Short and sweet.  A man needs a cave, a sanctuary, a domain, a shelter, a space of his own.  If he requires an area of the house that can be adorned with tacky posters and sports memorabilia, let him have it.  If all he wants is a lower-level clubhouse with a big screen television and a fine selection of recliners for him and his friends, then let it happen.  If he’s pining for a basement bar that never closes and library of Sports Illustrated back issues, grant him this particular life license.  You have the rest of the house.  The bathroom can smell of lavender.  Just don’t get upset if the basement smells like last night’s pizza.  The kitchen can be influenced by Martha Stewart, Rachel Ray and Paula Dean.  Don’t get upset if the downstairs is influenced by Mo, Larry and Curly.  The living room can be all Ethan-Allen.  But if the downstairs is Mark Allen’s old leather couch and chair that he was going to pitch, let it go.  Right now, my entire house is considered a MAN CAVE, but I know that change is coming.  Walls will be painted and rooms will be changed and I can guarantee that on more than one occasion I’ll reach into a dish of potpourri and eat what I’ve mistaken for a tasty trail mix.  So be it.  But the basement will remain mine.  I will take the flag of my gender and stick it deep into the worn carpeting of that room and shout, “I claim this land for ESPN!”  And, uh…I’ll try to remember to use a coaster.

A nice little survey came out that says ladies are more attracted to the guy with the nice car as opposed to the guy with the “junker” or a car not as luxury-minded.  Seems a bit shallow, but it explains a few things. Now I know why dating life was limited in high school. My rusted out 1967 Pontiac Catalina wasn’t making the grade.  In college I had a Chevy Nova.  That just screamed future success story, didn’t it?  Just out of college I made an impulse purchase and bought a loaded Ford Thunderbird with black, leather bucket seats, and as I recall had no problem getting a date.  Had to dump the T-Bird when money got tight, but the Chevy Cavalier sure was an estrogen magnet- that repelled! I’ll let YOU decide how things have fared romantically since then with these vehicles: Plymouth Horizon.  Isuzu I-Mark. A 2-seater Nissan.  A Mazda 323. A  Chrysler 300.  And currently a Lincoln Zephyr that’s due for trade-in with my eye on an Audi.  You can almost put the puzzle together when you accompany THAT list with the LIFE list.  Marriage.  Divorce. Private Investigator career.  Stand-up career.  14 years in radio.  Gonna be 50 in April.  But at this point in life it doesn’t matter.  I’d like to think I have a woman who loves me for ME and not the CAR.  Though to be perfectly honest the “car” probably has a better warranty.

     On today’s show we discussed the phenomenon of TWITTER, the latest in online over-socialization.  Our producer, Stewie is a big fan.  Shawn, who recently got herself signed up on Facebook (and is thinking twice about it) is on the bubble, and me of course could not think of anything more annoying to a part of.

     I’m okay with e-mails.  I’ve learned to adjust to text messaging (since no one really wants to troubled with “talking”).  And I am trying to do this blog on a regular basis in an attempt to share thoughts and ideas.  I’m a private person by nature and granted I’m not in the most private of professions.  That being said, what you hear, read, and at times see is plenty.  I don’t feel the need to share every little detail of my life as it unfolds.  If something significant in occurs, I’ll call you or talk about it on the radio.  I won’t be “twittering” anytime soon, but in the spirit of “the tweet” here is some of the mundane things that will occur today that you really don’t need to know about.

11:00  Hey, I left work.  11:15  I’m home!  11:30  Making a sandwich.  Do you think Miracle Whip is just as good as mayo?  12:00  I’m reading!  12:30  Still reading! 1:00 Yup…still reading.  1:30  Now, I’m writing.  And I’m doing it on a TYPEWRITER!  2:30  Playing poker!  3:45  Just won A HUGE POT!  6:00pm  Taking a shower.  Might shave.  7p.m  Dinner. 9p.m.  Gonna watch LOST.  10p.m.  Oh, look I’m reading again!  11:30p.m.  Falling asleep now.  Wonder if I’ll dream about TWITTER?

     Now, c’mon.  Is your life any more enriched for knowing ANY of the above? Maybe I shouldn’t ask a question I really don’t want an answer to.

     Like most men this week and weekend, I was transfixed in front of many televisions with a sheeet of paper in my hand, experiencing moments of victory and frustrating defeat.  Bracketology ruled the day (actually days) from Thursday till Sunday.  It seems like my brackets began to crumble at the same time the Buckeyes did.  I’m no longer in contention for winning  the pool at work, so there goes $115, I’ll never see.  But now the pressure is off and I can just watch for the sheer enjoyment of the sport, which also means when my girlfriend speaks to me, I’ll be able to respond with more than a grunt or a “what, I didn’t hear you.”  I don’t know if anyone has done a study, but I’m sure that quality communication between the sexes suffers immensly during the 1st and 2nd rounds of the NCAA Tournament.  Guess I better get a good chat in before the Sweet Sixteen.

Today on the show Shawn had tips on how not to be so much of a geek and the warning signs that you may actually NEED the tips.  I think, in respects to me, we were able to ring the “affirmative bell” on 90% of the items mentioned.  And you know what- I’m fine with that.  I’m not going to apologize for the 3000 DVDs, and the countless number of books that are all over the house.  I’m not going to explain why the antique cupboards in my house that are supposed to hold fine china instead maintain a slew of collectibles and memorabilia.  And I’m not going to try and justify why I have no less than 15 manual typewriters in my office.  Also, 9 different sets of poker chips, 3 poker tables, a trunk bulging with comic books, and a Wollensack reel-to-reel tape recorder.  The list can go on, and on, and on but that kind of never-ending chatter about one’s prized possessions is kind of “geeky” don’t you think?

Hopefully, you won’t be in state of slurring where you actually DO mumble the title of today’s entry.  Celebrating St.Patty’s Day in the middle of the week is tough, but I couldn’t hop on board the “early weekend festivities that various bars and restaurants were pushing on us.  I’m a traditionalist.  At some point throughout the day I’ll meet with friends and follow through with all of my “Must Do’s” on March 17th.  The whiskey of choice will be Jameson’s.  The beer will be either a Guiness or a Harps.  Food throughout the day will consist of an Irish Stew and some corn beef- but no cabbage.  And maybe (if it’s late) one of those “on-the grill-too-long” hotdogs at a local Speedway. Before the sun rises on the 18th, I’ll watch John Wayne in THE QUIET MAN, my favorite St. Patty’s Day movie and after that I’ll weep into a big bowl of Lucky Charms while listening repeatedly to Bing Crosby singing O’ Danny Boy.  Don’t you love the holidays? 

BRACKETOLOGY- the science of NCAA brackets.  When men become sport mathematicians, analysts and on-the-couch coaches.  When regular life, as you ladies may know it, disappears until April 6.  Ladies, you can fight it or you can join in the “madness.”  I suggest the latter.  Fill out a bracket.  Follow along.  It doesn’t matter how or who you pick.  You will endear yourself to your man by simply “getting into the game.” You will bond.  You will experience the joy of the “high five.”  You will consume deep-fried foods of an unhealthy nature and not worry about the dietary consequences.  You will also be able to “bank” this time and use it as a reminder when there is something of importance you want “us” to be a part of.  We may balk initially, but we’ll remember how patient you were with us during this exciting time in college sports and return the gesture.  On the flip side of the coin, if you’re a woman who loves the NCAA Tourney as much as your man, the point is “moot.”  Break out the dips, the beers, the chicken wings, the nachos, the Pepto-Bismol and the Alka-Seltzer.  I believe that “quality time” you’ve been craving is just around the corner.  But hey- that’s me.  I’m a romantic. 

Monday.  The show and the usual “can’t sleep on Sunday night.”  Then home to work on my holiday book, THE 25 DAYS OF CHRISTMAS COCKTAILING. (more on that in later blogs).  Then comes the poker shopping for the Monday Night Poker Game.  The 13 year Monday Night Tradition continues.  In bed by 1a.m. Back to work at 4:30a.m

Tuesday.  The morning show. Haircut at noon.  Thought about going to the gym, but even that process was exhausting.  Early to bed?  No.  Blue Jackets game.  They beat Boston.  Can’t go right home after that exciting win. Need to celebrate.  So, I’ll sleep in a little.  I’ll get up at 4a.m. instead of 3:30a.m.

Wednesday.  Back to (yawn) work.  (Note the yawn is fatigue not complacency about the show)  A nap after the show?  No. Wednesday is afternoon “gaming” with the guys from the Italian Club.  A light supper and then early to bed, right?  No.  A bourbon tasting at The Columbus Athletic Club that evening, followed up with a the montly Mid Ohio Filmmaker’s Assoc. mixer at BOMA.  Home by 12:30a.m.  I zip through American Idol on my DVR and enjoy those 2 hours of sleep before…

Thursday.  Work.  Then meetings at work.  Then home just in time to pick up my godson, Gino from school because his parents are having some work conflicts and “Uncle Dino” is the “go to guy.”  An afternoon of Sponge Bob and kettle corn.  Gino gets picked up at 5:30, and I hit the shower to get ready for hosting the show at The Funny Bone.  Dom Irrera headlines and 75 members from The Columbus Italian Club come out to see the show, so it’s not a “straight home after the show” situation.  Home by 11:30 and believe it or not, I can’t sleep.  Work on the book a little and then doze off around 2a.m.  And then…

Friday.  Back to work.  Fun show.  Concert announcement. Earth, Wind and Fire teaming up with Chicago again.  Cool.  Comedian buddy, Greg Warren hawks his new Comedy Central special.  Bethany Frankel from BRAVO’S REAL HOUSEWIVES OF NYC, hawks her new book.  Just one commercial free hour away from the weekend and then real sleep.  Well, after lunch at the Italian Club (garlic shrimp and lasagna) and the basketball Bucks at 2:30 this afternoon in the Big Ten Tourney, more work on the book, dinner and apologies to my girlfriend for not being around enough this week.  That alone (the apologies) should gobble up most of the weekend.  And how was your week?

     In my life and times the debate could rage on as to what the greatest invention has been in the last 50 years.  Those who can’t live without their cell phones and Blackberrys might pledge allegiance to those “stay-in-way-too-much-touch” devices.  Of course the laptop computer which I am writing on would have to be considered as well.  But for me, a child of television, the greatest invention should be one that enhances one’s life and if possible, simplify it as well.  Which is way I say- “God bless the DVR!”

       Some of you may have hopped on board early with a TIVO, but since the DVR has come into my life, that part of my day that is consumed with ridiculous amounts of television viewing has been streamlined, organized and in the long run has probably extended itself in hours viewed.  Ah, but now they are “quality” hours.

     How can you NOT love a machine that allows you to zip through 2 hours of American Idol in 35 minutes; zipping past the cheesy background stories and the glassy-eyed comments of Paula Abdul.  How can you not give thanks to a device that allows you to go straight to the weigh-in on The Biggest Loser?  How can you not bond with an electronic buddy that lets you skip Safe Auto commercials so you can see how THE MENTALIST figured out another puzzler of a crime?  Not to mention the ability to pause, fast forward, rewind, save, archive, program and plan ahead!  I can actually tell it to record all things  Al PACINO, and it will!  What other recent invention has been created that caters to your every whim and fancy of television?  Not since my mother put a T.V. tray in front of me with a T.V. dinner on it and said “Now you can watch and eat” has there been a rekindling in the level of anticipation I have when I sit down in front of my behemoth of a television.  Like a king looking out on his kingdom, wrapped in my robe and slippers, with my DVR remote as my sceptor, I sometimes find myself exclaiming  “I am Lord and Master of my television domain!  I watch, when I want to watch and decide WHAT I want to watch and how much of it!” 

     I now have (2) DVR’s and both of them are bulging with no less than 80 hours of recorded programming saved on each.  It would more than likely require an extended illness or loss of job to ever truly get through that much programming.  But I refuse to delete because the cable gods have given me the promise of convenience and will allow me to keep the last episode of LAS VEGAS as long as I want to.  That’s right…I decide when that series is over.  My girlfriend thinks I have a problem, and she’s right.  I don’t have a DVR in the bedroom.

     Today, March 9 is BARBIE’S 50th birthday.  I too, will be celebrating my 50th birthday in April.  Coincidence?  I don’t think so.  The similarities are just too uncanny.

     The first BARBIE was created in 1959 and cost $3.  I was born in 1959 and the cost of my delivery was $3.50 as I was born in the backseat of my father’s Chrysler.  The $3.50 was the cost of many bags of McDonald’s french fries that my mother craved throughout her entire pregnancy- and yes, McDonald’s was around then.  To this day my mother can’t pass those golden arches without a sympathy contraction.

     Barbie met Ken in 1961 and after an on-again-off-again relationship they married in 2004.  In 1965, I was promised to Valerie Meningitis, in what was supposed to be an arranged marriage later in my romantic life.  After dodging the marital bullet till 2004, an ethnic version of a shotgun wedding was in the works, which I also successfully avoided by “faking my own death.”  My real name is not Dino Tripodis.  It’s George Pancreatitis, and I have no fear of exposing myself after all these years because no one in my family knows what a “blog” is.

     Through the years, Barbie has had many careers and so have I.  In some ways we have paralled one another vocationally and not so much in others.  For example, I’ve never been a flight attendant, but by the same token, Barbie never sold and distributed fake Rolex watches.  However, we both have experienced success as high fashion models.

     Barbie had a dream house.  I lost a dream house in my divorce.  Barbie had a cool corvette.  I’ve ridden in one.  Yes, as I stated earlier, the similarities are uncanny.  Would I have preferred to have born the same year as G.I. Joe rather than Barbie?  Maybe.  But who am I too argue when fate decides to put man and doll on the same journey through life and time.  Happy Birthday, Barbie.  Sorry I missed the party and the toy cake, but I’m sure it was…uh, plastic.