The Church of Lost Souls

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(My vuvuzela impersonation for the REAL World Cup in South Africa experience.)

The U.S. - Ghana World Cup soccer match last weekend was the first time I'd watched an entire soccer game since... since the last time the U.S. made a splash in the World Cup, which I believe was in the 90's.  What a painfully boring sport to watch.  It's like one minute of oooh/ohhh/yay! and 92 minutes of "Zzzz."  At least take a man or two off each team and maybe it might be entertaining.  And issue penalties for flopping/acting like someone shoved a corn cob up your peehole any time someone grazed you.  Have some self respect, and butch up, you fuckin' Nancys.  And what's this no timeout shit?  How the hell do you take a leak or grab something to drink or eat?  It's bad enough trying to run and grab a beer or piss between innings/quarters during a baseball or football game without missing much action.

The highlight of the game (/match/whatever they call them) for me was the shot on TV of Bill Clinton sitting next to Mick Jagger in the stadium.  Two of the biggest cock stars of modern history spending time together, how great was that?  I would've love to have tagged along with the two of them that night.

I'm not a flag-waving, rah-rah American so the outcome didn't have any ill effect on me.  Besides, the U.S. merely having mild success in soccer should be considered a success.  All of this country's best athletes are playing football or basketball or baseball, not soccer.  Anyone with exceptional athletic ability has chosen a different outlet for it, one that can potentially make them a lot of money and extremely famous here.  How could anyone ever expect them to be more than simply competitive? 

However, since the Americans lost, a few of us at work are rocking soul patches under our lips because of a guy in the office who's rooting for Ghana and rocking a soul patch of his own.  It's a change for me; haven't sported one of these forever.  Although despite being able to grow a full beard, my patch is blond and thin and a flat-out embarrassment to facial hair.

Not that I really give a shit.  I'm not too concerned about making a fool out of myself.  Besides, what does it matter when tall and handsome is no longer desirable to women.  Seriously, I thought those were two qualities (along with dark) that meant a lot to gals.  Maybe in the past, but not any more.  Short and homely is all the rage these days.  Go fuckin' figure.

Oh well, I'll take tall, handsome and solo over short, homely and paired up every day.

Father's Day

Father's Day was I guess the last, um, milestone to hit during our first year without Dad.  All that's left really is the anniversary of his passing, which will be on my birthday in August, and should be a real treat.  (Thanks Pop.)  Never before was I not with him on Father's Day, except for the one year I spent the summer in Los Angeles during college, but even then I was able to talk to him on the phone.  This year consisted of a trip to the cemetery.  After going a few rounds with Jack that morning after I got off work.

Going to the cemetery on Father's Day was like going to a shopping mall the week before Christmas.  Except you don't mind going.  Well, you'd rather visit your living father as opposed to his grave, but you still go, unlike the mall, which I'll avoid because of the crowds.  At Jewish cemeteries, we place rocks or stones on the graves when we stop by, instead of flowers.  (Not sure exactly why, but I'm sure the Internet can explain.)  On my way there I remembered there is a baseball field nearby.  Dad used to play semi-pro baseball, pitch actually, and baseball was probably his biggest love.  (We placed his baseball glove and a ball in his casket, per his request.)  So I went to the field first, scooped a bunch of orange dirt from the pitcher's mound with a flashlight casing I emptied out, and brought it along with me.

When I got to Dad, I scattered the dirt over his grave in lieu of the usual stone.  I thought he would dig that, especially coming from the pitcher's mound.  It was brutally hot that day so I didn't stick around too long, but I stayed long enough to pay my respects.  I thought he would understand, as he wasn't a big fan of he oppressive climate down here during the summer.  And I still have trouble wrapping my head around the fact that he's decomposing in a box planted beneath the grass I stare at.  It's just so... fucked.

I turned down a request to have dinner with my aunt, uncle and cousins that night, instead opting to be alone and reflect on Dad's passing in solitude.  I have a ton of regrets, a ton of remorse, and a ton of things I wish I had said or done differently.  We didn't get along well, and while it wasn't all my fault, I wish I would have "been the bigger man" as they say (a saying I normally find absurd), so we could have had a better relationship.  In this one instance I would be willing to swallow my pride and take one on the chin, for the sake of improved relations, and perhaps a closer bond.  But at this point it's too late.

And next up, happy birthday to me.

Over Under

It's congregation appreciation night here at The Church, and I'm in the mood for some fun.  So let's play a game.  It's late Sunday night or early Monday morning, depending on your point of view.  Take a stab at how many confrontations Reverend Creepy had this weekend.  If anyone nails it (with only one guess) I will send them a gnarly prize (nothing biological of mine, I promise).

How many clashes did yours truly get into from Saturday morning to Sunday night?

It could be zero, which would seem unlikely considering what a relentless prick I am, but it's hotter than hell down here in South Florida and I hate the heat and humidity.  I could have been dissuaded from going outside and being involved with people and away from air conditioning.  Then again, I might have had a party to attend, full of plenty of potential collisions, especially if I was drinking.  Or taken a road trip, and encountered a variety of people to take umbrage with behind the wheel.  Or taken a trip to the grocery store.  Or stood in front of my house with a shotgun saying, "Get off my lawn."  Or I could have gotten hammered on Friday and spent the entire weekend nursing an epic hangover, embracing the refuge and shelter of shade and air conditioning.  Or I could have had a great session with my shrink this week and be walking on sunshine.

So, what's your guess?

Word Association

What adjective comes to mind when you think of the Reverend Creepy?  (Yes, you can comment more than once, Larry, since it's adjective, not adjectives.  Just make separate comments.)

Again, feel free to comment anonymously.  (And please don't use "handsome", I know I'm fucking handsome.)

I'll start.  With... brash.

(Not looking for only positives here; this is a mid-life taking stock kind of thing, so please be honest and don't blow smoke up my ass.  However, if you're interested in giving me rusty trombone, my contact info is on the left at the bottom.)

Open Mic Nite

Enough of this solemn shit, let's lighten things up, open this up and (try to) have some fun.  Audience participation is encouraged -- post anonymously if you feel like it, I just want to open the floor and get some of your opinions.

Yes, I know I'm opening myself up, but I'm doing it willingly.  Have at it (me).

Another Unkind First

Happy Father's Day, Pop.  Today feels... empty without you.  Hope the next world is treating you a whole lot better than this world treated you.

Part 2 - Reason # 798 Why I Love My Best Friend Rick As Much As A Hetersexual Man Can Love Another Hetersexual Man In A Hetersexual Manner

d) While on our way out to go fishing some time back on the coldest day of the day of the year (December?  January?), we noticed one of the boat engines wasn't working properly.  Captain Gregg feared he had driven over a lobster pot and gotten rope tangled around the propeller, and decided it needed to be checked out.  I was wearing thermal underwear and a pair of jeans down south, a couple of shirts, a sweatshirt and a jacket on top, and a fleece hat to keep my dome warm.  I knew immediately it was too fuckin' cold for me to go in that damn water; fuck that, he could turn the boat around and head home for all I cared.  But without being prompted, Rick went inside the salon, shed his clothes, and came back outside wearing nothing but his boxer briefs and a diving mask.  He took a huge swig out of a tallboy of Busch beer (this was around 8:00 a.m.), and jumped into the icy depths.  Several minutes later he was back on board, assuring Gregg it was just some barnacles on the prop.  "What about the other one," Gregg responded.  With that, Rick was back in the water, checking out the other prop.

Then last Sunday, we took a little excursion to scout out a place as a possible new fishing destination.  While fishing from the pier, Rick hooked a large sting ray, which he had mentioned earlier in the day after we saw one he wanted to catch and make scallops out of.  After a while the ray became immovable -- it had gotten out far enough where there was a sharp drop off of the bottom, gone down and hugged the ground, making it like trying to pull something around a corner.  It wasn't budging.  Without hesitating, Rick hands me the rod, strips down to his shorts, runs off the pier and jumps into the water.  He follows the line, swims out over the ray, grabs handful of line and heads out in the opposite direction, freeing it from the bottom.  I started reeling it in but it headed to the edge and fixed itself on the floor again.  Rick grabs the line a second time, swims out in the opposite direction, frees the ray and orders me to not let it do that again, he was over ray wrestling in the water.  I get the leviathan away from the drop off and work it to shore, where Rick and thrilled beach-goers await it's arrival. 

After all that work, Rick cuts the line as close to the hook as he can, and lets the ray swim off.  Without killing and making scallops out of it.  Afterward, I asked him why he would go through all that trouble just to let it go.  First of all, maybe I'd swim out to salvage a tasty fish like a grouper or a snapper, but they don't have venomous barbs in their tails or the rep of killing someone as tough as the Crocodile Hunter (R.I.P.).  Second of all, I sure as shit wouldn't have let it go at the shore after going through all that risk and effort.  He explained there were so many beachies and kids taking photos and checking out the ray at the shore, he didn't think it would be cool to kill it in front of all of them.  

Now that is bad ass upon bad ass.

Postpourri

Wow.  Payback is a bitch, the chickens have come home to roost, some days your the windshield some days your the bug, whatever.  After the most glorious of winters we're now being pummeled by the most gnarly of summers.  Fuck is it ever hot.

 

To make matters worse, our air conditioning was out from Monday to Tuesday.  You know what's worse than your air conditioner taking a shit during June in South Florida?  Not much.  I'm thinking those 'snowbirds' have it all figured out, and am ready to become an 'intolerable heat and humidity bird'; you know, spend like October through April here, than spend May through September in a cooler climate.  Someplace south of the equator makes sense, with the seasons flipped.  Which is still bizarre to me.

I was in the liquor store buying a bottle of Jack and the nice lady behind the counter asked me if I had a 'rewards card'.  I said no, and she asked me if I'd like one.  Um, sorry, if I'm getting rewards points for all the money I spend on the liquor I buy that's probably not a good sign.  It would give me a bit of a complex about my alcohol consumption.  BestBuy, sure.  My credit card, sure.  Outdoor World, sure.  A liquor store, I'll pass.

In the past month or so I've cut ties with two female friends in my life after they went psycho bitch and acted uncivilized or crazy towards me.  (Funny how that doesn't happen with my male friends.)  Oh well, I'm not the type to have a million people in my life, what with the whole brooding loner thing, so I'll just chalk it up to thinning the herd.  Or trimming the fat, however you want to look at it.

I was flipping through the channels on TV and came across a poker tournament.  I'd seen guys wearing sunglasses, and guys wearing hoodies, but this one fella was wearing both, and had his hoody zipped halfway up his face like he was about to rob a liquor store.  What the fuck is that all about?  Are people gonna start playing poker with ski masks on next?  Why do they let these jackasses wear sunglasses while they're playing?  You want to impress me with your poker skills, don't wear fuckin' sunglasses.  If you can't lie with a straight face or keep your hand to yourself, go find another past time.  We don't need to keep perpetuating the idea that wearing sunglasses indoors is cool.  They're called sun-fucking-glasses.  They don't make you any cooler by wearing them indoors, trust me on this one.  And what's this world coming to when no one will make eye contact with anyone anymore?

A friend of mine was talking to me about his, um, rectal health issues.  He was explaining how he bought a great book on the subject, but couldn't understand why every time he left it out his wife felt compelled to hide this book.  The title: "Anal Pleasure and Health".  I can't for the life of me imagine why his wife wouldn't want him leaving that book around.  And who knew the two went hand in hand.

How great is this, Florida Governor Charlie Crist took the media on a tour of a state beach to reassure everyone that this mega-disaster in the Gulf of Mexico hasn't resulted in oil washing up on our beaches.  (That's a relief; it's only killing the planet by the hour, but as long as our beaches aren't dirty and tourists aren't scared off!)  Someone happened to snap a picture of Charles in Charge catching an eyeful of bare bottom:

 

(Joe Raedle/Getty Images)

I mean, who could blame him, that is a spectacular rump if I may say so as a rump connoisseur.  But come on dude.  Although that could be a brilliant move on his part, what with all the speculation/assumption/belief that he's gay; what better way to make people think otherwise in a non-immoral way.  It beats him getting caught in public with his cock in some broad's mouth.  Brilliant move, Chas.  Well done.

Here's a slightly more embarrassing mistake.  A couple of months back one of our writers put "shit" in a headline, and our editor was busy picking up the slack for some chump who was wasting his evening watching games instead of working, so it got through the cracks.  To make matters worse, people took screen shots of the story and sent it to a website that has fun at the expense of athletes, people who work in sports, the media that cover sports, etc.  Now it was really big and public and a huge shit storm.  Thankfully, the only person fired was the chump who was slacking off, causing the editor to not have enough time to read all of our stories that night.  However, a couple of nights later, a beat writer for the Florida Marlins let this doozy slip through on Twatter:

 

I feel a little dick every day, but it doesn't keep me from going to work.  Some kind of work ethic people have these days.

Haunting

Just spoke to my uncle Hank -- Dad's identical twin brother -- on the phone for the first time since... Dad was sick.  Fuckin... creepy.  Twins are... fuckin' creepy.  I couldn't possibly be more grateful for my uncle -- even if he wasn't extremely wealthy and helping out Mom because Dad didn't leave her financially secure -- because he's a living, breathing mimic of Dad.  And he's a Bizarro-version of Dad.

At the same time, it's too fucking familiar, and reminds me too much of Dad, and makes me miss Dad that much more.  Pleasure and pain.

God I miss you Dad.  I'd trade the rest of my life for five minutes with you.

Reason # 798 Why I Love My Best Friend Rick As Much As A Hetersexual Man Can Love Another Hetersexual Man In A Hetersexual Manner

He's bad-fuckin' ass tough.

Mind you, no one would confuse Rick with being bad ass.  Or tough.  Which is not a slight.  He's not a big fella, he's not a bad fella, he's not a tough fella, he's not an ass-kicking fella.  Shit, he breaks my balls for speaking up to people when they act out of line or a fool, always suggesting I ignore situations and let sleeping jackasses lie.  But that's not to say if the shit ever hit the fan Rick wouldn't place his teeth on somebody's throat and literally render them useless by the most savage of manners, because he would, if duty called.  I'm just saying Rick ain't the bad ass or tough type.

I'm 41; I've know Rick since I was like four years-old.  We grew up next door to each other, quickly hit it off, became inseparable, and the rest is history.  He and I grew apart once we went off to colleges in different cities/states and went out on our own paths to find out who we really were (which I suppose is natural considering how close we were for all those years), but soon reconnected and were living together in a house in the suburbs of Lost Angeles.  However, we were still not on the same page, and had a pretty good falling out that resulted in us not speaking to one another for an extended period of time (a year?).  While we eventually reconciled because of our unbreakable bond, he spoke his peace and stood his ground, I spoke my peace and stood my ground, but we buried the bloody hatchet nonetheless, and soon enough it was business as usual.

I've always told anyone who would listen that Rick, all I'm guessing 5'9" 150 pounds of him, is responsible for the most impressive physical feats I've ever witnessed in person with my own eyes.  They include but are not limited to:

a) Chucking the core of an apple he was eating while we stood in front of his house as kids at a neighborhood girl who was besmirching us while she was walking her dog -- a yorkie -- and hit this tiny furball of a dog with said apple core from a distance of at least a half a city block away.  I was there, I saw it.  You could attempt to hit a target that small with something as un-aerodynamic as an apple core from so far a thousand times and never hit it, yet he did on his first and only attempt, with no warm ups or practices, right after she talked shit about us.  I'm no mathematician, but I'd guesstimate it as a one in a million shot.

b) While spending a weekend down at his folks' place in the Florida Keys, Rick decided to take the boat with it's balky motor out for a test drive alone while the rest of us were inside getting showered and cleaned up.  We soon noticed no Rick, and when we realized there was no boat, put two and two together and figured he was stuck out in the bay somewhere.  As we attempted with our teenage minds to come up with some sort of plan as to what to do, we spot Rick swimming in the salt water, towing the 17" boat back to the dock by the bow line.  The engine had indeed failed him, but instead of tossing the anchor over the side to keep himself from drifting to Cuba and stay in place while he shot a flare/cried bloody murder/lit a signal fire/waited for a passing boat to aid him, he jumped into the water, grabbed the bow line over his shoulder, and swam in (he'd know for sure, but I'd guess at least a mile) while towing the fucking boat behind him.  I could maybe see dropping anchor and swimming back home, although it would have still been quite a feat, but swimming back home while towing the fucking boat behind you?  That's... Rick.

c) We were fishing off of Miami Beach, in 80 to 120 feet of water, like we usually do.  (That's where sailfish love to tread.)  Rick was living on South Beach at the time, and he could literally see his place from the boat.  For some reason or another during the afternoon, Rick decided he needed/wanted to go home, and thinking the shortest distance between two points was a straight line, figured he'd just jump in the water and swim to the beach, emerge from the ocean like Poseidon and walk home, rather than spending all the time it would take us to get the boat back to the dock through Government Cut and all the bridges we have to wait for them to open so we can pass through.  He stuck his wallet in his teeth to keep it dry, dove in, bid us adieu and proceeded to swim to shore, while we all watched in shock, fully expecting him to turn around and come back to the boat, insisting he was kidding.  But he didn't.  He dog paddled his way to shore, with the wallet in his mouth constricting his oxygen flow, until he eventually, much to our relief, broke the surf and triumphantly strutted onto land, as if they ocean were his bitch.

To be continued...

Get In My Belly!

Maybe those Muslims ain't so crazy after all...

Saudi clerics issue fatwa okaying adult breast-feeding as way of circumventing Islamic law

Come Alive!

After a pedestrian several months at my new job, Creepy is finally starting to make waves.  Or at least riding waves he doesn't appreciate riding, or comfortable enough to air his grievances.

Last week a senior writer (writer, not editor) stuck his finger in my chest by responding to reader (no-life jackasses) criticism about my wording of a sentence by taking it upon himself to edit my writiing in their favor, when there was nothing grammatically wrong with what I said -- it was a matter of semantics that a couple of losers who've never felt the touch of a woman or read a book from cover to cover couldn't grasp.  I publicly aired my grievance to him, he stuck by his opinion (as a writer, not an editor), to which I reminded him that opinions are like assholes -- everyone's got one but they all stink.

The entire department was shocked that a) I spoke up to him, which is evidently something no one does, and b) he didn't blow a gasket when I did, which evidently he does every time someone questions or challenges him. 

Tonight, a co-worker who is a huge fan of ball busting (he's the one who gave me the nickname "Blue" and constantly throws jokes/insults my way about age/impotence/colostomy bags/prostate issues/etc.) but whom I genuinely like, crossed my line in response to me joking about another guy who passed him over for a senior writer's job and has won two awards since doing so.  He started the having fun at my expense, I responded, and he went where he shouldn't have gone with me.  (Hardly uncommon.)

I chalk it up to: a) he has me confused with the average pussy sports journalist who either has no line or doesn't punish people for crossing that line, b) he's never been punched in the nose before and learned the lesson that people can bite back, there are consequences for your actions sometimes, be prepared, c) "Blue" is a whole new animal he's never encountered, or d) all of the above.

I've decided to pull him aside tomorrow and explain my distaste for low blows, and recommend he refrain from doing so again.  That's pretty diplomatic for a heartless, ruthless prick such as myself, no?

Any other suggestions?

Cruel and Unusual Punishment

Still standing

Pilot This

"I'd do things you'd never attempt.

Then again, I've got no sense."