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I live in Virginia, but every once in a while I have to go to New Jersey for a wedding or a funeral. The last time I was there I stopped to get a sandwich, and the place I chose was almost magical. Half of it was a sub shop, and the other half was filled with nothing but Guido tuxedos. There were hundreds of tracksuits ranging in size from lil’-wop to ones built for four-hundred-pound super guineas.

At first I thought putting a sandwich shop together with a clothing store was a dumb idea, but then I realized what you were really getting was a dinner and a show. Most of the customers looked like extras from The Sopranos, and for some of them, the exertion of trying to put on those suits was probably the most exercise they were going to get that week.

I’ve been trying to decide what to get my wife for Valentine’s Day, and it’s going to be tough to beat the fireman love doll I bought her last year. After all, as his trademark slogan touted, he was the hero with the twelve-inch hose. But, I think I may have a great idea for this year. Matching his and hers Ferrari tracksuits. Hell, I might even take her out to Olive Garden and make it a thoroughly dago-riffic holiday.