the excitement was palpable! We were gonna have an epic watch party and do this thing right, despite the desperate realization we could not win this game. Alas, it did not deter our spirits.

At approximately 1000 Hours Woosta Time, one of the Long Islanders – who was an Art Student – proposed what he thought was a great idea…

“Hey, why don’t you tough guy Patriots Fans paint your chests like you were at the game?!”

“F%$& you, you losah!” was our collective knee jerk reaction.

Wildly inappropriate verbal barbs (that are no longer acceptable in this sensitive, crybaby culture we live in) ensued. Until finally we broke under the foolish peer pressure. The next thing you know, four 21-year-old men allowed a fledging doodler to apply (what I later learned was a toxic brand) paint to our bare chests. Real men of genius! Approximately one hour later, we each brandished the New England Patriots logo across our pasty white torsos. We were all in and, in a very childish way, proud of this “badge of honor”.

It was now 12:00PM and we needed to get some stuff done. And by “stuff” I meant buy a keg for the game. And so, myself and my City of Brotherly love buddy headed out (after putting on a shirt – I wasn’t that much of an idiot.

This mission took not even an hour, and we returned with the magnificent vat of cold brew. LFG! By that time, my fellow chest branders had also put on some cover ups. After all the game was still 5+ hours away.

The revelry began. We tapped the keg and we were off to the races! The beers were flowing like wine (Dumb and Dumber tribute there). And as the clock to kickoff continued to wind down, I felt a massive sense of discomfort. Around 3PM, this once-a-good-idea paint experiment was started to trouble my cheap Irish skin. On the down low, I whispered to my co-chest cohort,

“Hey, is this paint bothering you guys?

Each very quickly replied with a definitive “No”.

“Oh, OK. It’s a little itchy, but I’ll muscle through.”

I could not bear the thought of the non-New Englanders making fun of me.

Time marched on. The casual itchiness soon turned to downright discomfort. But I would not break. I ducked into the bathroom to take a peek. Oh man…. this doesn’t look good. Red and irritated, I was not going to bend.

At last kickoff was here. It was time for us to show off Pats Patriotism.

As I tore off my covering, my skin looked like I was in an outpatient program from the Shriner’s burn center. It was not pretty. As I looked to my compadres, the laughter began. What I quickly realized was that they were ALL irritated by the poison paint. They had removed during the time I was generously pick up our frothy libations! I suffered for five and a half hours alone. Like a sucker.

I raced to the shower and scraped that lacquer from my person as fast as you can say jack rabbit. But the damage was done. Disaster. It took days of creams, ointments, lotions and potions to get back to normal. Thanks a lot, friends.

Oh, and to make it all worse, Green Bay Packers 35, Patriots 21.

Needless to say, there will be no chest paint come this Sunday…. just my face.

GO PATS!!!

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Irrational Fear: SHARK ATTACKS

In honor of JAWS 50th anniversary (June 20, 1975) here is a throwback

(Originally published August 1, 2013)

With the onset of Shark Week, I have opened a new series in the Can I be Frank? tales; Irrational Fears. We all have fears in life. Some are founded, others are completely ridiculous. I realized that I have many of what I am calling, irrational fears.

An irrational fear, by my definition, is the fear of something – be it a person, animal, object, activity, or geography – that is likely to be perfectly safe and unlikely to cause any bodily harm.

First on my agenda of these fears is the ultimate adversary to mankind. Of course, I am referring to sharks. All shapes, all sizes.

Here are just a few “real” facts on shark attacks from the liars at National Geographic…

· 93% of shark attacks from 1580 to 2010 worldwide were on males.

Find out what’s happening in North Andoverfor free with the latest updates from Patch.

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· In 2010, North American Waters had 42% of all confirmed unprovoked attacks worldwide (32 attacks).

· 2010 was the most dangerous year for unprovoked shark attacks in a decade with 79.

· Since 1907, 201 out 220 Great White Attacks have occurred when the human was less than 6ft from the surface.

And my favorite…

· You have and a 1 in 3,700,000 chance of being killed by a shark during your lifetime.

Oh, I so beg to differ, N-Geo.

Based on the extensive research I have performed, which includes watching JAWS, Finding NEMO and (foolishly) going to the beach, I am confident in revising these fraudulent statistics printed by “one of the largest nonprofit scientific and educational institutions in the world.” Hogwash.

Let me get your attention. My research leads me to believe the odds of being attacked and eaten by a shark in Massachusetts are, actually, 1 in 4.

Sobering, isn’t it?

Don’t believe me? Need more evidence? Fine. Let’s start with the most factual testimony ever produced about shark attacks; the 1975 cinematic masterpiece, JAWS. Most people believe that JAWS was simply filmed by Steven Spielberg (who, unbeknownst to most, is an international shark expert) as entertainment for movie-goers. Wrong. Dead wrong if I must use a bad pun. JAWS was a non-fictional narrative of what happens every single day on the waters off of the scenic Massachusetts shores. Sharks are there. Sharks are waiting to eat you.

The quacks over at CNN actual proclaim there was only ONE shark attack in Massa-CHEW-setts during 2012! Yeah, and I have a bridge I want to sell you (maybe the Bourne Bridge, a.k.a., “America’s Gateway to Sharkland).

In just over TWO HOURS of the JAWS documentary, we witnessed SEVEN shark attacks, SIX of which were FATAL! And for the three main characters: Brody, Hooper and Quint? One dead and two attacked. Plus, add insult to (fatal) injury, Quint was the greatest shark hunter in the world. In. The. World. And how did he ultimately die? Exactly.

Am I starting to get through to you people?

These hard and true facts are what lead me to my conclusion; a shark attack is likely going to happen to each and every one of us over the course of our lifetime (I would actually contend it will happen during a 1 week vacation to Cape Cod, but I have not concluded this segment of study).

There is an old adage that there are only two certainties in life; death and taxes.

I would revise this statement to read “death BY SHARK and taxes”.

Deep breath.

Despite my findings, the ‘main stream media’ would argue that you have a better chance of dying by being struck by lightning, catching the flu or simply taking a bad fall. These “statistics” should prompt me to pause, step back, think and lean on modern research and science to relieve me of my fear of these ruthless, blood-thirsty destroyers of man. Yes, that is what I should do. I just can’t.

Don’t say you have not been warned.

As shark attack escapee, Martin Brody so eloquently stated, “We’re gonna need a bigger boat.” I would advise you to skip the bigger boat, skip the beach, and certainly skip entering the treacherous ocean waters. Just stay home. Life is too short.

ENJOY SHARK WEEK! I’ll be under the covers.

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A Letter to Frankie: Commencement of another kind

Dear Frankie,

Happy Birthday, bud! 22! Hard to believe!

We are so proud of you as you move on to the next exciting chapter of your life. While most parents of children your age are watching them cross the stage of their college graduation, we have the privilege of watching you transition to adulthood in a different way…but equally awesome.

I know you appreciate so many people, Frank, but I will do the honor of pointing them out for you.

First, thank you to your sisters, Elizabeth and Maura, for being the most patient, loving, and soulful humans you could ask for. Words cannot capture the amount of gratitude and admiration Mom and I have for these two. What a blessing you were granted when they came into your world. We love you so much, girls.

Thank you to our family and friends for all you have done over the years. It takes a village, for certain, and you have been a great one for Frankie.

Thank you to all the amazing teachers, paraprofessionals, administrators, coaches, doctors, caregivers, and peers (you know who you are) for the incredible support you have kindly provided our son over the past two decades. Frankie’s journey has been a long and hard one at times, but he has taught our family so much.

And now, Frankie, congratulations to YOU on your “graduation.” Well deserved, my boy.

And onto the next. Moving forward. The next adventure begins for you.

Happy birthday, pal. I love you.

-Dad

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The Obituary of Pee Wee Herman

Herman, Pee Wee, 70

Beloved entertainer, tuxedo model, purported serial sicko, Pee Wee Herman has passed away from complications from an apparent bicycle accident. Authorities have ruled out foul play.

Best known for his incredibly insane behavior Pee Wee Herman was last seen alive at a Level 3 Sex Offender rodeo in El Paso, Texas this past Saturday. The long-time tuxedo and bow tie touting Herman was in several feature films including Pee Wee’s Big Adventure and Big Top Pee Wee. He also was the lead weirdo in the non-award winning television series titled Pee Wee’s Playhouse where he could be spotted every Saturday morning screaming at his came-to-life furniture and singing showtunes with (a then unknown) Laurence Fishburne.

Famous for his wildly odd style, stage-ready makeup and odd voice, Herman was a terribly lonely and haunted individual, but a beloved entertainer. Many of Herman’s former co-stars and friends have commented on his passing…

“Pee Wee was misunderstood. Sure, he was a very mentally ill human, but he was my greatest customer and friend,” stated a very distraught Mario, owner of Mario’s Magic Shop.

Neighbor and bath-taker/chubby thief, Francis Buxton, is deeply grieving his departed friend and rival. “I always thought I would go before Pee Wee,” the portly, pasty gum-chewing Buxton wrote in a prepared statement. “I’ll never forgive myself for stealing his prized bicycle nearly 40 years ago. It will haunt me until I reach my own non-shallow grave.”

Herman’s lifelong companion, Dottie, assistant manager of Chuck’s Bike-o-Rama, (who predeceased him when she mysteriously died from a horn blowing incident in 2011) loved her Pee Wee. As etched on her tombstone, ‘See you on the other side Pee Wee. You were a loner and a rebel, but you were mine.”

Estranged hitch-hiking supporter, “Large Marge” was reached by phone for comment. “The last time I saw Pee Wee was at that roadside diner so many years ago when he got out of my tractor trailer. Tell the Lord Large Marge sent you, Pee Wee. Rest easy.”

Herman loved magic, tomfoolery, fashion but his lifelong passion was to his bicycle. When the prized bike was stolen in 1985 Herman traveled the country in pursuit of his famous two-wheeled form of conveyance. While Herman and his bicycle were eventually reunited it would become a total and complete compulsion. Herman vanished from main stream society in 1999 after a scandal involving a transsexual dwarf prostitute, a large supply methamphetamine and nearly 1,000 yards of red licorice in a Las Vegas brothel.

Herman leaves no family behind except for his longtime friends Clocky and Chairy who both miraculously escaped from the famed PlayHouse Fire of 1990.

Private services will be held and Herman will lie-in-state in the basement of The Alamo in San Antonio, TX on Friday, August 4 from 2:00PM-8:00PM.

In lieu of flowers, Mr. Herman’s next of kin, his dog Speck, has asked that donations be made to “The Amazing Larry Foundation”, a non-profit organization with the mission of ending furniture molestation in America.

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REAL MEN: OPA! THE GREEKS!

Oh the Greeks. Been surrounded by them my entire life. Lowell Massachusetts is basically Athens West. Met a million in my life, friends with so many. Beyond the likes of local Greek legends Demoulas, Behrakis, Leonis that have each made undeniable contributions to the world through their grit, hard work, determination and generosity, there is also a subset of All-Star Greeks that have made a big difference in MY world.

These are their stories. (insert Law and Order intro)

Oh wait. Hold please. Need to spend a couple minutes on the Greek women.

Oh, those raven-haired vixens dominated the thoughts of this pre-pubescent boy. Those high-hair-sprayed, bushy browed, lip-wax-needing teens spawn of the Mediterranean were my kryptonite in the early 1990s. You were my Achilles Heel….only slightly farther north of my heel. (I mean my heart, you sickos)

I would have worked in their family diners if offered the opportunity.

Made Spinach Pie my favorite kind of pie even though the real answer was Key Lime.

Named our first born son “Spanikopita” if asked (or just called him Paul, George, Nick, Chris or Jimmy like the rest of them)

I even took a girl named “Sue Flaki” out a few times; but, alas, it was fleeting like the ships that Helen of Troy launched.

I tried, ladies, but my Trojan Horse of a plan was not meant to be.

Any hoo.

On to the men.

Here is a brief rundown of some of the great Sons of Sparta I have had the pleasure of knowing (Yes, 3 Pauls and a George)

Paul Diamantopoulos

“Diama!” Paul is literally a chiseled Greek God in real time. I think he came out of the womb and went to straight to the gym instead of breast feeding. As a young man, Paul was a wild man. True badass, wiseass street kind of kid You wanted to be on Paul’s good side. But, Paul is actually a sweet marshmallow of a guy – just don’t tell anyone or he’ll kill me. Hair like Sampson, built like Hercules, Paul evolved from a quasi-punk to an absolute Hall of Famer across the board- football player, husband, father and a friend to all. Glad I have been able to call him my friend more than 30 years. Not a bad fisherman too, I hear.

Paul Grillakis

Only met Paul in recent years, this guy is one of the most unique and balanced humans I have ever encountered. Introduced to him by a mutual friend, I had an instantaneous bond with Paul. Paul fought a profound battle with cancer a few years back – one that doctors assured him would be a short war that he would not win. But, guess what, he had the last laugh and living his best life with his wife and grown children. While watching my Dad fight his own cancer battle, Paul was an amazing and encouraging resource to me. He gave a perspective that only someone who went through the hell of that disease can provide. Just an overall genuine, kind, tough spirit. The best.

George Yfantopulos

George has been a guiding force in my life for a long time. He has been a mentor, advisor and true friend to me for more than than 25 years. For whatever reason the Gods placed me in George’s company in some of my darkest of hours and he has always been the perfect companion in those moments of sadness, struggle and suffering. George is incredibly loyal, honest, and true to the core. George is a like Shepard to so many. Always shouldering the burden for the common good of the flock (or ‘squad‘ as he would put it). Generous and humble. A good man. Can’t pay higher praise.

Paul Davidopoulos

At lastly, BIL (Brother-In-Law) Paul. Paul is an electric dynamo of a man. Paul makes you smile with his energy, enthusiasm and wild spirit. Paul gets the party started and keeps it going. Paul led a hard life as a younger man. Eternally loyal son, he had a hard road growing up. Working his (albeit chubby, stubby) fingers to the bone to help his survive as a younger man, Paul battled and overcame some personal demons. I am very proud of him, his grit and determination to be better. I’m proud to call him ‘brother’. He is a wonderful husband and father. Paul is awesome.

You seeing the theme here? Lot of good Greeks out there; the above are some of the best that I could happily describe to you in further detail, but I don’t think anyone wants to read The Irish Iliad.

“Life is short, the art long.”
– Hippocrates

REAL MEN.