Rico Amore Presents

Actually, many updates. First, red wine and coke in equal parts is offically called a Calimocho . And, I might add, it's fucking A delicious. Second is the summer hoboing plans. A hobo from the latin homo bonus or good man, is vastly different from a tramp, a bum, or a drifter. A drifter usually has the skills to get a quick job drift around a town for a spell and then move on. A tramp is similar to a hobo in the way each hops trains to move from place to place but usually tramps stay in one place longer. Bums are the worst of the bunch, they're lazy, dishonest, and usually dangerous, operating with no regard for themselves, others, or their surroundings. Hobos are the most intelligent, safest, and best mannered of the bunch. Hobos often elect their own rulers (the Hobo King and Queen) and have some form of artistic talent. Anyway, the plan is to hobo from colorado to oregeon this june or july. I have some serious concerns ( like getting stabbed in the gut with a shiv by a bum ...

Living in Colorado and New York has given me a unique opportunity to see two vastly different educational systems. The private prep schools of the east coast are undoubtedly the finest examples of pedagogy , while many schools in America's Midwest are mediocre at best. Now an article in the Grey Lady reports on a new trend of Uber students termed " Zoomers " (I know, what a gay-ass name) that enter the nation's elite colleges at levels of preparedness well beyond what anyone I know ever came close to having. The sad part is the section of students I see the most of are on the other end of the brainiac scale. Sure some of them are smart, but many are academic weaklings who, when faced with serious, real-life job competition , stand no chance. The extended play of this little story is witnessed when these people grow up and become mediocre adults. I'm sure you know the type, the coulda'beens, the almost was's, the 32-year-old high school English teachers...

ToMas, only because I said I would - not because I'm gloating or that I think it will ever happen again. It was shaping up to be a great day anyway. I was done with school for the week; I got home and the dogs weren't exploded so I let them out. I felt good about the prospect of playing a little December tennis since it was almost 60 degrees and sunny at 3:30. My playing partner is a nut for tennis like I am for golf. Hours spent discussing the nuances of the trajectories of spheres constitutes a temporary heaven. He is much a better player than I am; he has hit more balls and taken more lessons than I ever have. He is the coach of both tennis teams at a large high school, so he was obviously looking forward to kicking my ass up and down the court. The first glimmer of hope came when I held my serve leveling the score to one-one. Then I broke, 2-1, then I held again, 3-1, he held, 3-2, I broke again, 4-2, held again, 5-2, he held, 5-3 and I had a chance to serve out for the win...

The following story features a guy who beats his kid for not playing video games. You can't make this up - but you can post you best jokes about the kid or the loser.

This is a real "cut-and-paste" from my hometown newspaper. I should also tell you that Mr. W. Squires is a former student of mine. I should have spent more time on eluding and less time on elucidating, and perhaps he would have had his schnapps (he clearly doesn't know what he could have had with a little red wine and coke). CRIME BEAT Dad suspected of beating son, 7, for refusing to play video game By PATRICK MALONE and NICK BONHAMTHE PUEBLO CHIEFTAIN A Pueblo father is in jail for allegedly beating his 7-year-old son with a belt for refusing to play a video game with him. Markus Ellsworth French, 27, was arrested Monday on suspicion of intimidating a victim or witness, domestic violence, two counts of child abuse and menacing with a deadly weapon. Last week, personnel at French's son's school and a school resource officer questioned the boy about bruises on his legs and chest. The boy said he had run into a branch at a park, according to a report by Pueblo polic...

One fine day, the day before Thanksgiving to be exact, I took a stroll through the local municipal golf course. Sunlight shone through a spotless azure sky, birds sang mellifluous tunes to coat the ether with dewy musical airs. Grass underfoot retained its verdant strains, while only a few brown blades spotted the undulating plains like a gracefully graying gentleman. Fall's scent of decaying leaves and earth wafted across the grounds as I pondered what possibilities lay waiting to be discovered. The first hole left a uneventful par on the score card, while the second hole was witness to a twenty-five foot, down-hill, right-to-left breaker for a spectacular par. A near hole-in-one on the third left the building crowd gasping and wondering what might have been if Riley had only judged the wind correctly. A horrible travesty of justice marred the fourth hole led by a ignominious three-putt. Then magic happened. The Golf Gods smiled on brave Riley. The years of dedication, hard work, ...