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 .