Carmen Reis

This is a blog where I share my personal views and share the stories of my childhood growing up with my father--the world's most embarrasing immigrant parent..

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percentage of rape victims (source):

women: 90%

men: 10% 

median salary (source):

women: $17,629

male: $30,514

victims of domestic violence (source):

women: 85%

men: 15%

people murdered by their significant other (source):

women: 75%

men: 25%

those darn privileged females

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^^^^ THIS 

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Lala is this Matt?

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ok Lego needs more girl minifigs. This is the length my daughter goes to to make super heroines.

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Cruella tellin it like it is

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Desperate dad makes video plea

Twins. A boy and girl, four months old. Their parents should be tired and overjoyed.

Sign your organ donor cards.....

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pirate Sashi

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Auroras red wig

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Diane at the Portuguese Restaurant

One of the things my father genuinely enjoyed was going out to eat. My mother, a depressive recluse, hated eating out, finding all food inferior to her cooking. Never once did we eat out as children, apart from the fine cuisine of hot dogs and ice cream from the Costco food court, an occasional take out pizza or, for a real treat Portuguese chicken from the local restaurant.

  However, when away from my mother, my father let loose, and perhaps it was from his years working in the food industry, he enjoyed a meal out, but always criticized it afterwards in the presence of my mother.

  On one particular day after running errands in London, my father and my sister Diane stopped for sandwiches at a local Portuguese restaurant. Portuguese cuisine, represented to my father, the finest cuisine in the world. The simple ingredients were pure art, and the French with their sauces and cremes could be damned when compared to the fine art of a roasted chicken and French fries.

  The art of Portuguese food was a school my father subscribed to. On this particular day the piece de resistance was bifanas, a Portuguese sandwich were meat, such as pork or beef is eatean in sauce in a Portuguese bun. The only challenge with a bifana is that they can be spicy. Some people don’t like spicy food. However my father was “alleergic  to that shait”, as it caused something to fester deep in his bowels and let loose the flood gates from his colons into the depths of the innocent toilet that became the victim of his explosion.

  And an explosion it was.  They had just finished eating, when my father got a crazy look in his eye.  He got up, telling Diane, “I go take a shait”.  He waited impatiently whilst the cleaning woman finished cleaning the men’s washroom.  As Maria the cleaning lady came out, he ran in, barely able to contain the disaster that gurgled within him.  Diane, without batting an eye lash finished her sandwich and waited for the fallout. 

  His trip to the bathroom was brief. To this day what he did in there was a mystery. Diane heard the grunts and snorts that normally accompanied every bathroom trip of Luis’, but upon emerging my father moved faster than normal, not even stopping at the table where Diane sat, simply yelling, “lets go”. Diane not quite done her sandwich, looked up to protest, but he was already gone out the door. As she gathered her things, the cleaning woman picked up her bucket and mop to go to the women’s washroom. On the way she passed the men’s washroom, and as if by instinct she peeked inside. Suddenly Diane heard the buckets drop, saw Maria grab the door frame and let out a gasp of “Ai Jesooshg” a sanita, as paredes e o chao”, and the sign of the cross done in the air to protect herself from the evil demons that lay within. Maria, yelled “ I just cleaned this bathroom, what have you done” and looked towards my father. Diane, saw this as her cue to leave and ran out of the restaurant towards my father who was keeled over in laughter.

He later admitted that there was shit everywhere, but what that means to the Neanderthal who knows. Only poor Maria knew the evil deed that transpired that day between him and the bathroom of the Portuguese restaurant.

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How to Not be Embarrassed In Public

Embarrassment followed us wherever we went. We could not escape it. Being the offspring of

Luigi Longo provided us with conditioning in public embarrassment equivelant to that of an Olympic athlete. Nothing in life embarrasses me anymore. When my daughter asked to go out the other day in shorts, a dirty tank top,  with hair in her eyes and chocolate all over her face, while wearing rubber boots on a 30 degree day, I did not even blink before saying “yes”.  

The problem is that my father was embarrassing without meaning to be. While some parents purposefully embarrass their offspring, my father never intended to embarrass us.  The thought that he might be embarrassing us, I am certain, never crossed his mind because his ADD would not allow him the ability to actually connect two thoughts together.

 His mind, like that of a goldfish, could not actually hold a thought for more than 5 consecutive seconds. It might revisit that thought five minutes from now, but unlike you and I that think in a logical, sequential way, the mind of Luigi Longo functions in flashes, one thought following the other, no connection between them, no order to the mayhem, and like God, with no beginning and no end.

One such incident happened on a beautiful May day. The day had started off cold. My father was wearing his typical September through May market getup, a two piece industrial work snow suit (shit green-brown in colour), a balaclava and heavy, insulated, steeltoed work boots. It might be 30 degrees, but if it was anytime from September to May, you can be sure that Luigi would be wearing his trusty snowsuit, because “Kitchener is cold brather”.

This was one of those 30 degree may days.The market day had been a good one too. We had sold everything with minimal product given away. The “compet-a-shun”,  David, had not sold everything, much to my father’s delight. All in all, my father was in a fairly jovial mood as he drove home. He turned up the radio, was singing and car dancing to the hits on Chyme 97.5 and giving Diane and l life advice on dealing with my mother.

As we pulled into Aylmer, he realized he was short on smokes. Being short on smokes on a Saturday night was a definite no-no because my mother was home all night. He quickly did a Uturn in the middle of John Street and roared the orange van back to Pantry Mart.  Luigi Longo jumped out, yelled for us to stay in the van and lumbered over to Pantry Mart, telling us he would only be a minute.

Diane and I looked at each other knowingly. A minute in Luigiese, usually meant about 10. True to form, once inside Luigi got distracted by the movie section, ran into someone he knew and of course, began talking to the Korean owner, completely forgetting his daughters were in the van on a hot May Day. To avoid brain damage, Diane and I stepped out of the van, and changed the radio station, anxious for something besides the classics of the tri-cities on Chyme FM.  

As we leaned on the van, we saw an old muscle car pull up front of Pantry Mart, filled with Aylmer’s finest backwater halfbreeds. The guy had a mullet that would make most hockey players envious, and used more hair products than a runway model.  Beside him, his girlfriend was wearing a tube top, short shorts and block heels that were at least three inches long. Diane and I stared at them, looked at each other and just laughed.

Unbeknownst to us, Luigi Longo was exiting Pantry Mart. His astute gift of observation, was of course in off mode, and he did not see the fine specimens of humanity before him. He was too busy trying to open his cigarette package. He was having some trouble and began uttering his usual tirade of profanity, this time directed at the helpless cigarette package.

Hearing the abuse, Diane and I turned our attention to Luigi, sighed and  shuffled our way back into the beast. I lingered a bit, having been assigned “o balde (the bucket-literally an 18L bucket)” that day. All of a sudden,  I noticed my father had a ginormous wet spot on his pants, right at crotch level.  I yelled for Diane to turn around to see that my dad had pissed himself it seemed. She turned, and I pointed to my father.  She immediately  saw the spot, and  burst into cackles.  My father looked at us, more confused than usual, and yelled, “Whate da fuck your problem ? Why you make da laugh?”.  All we could do was point to his crotch and hold our sides as we laughed even harder.

My father was beginning to get angry. He continued to swear at us which caused us to laugh harder and point to his crotch.  My father, finally understood that we were laughing at his junk. My father reached down, cupped his balls (or so it seemed) and yelled out to us “You have a fucking problem wid dis?”

 All of a sudden we heard a screech. The muscle car  had come to a screeching halt and mullet toting driver  yelled in a voice that would make DeNiro proud  “You talkin’ to me?”.  Diane and I stopped laughing.  We realized he was talking to my father and that he must have thought my father’s gesture was directed at him.  Diane and I began laughing anew.

My father however not realizing that mullet man was speaking to him,  yelled louder than ever at Diane and I “What your fucking problom?”.

Suddenly, mullet man’s face turned red. He jumped into his car, all the while, screaming at my dad “fuck you buddy! Fuck you too! Fuck you buddy, fuck you too”.

At this precise moment, my father’s hands encountered his wetspot.  He stopped dead in his tracks, and burst out laughing.  He laughed so hard he cried.

Mullet man turned to Diane and I, and yelled, “What are you bitches laughing at?” Before we could tell him, he turned his car on, drove away, tires screaming and yelling profanities not fit for publication.

As my father approached the car, his laughter was eroding. Wiping his eyes, he said, “that’s not pees, that’s coffee I speel”. He got into the van, started it, then turned to Diane and I in a dead straight face, and said, “You see da man, who he make yellow at?” Diane and I could not believe he was serious, and began anew our tirade of laughter because there had been no one else in the parking lot that day. Luigi Longo strikes again.

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How to Defend Yourself...NOT

“Oh Shait” yelled my father, before the knife even made contact with my arm. I felt it cut, then seconds later, saw the blood run down my arm.

“Dad, look what you did!” I yelled, more pissed off than I’d ever been.

“Don’t tell your mother” he pleaded in self preservation.  

“Like she is going to miss this” I replied, applying pressure to the wound with my apron. 

“ Maybe she no see” he said hopefully. As I pulled the apron away, I noticed that  the wound was not overly deep—however the bleeding was significant.   “ Dad, I have to go take care of this, I will come down once I’ve gotten some bandages on and made the bleeding stop”.

“ You no need bandages. Use bleach and  theese “ he said handing me a roll of masking tape. “ Theese way your mothur no see” he added.  Incredulously, I looked at him, and saw he was totally serious in suggesting I apply bleach to the 4 inch fresh cut on my arm, and to wrap it up with masking tape.

The blood was starting to saturate the 3 layers of apron, and was starting to drip onto the floor. I looked at my father in disgust ,rolled the apron around my arm again, and then stormed upstairs. Moments earlier, we had been working away making strudels for the market. My father, engaged in a story about some street fight he had avoided, says to me “punch me and I show you how I fiche him”….as he held a knife in his hand.  Perhaps I should have been wiser, and used the 15 years of experience life had bequeathed me until then to know that the combination of Luigi Longo, a knife and a street fight story was sure to yield some unpredictable result, but in the light of his enthusiasm, I said “what?” turned towards him, and my father yelled “punch me”…never one to piss away an opportunity to inflict physical pain on Luigi Longo, I lifted my arm to punch my father in his generous gut, when suddenly the arm of the madman (my father) struck out, knife in hand and inflicted a four inch cut on my arm before any punching occurred.  What kind of father cuts their child, then tries to get them to avoid getting in trouble from his wife?  The one and only, Luigi Longo. 

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Bakery the Beginnings

It all began with an ad in the London Free Press, the local paper, which read:

              One brick oven for sale. Retiring. You must move it.

            Good for pizza shops, small bakeries and restaurants.              Good condition. Ask for Karl.

             And, it ended when Luis (the protagonist of our tale, also known as Luigi, Louis, Louie and Joe), a thirty year old man immigrant, who had dreamt of opening his own backarie  since coming to Canada,  read the ad during his coffee break at work, quit his job on the spot, and called my mother to inform him that he had just acquired an oven and a “backarie”.

He had been secretly scanning the paper for weeks, looking for a backarie for sale. He had worked as a baker since he first came to Canada, never lasting long at one location. It seemed like every other month he got fired and /or quit his job, leaving my poor mother to support our young and growing family. This tendency to leave jobs arose out of his attention deficit disorder (which has never been diagnosed mind you because my father does not believe in shite like that) and his hatred of authority. After many fights with my schizophrenic mother, he finally got the good factory job at Ford, working the line.

 It was every immigrants dream. A stable job. A union. A guaranteed paycheck. Every immigrant's except my father whose soul belonged to flour, salt and water and whose affinity for authority was akin to a Creationist’s love of evolution. The Ford stint lasted three hours. 

His next job was in construction (the other domain of the Portuguese). This position lasted five months, and it was from the construction site that Luis found this ad.

 This man was my father. My father was a Portuguese immigrant, the unique byproduct of Salazarian Portugal and colloquial small town Algarve. Although 75,000 other immigrants left Portugal from 1975-1985, I am certain, that there is no one out there like him.

 To finish the above story, my mother yelled at him, a constant them throughout this story, and then my father proceeded to tell her the rest of his adventure. 

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The conversation went something like this:

Luis dials the phone. Someone on the other end picks up. Luis does not understand the individual and hangs up.

Luis dials the phone again, someone picks up and Luis braces himself….

Luis: Hello, eez Karl there?

Karl: Yes, I am Karl

Luis: I sorry, I don't understand you.

Karl : Vell, I do not understand you too. 

Luis: Your oven, steel for sale?

Karl: Yes, you want? 

Luis: How much?

Karl: Names price.

Luis (without flinching): Oh, I want for free

Karl: Oh….silence….Why?

Luis: I queet the Ford, I make the sweat, the manager he want me work faster, I tell heem, you work faster. I work construction, I have no money because I buy converteebal for Summer (I have to sign wife name at bank-because she no want to sign for converteebal. But I love bread, my father, grandfather, all make bread, and I want to make bread too…. 

 Karl: Come by later today, we have drink and we talk.

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When my father first met Karl in 1986, he barely had teeth, drank a litre of Vodka a day and was 75 years old.  Karl was Latvian. He had had a bakery in  Latvia, but then it grew too big and was forced into becoming a miltary baker under Stalin’s regime. He immigrated to Canada, settled in London, married, had two children and opened his own bakery. Karl had run his bakery, the Riga Rye bakery out of his garage in his home on Colborne Steet in London for over 40 years.  

Baking was Karl’s life

 Karl was looking forward to retirement. His wife had just passed away. His kids were grown-up and out of the house and his only remaining companion was a13 year old  black lab named Tipsy (whose favorite beverages were Vodka and coffee). 

At his door shows up this overly eager, ADHD suffering young man, who can barely string two words in English together. They had nothing in common, except a dream. Karl's dream was aged, faded from life and memories. My father's dream was just beginning. It glowed and something about my dad rubbed off on Karl that day because not only did my father get the oven for free, but he convinced Karl to let him rent the garage on Colborne Street and to become his mentor.

It was an unlikely partnership, picked up by several local papers at the time. A thirty year old Portuguese and a 75 year old Latvian, bound by their immigrant lives, their love of flour and the dream of a “backerie”. 

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Death by Cornbread

The cast of  vendors  that accompanied Sat trips to the market was a slew of rough and tumble characters, which were comical enough in their own regard, but when joined by my father created a drama every Saturday. One of the earliest characters was “Huber” a dutch farmer from the Holland Marsh who had 7 children.  Huber was a tall, lean man, who always looked dirty, worn and weary, whether it was first thing in the morning, or late at night.

His work ethic was legendary in market circles, as he hand grew all of the vegetables himself that he sold, and toiled the rich soils of the Marsh to make  a living for himself and his brood.

 Huber’s children would accompany him every sat and thurs (school be damned) to the market. His daughters would manage cash transactions, his sons would reload tables and  occasionally be pushed around in rain barrels.

Huber had a farm of goats for producing cheese.  The milk of his goats was of the highest quality, and he only fed them organic grass, leftover vegetables and my fathers bread. Huber would take leftover loaves every week, buy them from my father at next to nothing, soak the bread in water and feed it to his goats. They would soak the breads overnight to feed to the goats. Even then, this soaking  did not soften the cornbread, and the goats were left with indigestion and produced gassy  milk, or so Huber claimed. My father, thought it was nothing more than a ploy by the dutch farmer to get cheaper product from him. I think it partially was.

Usually, the bread left over was corn bread. The texture of corn bread that does not contain additives is dense. Cornbread by its very nature is not a loaf of bread that rises naturally, as the sugars within it do not react the same way to water and salt.  My father’s corn bread, cooked in a break oven, was doubly hard. Huber was forever complaining about how he had to soak the corn bread. His concerns were double because the bread often served as ammunition by his wife who chased the goats back into the field when they escaped. He was forever chastising his wife for this, lest she hurt the goats he loved more than his own offspring.

One sat, Huber came in and plainly told my father that he would no longer buy his bread.  My father thought this was a joke, and said “yeah, Yeah”, but being the inquisitive and nosey child that I was, I asked him why “Mr. Huber” will you not buy our bread any more?

Huber, firstly looked at me with a confused look on his face, but proceeded to tell the following story,

In the morning they would lay it out in the field where the goats grazed.  Occasionally, a run away goat or two and his wife who managed the goat operation would chase them back to their field pen.

His most prized male goat, sire to  half his flock, was also his craftiest.  This goat seemed to escape more often then all of the other goats combined.  It was a white goat, with a long beard, that resembled a village elder. This goat had a particular panache for escaping and eating his wife’s bed linens. Many a sunny afternoon, he could be found gnawing on the end of a bleached sheet, only to be chased back to the poorly constructed pens by Huber’s wife.

On the particular afternoon in question, his wife had already re-penned the Machiavellian goat twice that day. Having had enough of the goat, she got a rope and tied him up to the fence inside the pen.

Having finished, the farmer’s wife proceeded to bleach and starch her bed linens.  She had a relative coming from Holland, and was pulling out her wedding sheets, a crocheted, lacy affair, to put on her guest bed for this relative.

After washing, bleaching and starching the weary woman hung the sheets  out to dry in the fresh marsh morning air.

Being the wife of a farmer, does not afford one much time, and so she went about the rest of her day, making food for her 7 children, washing, mending, and cleaning.

Halfway through the afternoon, Huber’s wife proceeded to go check on her sheets-for fear of leaving them out too long, lest birds leave their droppings on her precious linens.

Turning the corner into the field she froze. Imagine this woman’s horror,  upon seeing her best sheets, being gnawed by the white goat. He leisurely chewed upon her laced linens, gnawing at the slow and leisurely pace that a goat does, having not a care in the world.  Huber’s wife’s anger surged within her, she yelled, and ran at this goat, wanting to tear the beast apart. Passing the pens along the way, she grabbed the first thing she saw, a loaf of corn bread soaking in the pan to be fed to the goats later that afternoon.

She screamed, the goat did not even flinch. She ran at the goat, and threw the loaf of bread with every ounce of strength and hatred that she possessed within her for the animal and his shameless deed. The yellow loaf was hurtled through the air, came flying straight at the evil goat, and hit him square in the head. The goat froze for a moment, unaware of what had happened, but then wavered upon his spindly legs, and fell over with a “thunk”, his four legs giving out at once, and falling to the ground sideways, sheet still in its mouth with all the grandeur and drama of a Hollywood hero.

The goat was dead. The prized sire of Huber’s spawn never chewed another linen, nor escaped a pen. He never got up again. The loaf of corn bread, ballistic in its accuracy and strength, had killed the goat upon impact.

Huber’s wife I am sure received some reprimand for her action.  Even retelling the story a week later, Huber was moved to near tears over the loss of this prized animal. As he finished the story, he pulled himself together and said, “This is why I no longer buy your bread”.  My father, laughing till he cried, piled a box full of bread and said, “Huber, for these story I give you box of bread, please feed it to yoru children and not your goats”.  Huber was not to moved, but reluctantly agreed to the free box of bread and desserts. His offspring wooped for joy at something to eat besides vegetables. I carried the box of bread over to his fruit truck. Looking at the truck, I noticed that it said Weber and family farm. I thought for a movement, and realized for the last 5 years, I had been calling this man Huber, when his name was Weber.

I confronted my father,and said, “ You know his name is Weber not Huber” why do you all him Huber?

He looked at me, in the classic Luigi Longo look that does not understand the rest of the world and its logical thought processes, and said “Ya, his name is Huber”---this was the closest he could come to pronouncing “W’s”.

Rumour has it that Huber got rid of his goats later that year.  Shortly thereafter he left the market scene and closed up his farm altogether. While the harsh reality of farming the marsh got to him and his family, there is a part of me that thinks that the death of his prized goat was a loss he never got over, nor did he ever fully forgive my father for making the world’s hardest and deadliest loaf of corn bread.

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Moving the Van

Practical jokes, good or bad a constant source of amusement at our house. Never were these jokes funnier than when employed against my father. On one particular Saturday after a long day at the market we were on our way home  The heat of the day left us drinking far  too much iced tea  (obtained from Chef) and bottled water, so my sister and I were begging all along the way for my father to stop. .  Being later than normal, my father was particularly focused on getting home and refused to stop. Diane and I begged, our bladders unable to hold anymore liquid, and irritated along the way by the lack of shocks on the Beast. Every highway bump urged the liquid in our bladders ever closer to release, and at every rest stop passed, dashed our hopes of calming the pressure  growing in our bladders.  At one point my father laughed at us, and told us to turn the bucket over.

  Suddenly, my father pulled off to the side of the road.  Diane and I asked him, what are you doing?

He replied, I have to go pee. Shocked and stunned, we starred in disbelief. The gall the lack of respect. He laughed at us, and went off took a bottle with him and opened the van doors to pee in a bottle. When we shouted our outrage, he laughed and offered us a bottle.

  He got out of the truck and laughed all the way to the back of the van. Diane and I could not even speak in outrage, and were afraid that if we did, the pee might begin to crawl out. Every minute was excruciating. We were holding our  crotches, afraid of making an outburst for fear of pissing ourselves.

We were so angry. As he opened the doors we yelled, cursed and yelled at him in frustration. He laughed his juvenile, guffaw and taunted us further

  Then in a moment of deviousness, and to this day I cannot remember if it was Diane or myself we thought. Let`s move the van

  WI got into the drivers seat, put the van into drive and slowly inched it forward. The bottle that was catching his urine fell over, all over my father, everything sprayed and my father got urine all over himself. It was all down the front of his pants, over his hands and the van. He yelled and Diane and I laughed so hard that we were rolling from laughter sides hurt, and we pissed ourselves literally, however revenge was sweet and never again did Luigi Longo ignore our cries for bathroom breaks.

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The Luigi Longo Show...intro

 Has my father been born in any other time he would have been, without mincing words, committed. However, his existence between two continents,  and his life as an immigrant that  did much to keep him out of society’s view and allowed the personality that would eventually become my father to ferment into its aged and perfected form.

Luis was born in Salazar Portugal, a communist, socialist state. Growing up in the 50’s and 60’s as the only son of a narcissist, unresponsive woman, he ended up married to a domineering, unresponsive control freak who would go on to bear him four children, of which three daughters survived.

Growing up, our household was a place of threats, anxiety, violence and hate.  Our father, whilst often the root cause of these issues, provided the comedic relief and gave me at least, an escape from the anxiety that filled our daily existence.

As the oldest I was the peacekeeper in the emotions between these two adult children, and often felt like the only rock amidst the turbulent waters that was our household.  At best these two mismatched characters were oil and water, separate ideas, separate existences. At their worst ,they were an atomic bomb not only leaving obliteration of any peace in in the household, but destroying all else in its path.

  It was in this tempest that we grew up.  My father was the central character in the play that was our lives.  His view on life is a cross between the feudal, the communist and the revolutionary. His education stopped in grade 10 and his outlook on life is purely medieval. 

His trade was bread making, but his passion was story telling.  From his mother’s family he learnt the art of bread making as they had been bakers for generations. They owned ovens and had successful businesses during the lean years of the first and second world wards.  This bread making skill would come in useful years later as the trade he used to carve an existence for himself and his family.  From his father’s family came the flair for story-telling and, at least according to my mother, the Neanderthal behaviour that left him unable to cope in this world with other humans. 

Despite his flaws, he flourished by adapting the bare minimum of social mores to be considered civilized, skirting the law and local health inspectors, and other such cleanliness bodies, with a combination of luck and old fashioned craftiness.

Grwoing up, he was the only father we knew and the only conception of normal we were familiar with. While his behaviours seemed strange and slightly out of the ordinary, cleaning ones behind with items of his children’s clothing, or using aliases, were a normal part of our daily lives, so much in fact that as we grew up and entered the world, imagine our surprise when in conversations with our peers, we were   SHOCKED   to learn that other parents not only did not engage in such behaviours, but rather corrected behaviour in their children, not the children in the parents.  Growing up, “Crazy Canadian” society, the one without culture or morals was to blame for the structures it imposed upon my father. Rather than it simply being what it was, a man who either was oblivious or chose to ignore every social and cultural norm.

When we were out with him, we never knew what might happen.  Growing up with him much resolved a movie or a play, where we were the audience to a  comedic troupe that included by father and the hapless individuals who crossed his path and become the unlucky participants in his reality series.

We never knew he was unusual, to us he represented the only version of a father we knew.  His life was a stage where he was the star actor. Everyone admired him, looked up to him, emulated and hoped to be like him. His adventured would be recounted to us as the stuff of secrets as he sought to give us insight into the marvelous life he had led. He channeled Elvis Pressley in looks and moves, Frank Sinatra in voice and James Dean as a ladies man. Everywhere women wanted him. It took every ounce of self control for him not sleep with every woman he met. After all he was loyal to just one woman –my mother.

His restraint was the stuff of legends. The least he could do since he could not, could not sleep with ever man woman or dog, was to charm them with his je ne sais quois. Give them a flavour, a taste of the champagne of his sexuality that they would never drink or taste.

And so he performed. Everywhere he want, he preferred without intending to, even at rest. Life was a stage, filled with acts that inspired, recoiled, angered or provided comedic relief to those that crossed his path. This is my father’s story.

[luigilongoshow]

BizMula and Mr. Marcus...not sure of this advertising technique...Rodolfo loves it but I am thinking a bit over the top.....

[luigilongoshow]

Learnin' about tumblr......

So what is the big deal with this tumblr thing? My younger sister tells me I have to "get" on tumblr....so I am in the know.....but I am still trying to figure out what differentiates this from wordpress or other blogs? Not sure...but I am sure I will learn as I become addicted soon enough.....;)