Hey loyal readers,

Lookee here; two posts in as many days. Call it a spurt of creative energy.

In reality, this post is just to say I've opened up my comments to all users, not just registered ones. This could be bad, but I'm an egotistical bastard and invite comments to my blog.

The only reason I changed it in the first place was to prevent the religious zealots out there from cluttering up my comments when I took aim at their precious little waste of time I like to call, "Christianity." When I ranted against Christian drivers, I was besieged by Bible thumpers for having the wrong idea. OK, besieged is too strong a word. I got one comment from some dude wanting me to get saved and visit his web site. Still, it made me mad and I sent him a very terse e-mail telling him I didn't appreciate his comment and that my soul was doing just fine the way it is. Harrumph.

So, now I gleefully open the flood gates, awaiting whatever backlash I bring upon myself.

Go ahead.

Comment away.

Don't hold back.

Buehler?

Anyone?

OK, so I don't get a load of comments. For that matter, I don't get many readers. But, I soldier on in the face of this blissful ignorance because this blog allows me some sort of release. A flexing of the creative muscle, if you will. Now that I have a nifty new laptop with a cool wireless thingy, I can go about horking someone else's internet connection and update this fuzzy little piece of the world much more often. Can't say much about the quality of the postings, but at least they'll be more frequent.

I hope.

Feel free to comment. Anyone?

June 25, 2006

An open letter to the Regents of the University of California:

Sirs and Madams:

First off, allow me to offer my condolences for the tragic loss of Denice Denton, Regent for U.C. Santa Cruz. Her loss is a tragic one, but unfortunately, foreseeable. Nonetheless, please consider this letter a formal proposal to hire me as her replacement.

Before you pooh-pooh this notion with your condescending guffaws, please consider my numerous qualifications. Once you have looked over my curricula vitae, I think you'll be calling and asking just when I can get up to S.C. and take a look at the new digs. Check me out.

First, I'm no lesbian. While I usually consider being a lesbian a big plus (especially the hot ones I see in soft-core porn movies on Cinemax), in Ms. Denton's case, it was a big part of her undoing. See, I don't have a "partner" who will demand some ridiculous made up position that will pay her $120,000 per year. I have a wife and she would be perfectly happy staying home and shopping with my fat new salary. See, already I've saved you 120 Large per year just by taking the job. Hell, I'd consider being Regent for $120,000 a year, but I digress. Bottom line, I'm no lesbo, but I love to munch the ol' carpet if you know what I mean (wink, wink, nudge, nudge), especially if it'll help me get the job.

Next, I'm an attorney. No shit, I'm an honest-to-goodness member of the State Bar. Number 182384. You can look it up. Your last Regent at UCSC was some sort of brainiac electrical engineer with a buttload of degrees from M.I.T. Look where it got her. Over the balcony of an apartment in San Fran, that's where. How you like her now? I bet you do. My law degree and substantial experience in legal practice will come in really handy when we're dealing with the fucking unions up there in S.C. I'm no pussy when it comes to contract negotiations and I'm no bleeding heart either. Those mopes up there are lucky to have the jobs they hold just so they can buy their granola, ride their single speed bikes, and totally forget to shave their armpits (talking the women here, and it's pretty gross). The money I'd save you just in legal fees and cheaper labor agreements alone would allow about 200 more freshmen to come in and study the hell out of organic chemistry. Everyone wins, no?

Third, I'm a cheap son-of-a-bitch. How much were you paying that Denton woman? $750k per year? And her house? $650,000 to upgrade it? What did she want, solid gold fucking bidets in every room? Although I can't find fault in asking for that, I think she might have been a little out of line. So, here's what I want. Salary, $200,000 per year, to be negotiated each year based on performance. The salary can't go down, but raises will be merited. Next, I'll take her house without the improvements provided its in livable condition. If not, find me a decent place where I can live with my wife and four kids. Yeah, you read that right, I've got four kids. Like I said earlier, I'm no lesbian. They're all mine and they're spectacular. I probably won't be traveling much, so there's more savings. I don't have expensive tastes, so I'm not going to eating out in fancy restaurants all the time, and we are talking about Santa Cruz, so how "fancy" can the restaurants be? Not very, I'm betting. Bottom line, I save you a ton of jack; you pass along the savings. Sort of like that Crazy Gideon character. You have him up there in Nor Cal, right?

Finally, I'm looking at improving the image of UCSC in several ways. First off, how much did you guys make off that "Pulp Fiction" thing? What, you don't remember? John Travolta goes through most of the movie wearing a Banana Slug T-shirt and you guys didn't reap mucho residuals? Hey, your naivete is showing. Dudes (and babes), let me hip you to a little thing I like to call "licensing." Take that Banana Slug thingy and cash it out for all it's worth. Key chains, shirts, squeaky toys, loofas, "adult toys;" the sky's the limit. Next, find a way to make Santa Cruz attractive. The whole, "we're the real surf city" thing is lame. Jan and Dean were from So Cal. Hawthorne, I think. So, let it go. I have a better idea. Her name is Eva, and her ass is legendary. Check it out at the top of the page. That's what I'm talking about. See, she loves to go places and have her picture taken while she's doing a crazy handstand. In the picture above, she's wearing a pair of Santa Cruz shorts around that award winning rump. Dude, just the chance of seeing that tookus in person will have the pimple-faced, laptop toting, World of Warcraft playing geeks lined up around the block to get into UCSC. The other UC's will be hating on SC so hard, they'll probably blow an aneurysm. Sweet. Oh, I also have some ideas about your sports teams, but I'm not even sure you have sports teams so, we'll save that for later.

So, in closing I'd like to say thank you for this opportunity to address the recent opening at UCSC. I think I'd make a great regent or chancellor or whatever the top dog, or slug, is called up there. I'm available to start immediately. Hell, I'll even interview for the post.

Best Regards,
Ron

Time to play a little game I like to call, "You know what I don't get?"
Have fun and play along at home.


You know what I don't get? This whole illegal immigrant thing. Really, the whole argument is bullshit for some very good reasons.

First, no one is willing to come out and publicly state just what a shithole Mexico obviously is. If it wasn't, would millions of its citizens be flocking to the U.S. to pay $.50 each for used pants at my garage sale today? (by the way, the sale of the day occurred when a lady paid $2.00 for a bag of used underwear. . .I shit you not) Would they be risking life and limb to gain entry into a country if things were honky-dory back home? Fuck no. They are desperate to escape a corrupt government, a weak economy, and a backward-ass country-fuck open cesspool of a country.

Think about it. The average immigrant, legal or otherwise, comes here to better their life. You know why? Because it's the greatest country on earth right now. I imagine people would have been flocking to England in the 1700's if all that kept them out was some barbed wire and an inept border patrol. Spain in the 1600's? Probably all it could do to keep the Portuguese out. Then Portugal got all high and mighty in the late 1600's and probably passed some lame-ass laws saying it wanted to save all the good jobs for the Portuguese and basically told the Spaniards to go fuck themselves. That's where we are today. We rule. Everyone wants to live here, especially California. No one wants to sneak under the fence and hop a freight train to Maine. Maine sucks ass. . .hard. Maine is where the oxy-contin addiction thing started. I can relate.

The thing I really don't get is why do all the immigrants, legal or otherwise, complain like a bunch of bitches once they get here? "Hey, I snuck into your shithole of a country when you were busy fighting over gay marriage and now I want to tell you this place sucks." Or really? How the hell are things in Guanajuato? Peachy, I'll bet, Rigorberto. Really, it's not the immigrants who complain; it's their kids. I know. I teach them. They are the first to downgrade everything American. Our soccer team, our government, our police, our refusal to grant them a cheap place to live. It goes on. Then they tell me just how great Mexico is. "Oh, Mexico is cool. You don't have to go to school, we play all day, our soccer team rules, I can get drunk and nobody cares." You get the picture; it's fucking paradise.

So, I don't get it. Maybe I'm an ignorant son of a bitch, but what the hell? You drag your ass up here, get a low-paying job, send millions back to a country that bases a good part of its economy on the fact that its expatriated citizens will be sending millions back to current residents, then you complain because our government won't protect you? One word of advice: Fix your fucking house before you attempt to tell me my paint job is fading, fucker.

There will be more to this series. I'm just getting started.

Off to look at free porn. Which, by the way, reminds me; I don't get why we get bothered by our kids seeing a naked body but will let them play the goriest of video games.

Holy shit it's been a long time since I updated this thing. Turns out, not having access at work really slows the creative process (ie, blogging).

So what's bugging me? What is up in my neck of the woods? Nothing.

My life is really boring. It was once said that most men lead lives of quiet desperation.

Call me El desperado de silencio. I'm at a crossroads of my professional life and it almost always happens this time of year. June. School will be out and I'll be free to teach summer school or pursue my legal career. One or the other.

See, I'm growing tired of dealing with the unmotivated, the ungrateful, and the undisciplined. Teaching 13 year-olds all day tends to make one a little jaded; gives one a jaundiced view of society. I think I see all the ills of the world in the microcosm that is room 14. I've had kids kicked out of school for "huffing" keyboard cleaner. I've had kids with all the potential in the world throw it away so they can repeat the 8th grade and hang with their loser gangster wannabe friends. I've intercepted notes in class that were so explicit, they'd be banned on most porn sites (at least the ones I go to). Yeah, I've had my share of good kids, but they're getting fewer and farther between every year.

In other words, I'm getting kind of tired of this shit.

I definitely want to explore my legal career. I love the law. I love the courtroom. I even love doing research. Only one thing; I hated dealing with clients. They are worse than any 7th grader could ever dream of being. Again, I've had loads of good clients, but it's the immature, "I want my day in court" type of client that bitters my taste for the law. If only I could just make some money without having to deal with idiots; that would rule.

That's probably why I'll stick with teaching until I hit retirement age (sooner than some think). The plan is to stick it out for another 12 to 13 years, then do some criminal law (they pay up front, you get to berate smarmy little D.A. bitches, and if you lose the client can't sue you for malpractice. . . it's a win-win-win situation). Besides, I'll be collecting a fat pension while I sit on my ass waiting for the next drunk, meth using low-life to come through the door proclaiming innocence while insisting the cops made him confess by using mind control tricks and free coffee.

Time to watch "Deal, or No Deal."

Vacations are a bitch.

Don't get me wrong; I love them. My problem is timing, rest, and money; none of which I have.
I'll explain.

Timing:

See, I teach. Some say I'm good at it; others have their doubts. Fuck them. The kids are on the fence. They seem to get smarter, but not due to their efforts. It's all me, baby. But I digress.
I teach, therefore my vacations are dictated by the state. Two weeks at Christmas, er, I mean winter break, and one week at Easter, aka spring break. Ten glorious weeks called summer vacation are usually spent in a classroom getting paid obscene amounts of money to teach the future of our country everything they should have learned in the previous 40 weeks, but were too fucking lazy to care about. Normally I'm left with 4 weeks to drink my brains out and cry until I have to report back to start the vicious cycle once again.

The problem with my timing is my kids. They go to a private school. Yes, I'm a public school teacher who sends his kids to a hoidy-toidy private school so they don't get lumped in with the rest of the losers for the rest of their life. Anyway, the private school's vacation schedule is usually a week off from mine, making it impossible to plan any sort of meaningful vacation to a decent destination that doesn't involve casinos. Tough life I've got. So, we end up spending 2 days at Whiskey Pete's hotel and casino in beeeeutyful Primm, NV. Being the middle of April, you expect the desert to be warming up. Nope. Cold as fuck. But, the kids went swimming because we forced them to and everyone had a great time. It is the way Easter was meant to be celebrated; with a buffet in a casino. Since the kids had to be back to school on Monday, we cut things short and high tailed it back home. Bummer. Timing is everything, and I ain't got it. . .in spades.

Rest:

See, when I go on vacation, I like to relax. Problem is, I don't know how. With 3 or 4 kids tagging along, rest isn't easy and relaxation is a myth. "What are we going to do?" Where are we going?" "What's for lunch?" "Dinner?" "Where's the arcade?" It's enough to make a father's ears bleed. And they do, profusely. The best time we ever had on vacation was when we went to Texas with our friends. There, everything was pretty much planned out. Get up; eat in the room because we had a kitchen; go to the waterpark because that's where we were staying; eat lunch back at the room; go back to said waterpark with cooler full of beer because said waterpark is fucking awesome (it was and is The Schlitterbahn in New Braunfels, Texas; it rules. See for yourself www.schlitterbahn.com); go back to room; shower, drink more, get dressed, order pizza for kids who are about to pass out (one hopes), and sneak off to Gruen, Texas for the best barbeque restaurant in the Western Hemisphere. We did that for 2 days, then headed to San Antonio to sweat before heading back to O.C. It was great. No room for error, just loads of fun. I got lots of sleep. The kids were happy. The wife was pregnant, so naturally she was all smiles. Life was good.

That was the exception.

Just last week, we decided to spend two days in the aforementioned Primm, NV. No schedule; no waterpark; no warm weather. Since we were basically in a casino, no sleep either. The wife likes to gamble as much as me. Probably moreso. We decided that playing blackjack until 3:00 in the morning would be "fun." It was. Waking up at 8:30 the next morning (actually the same morning) sucked. I think I was still drunk when I woke up, I'm not sure. I am sure of this; it took the better part of the next week to catch up on the lost sleep due to getting in late, then waking up superfucking early. Damn the sun; damn the booze; damn the addictive qualities of video poker. To make things even better, the wife and I decided that we needed to get away on our own to, you guessed it, another casino. This time we were the guests of the Penchanga band of mission Indians. Again, up until 3:00 drinking, gambling, and kanoodling (is it spelled that way?). Rest is for suckers, and I ain't a sucker. . .apparently.

Money:

We gamble. No need to go into detail on this one. Our rooms are usually free (Pechanga gave us a killer rate for a 4-diamond room, nice), we bring our own booze; eat on the cheap, leaving most of our money for gambling. If we had more money, we'd gamble that too. Although, then we'd be in better hotels. . .for free. If we had even more money, we'd go to places like Palm Springs, San Diego, Solvang (?), San Francisco, and our Holy Grail, Maui. But, we fritter money on little side trips too often. We go to Primm or Vegas about 4 to 5 times a year. We like it, but a change would be nice. This summer we're contemplating a trip to Tennessee to go to, you guessed it again, a waterpark. Of course, this also means going in and out of Atlanta, so it's not as bad as it seems. We could also visit my good friend Dave who now lives on a reservation in Minnesota, but that would entail, you are getting good at this guessing by now, a casino. At least he works at the PGA quality golf course, so I can go out and threaten the natives with my innate hacking abilities whilst reinforcing only the most negative stereotypes involving booze and Indians (my great grandmother was a full blood Choctaw, no shit). But, with gas prices zooming, the prospect of air travel seems out of our price range. It ain't cheap taking 3 to 4 kids on a jet and keeping them there for 4 to 6 hours. I have found it's why they have so many bars in airports. In short, more money equals better vacations. Looks like 2 days in Primm and maybe 3 or 4 days in Laughlin with friends who have a boat. Lake Mohave is really cheap and hotter than the hubs of hell. Good times, good times.

So, there you go friends. My vacation reflections in short (for me anyway). Tomorrow I go back to work frazzled, broke, and wondering where all the time went.

I need to go mix a drink before I cry again.

Time to update.

First, "Muhammad and Me" ended its run. It was funny, but limited and probably needed to go. After all, you don't want to piss off the entire Muslim world, although it is easy as fuck to do. Ask the Danes, if Denmark is still around. I haven't checked. Do they still brew Tuborg beer? It's the beer of kings, you know.

Next, I did not enter the writing contest. It's a thing they do in the OC Register. They publish an artsy-fartsy picture and have people write stories about the picture. Something I've done a million times with my students. It's good fun. This time, they had a picture of an old guy wearing a hard hat with goggles around the hat. He seems to be sitting in his garage and fiddling (I just used "fiddling" in my writing; I'm old now- it's official) with a tablet that has wires running from it. He's supposed to be an inventor of sorts. The guy's name is Wally and they say he's a part-time genius.

So, I had this great idea (seemed like it at the time) to write my story as if it was an e-mail from a brother to his sister telling her that the paper put a picture of "weird Uncle Wally" in the paper for some reason, and then go on to tell stories of spending the summer with Uncle Wally and Aunt Pearl. I was going to tell about how I was the unwitting guinea pig for most of his experiments and inventions including the "shocking Etch-a-Sketch" that delivered a minor jolt to the user once any shape was enclosed. I was also going to tell the story of how on every Halloween Uncle Wally, a 7th grade shop teacher at Louis Pasteur Jr. High in Pacoima, CA, would tell the class that they were going to build a real live female, then send some poor schmuck to find the janitor and ask for 50 ft. of Fallopian tubing so they could get the job done.

The story was going to be comic genius, if I do say so myself. Unfortunately, I lost interest, became too busy with work, got bored, and figured it would have been too much for the conservative likes of the OC Register. So, I said, "Fuck it."

I was recently outraged at the state of South Dakota for outlawing all abortions. Not that I'm a big pro-choice or pro-life kind of guy. I think both sides need to check the reality of the situation and get families to prevent their daughters from fucking the first boy who says, "I love you." Teach them some self respect and self discipline and you'd lower the pregnancy and abortion rate. Also, if you actually made adoption a workable solution for some, you may get somewhere. But, when you outlaw abortion altogether, you solve nothing. Calling it "murder" and not even exempting victims of rape and incest is plain pigheaded. Doing it and saying "God has plan for this child" is even more outrageous and stupid. Did God plan for a 12 year old girl to get molested by her pervert uncle? Good one God. I'd have never thought of that one! God wanted you to get gang raped on the way home from your pilates class so you could have this child. Nevermind that the mere thought of the child will bring back horrific images and memories, it's the way He wanted it and your having this baby. Yay, God!!

Step back for a minute and think. Doesn't God have a better way of getting things done? He is God isn't he? Isn't he all powerful? So why would he fuck with anyone's life like that? I'll tell you why, because he doesn't. You're stupid for thinking so and God agrees with me. He told me so this morning by having the Virgin Mary appear in my cheese omelet. I swear. So, South Dakota, you just keep right on doing "God's Will" for him and you can go on being exactly what you are; a little shithole of a state that no one cares about and Indians won't use for their worst casinos. Bitches.

OK. I've said enough for now. If any of you are visiting from Dan's page, Hi. If you're not, Hi.
If your Dan, I've got to get back up to SF and see the rest of the good bars.

Going to the gym. . .again.

Faithful reader,
I promise to update this blog much more often than I currently am. I'm busy.
Also, it doesn't help that my employer blocked access to all blogs because they contain "adult content." Bad. Very bad.

Anyway, my last blog was so very gay (not that there's anything wrong with that), and for that I must apologize. So, my next entry will be absolutely spectacular.

or at least interesting.

Either way, it will be better than discussing American Idol. I hope.

I'm entering a creative writing contest. I'll let you know.

Catching up, it's been a while.

First, my employer blocked access to all blogs as "Adult Content," making it difficult to update as I have to do it at home when I'm tired. My employer really should look at these blogs a little closer; they'd find little "adult content" among the postings, especially mine.

One they might like, though is http://muhammadandme.blogspot.com/. It's a daily comic with a guy and Muhammad, Prophet of Islam. They do all kinds of wacky things. Get bombed, make cupcakes, get suits, ride bikes; you know, the normal things anyone who lived with a prophet would do. It's funny. You should see it.

Next, about this American Idol thing, I'll admit it; I watch it. I have to, I have a wife and three daughters. It's going to be on in the house. It's hard to avoid. Problem is, I actually enjoy it from time to time. The singers are getting better each season (guess that blows the lid off of how long I've been watching) and Simon Cowell speaks the truth. In all, not a bad show.

My gripes with the show begin with the smug, piece of shit, metrosexual, DJ wannabe, Ryan Seacrest. This dipwad operates under the illusion he speaks for the vast majority of viewers when he tries to rebuke the judges, mainly Cowell, and defend the poor singers. Wrong. He's annoying to the point of distraction. Besides, he's totally gay and denies it like a schoolgirl with a crush on the new kid in school. Only his boyfriend knows for sure, and he ain't talkin' long as Ryan's dick is in his mouth. Where's that Dunkleman character when you need him?

Next, how about changing up the song selection? Every other song is a Gloria Estefan, Mariah Carey, Whitney Houston shitbag pop tune that was a hit 15 years ago. Sheesh. Try something new. I say look up the band Split Enz. They made some of the finest pop tunes of any group to ever record, and no one remembers who they were. Except me. They could even try a Crowded House song or two (since that band featured Neil Finn, one half of the creative team behind Split Enz). You could do a lot worse.

Sorry. I just lost interest in my own topic. I thought I could go on, but the inspiration has left me. My muse speaks to me no more. It could be that the performances tonight were wholly unimpressive, or that I couldn't fit the word "fuck" more. I'm not sure, but there it is in all its glory.

Oh, I need to right about the idiots of South Dakota and their whole "following God's will" bullshit with their idiotic abortion law.

Just wait.

Life is funny.

Really, no bullshit. Life is a fucking hilarious trip through the fun house.

Let me explain.

You buy a 12 pack of soda, say Mountain Dew Diet Code Red (completely random association with this thought. . .yeah). You open said 12 pack only to find it contains 11 full cans of soda, not 12. What the fuck? See, one of the cans is empty, albeit, sealed. What do you do? You sure as hell don't drink it. Could have a syringe just waiting to stick you in the tongue (brings back a funny story about the first of many hoax claims of tainted Diet Pepsi from about 5 years ago; the first person said she knew something was wrong when she took a sip and felt a prick in her mouth. She got nothing, and liked it) hidden in the can. So, you save it.

Great, next you go to the website for the maker of the product, say www.pepsiworld.com, for example and look for the ubiquitous "contact us" button. Only thing is, it's not there. So, you go to the parent company's site, say www.pepsico.com, looking for a contact button. Lo and behold, thar she blows! You follow the link and, wouldn't you know it, it takes you back to pepsiworld.com. Pretty fucking funny. Bastards.

So, you futz around the pepsiworld.com area for a while looking for a hidden link, only it isn't there. What is there is a link to "Ask Lisa," Pepsi's "virtual customer service representative." This little bitch asks you to type in a brief question about Pepsi products so she can spit out the pre-written, company-friendly answer. Perfect. OK, Lisa, here goes: What do I do with an empty can of Mountain Dew Diet Code Red? Hmmm? Lisa's answer: I'm not sure what you're asking, but here's a list of topics your search brought out. Funny thing is, you can't see them because the window won't expand to reveal them. That's right, it's a pop-up and it stays small.

I'm losing my fucking mind with this hilarity.

So, here I am with an empty can of soda I would dearly love to send back to Pepsi, or Pepsiworld (wherever that shithole is) so they can take their empty soda can and promptly shove it up their corporate ass.

That and they can show us Lisa's tits as a consolation.

Fuck corporate America, before it's too late.

First, I'd like to thank my good friend Dan for linking to my blog from his site, www.theartofdansilver.com. Those of you who came from there, thanks for visiting and not voicing your utter disappointment in my petty rants and tantrums. If you came here by chance, damn your luck and move on. I understand.

Now, welcome to the Useless Holiday Department. Today's special, Valentine's Day. Or is it St. Valentine's Day. Call it what you want, it's fucking useless. Call me bitter, call me jaded, call me Earl, but don't call me some hopeless romantic, yearning for love's passionate blaze to burn brightly within my breast. Biggest pussy holiday in the known universe.

In reality, Valentine's Day makes New Year's Eve and Halloween look like bona fide holidays. Think about it. Valentine's Day probably started out like Halloween; you know, some sort of weird pagan ritual day that the Catholics assimilated about 1500 years ago to give their lame ass religion some cred with the local citizenry.

Something like this: "Hey you godless heathens, why the fuck are you sacrificing a goat to some insipid love god when we've got this saint you can feast with? So, come on over to our "church," drop some of that gold in our "poor box," have some wine and we'll toast St. Valentine." To which the locals replied, "Will there be heart shaped candy, stoopid cards, and inflatable hearts? 'Cause if there are, we are so there!"

Now, thanks to Hallmark, American Greetings, and FTD, we have "Valentine's Day, the marketing event of the winter!" Think I'm off the mark here? Just try going to Target the day after Christmas. The wife and I did. Know what they had already started displaying. Yep, Valentine's Day cards, bears, candy, balloons, underwear, socks, condoms, and hair gel. The stupid fucking day was a full 45 days away and already we were being inundated with the Red Menace. I almost went berserk. Close call. I bought some mixed nuts and got the hell out.

Maybe my bitterness with this tremendous waste of time stems from being the awkward kid in school (read; really tall and fat, so I was a little imposing to my classmates, especially the girls). The popular boys all had their bags stuffed with candy, cards, and phone numbers. Me and my ilk, we got a few from the girls who appreciated us for being us (read; the ugly, unpopular girls), and maybe some crossed out cards from girls who felt sorry for us as we sat and stewed in our bitter juices until tender and ready to burst.

As time passed, the day got worse. If I had a girlfriend, she expected flowers, cards, candy, dinner. I expected sex. Stupid me. Finally, I met the perfect woman; my wife. Our first Valentine's Day together, she came to my work with a picnic basket of cheese, salami, crackers, and champagne. We went to a park; ate; drank; made out; and I was back to work in an hour. It was cool. That night, I made dinner and we had sex. Finally, a Valentine's Day I could get behind, and get some behind (hummuna, hummuna).

The reason I say she is perfect? She agrees with me and my feelings on this otherwise futile waste of time we call Valentine's Day. If we do celebrate it, we try to go out of town and gamble, drink, and have sex. It's totally cool, and it's not necessarily because of some stupid saint, or Cupid, or a druid love god.

Valentine's Day is for kids. We spend a shitload of money on candy, little toys, and DVD's for our kids and get them those crappy little cards for them to pass out at school. That's it. Other than that, I'm done with the 14th of February. Nothing special. Just another day, except you can't get a table at a decent restaurant.

Now, let's get to the real important days, like St. Patrick's Day.

The weather here in So Cal has been the shits lately. By that I mean, it sucks. People in cold weather climates will not understand this, but the weather here is too fucking hot.
Yesterday in the 90's. Today in the 80's.

It's February and it's hot. What the fuck?

See, I love summer. No, I mean, I live for summer. Long days; warm nights; cooling off with a beer or two, or three, or four. You get the idea. But, summer can't last all year. It just gets annoying when it's November and you go to Thanksgiving dinner in shorts and a T-shirt. Better yet, it's Christmas and your family is eating out on the patio.

It gets old, believe me.

Now, here it is February and I'm sweating my ass off. Stop it already. How about some goddamn rain? And another thing; this wind we've been having. Get it the fuck out of here.
I need moisture in the air, now. I do not live in the desert, nor do I want to. If I visit the desert, I want to gamble (like I will be doing this weekend) and drink. I do not want to feel like I live in the business end of a blast furnace.

So God, if your reading this, hows about directing that El Nino bad boy a little farther north and get us some storms before the entire So Cal metropolitan area is one big ashhole.

Off to the gym to cool off.

The fitness world is on fire and it's not a good thing.

I speak metaphorically, of course, about what I've seen and been disgusted by lately. Namely, the useless name calling, posturing, bashing, and overall flamming on fitness sites on the internet. It has been eating away at me for days now, since Friday to be exact, like a drop of acid on a metal table. You know, eventually, it's going to leave a hole.

So the whole thing (no pun intended, but it's kind of funny) starts with an article posted on a web site I read from time to time called T-Nation (note, no link- if you want to find it, find it, but I ain't helping). In the article, actually a collumn, the author calls out and slaps down a site I feel I belong to called CrossFit (again, no link as the flames over there are really quite something and I don't want to fan them). Actually, he says something along the lines of "screw you guys" referring to the whole CF thing. One big dis. Later, he admits that CF only recently shoed up on his radar and that before the NY Times article, he really didn't care. Bullshit.

The guy holds himself out as a well read, well informed, purveyor of all things fitness and he just recently came to hear of CF and Greg Glassman. Somehow, I doubt it. I could be wrong and maybe the author sits in his ivory tower in Colorado Springs and only sees all things bodybuilding, but again, I doubt it. He's far too smart to get away with that assertion. I've read his stuff before; posted comments; appreciated his humor; revelled in his celebration of being a man and brimming with testosterone. This came off as ill-advised and off the cuff. Not his best by far. OK, it was wrongheaded.

This isn't where the story ends, it's where it begins. You see, the fitness community despite its vastness, really is small. The true leaders are few and all are well known. I'd say they are public figures. I'm not speaking of Tony Little or Jack La Lane. I'm talking about coaches who work with athletes, write articles, post on boards, and help the common man. I doubt Tony Little reads his e-mails. Hell, I doubt he reads at all. No, a particular coach was called out for his response because he is a well known member of both communities. Well, here's where the shit storm starts. So, to make a really long story really short, name calling ensues; a flame war begins; asshats from various boards descend on CF like the Allied armies on Normandy; posts are deleted; feelings hurt; shit is stirred (I'm looking at you Bill Fox even though you were not part of this particular bit of internet pissing, I read the Irongarm stuff with shock. . .I expected better, although it means zip to you); and a friendship is crashed upon the rocks. In all, a perfectly good molehill was made into a big stinky mountain of shit. Well done.

I'm not pointing fingers; nor making anyone a martyr. I'm just here to voice my overall displeasure at the total lack of sense this all makes. I'm sure there is blame on both sides although, again, I'm not going to portion that out. I guess what I have to say is I'm saddened by this all. I'm disappointed to find out there's a place on the internet where fitness is a secondary concern to anti-Semitism and misogynistic baits. I'm a little frustrated that most of the responses against CF were nothing more than tough guy posturing by people who neither know, nor want to know what CF is about.

Yeah, I'm a CF guy. I know Greg Glassman; I respect Greg Glasman; I consider Greg a friend. He and his wife have given me immeasurable support and knowledge. I have used the CF ideals and seen them work. Therefore, yes I defend him and his actions. I cannot question his convictions. I find most who criticize his ideas and methods to be ill-informed and their rants as half-baked whines. You don't like the way he operates? Fine, but to call for his murder and rape of his wife? That's just fucking pathetic, and you know it. (I might end up the subject of one of the posts over there at their board and, frankly, I don't care- I don't get their brand of humor or sarcasm or sense or irony or whatever they may call it) Better to criticize his methods with well thought out arguments with evidence to support your claims (right, Bill, the D.A.?) rather than resort to name calling or other schoolyard behaviors (I know he called you a dumbshit, but the context in which he said it makes pretty good sense).

This probably isn't the whole story, but after a good 3 days of reading mostly insipid posts and letting this idea fester, I just decided to get it out of my system. I'm limited by time to write or even care about this further. I want to spend my time on better things, but like a train wreck, I keep looking. Oh, and for all those on the forums I don't post to and won't be reading after this, if you want to, call me a "Moonie" or a Cultfitter, or a "skinny no-nothing fuck;" whatever.
It's a free internet isn't it?


By the way, you would be exactly the second to call me skinny in the past 2 weeks, let alone the past 43 years. I have never been known as "skinny," but I'll take it.

It's been a while, but here's a thought:

I was remembering an old Bugs Bunny cartoon where Bugs gets all upset about not being the #1 most wanted criminal. So, he sets out on a Nationwide rampage to get his ranking up.
He does all kinds of heinous acts and succeeds in raising his criminal stock.

The one thing he does that I was thinking of this week was taking a saw to the border of Florida and the rest of the United States and sets it adrift. This would no longer qualify Bugs as a criminal. It would make him a national fucking hero.

I know there's lots to like about Florida, and I have friends that live there. But, what with kids clubbing the homeless with bats, killing German tourists, rigged elections, hurricane decimation, gasoline hoarding after said decimation, and to top it all off, Disneyworld, it must be said we are better off without the hapless state.

For those of you looking for cheap, warm weather destinations, we still have Hawaii, California, Texas, and Puerto Rico. You'll never miss "The Sunshine State" and its mullet wearing, gator wrasslin, bikini wearing, golf cart driving, election rigging (again with the conspiracy theories), kid shooting, homeless beating denizens.

Think about it. Bugs had the right idea.

Here's how I celebrated New Year's Eve (hereinafter referred to as "NYE"). I went down to our local English pub, The Olde Ship. Now, this is in Fullerton, CA mind you, so don't go thinking I'm in some exotic location in the UK. So, me and my friend, Kurt, meet at the Ship at around 1:15 p.m. Yes, that 1:15 in the afternoon, not 1:15 in the a.m. That would be morning, dumbass.

We arrive at the bar to find it already starting to fill with NYE revelers and we quickly stake our place at the bar, order 2 pints (Imperial pints, the big ones) of J.C. (John Courage, not the other "J.C."), and wait for the fun to begin. Closer to 3:30, the place is starting to get full. To my best estimate, there are somewhere around 100 people crammed into this tiny pub. Finally, closer to 4:00, the place is bursting at the seams. No less than four bartenders are madly trying to keep up with the drink orders as they fly around (mixed drinks, pints, wine, water); the owners pass out party favors; people try desperately to get to the bar; the countdown starts. . .

See, I'm the only one in the joint with a watch that receives its calibration from the Atomic Clock in Colorado Springs, CO, so the owner is looking to me to count it down. Well, with about a minute to go, some yayhoo starts with the 10, 9, 8, 7 bullshit. Fucker. Ruined my moment as the official timepiece. So, at 4:00 p.m., PST, the New Year was rung in by a huge crowd of Brits, Wannabe Brits, and overall bunch of drunks in downtown Fullerton. It was awesome. There was a piper strolling through the joint, I got a full scotch and soda dropped on my leg and all over my shorts, good looking girls used our status as old married farts to come up and flirt their way to the bar to order drinks, and we loved every minute of it.

The best part of the whole day was the fact that once 4:00 hit, the place started clearing out. We left around 4:30. I went home and took a nap.

NYE doesn't get any better, because it normally blows. We're going next year and taking the wives.

So they can drive us home.