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 .

Slaves to Fashion

This is not news to anyone who has even the remotest fashion sense…and I do mean sense. I’m not talking about looking cool, that’s way too subjective. I’m talking about sense as in sensibility.

At the dawn of humanity, men ruled the roost when it came to what humans wore. No one it will argue it was due to the patriarchal hierarchy of things. Both male and female homo erectus wore animal skins styled in similarly. For you religious folk, Adam and Eve are often depicted wearing matching fig leaves, with Eve having carefully placed flowing locks, shrewdly discreet those early religious painters. Both modes of attire designed for comfort and practicality. As man became “civilized,” comfort and practicality went right out the fucking window. Ironically, for many centuries to follow became rather uncivilized.

Men and women became gold plated, jewel encrusted, shield wearing, headdress donning, ankle laced, flat no sole sandled fops. Then attire took a leap backward.

Some genius thought it would be a good idea to dress in layers. And in addition, body armor was thrown into the mix, as if you weren’t restricted enough; you had to be hot as balls as well. In reality, warriors frequently died due to heat prostration. Couple that with boots that went up to mid-thigh, orthodox extremists who live in the Middle East would be proud of our Anglo ancestors. Geez, getting laid much have been so much trouble in addition to how it was frowned upon; it hardly seemed worth the effort and risk. Today, there has been a metamorphosis of sorts.

Men wear baggy clothes for easy-on-easy-off quick getaways; while many females wear so little clothing fornication can be accomplished in a matter of minutes. However, the comfort issue has taken a weird twist.

Back in the eighties, men wore tight pants…then they wised up. Showing off your ass and junk wasn’t as important as deciding you may need that junk later if you wanted to have kids, and the lack of circulation jeopardized that. Fat men wore tight clothes and thought they looked great. Heavy women with wisdom wore flowing clothes to keep everyone guessing as to how heavy they really were. Today, the tide has turned.

Fat guys wear loose fitting clothes, ashamed of their love handles, love stomach, love ass, and the ever popular moobs. Fat women now live in homes without mirrors, and I guess any kinship close enough to tell them that they look like mashed potatoes in their outfits. Muffin tops are not just eaten anymore, they’re fucking fashion statements. As with the shift in age mentality, today’s fifty is yesterday’s thirty; today’s 300lbs is yesterday’s 170lbs. I’m really glad Oprah has formed that association for young women to feel better about themselves, as if she’s never seen how young women are dressing these days. Oh, that’s right; the money from Oprah’s alliance is doled for artificial body part enhancement.

Women are also the complete opposite of men in terms of comfortable clothing. While men spend much of their day keeping their underwear out of the crack of their asses, women wear underwear that is meant to remain shoved up the crack of their asses.

They wear bras that strangle their boobs all in the name of cleavage. Men are wearing boxers or going commando so there is a place to dance in the ballroom.

They wear hip huggers they are constantly pulling up in addition to taking a half an hour to get in. Men are wearing oversized basketball shorts and “relaxed-fit” Levis.

They shave they private nether regions bald; men shave their heads bald. Men also, would never shave if given the option.

Women, who once complained about shaving their legs on a bi-annual basis, now look for things to shave. Ironically, all this shaving is like using Rogaine.

Once a man starts using Rogaine, he must continue to do so till the end of his days or risk losing what hair grew back. If women who do all this shaving don’t do it regularly, they will experience what men who are growing facial hair experience; an itch so constant and annoying, only jock itch surpasses the discomfort. To top it all off there is the latest trend in footwear.

For awhile there both men and women found the joys of flip-flops. There are designer sandals, sport sandals, and even mandals. The newest trend for women perplexes me. Everywhere I look I’m seeing some sort of variation of Greek and Roman sandals. They’re strapped, laced, blinged, flat, no support…wait I’ve already described these. They were worn a couple thousand years ago. They weren’t comfortable then, and they cannot possibly be comfortable now. Oh, I know, many women will swear they are the most comfortable footwear they own. Keep telling yourselves that. While you’re at it, tell yourself how comfortable and supportive FMP’s are. They make look great. They may make your legs look long and cool, or like shit if your legs are fat; and they may make your ass muscles look better. But there is no way they can be comfortable. I’ve seen women walk in them. Something that is so difficult to walk in, can’t possibly be comfortable. And I know what foot comfort is, since I only have one, so I really value the other one.

Eventually designers will come out with more shit that’s soooo uncomfortable women will just have to have it. Well, you go buy it and wear it. I’ll keep making fun of shit like that. It gives me something to do. Women are still fighting for equal rights and I commend them. However, if you keep on doing uncomfortable things to yourselves just in the name of fashion, do you really expect men to take you seriously when you have good ideas. That’s my rant for today. Now I’m going to scratch my balls located in my nice comfy pants.