Icing on my Cake

I'll make this short. I just lied. How about I'll try to make this short. I had this long diatribe concocted about what bullshit the media has deemed worthy of review as "news" of the past year. "News" is a very subjective term of late, much of which I find to be useless supermarket tabloid crap. With that said, why look back at all? Aren't we supposed to be looking ahead, our past is just that; past. Why dwell on it. Particularly if it wasn't all that great. And if it was all that great, we shouldn't rest on our laurels.

Some of you have been following the saga of my father's futile battle with with Alzheimer's. I don't want the last blog of the year to be a downer, and thanks to two rather odd occurrences, I'm able to ring out the old year on a positive note.

For the second consecutive year I was part of a Fantasy Football League. Fantasy Football has been around for some time, I just never got into it. I know, how does a sports psychotic like me not get involved into everything that has anything to do with sports. Well, I did make a couple of pleas to my son to become part of his league, but each time the spots were always spoken for. So when I was approached about joining a league last year, I figured why the hell not. This year it was a given I'd be part of the same league again.

My team name this year was "Alpha Omega," and a more apt moniker was never uttered. Week after week I either won big or lost big. Only two weeks were the scores close. My team finished the season 7-6, hardly distinguished myself. Last year, I painstakingly studied magazine player evaluations. I developed various draft scenarios so I knew which player to pick for eight rounds regardless of who anyone else selected. I took Fantasy Football very seriously last year. Probably because of the ultra-competitive asshole I am. Hey, losing sucks...at anything.

This year when draft day came around, the only player I had preordained was my first round pick. After that, I flew by the seat of my pants. No pressure I said, no big deal I said, don't take this so seriously I said. I approached each week of the season pretty much with the same attitude. If one of my players got hurt, I picked up another. If one of my players shit the bed on a consistent basis, I dumped him and picked up another. They all look the same with helmets on. I'd give my lineup a cursory glance, spend twenty minutes or so making the moves I had to -frequently way before the Sunday 1:00 deadline- and let the chips fall where they may. If I forgot to put in a defense, oh well. If I didn't have a kicker, fuck it. My Fantasy Football team was not high on my priority list.

Funny, it mattered little in the standings as well. I was a mediocre team in a mediocre division. My one ignominious claim to fame was I beat a team that had only one other loss all season. My least seemed to be enough to reach the playoffs, but I felt I would go no further than the first round game, then it would be on to bigger and better things. But I didn't lose.

My trip to Ohio coincided with the weekend of the second playoff game against the very same team who lost only twice. Thanks for playing, we have some lovely parting gifts. I didn't check the scores when I was in Ohio. The first I knew of the situation was when we got home and I checked my e-mail. That night, I held a lead by the slimmest of margins. My opponent still had one player left who could accumulate points that evening in the Monday Night Football game. However, in the second half his receiver achieved the status of persona non grata and I won by 1.5 points, enough to advance to the Stupid Bowl.

Just to get this far was nothing short of a miracle. It didn't matter that I lost, I still won $210.00. It's not the $400.00 that the winner got, but it was more than I ever imagined back in August when we started this nonsense. And then things got better.

You die-hard regular readers may recall my angst about entering my author friend's Micro-Fiction contest. You may even recollect the source of my angst was this year's theme; romance. If anyone were to ask me what I write, I might answer depending on my mood, "whatever the opposite of romance is." Needless to say I was not brimming with confidence. Other submissions would come from creative writing students, published authors, published writers, I am none of the above save for this blog. Well today I found out I won. When I first found out, I was quite surprised, using "quite" for lack of a better word. Other words used to describe how I felt were delighted, tickled, humbled, thrilled,you get the idea.The money from Fantasy Football now seems insignificant even though I don't have a pot to wee-wee in.

In my wildest dreams I never gave a thought that I may win. I was sure my skills as a writer paled to those of the other entrants. I guess not. Today I've been validated by people who know what they're doing when it comes to creative writing. Winning that contest reaffirms my conviction to get not one finished book published, but now two. I'll keep cranking out this stuff for as many Wednesdays as I'm able, in my mind, my writing can no longer be ignored. Today someone noticed. I'm really grateful and happy for that. Bring on 2011.

My Reason(s) for THIS Season

For those of you who read this every week, all three of you; you may have noticed I did not post a blog last week. I missed a week back in August as well, for a the pretty much the same reason; a visit to Ohio to see my Alzheimer's ridden father. But this time there was so much more.

I am well aware that the primary reason for this holiday season revolves around the majority of Americans acknowledgment of the birth of Jesus Christ, a small disputable fact as to the exact date notwithstanding. However, because of the tidings of joy we feel, obviously there are other important reasons this time of year brings certain emotions and feelings a little closer to the surface and we seem freer to pay them heed. In the last decade or so I certainly do.

I was able to make this trip with the two people I love most in this world; my son Cory and my wife Helen. That alone is enough to make the journey bearable regardless of its purpose. When you compound that with the wonderful people we were going to see, it softened the circumstance considerably.

Upon landing in Ohio, we were greeted with a minor snowstorm. I thought I had shrewdly stolen my rental car rate only to learn that the full size vehicle I had reserved was kindly upgraded to an Grand Cherokee for a mere fifteen dollars a day the Enterprise counterperson informed me. When she proposed the idea ("with the snow and all") I hardly balked, not realizing that fifteen dollars a day was almost double what I would have paid for the Toyota Camry. I was so glad I pulled the trigger so readily.

After a must pit stop at White Castle for a "Crave Case (30 burgers, half with cheese, half without)," we made our way to my Mom's; formerly my Step-Mother. When we arrived we found her shoveling the driveway so we wouldn't have to step in the five inches that had already fallen. She was delighted to see us, and we her. When the snow stopped later that afternoon, Cory finished shoveling the driveway and I did the front walk.

If I didn't make myself perfectly clear in the last Ohio trip blog, let me try now. My Mom is one of the nicest, kindest, fairest, and most giving individuals you'll ever meet. Ever. It hurt my heart to know what she has had to endure with my father and his illness these last years. If one person on this planet doesn't deserve it, it's her. After a wonderful evening with other family members, I prepared myself mentally the best I could for what awaited the next morning, which what I thought was the intention of this trip. Now I know taking Cory and Helen to see my father was only part of it.

We awoke to cloudy skies that matched my sense of melancholy, and the temperature in the teens. My father was now a resident of the Columbus Alzheimer's Center after a traditional nursing home proved inadequate to the task of housing him. My Mom was babysitting, but would meet us there, or so I thought. I was hoping maybe she'd be able to run interference for me since I didn't really know what awaited us upon our arrival. Alas, she was held up, but now as I play the scene over in my head, perhaps it was fate that had a hand in us going it alone.

I thought I had prepared, that's what I get for thinking. My father had deteriorated so dramatically in the last four months -though my Mom had tried her best over the phone to keep me abreast- I was shocked/devastated/saddened, all of the above. Nevertheless, the emotion that I felt most strongly was the love I had for my father, my son, and my wife...and then I felt it for every family member that has had to confront/deal with what has morphed my father from a vibrant man to literally a shadow of his former self.

I did my best to be a good soldier for Helen and Cory, but I'm here to tell you it's one of the hardest things I've ever done. Talking about holding on by your fingernails...Christ. Outside it started to snow and I thought of the song "The Sky is Crying;" (George Thorogood's version).

I was requested by my dear friend Tom Rowlands, to call him when we had finished our visit. I did, and promptly fell apart. Tom was compassionate and understanding, and I was grateful for that. Hell, I was grateful that he was on the other end of the phone at that precise moment. He inquired when would we be heading over to his house about thirty minutes away. I said I'd give him a holler when we were on our way. We needed time to gather ourselves but I didn't tell Tom that.

We made our way into Columbus proper. I thought maybe everyone, my wife in particular since she was born in Germany, would enjoy a trip to the German Village section of the city. Tom had taken me there back in August. I vaguely remembered how to get there, much less the restaurant we patronized; Schmidt's. But find it I did. Schmidt's, an authentic German restaurant was established in 1880. I thought Cory and Helen would get a kick out of it. Little did I know that the items Helen ordered would stir fond emotional remembrances of her Mom's cooking. After what we had just been through, everybody's emotions were close to the surface. I was grateful that I made the right choice, though it felt like I had little to do with the decision to go there. After sating ourselves, we made our way to Tom's in a much better frame of mind.

What a wonderful visit with wonderful people. Tom's wife Cindi greeted us with open arms. Talk about someone making others feel comfortable. Annie, Tom's youngest, was home from the University of Kentucky, and she was just as nice and pleasant and congenial as Tom and Cindi's other three children. How the fuck did they do that I wondered. Each kid nicer and as talented as the next. Geez! After a terrific visit, a wonderful meal. It's good to have good friends. That night on the ride back to my Mom's, the Christmas lights reflecting off the new fallen snow made me grateful it had snowed, and perhaps this was what we all needed to get us in the holiday spirit.

Saturday brought a visit to my brother Craig's house. Before we all went, we exchanged Christmas gifts with my Mom. She had found a box of my father's that contained Eastern Airlines promotion stuff. Cory and I got little planes, a Eastern bag tag, and a couple of Eastern bottle stoppers (remember those?). There were other gifts that may have cost more, but none of greater value. After some shopping with Cory, it was off to my brother's. It was so great to see him, his wife Tara, and the kids, Drew and Gabe. We had a delightful dinner that Craig had spent the entire day babysitting in the smoker. Afterward, we exchanged Christmas gifts. Friday morning seemed surreal and long ago.

That night Helen and Charlene went back to my mom's house, while Cory and I spent the night at Craig and Tara's. You see, Sunday Craig, Cory and I were going to Cincinnati to see my beloved Bengals take on the Cleveland Browns in the 75th Battle of Ohio.

It was ten degrees when I got up Sunday morning and made my way out to the garage to have a cigarette. It felt like ten below when I locked myself out of the house for about a half hour, not wanting to roust anyone from their slumber prematurely. It was seventeen degrees when we got to Cincinnati and I didn't give a shit. I was getting to see my Bengals on their home turf with my son and my brother. Fucking awesome doesn't begin to describe the way I felt. And after nearly three months without a win, the Bengals triumphed. Does anyone reading this sense a pattern here, or is it just me?

Monday we returned to Florida. I was sad, but yet felt a sense of inner euphoria that's hard to explain. My mind is already planning when we're all visiting again. We know we may have to, but that doesn't stop my feelings of how much I want to.


As most of you know I'm mighty glad to awaken each day on this side of the grass. This holiday, that awareness has been heightened due to the love of family, friends, and the gratitude that comes in knowing how precious each day we have is, and how fleeting those days truly are. My Dad will be okay, and so will my Mom. For that matter we all will be, we know the inevitable outcome. If you need me to explain my reason's for this season, read this again.

"A Writer Writes; Always"

The title to this weeks bolg comes from the mantra Billy Chrystal's character ingrained in the minds of his nontraditional creative writing students the in Throw Momma From the Train. I try to write something everyday. I futz with my book. I dabble with the screenplay I'm working on for a friend of mine. I'm constantly revising the movie's outline that's due in March. And then there are the homework assignments. Oh yeah, and every Wednesday there's this blog. And now I must do this ditty for another friend."Must" is in italics because I could blow it off, but I kinda sorta like the challenge.

This time of year is loaded with things that I longingly look forward to doing. I just received my invite from a friend of my son's to enter, for the fourth year, his Bowl Game Challenge. I love it. You assign each bowl a number of importance based on how confident you are of one team defeating the other. The values go from one through however many bowl games there are. I've never won, but the thrill is in the chase as they say.

My Fantasy Football season is coming to a close. For me, it may close a little faster than a couple of other people because I don't see my "team" going very far in the playoffs. Nonetheless it's great fun.

I will do my Christmas cards shortly. I will bake Christmas cookies over the next couple of weeks. And now for the second consecutive year I will enter my friend's Micro-Fiction contest.

Cynn is a published author of five or six books, I can't keep count, she's been rather prolific since I signed up for Facebook. Cynn is also an accomplished carpenter, but decided instead to become a professor at the University of North Carolina-Asheville. In her spare time she paints, mows the North Forty, and is also redoing her basement. Christ, I write "brush my teeth" on my things to do list so I get to cross it off to give me the sense I've accomplished something that day.

Cynn has a rather elaborate Christmas village she's named "Little Bliss." This was the setting for last year's contest as it is for this years. The rules for Cynn's Micro-Fiction contest are simple. Write 250 words in the genre she designates. She even used only 250 words to describe "Little Bliss." Last year the genre was mystery, as in it was a mystery why I ever thought I could write a mystery no matter how many words were involved. This year the genus is romance, as in if writing a mystery was a mystery, it is truly a mystery to think I can write a romance, much less in 250 words. Nevertheless, I will attempt this no matter how futile it seems.

Cynn was even kind enough to include me in a Facebook note to her "writerly friends." Though I remain unpublished, I do fancy myself a writer...just not of mystery or romance.

I have no delusions of grander about winning, it's the challenge. Do I have it in me. If last year's effort is any indication, then no, I don't have it in me. I wrote Cynn that I could be the "comedy" portion of the contest. I think she misunderstood. I'm guessing she's thinking "Oh, a romantic comedy!" What I meant was the writing itself would be comical, screw the theme.

My entry last year was feeble at best. It was formulaic, contrived, and predictable, and I spent a couple of days thinking about what I was going to write. I can't get that time back can I? After I made my submission I read my entry again. I said to myself, "Oh, my god! it's Sergio Leone (the famed director of the Clint Eastwood spaghetti westerns) meets Stephen King on a really off day. After Cynn announced the first and second place winners decided upon by a panel of distinguished judges, I thought I'd read how real mystery writers, or writers that are adaptable, write. I don't know if they really are as deep as the writing seemed, or just artsy-fartsy. Well no matter, their's was good, and mine not so much. But it was fun being challenged like that.

I write creative non-fiction. The stories I tell are true with my spin on it. I can't fabricate much except for maybe a lie, and I haven't told one of those in quite some time. I've probably lost my touch. If I was to tell a lie now it would probably be as transparent as that piece I wrote for last year's Micro-Fiction contest.

The deadline for entries is December 10th. I thought we had more time last year from announcement to deadline, but maybe I just thought there was more time because I was unemployed. Time moves p-r-e-t-t-y slow when you have a lot of nothing happening career wise. This year I'm very busy. As a matter of fact, when I'm done here I'm taking a final exam. The last piece of classwork concluding my first semester as a doctoral candidate. That will give me tomorrow and Friday to come up with 250 scintillating quixotic words. I think I'd rather take another final in something I know more about than romance, like genetic micro-biology.

Time is of the essence, I must get to work. That's why I'm cutting this short. I need to think of something... but by the time I do the contest will be over.

Food for Thought

Ever since I was a little kid I've enjoyed grocery shopping. Granted, after I became a teenager the experience no longer held the fascination it once did, my parents being so dorky and all.

As a small child a trip to the grocery with my mother -this was back when it was still considered "woman's work" -was an event not be be missed in my world. My father was assigned to the specialty stores, deli, butcher, baker, candlestick maker. Only kidding about the last one. My mother did the bulk shopping. Not the Sam's Club, Costco, BJ's buy shit by the pallet full bulk, just the fill the shopping cart...or two bulk. I was captivated by my mother's choices of brand names.

Pride of the Farm Ketchup, when all my friends used Hunt's or Heinz.Miracle Whip faux mayonnaise, when all my friends used Hellman's. Mueller's spaghetti, when all my friend's used Ronzoni. Yukon Club (A&P house brand)soda instead of Coke. I had to go to my grandparents house to get Coca-Cola. Maybe this is the first manifestation of my parent's dorkiness that would one day keep me from ever escorting my mother to the super market again.

Just the term Super Market made going there special. Why maybe, something ultra-spectacular and stupendously wondiferous could be purchased there? I had to be there if my mother was going to buy it after saving for years.

My mother and both grandmothers were coupon clippers. I became a coupon clipper. My maternal grandmother made sure she hit whichever store had the best "deal" on whatever it was she needed.

My grandmother made my grandfather stop (if you recall from an earlier blog, Nana didn't drive) at A&P, Foodtown, Finest, Acme, and Grand Union. Not all of these establishments were located in the same town. My grandfather was a fucking saint; I swear.

My mother on the other hand was an A&P woman. Whatever needed to be had could be had at A&P. If A&P didn't have it, it wasn't worth having, or she'd ask for whatever it was to be ordered.

If I behaved, and contrary to what you might suspect I was very well behaved, I could work my mother for the junk food I adored. Twinkies, Snowballs, Ring Dings, and maybe a Clark bar at checkout.

Checkout was almost as time consuming as the shopping itself. My mother shopped for two weeks. There was no need to stop any day in between since she bought a back-up of everything. Milk was delivered by the Alderney Dairy, and Charles Chips came by once a week as well. The Dugen bread guy rounded out the staples of basic sustenance.

When we moved to Chester, A&P was the only game in town until a Shop-Rite opened several years later on the spot where I wiled away lazy summer afternoons at Grogan's swimming "thing." It wasn't a pool, nor was it a pond, it was something we swam in.

My mother switched loyalties to Shop-Rite based on square footage and selection. My grandmother continued to do her store to store routine well into her seventies. Except now she only bought six or seven items at each store. Which brings me to what inspired this drivel.

I have always done my "big" shopping on Sundays. When it was just Cory and I, I shopped on Sundays. Unless Cory was visiting his mother then there was no need to shop since most of my meals were liquid. When I remarried I continued the ritual of Sunday shopping. That way everything needed for school and work lunches would still be realatively fresh on Friday. But since school for me has recommenced, food shopping has taken a drastic turn.

My wife loathes going to the food store. That has always been my job since I so enjoyed it. She now has the responsibility occasionally. She avoids it as if all the food sold at Publix (not Winn-Dixie) was laced with arsenic so why bother going at all. However, we need to eat according to Maslow.

What winds up happening is she or I will stop if we have the time, if we happen to be driving by, if we happen to be dying of starvation, to "pick up a couple of things." I literally can't remember the last time I spent over one hundred dollars at the food store. This used to be a regular occurrence, but no more.

Last night I stopped by the grocery to "pick up a couple of items" and amidst the cooking oil and ethic foods, I had an epiphany. And it wasn't a good one. I gazed into my cart trying desperately to remember what we were out of completely at the homestead. I noticed there were only eleven or twelve items in the cart. I wanted to buy something else, anything else, just to make the cart look...I don't know...fuller. I couldn't think of a thing. Oh, there were a hundred items we needed as well as stock up on, but tonight wasn't the night for that. That was for Sunday. But I'm sure several more Sundays will come and go before those items find the cart.

So there I was, Bertolli to the left of me and LaChoy to the right, and I thought "OH MY GOD I"M SHOPPING LIKE AN OLD PERSON!!!!"

You know who I'm talking about. Those people who go to the food store every day to pick up only what they need for that day only to return the following day to repeat the process. Maybe they do it out of loneliness, or lack of something to do which is hard to believe because it seems every old person's calendar is full with doctor's appointments and they all go to my doctor. They use coupons just like I do except I never have them with me when I make an unscheduled stop to "pick up a couple of things."

I was devastated at this revelation. I swore to myself to only stop at the grocery if I'm picking up four items, or forty, but never stop for any amount in between. I'd rather go without. I'm never going to shop meal to meal. I can see it now, "Gotta stop tonight to get milk for my coffee in the morning. Don't forget to pick up a head of lettuce tomorrow afternoon for dinner that night. Christ, I think I'd rather cut my own throat with a rusty potato peeler. Maybe we need a new one. I'll pick one up the next time I stop at the store for "a couple of things."

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. We all have fond memories, or not, of families gathering to feast themselves into a tryptophan induced coma only to awaken clamoring about whether or not they had slept through the turkey sandwich encore. This will not be one of those years.

I'm spending Thanksgiving alone this year. I don't particularly care really. I've done it many times before. I'll miss being with my wife, but for the last seven years, I haven't been with my son Cory anyway.

Cory has been attending the annual University of Florida-Florida State football game. Not that the game is played on Thanksgiving, it's not. It's played on the Saturday following. Cory made the five hour drive down one year, only to turn around and drive back the day after Thanksgiving; I don't blame him for not wanting to do that again. Not only does it take the fun out of the celebration, the drive sucks.

Before Cory went off to Gainesville, there were many years I spent most holidays, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year's; alone. Part of the agreement with the ex when I moved from New Jersey to Florida was Cory would spend all holiday vacations and summers with her. I got to pay the airfare for each of these excursions. Got to be a might pricey around November and December. Particularly if money was tight, which it always was for many years. This year money has nothing to do with me spending Thanksgiving alone.

This is a conscious choice I've made. As many of you who read this know, I've returned to college to get my PhD. My first semester in the doctoral program ends December tenth. My last class convenes on December second. Between now and then I have two presentations to complete, two papers due, one of them quite sizable with a shitload of research still to be done. I also have a series of article reviews to do as well. Please be advised, I'm not complaining. No guts, no glory. Keep your eye on the prize. Reach for the stars. Grab the brass ring. I have to excuse myself for a moment. That run of cliches just made me spit up in my mouth just a little bit.

Much better now thanks. I knew when I signed up for this thing that I'd have to make sacrifices. Spending this Thanksgiving working is just the first.

Less than one percent of adults who've obtained undergraduate degrees have gone on to get PhDs. I expect to make sacrifices for that kind of achievement. I just don't look at having turkey, stuffing, and pie as a sacrifice. My wife Helen is already planning to make those items for our Christmas dinner. So I got that covered.

Will I be lonely? I'm counting on being so busy that I won't have time to dwell on it. Before I got remarried I'd get downright morose when Cory went out of town. Various friends would invite me to spend the day with them until I got incredibly drunk, then for many years the list of friendly invites dwindled to one friend. It was about that time I chose to stay home...alone...drinking...wallowing in self-pity. No more.

Today I am comfortable in my own skin. I don't need people around to feel whole. I really need another leg to feel whole if the truth be told, but you've got my drift. Today I enjoy my own company. Today, after many yesterdays of wish I hads, I'm doing. I'm growing up. I'm maturing...well maybe not the last part. Oh, I know! I'm finally becoming the responsible person I was supposed to become several decades ago.

There will be other Thanksgivings. But there may be other commitments as well. Maybe what I do tomorrow and the rest of this coming weekend is the stepping stone to bigger things down the road. Maybe working this Thanksgiving will one day afford me the luxury of being able to gather all of my family wherever that may be, at the place where I have a commitment to fulfill one Thanksgiving in the future. And I'm just fine with that.

Combover Beethoven

Thankfully, I’m not obsessed with my hair. As a matter of fact, I no longer have enough to obsess over. There was a time when Bob Walther and I were the very first guy’s from our high school that went to Frank Anthony’s Hair Stylists. I continued to go there to get my hair “styled” for twenty years. This afforded me membership into an exclusive club of customers that accumulated that many years of patronage.

I got my hair blow dried, dried under lamps, dried and styled with a hot comb, remember those? My hair was towel dried so it would look like a “loose wave perm” whatever the fuck that was. Tony was able to do all kinds of things with my hair because I had so much of it, no longer.

As I got older Tony styled my hair so I looked like I had more of it. He arranged my hair in such a way to give the illusion of fullness. I tried mousse. I tried hair spray so it never moved in the blusteriest of hurricanes. I left it long, and combed it back using gel to keep it slick against my ever expanding head. Nothing could ward off the ravages of time. I went to the dandelion look, and now have succumbed to the Q-Tip look. I was destined to suffer from the most dreaded of male diseases (MPB) aside from the one that society tells men is the most dreaded (EDS).

Having difficulty getting lead in your pencil and keeping it there can be hidden no matter how bad TV ads make you feel. Male pattern baldness cannot be hidden from anybody no matter how hard you try, and to what lengths men seem to feel the need to do so. I am here to tell my male counterparts, you’re not fooling anyone. Here are a few of the things I’ve spotted in the great pursuit of eternal youth.

If your funds are limited, there is the old standard “combover.” Donald Trump has one of the fanciest, highest maintenance one’s around. I jokingly used to tell people that due to my limited hair or hair per se; I got my hair arranged. Even those days have gone the way of the Mastodon. The Donald must have a hair stylist on call 24/7. The upkeep on that hair must be astronomical as well as time consuming. However, his dye job leaves something to be desired. But everyone doesn’t have Trump’s money, so they have to resort to letting their sideburns grow until that hair touches the shoulder, then they’re able to voila, comb it over. It looks like hell, but if it makes these men feel better about themselves, well, good for you! But you still look like an ass and I don’t care how your insignificant insecurities eat away at your psyche.

Then there are the dyes jobs. Oh boy. Now I’m not talking about those funky David Bowie colors we put in our hair back in the ‘80’s to show how new wave we were. I’m talking about the Kiwi touch up that looks as if you told the guy in Grand Central Station “When you’re done with my Florsheims, would you rub about a half a can on my head.” I know people whose hair is so black –even though it never was to begin with- it looks like mannequin hair. And when you don’t keep up with it, the hair takes on a tri-color hue; black in spots, a faded orangey brown in others, with a little natural gray thrown in for good measure. Hey you! Yes you Mr. Eighty year old with the coal soot hair; I’m talking to you!

Bad toupees are another misguided attempt at hair-like skull coverage. I say “bad” because as I see it, there are no good ones. Oh sure, I may say “Wow! That’s a really good looking hair piece.” But if it was indeed that good, I wouldn’t be able to tell it was a hair piece. Why would anyone want to wear what looks like a dead animal on their head? I understand men who use them to cover scars or a skin disorder; but in this age of shaved heads being all the rage, why spend all that money? I had a neighbor who looked as if some mornings he tossed his rug in the air and ran underneath it, letting the toupe remain as it landed. And he looked great without it; distinguished and dignified. I can’t understand why he preferred silly and ridiculous.

Lastly, there are the big spenders. The men who want to go through the painful procedure of hair plugs. Not only is it painful, but the cost to do an effective job is almost prohibitive. So they do what seems like a trial run. Like the guy who’s restoring a car but only has enough money to do a half-ass job. And what’s wrong with the doctor’s who convince these guys to remove hair from the back of their heads and place these plugs in a perfect semi-circle along one’s brow. These guys look like a human Chia pet until the hair grows in long enough to comb it straight back to cover the bald area you didn’t have the money to transplant. To make matters worse, the back of your head looks like a Titleist golf ball cover after it’s been shanked into a large oak tree. No, no it looks great, really!

Don’t any of these men have wives or girlfriends? They couldn’t possibly encourage their husbands to do some of this shit to themselves could they? “Oh Honey, you look so wonderful I’m about to swoon!”

The only tolerable alternative that makes sense is what my friend calls “Camo.” It reminds me of that old women’s hair color ad, “Does she, or doesn’t she.” In this case it’s a “he.” And no you can’t really tell he colors his hair. There is color (not the real color mind you, but that doesn’t matter) and there is gray. I gotta tell you, it looks like the natural aging process, and isn’t that what us men should be trying to achieve? Not turn back time, but enhance what’s left.

Clint Eastwood doesn’t color his hair. Shit, he doesn’t even do a “Bob Barker” or “Leslie Nielsen.” Clint just let it turn gray and fall out. Sam Elliot has a head full of gray hair, and he still looks pretty badass. George Clooney’s hair looks better when he leaves it alone. Not so Nicholas Cage; he looks sad.

Look,I'm not immune to vanity. One time after repeated vehement refusals, I gave in and let Tony spray that shit on my head that was supposed to cover my once small bald spot. I felt like a douche, and when I looked in the mirror at it, I looked like a douche. Maybe others couldn’t tell what I did, but I could. I may get old and bald, but I refuse to get old, fat and bald. I’m not ready to shave my head. That’s the last resort. I have so many scars and lumps on my head that I’d look like a dirt road after it rains, then several cars drive on it, and then it dries out.

I got my haircut today. It took about ten minutes, max. There is significantly more gray hair on the black smock draped over the front of me then there is hair my color. It makes me a little sad, but not too much. I know the day is coming when all the hair in the middle will be gone and I’ll left with chaps of the head, then I’ll shave it. Just another stage of my life. I don’t need hair to hold onto my youth, I’m terribly immature, that will suffice. And don’t get me going about facelifts for men.

Joe Namath's Plutonium

This blog is not about Joe Namath. Nor does it have anything to do with plutonium. However, about a year and a half ago I mentioned Joe Namath in a blog and other web sites picked it up. The same goes for plutonium. I wrote about the two nuclear submarines colliding in the Atlantic, used the word "plutonium," and lo and behold my blog appeared on other web pages. I get about 400 hits a week now, so in the interest of drumming up more interest, the title.

Two of my friends who I work out at the gym with regularly serve as the impetus for today's blog. I'd like to publicly thank them for -in their infinite wisdom- ignoring me this morning. This is not an unusual occurrence. People frequently ignore me. I guess you wouldn't call it ignoring, it's more like drifting away.

Every now and then a topic will come up that I have a lot of knowledge about. Almost always these two gentlemen choose to ignore me when I start to share on the subject matter. I can't really blame them. I am a bit long winded at times. However, what I share I think will enlighten them. That's my problem, going off thinking and all. This morning was one of those subjects, and it was also one of those times. I should have known what was coming, but yet I trudged blindly onward.

Mario was searching his reliable cellphone (laughter here) for a radio station to listen to while we all lifted weights. That Mario, he aims to please. After about what seemed like a fortnight, no music was forthcoming. I inquired as to what type of cellular device did he own, and he told me a Blackberry Curve, Bold, Feces, or something to that effect. As Mario searched along merrily, getting full use out of the $30.00 data plan whatever wireless "service" provider rapes him monthly; Mario chimed and I'm paraphrasing here, "Wait till Blackberry comes out with their version of the IPad," as if that is the magical solution to being able to locate a music station on a wireless device. Now you need an IPad or something similar to assure you can locate a radio station. My question here is "Are you fucking kidding me?"

As if an Ipad, or something similar, is the key to all that is wireless. You have phones that are able to do everything but wipe your ass, and they aren't good enough so you need to get something else, something better except you can't make phone calls with it. Oh that's just great!

As I stood there thinking to myself that pretty soon we are going to look like someone about to embark on a long journey with all the technological shit we'll have to carry around making everyone look like the geeks we've made fun of for years; Brad and Mario discussed the merits and shortcomings of the IPad or something similar. When, I believe it was Mario who said "I think I'm going to get one." On that note my mouth engaged.

The little men in my brain began to work feverishly to make sure I had an immediate, condensed, contextual argument against such folly. The stupid ass phone still had not located a radio station. At this point I don't believe Mario nor Brad cared. They were too engrossed in discussing all the marvelous things that would be at their disposal if they in fact did purchase an IPad or something similar.

My two friends were blissfully oblivious that the technology that is supposed to summon their radio station is the same technology that's supposed to run the IPad or something similar. I felt a burning need to point this out.

I have railed against the shit cellular service that has existed for many years and the fact that the cellular service providers don't give a flying fuck. There are only so many service providers, yet everyone has a cellphone. These folks may not have a job or a place to live, but son of a bitch, they've got a cell phone. And when the newest updated device (3G, 4G, OG!) becomes available, everyone has to run out and get it. Some assholes even stand in line for this "must have" piece of electronic wizardry. Yet, they don't seem to realize that this is precisely what cellular service companies are counting on.

As long as people get half-erect or wet in the shorts depending on gender, over the latest and greatest, cellular service companies don't have to give good service. People are going to keep paying for their shit service as long as they can get the "whatever toy is hot at the moment" though it will become passe in about six months. Then they'll just have to upgrade. It's a vicious cycle.

As I droned on about how the cellular companies infrastructure is paid for ten times over, and about how they're pulling the same shit as oil companies who haven't invested in their infrastructure since 1976, yet gas prices continue to go up because of the demand exceeds the supply because of the lack of refining capabilities. But those who hold stock in both these industries keep making their substantial dividends. It was about here that I noticed both Mario and Brad had stopped listening long ago.

Where did I lose you dear reader, at the last "or something similar?"

If Brad and Mario do indeed break down and buy these electronic marvels, and pay $39.99 a month for that service, plus their $30.00 a month for their data plan on their phone, plus whatever the exorbitant sum (my guess it's a least $70.00 a month) they pay for their poor excuse for cellular service, this act will reinforce my belief that there is no hope for humanity.

The creepy part is that there are millions nationwide who want to do, or have done, exactly what Brad and Mario plan to.

Not only did Brad and Mario stop listening after about my first eight or nine syllables, they started a whole different conversation until I said "... wait,let me finish." That was a huge mistake on my part. In no time at all they had moved on giving me a few token seconds of consideration before doing so.

Well, I'm not going to buy more pieces of shit that require me to pay handsomely for shitty service. Just another example of American industrial mediocrity in action. And we wonder why nobody wants to buy what we're producing. No wonder we're falling behind in the global marketplace. No wonder why the disparity in wealth is growing wider all the time. I like the old capitalism where quality and service mattered, and if your product wasn't any good, or your service sucked, you went out of business because Americans wouldn't tolerate anything but the best. I'm not buying into the "something similar" we have today.
I wonder if Mario ever found a radio station? Plutonium.

Wild Life

Yesterday morning a tiny frog got into the house when I opened the front door to retrieve my morning paper. I can tell none of you care how this seemingly minor event can cause me such consternation. As I scrambled about in the darkness to corral the diminutive amphibian, I thought of all the fucking critters that have entered my abode uninvited.

The very first non-human that has tormented my dreams was my sister. Only kidding. But what was unleashed that scarred my psyche forever, was directly attributed to my sister.

We had a mutual hate for each other my sister and I. She hated I was born, I hated she lived through birth. She made it the focal point of her existence to make my existence as miserable as she could.

A favorite activity of my sister and her hooligan neighborhood cohorts was to go outside around dusk and shine a flashlight skyward in the hope of attracting a bat. If the innocent flying rodent was enticed to dive at the erratic luminescence my sister wildly wielded, one of her henchmen would take an arbitrary swing with a Jack Kramer model Wilson tennis racket on the off chance they could stun the little flying fucker and trap it in a shoebox.

My sister and her occult practicing friends also probably took great delight in putting fire crackers up frogs assholes, but I wasn't privy to that display.

One evening, by a sheer stroke of luck -no pun intended- my sister landed her quarry. In a moment of what I'm sure she considered pure genius, she raced to my room -while my parents stood idly by gossiping with neighbors in the street- to tie me to the chair in my room.

This chair held fond memories for me. It was where my mother sat when she'd read me a bedtime story. After that evenings festivities, I'm pretty sure I insisted we should burn the chair in the fireplace. And when it was reduced to a mere pile of smoldering ash, collect the remains and bury them in the back yard being sure to spread a healthy amount of salt on the ground where the remnants were laid to rest.

As if tying me to the chair was not enough good-natured disturbing behavior for one night, the piece de resistance was to release the bat from its shoebox prison in my room, turn on the light, and shut the door behind her. While the bat behaved in a fashion similar to an epileptic having a seizure after chugging an economy size bottle of Tabasco sauce; I could hear my sister squealing with delight right outside my door while I screamed as if I was being disemboweled with not so much as an aspirin to take the edge off.

My parents, in their infinite wisdom, sensed the air was rife with uncomfortable discourse, though no sense could be made of my high-pitched, blood curdling emanations that wafted from my window on the soft summer breeze. I received little satisfaction as to my sister's retribution that came in the form of a severe beating. I was hoping she could be secured with barbed wire to the front of a speeding train that was on a collision course with another unsuspecting locomotive. No such luck. This was not my last experience with one of Mother Nature's children of the wood.

There was the raccoon that came down the chimney Santa-like in the living room of the rental home we were refurbishing for the owner in lieu of rent. My step-father was stupid enough to start a fire in the fireplace without opening the thingy and when it was opened, a raccoon that had taken residence in the long out of use flues, decided to make take the path of least resistance to avoid the irritating smoke.

Armed with a broom and I think perhaps a 70's version of a Hazmat suit, I jousted with, what I was sure was rabid, creature of the night. Strategic with every move, I cut off all angles but the one that led out the front door. Secure in my victory over another tormentor, I snickered that had my sister had been there, I would have shooed her out the front door as well. I'm not done.

There was the large black snake our cat Ramone was kind enough to share with my son and I after an evening on the prowl. I didn't notice it was a snake right away. I stared at the cat with an odd wonderment at the macabre Fu Manchu mustache hanging from the corners of the cat's mouth...that is until it writhed, then I believe I may have shat myself, I don't rightly recall. But whatever my response was, I'm sure it had something to do with the release of bodily fluids I was unable to control.
Again my trusty broom served me well. Accompanied by its partner in crime the trusty dustpan, and maybe some Playtex gloves and boric acid, and maybe a small caliber hand gun; I was able to rid my home of another of my bugaboos. Getting rid of the next bat was a stroke of brilliance.

While sitting on the couch watching television in my living where a large Black snake once ruled for a night, my son's nanny remarked about the large clump of dust that had collected in the corner where the ceiling meets the walls...that too was proved to be a false assumption when movement dispelled the myth my mind had generated. A mutual friend of my ex-wife and I was once faced with the very same dilemma. The lightning bolt of ingenuity struck and I told the nanny to fetch the vacuum. I connected the extensions, put the end a hair's breath away from the bat's ass, and yelled "NOW." With a whir, the bat was sucked into the bag. I put the bag in the garbage, and after some hearty laughter at my heartless ingenuity, we resumed watching TV, resting easy that mankind was safe. And then I moved to Florida. Where it seemed like everyday something lizards, palmetto bugs, very small snakes, something was getting into the house. Nothing as serious as the Bumpus hounds, but there was once a squirrel.

The furry miscreant decided one gorgeous winter morn to disrupt my intellectually stimulating crossword puzzle. However, what made matters worse was the fact I was having leg trouble and was sans prosthesis. It came through a small tear in the screen and proceeded to deposit raisinet-like turds about the house. I open every door and hopped from room to room reminding me in retrospect of some crazed Ahab with the my white whale gray, and a squirrel rather than the world's largest sea mammal. I finally met with success. And now the frog.

He (she?) is still here. After evading my dexterous advances, it made its way behind the antique Dutch cupboard in the kitchen. I thought it may meet its end via the cat. I thought it too terrified to come out eventually dying the lonely agonizing death by starvation. But out it is and in my living room under a cup. I must attend to it now. Wish me luck. I hope it isn't angry.

Entertain Me

I’m not a big TV guy. I loathe commercial television for the most part. Just when I get enthralled with a program invariably five minutes of ads that I don’t give a shit about will interrupt my former pleasant viewing experience. Thankfully I have satellite television. This affords me the opportunity to channel surf through hundreds of channels of mind-numbing drivel. Woo-hoo!

I’m a big music guy. No, I do not have an Ipod or similar device where I can listen to my favorite tunes non-stop totally oblivious to anything occurring in the universe. All the people I see with earbuds constantly hanging out of the sides of their heads remind me of people who clutch their omnipresent bottles of water as if at any moment global warming will instantaneously turn everywhere into a giant desert. The need for the constant drone of music in one’s head must somehow keep alien radio signals from entering the brain, hence warding off any chance of mental abduction. That said, I do however, have Sirius satellite radio.

The thought of enduring any more commercials than is absolutely necessary, fills me with a sense of trepidation that makes having my mind taken over by aliens seem almost welcoming. My son Cory got me Sirius several Christmas’ ago because I so missed Howard Stern. Little did I know how much I’d like the endless variety of music at my fingertips. I don’t listen to talk radio. I rarely listen to sports radio. I will listen to a sporting event of great interest if I can’t watch it on TV. I don’t tune in for the weather or traffic updates. If I lived in Oklahoma I might keep the weather station on twenty-four seven. That would then necessitate me getting an Ipod and earbuds because I love Rock and Roll so much. I’d just keep one eye peeled on the display for weather alerts.

I don’t listen to the stations that feature excerpts from various comics stand-up routines, though several people say I should because of how entertaining I’d find them. I find so few comics really that funny that I’d spend my time in the car listening to them rather than music. However, if I did listen to comics, I would then have to purchase an Ipod and earbuds so I could listen to the music I so enjoy.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not averse to owning an Ipod and earbuds, I just see the need. I park in handicapped spaces thereby limiting my walking anywhere. This is one of those times when I see Ipods being utilized; when people are walking somewhere. They also use them when they’re running. I don’t run anywhere. I see people use them when they're driving. Which is handy is if an ambulance is speeding toward them with the siren screaming and one of their kids being hauled to the hospital. I see people at the gym using them to…motivate? Pump up? Ignore those around you. Avoid conversing with anyone. Act snobbish with an excuse. Maybe it’s just a societal thing.

There are DVD players in cars so parents don’t have to talk to their kids and they won’t be interrupted when talking on their cellphones about nothing to people who aren’t as important as their children. We can watch TV and computers for those who don’t think fourteen hours of viewing isn’t nearly enough to expand their limited horizons. And you can fuck around with your laptop while watching TV with your Ipod and earbuds so you can listen to music without the annoying drone of worthless TV dialog. Unless you’re a movie buff like I am.

I am a movie buff by default. I hate seeing commercials so much that rather than endure any reference to investing money no one has; watching two assholes sitting in separate bathtubs on a deserted beach with their wife to ignite their amorous yearnings that they need to take a pill for; endless ads to entice folks which beer to drink; I watch movie channels.

Sometimes I watch movies. Other times I have them on for background noise, or if it’s a movie I like a particular scene, I’ll leave the movie on until the scene is over. Sometimes I watch for the dialog, that’s a rarity. Other times I watch because the cinematography is great. Sometimes I watch because I like a particular actor.

There are contract movies that go right from the can to video that have a really terrific cast; I’ll watch those movies. Afterward I’ll rue the two hours I wasted. I’ll watch movies because I like the trailers. These also sometimes make me want to disconnect every movie channel I have, and I have them all.

When I signed on with DirecTV, I wanted all the sports stations that were offered without buying seasonal sport packages. To get them all, you have to get them with what they’re bundled with. I wanted ESPNU, I’ve got to take The Movie Channel and Showtime. I wanted FSN, I had to take Starz, Cinemax, and HBO. The only movie channel I don’t have is MGM and who gives a fuck anyway. I refuse to pay for the one channel that happens to be running movies I don’t own on DVD and haven’t seen for awhile and wished I had, just on general principle.

There are movies I will watch anytime day or night when they happen to be running on any of the eight kabillion movie channels I pay handsomely for. Shawshank Redemption and Hoosiers are two that come to mind. There are other movies that used to fall into that category, but no longer pique my interest. Field of Dreams used to be one. Now I can take it or leave it. It is no longer a "must see." Mind you, I own all of these.

There are movies I want to see, but they’re never run, or the gap between showings is too long. Man on Fire with Denzel Washington, not the lame ass one with Scott Glenn, and Master and Commander are a couple. When they finally do come on, they’re run so often that if I even hear two notes from the soundtrack I want to puke. Someone once suggested I sign up for “ON DEMAND.” Sounds urgent and important doesn’t it? The only TV I find urgent and important is sporting events. And the day TV becomes so urgent and so important in my life, that I just can’t go on unless I see a particular movie RIGHT AWAY! is the day I know I’ve watched too much and it’s time for me to get an Ipod and earbuds.

Afterthought

This is the eighth fall of my life in which I make my annual trip to Gainesville to see a University of Florida football game. My son Cory is a student there, and has been the entire eight years. Before you start to chuckle and make fun that Cory is on the eight year plan, I'll have you know, when he is finished he'll have his undergraduate degree and two post graduate degrees. No small feat.

This is my third year writing this blog and each year after the trip I write about it. The focus has always been on the game itself, and all the hoopla surrounding it. This year I went up when "Gator Growl" takes place. A kinda Homecoming on steroids.
I had never been to "Gator Growl" weekend. Cory used to be concerned that I'd have a difficult time with the sea of people that floods the campus. However, since I'd been there for an LSU game that had National Championship implications, and I'd been there for last year's Tennessee Lane Kiffin hatefest; Cory knew that I'd have no trouble navigating "Gator Growl." How did we manage to avoid overstuffed sardine can of humanity? We didn't bother to attend any of the things that people attend when they go to Gainesville for "Gator Growl." You might ask, "then why make the trip at all?" then again you might not, or just not give a shit. To those people, humor me if you can summon the patience.

I've written before that each Spring when the Florida Gator football schedule comes out, Cory asks me to pick the game I'd like to go to. I make my reservation with Tom Bodette to make sure he'll leave the light on for me...and then I wait...for months.
This year the wait was much longer. Cory did not come down to sunny South Florida for an extended visit making things for me a little less sunny.

Oh, Cory came down for Opening Day this year. And he was kinda enough to breeze through August twenty-third, the day I got back from my trip to Ohio to see to my father. August twenty-third is also my wedding anniversary which made the visit even more special. But more special still was the fact I got to meet Cory's girlfriend Cathy.

My son has been fortunate enough to remain untethered for his entire high school career and up until now, his college years as well. I always wondered what the girl would be like Cory would bring home to me "meet the parents." I was absolutely thrilled to say the least. And as I drove up to Gainesville last Friday, I thought how happy I was to be seeing my son and his girlfriend.

This is one of those things assholes used to warn me about when Cory was growing up. They used to say I was too attached to him, that I wouldn't be able to cope with each phase of his life. Fuck them. The dynamic may have changed, but for the better as I see it.

I felt a little anxiety when I got to his new digs "The Funhouse." Cory was at work and I would be conversing with Cathy without the help of a safety net.
I hope I don't say anything that will embarrass Cory.
I hope I don't say anything that will make her feel uncomfortable.
I hope there isn't a pregnant silence.
Don't drone on.
Don't bore her. Christ! My fears were unfounded as they most always are.
I think we had a splendid visit. Cathy may beg to differ.

As the afternoon wore on Cory appeared as well as some of his old friends in town for the weekend. There were also some new friends as well. Many I hadn't yet met. Some I met briefly when ten of them went on a cruise recently that left from the Port of Miami. I am here to say that each one is nicer than the next. My boy is one fortunate young man to have such a stellar group of friends. I did miss the recently wedded Zeenberg, and the also wedded Linden; and I wished I'd seen P Scott as well, but you can't have everything. But the everything I did get was near perfect.

Fera came over from Tampa, Will Pelzer as well, and the younger of the Brothers McCoy. Ian, who was on leave, was also there. When I saw him goosebumps came up on my arms. He'd been serving overseas in Afghanistan. After greeting him, all I could say was "Thank you." I met so many new people this trip I really had to focus to remember all their names. One name I was very familiar with, Mike Flannery.

Cory has mentioned his name numerous times during our many phone conversations this past year. I met Mike briefly as he was one of the booze cruise crew. I had fully intended to take them all out for dinner, but instead Mike cooked everyone present a feast. There was much laughter and the townspeople rejoiced. After sating ourselves we all went to "Grog," a midtown watering hole frequented by "The Power Structure." They drank and we laughed some more, a lot more.

I left "The Power Structure" to their own devices since the following morning brought Gameday and I needed my continually unsuccessful beauty sleep. When I arrived back at the motel -Tom wasn't anywhere to be seen, but the light was indeed on- the nervous anticipation of the following day's game was MIA.

Saturday morning, after making my way to the local Krispy Kreme and waited patiently for the bright red neon "Hot and Now" sign to come on, I gorged myself on five of the artery hardening delights before I even left the parking lot. That left seven for the ten or so people that would be at the house. I was never too good at math.

Once everyone got their bearings, we went back up to midtown for pregame food, libations, and frivolity; oh yeah, and more laughter. The game seemed very far off. As each hour passed with it went a little of the game's significance. I was starting to think it wouldn't be so bad if I didn't go and just hung around with Cory, Cathy and the rest. However, there was a small surprise in store for me.

Cory's freshman year I went to see the Arkansas-UF game. Cory's friend Jason, who I've known since he was nine, was a cheerleader which entitled him to tickets to each game. I got one of those tickets that year. I also got them the year my friend Gregg came up with me to see Alabama play the Gators. I got that same seat again for the third time, only this time I got to sit with Jason.

Sadly, UF lost. They played sad. They looked sad. I was a little sad since I'd never seen the Gators lose a football game even during the Ron Zook years. Yet, all in all, I was happy. It's kinda hard to explain.

After so many years of "The Game" being the thing upon which all other things were predicated; this year the game was almost an afterthought. There was no tailgating. There was no scrambling to stock up on supplies. There was no three different TV's going simultaneously. This year it was about the company I kept, and hope to keep for many year's to come.

Unsettling

As some of you know I've returned to school to get my PhD. in Educational Leadership at Florida Atlantic University. The main campus of the school is located in the well-to-do city of Boca Raton,which means loosely translated "Rat's Mouth." Not quite the image you want to conjure up when you want to entice others of means to move there.

FAU has satellite campuses in Jupiter, Port St. Lucie, Ft. Lauderdale, and Davie, Florida. Two of my classes meet on the Davie campus. When I first began this academic sojourn nine years ago, I needed to start from scratch since I had little or no idea as to how to study, do homework, etc. The place they would give me these tools was Broward County Community College, now known as Broward College.

I started there because that institution has an "open enrollment" policy. Meaning, if you apply you're in. BCC also has satellite campuses doting the landscape of the County. One of them abuts the FAU campus in Davie. I took many of my pre-requisite survey courses at the Davie facility.

In January of 2002, the spring semester had just begun.. I still felt the uneasiness of being one of a handful of non-traditional (older) students on the Davie campus. My micro-economics class was letting out. I made my way to the small quad located two non-descript, institutional, two story buildings away. Benches were situated on all four sides, each facing in a different direction. Each day when I attended class in Davie, I would make my daily phone call to my wife from the bench that put my back to the library and facing the FAU campus; keeping an eye on the future you could say. But before I sat down, something happened that I have rarely given any thought to these past eight and half years. However, I think about it now every Tuesday and Thursday.

I watch the local news in the evening. Kinda a comedic respite from the days mundane events. Yes, I'm being sarcastic. Many times when there's been a shooting, a witness will say they heard a pop that sounded similar to a firecracker. To them I say, you're idiots. That day in 2002 I heard a gunshot and it sounded nothing like a firecracker.

Above five paces from my designated calling area, I heard a gunshot, then moments later I heard another. The sounds came from about fifty yards away. The rapport echoed making the shots sound closer still. Uh-oh I thought.

In the blink of an eye a rushing torrent of students came racing around the corner of one of the non-descript two-story buildings. I had already placed the call to my wife and started to describe the mayhem.

As I told her of the gunshots I had just heard, watching the panicked race to unmarked finish line only they could see, I thought what if the person wielding the gun came around the corner. My heart raced. I remained seated. Since my amputation, my days of racing pell mell to anywhere were over. As I unfolded the scene to my wife, I didn't even think that I may be causing her great angst. I knew at the moment , If there were more individuals on the gunman's hit parade, the best I could muster is hitting the deck.

I have always been a realist. When your number comes up, your number comes up. Your perspective is altered a bit by a near death experience and my motorcycle accident certainly qualified. I did not fear dying that day at the hand of some crazed Charles Whitman wannabe. But I'll tell you, I wasn't thrilled at the prospect.

A disgruntled boyfriend -that's how they say it on the news- ("disgruntled" just doesn't seem strong enough) had shot his estranged girlfriend as she exited English Comp I. Then he put the gun to his own head and saved the taxpayers a ton of dough.

Several weeks ago when classes began, just as I was about to enter the Liberal Arts building where my class was held, I glanced over at the Broward College Davie campus quad. I saw the bench I regularly sat at. I then glanced to the corner of the building from where the tide of students rushed forth. In 2002 I was angry at what had occurred. In 2010, I'm saddened by the events of that day. I feel sorry for the victims and their families. I wonder when there'll be closure.

Each Tuesday and Thursday since that first week of class, as I make my way into the Liberal Arts building, my eyes are drawn to the bench. I can't help myself. Try as I might, my gaze goes to the bench then the corner of the building as if being pulled by some magnetic force. I almost expect at any moment a brand new mass of humanity will spew forth. But all is quiet on the western front. It may be quiet, but it's still unsettling nonetheless.

A Day in the Life

Yesterday I woke up, got out of bed, and no, I didn't drag a comb across my head, and I haven't for quite some time. It's said everyday is an adventure, but I'd rather they be the self-discovery kind of adventure, or a long journey, not the "what a fuckin' adventure that was" kind.

When you get right down to it, keeping things in perspective, I really never have a bad day. My friend Ralph occasionally sends me a quote that he thinks I might enjoy. A couple of weeks ago the quote was "If you think you're having a bad day, try missing one." At least I thought it was clever. Yesterday was one of those days when I need to take a step back, breath in and out, and try to grasp just how fucking obtuse some people can really be.

I admittedly don't play well with others. That's why I never want to work for anyone. I'll keep a positive outlook on the path to self-actualization, unless they decide to foreclose on the house, then I'll go to work for some dipshit. But in the meantime, I'll try to learn to play better.

At the start of the day I'm usually pretty upbeat. I get up at 4:45, do my thing, and visualize what I want to accomplish. I get pretty excited about what lies ahead. I knew something didn't bode well when I went out to get my daily rag The Miami Herald and found it hadn't been delivered. My heart started to beat a little faster. My anal retentiveness was already in full swing.

I don't have my goddamn paper. For Christ's sake, is it too much to ask to have my fucking paper delivered each morning. That's why I pay for home delivery. Now what will I read on the crapper?

I waited until the designated past due time (6:30) to call to get a paper delivered. I had to call three times to get the proper recording, the helpful electronic information system decided to be as reliable as the delivery. When I finally got a human -the heavily accented recorded voice told me to "prez" one- a cheerful gentleman with a heavily accented voice told me my paper would be there within an hour. So I waited. Fuck him too. So I went to campus.

I had registered for a seminar about the new updates for Blackboard, a computer learning site utilized by universities. If it isn't exactly Blackboard, it's something similar. The professor I'm a graduate assistant for wants me to do some stuff on the site, so I thought attending the seminar would be a good idea. It was. Then everything turned to shit.

One of my duties (I used doody heh heh)was to have some fliers get stamped so I could post them up around campus. They need to be approved by some governing body before they can be put up. As of yesterday, what governing body that is, is anybody's guess. After an hour and twenty minutes of driving from building to building around campus, the proper authority remains a mystery. Like a good soldier I did what I was told, and went to where I was directed. Not once, not twice, not three time; come to think of it, fuck that "third time is a charm bullshit;" it was at my forth stop I gave up the ghost. Exasperated, I told the women who assisted me I wasn't moving until someone could be reached who knew anything, anything at all, that had to do with fliers being approved. Eventually, the first person I was sent to earlier that afternoon appeared before my eyes to rectify the situation, all the while reminding me she really wasn't authorized to do what she was doing. Who was you may ask, no one knows. It's one of the current great mysteries of life that I will ponder...but not for very long. Talk about the left hand not knowing what the right hand is doing; I was dealing with a fucking octopus here.

Look, I get paid the same whether I'm doing important research, taking out the garbage, or just jerking off. So it didn't matter to me I was jerking off mobile. Just my way of still seeing the glass half-full. And then I went home in bumper to bumper traffic for thirty-six miles... only to find my paper had not yet arrived nearly eleven hours later.

I had the pleasure of calling the infamous "customer service" line. As with most industries in America "customer service" is a very loosely defined abstract term. It's more like a virtual unreality video game.After I was told to "prez" one, I got a not so pleasant heavily accented gentleman who was neither "gentle," and "man" depended on your definition. In this case "spineless shit hiding behind a phone" could possibly fit my definition of "man."

When I came to the realization that the barely intelligible talking asshole on the other end of the line neither cared about me "the customer" or "service" unless you count "lip service." Finally, knowing a paper was not in the cards this day, without thinking, I was dumb enough to ask "why was there no delivery today?" Big mistake.

All he had to attempt to say was "I don't know" and I would have been happy. But no, he had to go into some verbal diarrhea about computer malfunction; though he didn't use the word "malfunction," I'm giving him way too much credit that even that word exists in his limited vocabulary.Then it was I needed to speak to home delivery blah blah blah. He may have even really said "blah blah blah" I couldn't really tell. I asked to be transferred to home delivery when I could finally get a word in. He told me they had gone home for the day. Of course they did. Disgusted, I hung up. I went into my office to do homework that wasn't done until nearly 11:00.

I didn't eat yesterday. Didn't have the time, dealing with all the incompetency in the world and all. As I made my way to bed I reflected on the day's events. What was there to be learned? How will I grow from my experiences?
God save The Miami Herald building if I don't get my fucking paper tomorrow morning. How long does it take to manufacture a firebomb?

Rain on Me

I thought it time I give my take on another of the elements. Today it’s raining here in sunny South Florida. This meteorological event serves as my inspiration to what will undoubtedly be another exercise in writing futility.

I am from New Jersey. There the rain is completely different than the rain in my adopted home of Pembroke Pines, Florida. I don’t think the New Jersey rain is even related to the South Florida rain. Maybe illegitimately, but I’m quite sure the New Jersey rain never even mentions the South Florida rain when conversing with the New York or Pennsylvania rain. It’s the rain no one talks about. Here are what I’m guessing are some of the reasons why.

The South Florida rain is lazy. All summer long it rains periodically though the weather people call for rain everyday. It’s like the unemployed guy who sleeps all day, goes out to the driveway to pick up his paper while scratching his balls located somewhere under his billowy tattered robe. The South Florida rain never finishes what it starts. Frequently it will rain on the eastbound side of the street but not on the westbound sound. It’s like a half-finished home where the builder ran out of money.

The South Florida rain is always threatening but winds up being full of shit. Kinda like that drunk on the bar stool that never shuts up about how great the world would be if everyone would just listen to him. There’s plenty of thunder, and plenty of lightening, but in the end it just passes out after a few drops.

The South Florida rain, when it decides to do so, is messy. It almost always causes flooding. And when it’s accompanied by wind, shit blows over and someone has to clean up the mess. It reminds me of that freeloading loud-mouthed relative that visits unannounced, eats all your stuff, leaves their shit all over the place, doesn’t flush after their morning constitutional, and doesn’t offer to pay for anything while they’re staying. And in the summer when it’s hotter than magma, it rains just enough to make everything even more uncomfortable, like the ninety-five percent humidity is bad enough. Akin to if one of those good-for-nothing relatives was a drug addict withdrawing from their latest escapade. Their breath smells like an elephant’s ass, and they’ve got the whole sweat package working. That’s what it’s like outdoors after one of those faux rains.

The South Florida rain is sadistic. Invariably when you spend hours painstakingly detailing your car, you can be guaranteed it will rain within minutes after you’ve finished. If you want it to rain wash your car. It reminds me of when my wife and I order food to be delivered. If we want it to show up, we go outside and smoke. Immediately after we light up the food arrives. I should quit smoking, but then the food would never get here.

The South Florida rain can be expensive. I spent six hundred dollars five years ago on a generator for when we lose power during a bad storm or hurricane. The fucker has never been started. I’m thinking of making a lawn ornament out of it. I have enough gas cans in my shed I have little room for much else. I’ve filled them after the weather alert of impending doom, and I wind up putting the gas in our cars, which a huge pain the ass, and it makes a mess down the side, prompting me to wash the car, and then it starts fucking raining in the biblical sense.

The South Florida rain can also make me feel good believe it or not. When it’s blistering hot, sometimes the rain cools things off. And I mean really cools things off. The temperature can drop twenty degrees in about ten minutes. It reminds me of those brutally hot days up north when a couple of minutes in the walk in cooler just made the afternoon bearable.

I love the sound of the South Florida rain when it beats on the roof. Sometimes it’s melodic, lulling you to sleep at night. Other times it sound like Wagner or The 1812 Overture. I like watching South Florida rain. Sometimes it comes down in sheets so thick you’d swear it was a thousand thread count Egyptian cotton. Then there are times when the rain comes down horizontally wishing I did acid just one more time. I love watching the rain on the lake by my house, it’s quite soothing. And every once in awhile it will hail. I never saw it hail when I lived in New Jersey.

The South Florida rain makes everything look beautiful once the skies clear…about fifteen minutes after the deluge. The golf course across the street from my house looks magnificent after a downpour. The green grass is so vibrant looking, it looks almost artificial. My lawn looks great after it’s been newly mowed, and then it rains. The rain seems to bring out the color. If your plants start looking a little sad, the rain makes them look happy again.

The South Florida rain seems to know when you need a break. Everything that’s worth doing in South Florida is done outdoors. When it rains you’re stuck inside. If it rains all day long –a rarity- they interview people on the news to find out how they coped. News reporters hang out at malls and movie theaters to see if everyone came through being cooped up all day. You’d think we were quarantined.

The rain in New Jersey was non-descript, devoid of personality, bland, dull, and predictable. The rain in South Florida has a personality, not a good one most times, but it has one none the less. It’s raining today. And I am doing something worth doing indoors; I’m writing this. If it was sunny and I went to write outdoors to enjoy the weather, it would probably start raining. The South Florida rain even has a sense of humor.

Next Floor Basement: Manners and Courtesy

I am old. I don’t feel old, nor do I look that old. However, my views on certain things are rapidly becoming antiquated.

Call me old fashioned if you like, but I still think people should thank you for holding the door open for them. Christ, just having someone hold a door open is becoming a lost art in itself. The concept of say “Thank you” is alien to many folks no matter which generation they’re from.

I have grown so perturbed that I will inquire of the mannerless prick if I look like a doorman. If they are rude enough to mock me with a yes response I’ll reply “Well now I know what a talking asshole looks like.” Most times they react as if they are the wounded party, oblivious to the notion that manners of any kind exist at all, or are practiced in this culture.

Since my return to college back in 2001 and subsequent return last month, I have come to notice a new trend in poor manners. Due to physical condition, I frequently take the elevator instead of the stairs. Most buildings where my classes are held have multiple floors necessitating an elevator. But this recent development applies to any multi-floor structure that houses an elevator. Maybe you’ve noticed it too.

When exiting an elevator at my desired floor, there is invariably one or more individuals standing directly in front of the parting doors. Maybe these poor lost souls are unaware that other people besides them use these marvels of convenience. That perhaps they are not the lone inhabitants of this planet, and maybe, just maybe someone may want to disembark, preferably before they insist on getting on.

What is it with these jerkoffs; do they really think that because they summoned the elevator that it would stop whatever it was doing, forcibly eject those already on, and race to those who beckoned it.

I understand that a crude form of early elevator was called a dumb waiter. Does that mean due to this relatively recent rudeness phenomenon we are going to change the name from “elevator” to douchebag conveyer?” And if we do, let’s see how quick these inconsiderate dolts rush to use it.

Since I’m talking about elevators, there is a certain decorum that I grew up with that is unfamiliar to women of the next generation. I was brought up to allow women to enter and exit an elevator before the man does.

Look, I know all this equal rights bullshit. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t rise whenever a woman enters the room or excuses herself from the table like Hugh Jackman’s 19th century character did in Kate and Leopold. Who by the way did not invent the elevator and name it after his butler Otis as depicted in the movie. Elisha Otis invented the first safe elevator in 1852 and got the patent for it in January of 1861. Poor Mr. Otis died four months later. It would have been a touch of irony to have said he died when the cable broke and the emergency brake failed on the elevator he was riding in, but alas no.

Now where was I…oh yeah the manners thing. When I allow –normally after prodding (no, not a cattle prod. I just say “after you”)- a young lady to enter the elevator before me, she looks at me as if she’s stuck at a four way stop intersection and she has no clue about who has right of way. It’s the same shit when I exit an elevator. I always have to say “after you” to get them to move.

Have all these women been treated with such disdain or are unaware of any form of male chivalry? Unless they are total hard asses, they don’t know what they’re missing. It’s just a small way of letting these women know that they are deserving of a little respect no matter how little they’ve ever been on the receiving end of it. And if you women don’t want chivalry, or you think it’s dead –I always say “Chivalry’s not dead, it’s just in a coma (always get a chortle)- then you’d better be prepared to pay for every dinner bill, open your own fucking doors, pull your own chair out, give me flowers, order the goddamn wine –it better be good-, be told “yes, that dress makes you look fat, and you’d better be fucking happy about it! May your hard-fought independence bring you much joy.

But for now I’ll continue my mastadonic ways. I used to do it to be nice. I used to it because maybe that person needed something nice to happen to them that day. I used to do it because that’s the way I was raised and people once appreciated it. Now I’ll do it because I refuse to let rude people piss in my corn flakes, and ill-mannered dickwads rule the day. I’ll continue to do it because maybe it’ll catch on again. But mostly I’ll do it because it makes me feel good. Ah fuck it, maybe I’ll just take the stairs.

I was Just Thinking...

…last week when I was opining about clothing, I nearly forgot an occurrence that happened one evening while out at a bar with my son in Gainesville. I was curious as to why would women wear revealing clothing out so they could get noticed only to spend the majority of their evening either pulling down their skirts or pulling up the neckline of their blouses.

I was assuming they wanted people to ogle them, but when they did they acted as if they were embarrassed or offended when someone would comment. I mean if you don’t want to draw attention to yourself, then why wear shit that does just that? Case in point:

Ines Sainz, who bills herself as the “World’s Sexiest Sports Reporter,” recently whined on her Twitter account that she “felt very uncomfortable” in the New York Jets locker room.

Thought: Do people who see themselves as so self-important that must share every fucking inane thought they have because bigger twits hang on their every useless word, or is it because they really feel what they have to say is so important and insightful they have to share it with the world.
I saw pictures of this broad, and call me sexist for using this term, but she is a “broad.” She reflects poorly on women in sports broadcasting. It would be like if Erin Andrews was naked and left her hotel room door wide open, and then was shocked, appalled, or embarrassed that someone had the audacity to stare or worse video tape her.

Mrs. Sainz (her husband must be so proud, or maybe grateful) obviously had her jeans painted on. I even read she was sporting a bit of the “camel toe.” She was showing plenty of (fake boob) cleavage, in the locker room and on Good Morning America. And now the NFL is investigating the “incident.” Like the NFL doesn’t get enough bad PR. I say dress like a professional reporter and get treated like a professional reporter. Dress like a slut and don’t be surprised if you get treated like a slut.
Provocative is one thing, but in a football team’s locker room where naked men are present, c’mon really? You can't tell me that if Brad Pitt were to interview a woman amongst a group of scantily clad women, and he was wearing clothing that accentuated...whatever, there wouldn't be derogatory things said.

…accusations are flying about Derek Jeter being a cheater due to his Academy Award winning performance acting as if he was hit by a baseball. To all you moral entrepreneurs, shut the fuck up. When did sports become the bastion of all that is goodness and light? Don’t any of these dipshit holier than thou assholes realize that the whole game of baseball is predicated on deception. That’s why there are signs for Christ sake! That’s why there’s “stealing.” Duh? Doesn’t anyone remember the hidden ball trick? I could go on, but it pisses me off too much. People bet on professional sports. Winning is paramount. You are going to try to gain every advantage, and if it means bending the rules, then so be it. Get over it already. Write about something important instead of like you’re building a resume to go work at The National Enquirer.

…I just received my new issue of Sports Illustrated. Maybe I missed something, but it seems like SI is already anointed The Patriots as the team to beat. The cover reads “Tom Brady and the Pats take care of business (as usual).” Correct me if I’m wrong, but I thought the Saints won the Super Bowl last year. And I think their opponent was the Indianapolis Colts. Not only that little piece of fellatiotic schmoozing, but SI refers to New England being representative of “button-down traditionalism,” while the Cincinnati Bengals represent the anti-christ, no wait “media-amplified showmanship.”

Again my thought processes must be skewed. Didn’t Tom Brady knock up his girlfriend then beat feet to another who he then promptly knocked up? Didn’t Randy Moss just go off on one of his numerous spoiled brat diatribes that management had to apologize for? That’s button-down traditional?

As for the Bengals being media amplified. I am thankful the Bengals get some media attention! As far as I can tell, they’ve been the NFL’s media pariah for a couple of decades. They have no national following, and they sell the least amount of licensed merchandise of any NFL team. Hell, I even in stores less than two hours away from Cincinnati there’s a dearth of Bengal stuff. Media-amplified my ass, all because a couple of guys appeared on a couple of TV shows. The casual fan would be hard pressed to name another Bengal outside of Chad Ocho Cinco and Terrell Owens, and Owens has only been with the team for a couple of months. If it weren’t for the team’s appearance on HBO’s Hard Knocks last year, Carson Palmer might slip your mind. This is the kind of “journalism” that fuels fires where there aren’t any.

…since the topic is the NFL, am I the only one that pays attention to the downturn in attendance figures? 2010 will make it three years in a row that more fans are staying away. NFL franchises have a higher average value than their counterparts in the NBA or the Major Leagues. Owners are making money hand over fist, so much so they contributed nicely to recent stadium funding. Yet when the players want a piece of this proverbial deep-dish pie, fans take offense. In a league where the average career only spans three years, a collective bargaining agreement is about to expire. The owners are talking about a lock-out. Yet when the Vikings and the Saints stood shoulder to shoulder in a showing of player solidarity prior to the kickoff off the new season, fans got pissy.

A sidebar in Sports Illustrated smelled of bias toward the fans point of view. SI referred to a football game as a “three-hour escape from reminders of tough times.” Thanks John Steinbeck breath. Is that writer smoking dope?! Is he twelve? Has he seen a sports league work stoppage before? Talk about melodramatic; it’s a fucking game for Christ sake!

…Is anyone else as baffled by the recent success of the Tea Baggers (props to Lewis Black), I mean the Tea Party. I guess the voting public is pretty pissed about the current state of politics. Is it me, or do some of those candidates come off as dopey and delusional?

Now that I’ve purged my mind of that mental refuse, I can now stand in front of a fan so I can again hear my head whistle .