Spare Parts

I met Dan Brown yesterday! More accurately, Dan Brown briefly acknowledged me with a warm hello on his way in to visit with our company’s CEO and others. For those of you not in the know, allow me. Dan Brown is the internationally best-selling, critically acclaimed, publicly adored, often criticized author of the amazing (or not, depending on your views) books, “The Da Vinci Code” and “Angels & Demons”, among others. *Note: If your only foray into Dan Brown’s world stems from your trip to the cinema to watch Ron Howard’s poorly adapted versions of the books, then you are missing the cruise liner and stuck on the balsa riding the rough, high seas. Meaning? You absolutely lose the passion and detail of the books when all is laid out on film. Back track Why did Dan Brown’s Da Vinci Code garner such passionate feelings from both positive and negative? Well, the FICTIONAL tale is controversial. The story centers around one professor of symbology ( <-

Y ou know the theme as soon as you hear it: Ta-da-da-da-daaa *snap snap* Ta-da-da-da-daaa… In the moment the light’s dim in the theater, the stage transforms. It goes from dark curtained platform to New York City’s tenements in the 1950s. A group of young men fill the stage in a precisely choreographed streetwise ballet to illustrate growing frustrations in their neighborhood. Tensions are rising between two gangs, the American Jets and the Puerto Rican Sharks. So begins the Broadway revival of the much beloved musical, “West Side Story”. The story’s core is Shakespeare’s “Romeo and Juliet,” but the outc ome here is all New York. The rival gangs lay claim to the streets in their neighborhood. It is 1957, so you can toss your political correctness out on your way into the theater. The Jets will call their enemies Spics and wetbacks and the Sharks will call them crackers and ‘cabrones.’ Everyone in the neighborhood takes offense, but no one aims to change. Turf wars are th

In the great, big world of publishing, countless more books are written and printed and put out there than we ever really know. What we know is what we’re fed: The New York Tines Bestseller, Oprah’s Book Club pick, the Harry Potter world, the Twilight series and whatever the morning daytime shows are telling us to read and whatever ‘summer read’ a magazine tells us to pick up. What gets lost in the shuffle and on the shelves are the big and small treasures that are written with care and with love; the stories we walk away from knowing a little more about something we didn’t know before. The ones we can share with friends and loved ones and never bat an eye about what is contained within its pages. Before I read Safe at Home , written by Robert Skead , I knew very little about baseball and even less about Babe Ruth (except that he somehow contributed to building the old Yankee Stadium, without ever lifting a brick). Truth be told, I don’t seek out sport stories and I

I am sending this out now because last weekend is about to be a memory now that a new one is upon us. Anyone who knows me knows the value that I place on love and family. Both are at the core of my being and at the center of the things that make me happy. This past weekend I had both love and family and I couldn’t have been happier. We were invited to Rob and Victoria ’s home in Upstate New York. While it isn’t the first time we have been there, going there improves with age, like fine wine. This time around, the Mulligans graciously invited my brother Mikey, sister-in-law, Sandy and niece, Ellie, as well. The gathering was to double as a belated birthday celebration for me. Not surprisingly, I was giddy with excitement as the day neared for the big weekend! Warm, relaxed and always welcoming, the Mulligan home has become the gathering place of the Puccio clan, which now includes the Frakes, the Philips and, this time around, even the Laras. At this b

This morning, as I stumbled about the house in a state of drowsy unrest, recalling the routines of my working self, my dog Obie kept a watchful eye on my every step. He remained just a few paces behind me at all times. He settled himself on the threshold of the bathroom to watch me put on my make-up and do my hair. He watched me pack my bags, make the bed and walk a few laps around the house making sure I wasn’t forgetting anything important. Straightening iron off? Check! Outside lights off? Check! Pet water bowls filled? Check! As he sensed my hour of departure neared, Obie stood guard by the door, chest out, and eyes watchful. When he thought I was going to leave, he circled the doormat a couple of times, then planted himself squarely in my path. If I didn’t know any better, I could swear I saw concern lining his furry brow and sadness filling his moist eyes. He gave me those infamous puppy-dog eyes. It was as if he was saying: “Please no! Don’t go!” You can’t really blame him. Af