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Nikki M. Mascali
My beloved Pop-Pop was named Saverio. He was 100 percent Sicilian, and I absolutely loved spending time with him. His parents were from Palermo, Sicily, and he used to say that when I graduated from high school, he would take my mother (his daughter) and I to the “mother land.”
Sadly, he died when I was 13, so that trip never happened. Instead, I was left with a million pictures and memories of our short time together. I really do miss him every day and know that when I finally do set foot on the land his parents Margherita and Vincenzo came from, he’ll be there with me.
I am so proud of my Sicilian — and on my father’s side, Italian — heritage. I love hearing stories Mom tells me about him and his life in Newark, N.J., before he moved to NEPA way back when. I especially love hearing about how he was with my brother and I, his only grandchildren.
One of my favorite anecdotes: In my grandparents' huge yard was a gloriously beautiful tree my brother and I constantly climbed — though we were told explicitly not to do so. One day, I fell out of it and banged myself up pretty good. Pop-Pop immediately ran over and comforted me. Ten minutes later, he cut the tree down.
(There are two photos that remain of this tree, one with my brother and I in it and one without. Honestly, the yard never looked the same again.)
I never realized how in touch with my roots I wasn’t until I worked on this week’s cover story about St. Ubaldo Day’s Festa dei Ceri in Jessup (read it here: http://www.theweekender.com/cover/A_tale_of_two_cities_05-19-2009.html).
From beginning my research to sitting in the living room of Carole Coccodrilli, the public relations chair for the St. Ubaldo Society, to hearing her speak of past Festas and how connected she is to her roots in Gubbio, Italy while we sat among her many artifacts and photos to when we clinked a glass of Limoncello, my heart broke a little.
It broke because while proud of who I am and who I came from, I don’t really celebrate that heritage as much as I should, like the people of Jessup so vigorously will this weekend.
I don’t know a whole lot about my great-grandparents. I’ve never seen the land they came from. I’ve not been in contact with any of Pop-Pop’s family “from Jersey.” As much as I wish I did, I don’t speak the language, as Coccodrilli so deliciously does. So can I really say that I honor my family’s past?
At the Weekender, we write so many stories a year on just about every topic you can imagine. Sure, some are more enjoyable to write than others, but every so often, you come across one that moves you immensely.
For me, this week’s cover story did just that — and then some. I can’t wait to attend the Festa dei Ceri Saturday and then begin looking into my heritage.
It’s never too late.
I’ve loved Snoop Dogg and his smooth voice since 1993’s “Doggystyle.” Mr. D-O-double G and Cypress Hill are the only rap outfits I can tolerate. The Dogg just seems like he’d be fun to hang with: He’s funny, seems like an honest-to-goodness pimp, and I think he’s absolutely adorable.
Take, for example, the video I saw last night for his “Sensual Seduction” on MTV2. I love the campy way it begins, with smoke and its ’70s-esque flair. (What can I say; I’m a sucker for camp).
But the best part, by far, is the fact that Snoop plays a keytar — and not enough damn people in this world respect the keytar.
Enjoy.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pKz-RXSeIYA
While reading the new Rolling Stone — with Green Day on the cover — I came across a brilliant ad for Zippo.
It says “The number of lighters in the air. How America’s rock idols should be chosen,” and shows a crowd of people at a concert clamoring around a hand raising a bad-ass Zippo with a skull and pentagram.
Hell yeah!
It’s no secret I love rock music — classic, metal, ’80s hair. I love it all, and I love it loud.
This Zippo ad hit home because I remember going to rock concerts and raising my very own Zippo or Bic to “Every Rose Has Its Thorn” or “Something to Believe In” or “Fly to the Angels” and feeling camaraderie with my fellow Poison or Slaughter fans. To prove that, I have a burn scar on one of my fingers from holding the flame too long when I saw Poison in Hershey in 1991 and the lighter exploded.
Those were the days before everyone and their mother (except my Mom, of course) had cell phones, which now get thrust into the air at concerts instead of lighters. It was a time when you watched and listened to the music and all you took home was your ringing ears, maybe a T-shirt and a few pictures from the camera you smuggled in.
It wasn’t the days where people Twittered live (which I will totally do at my next concert when I get a compatible phone, by the way), or took their own videos they immediately put up on YouTube.
It was a time more innocent. It was a time more rock ’n’ roll because it was about the rock ’n’ roll and not the latest gadget. There’s just something about seeing a sea of orangey-yellow flames and hearing everyone sing in unison that you just don’t get from the white screen of a phone in the air.
Thanks Zippo, for reminding me about this 13-year-old girl’s concert war wound. I can’t wait to get another. Now excuse me, I have a devil horn to throw and a tongue to stick out.
I realized long ago that when Oprah speaks, people will maniacally listen. I honestly believe that if she told her viewers to put a gun to their heads and pull the trigger, at least half of them would do it.
The proof is in the chicken, as given in this week’s KFC/KGC business. (For those not in the know, the brand is really pushing its new Kentucky Grilled Chicken now, or KGC, and got President Oprah involved).
The print-out-the-coupon-get-the-free-grilled-chicken meal became an instant sensation — so big that KFC had to rescind the offer. The company came up with a rain check plan that I find kind of confusing, especially because company president Roger Eaton wrote “…we can no longer redeem the free coupon at this time. But we will honor our commitment to giving you a free Kentucky Grilled Chicken meal.”
Huh?
Whatever the hell Mr. Eaton means, of course I had printed out a coupon just like every other person in the country. Knowing I could no longer redeem it, I still headed to KGC as I’ve been calling it to help start the name-change trend today. What can I say? I’ve got a soft spot for any man sporting a pointy beard like the Colonel.
Though nothing can replace the 11-herbs-and-spices goodness of the fried version, the grilled really was damn good. I felt like I was being naughty on my diet when it really wasn’t that bad for it. And I honestly adore those damn mashed potatoes.
I wish KGC well, Mr. Eaton. I think this whole shebang was good for your brand. I look forward to getting my rain check in the mail so I can come back again, and that time maybe treat myself to one of those chocolate pudding cup things I so loved as a kid.
While I may not have Oprah’s Queen of the Free World status — yet — I would like to ask you to add grilled boneless chicken strips to your menu fast … but maybe not unveil them with Oprah’s help.
I’ve always been fond of Hall & Oates’ music. “Rich Girl.” “Maneater.” “Kiss on My List.” “Private Eyes.” “I Can’t Go for That (No Can Do).” Etc. They’re all so damn catchy!
As I was exercising this morning, I treated myself to a little VH1 Classic, which can always be counted one for some great videos to start your day off right.
Today was no exception.
A live version of one of my favorites from Daryl and John — “Rich Girl” — came on. (I may or may not have squealed.) It’s from 1985 and mon dieu it is delicious!
I honestly don’t remember Daryl having such a lion-like mane or being this much of a … is there a nice way to say douchebag? I mean, the way he flounced around trying to set the song up (via an annoying way that included warbly “girl-irl-irl-irl” as he shook said mane. How about just playing the damn song? Honestly.)
I would like you to pay close attention to the way that hair just bounces. It’s like a bobblehead or something.
Other notable moments in the video include a few outstanding glimpses of G.E. Smith (formerly of “… and the Saturday Night Live Band” fame, currently of Moonalice). He even stands next to Oates as they do a guitar flourish at the end. Outstanding.
The star, though, clearly is Daryl. How could he not be?
About the Author
Nikki M. Mascali interned at the Weekender in 2005 and is proud to have been the paper’s oldest intern. She became the staff writer/designer in 2006 while still obtaining her journalism degree from Luzerne County Community College, which she received in 2007.
Nikki has written about a variety of topics, from a local dominatrix to Larry the Cable to Soulja Boy, Slash and Shinedown — and everything in between. She represents the “she” view for the “He Said/She Said” with Eric Petersen of Froggy 101.3 in the paper and on air at 5 p.m. every other Wednesday. She also attends the monthly KRZ Spotlight Lounge for photographs and exclusive interviews with artists like Plain White T’s, Matt Nathanson and Hinder. See her every Monday on the Weekender homepage in the Weekly Dose video with Editor Michael Lello.
Nikki has a never-ending love for Twitter (follow her at www.twitter.com/nikkimm33), Steve McQueen and Gerard Butler movies, “It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia” and eating, hence the reason she’s our food writer. She thanks you for reading her blog because she’s that kind of girl.