He Didn’t Know

My father died this day 2 years ago. When he woke up in the morning that day, he didn’t know it would be his last day. When the alarm clock went off, he didn’t know it would be the last time he’d listen to CFRB talk radio. When he had his last breakfast, and his last cup of morning tea, he had no idea they would be his last. When he did his morning routine, and picked out a suit for the day, and consulted his wife on which tie to wear, he didn’t know that was the last suit he’d wear. When his wife read him my blog, and he laughed his ass off (thank goodness it was one of my better ones), he didn’t know that would be the last one he’d ever read. When he kissed his wife good-bye and told her what time he would be home for dinner, he didn’t know he wouldn’t be home for dinner, or that he wouldn’t see her again. When he drove his car to the train station and found the most ridiculous parking spot outside of a Tim Horton’s, that was nowhere near the station parking lot, he didn’t know that less than 12 hours later a priest would be driving me around for over an hour trying to find that car (unsuccessfully).

As his excitement mounted for the birth of my son, his first grandchild, due to arrive the following day, he didn’t know he would never get to meet him in person. He really didn’t know that a year later, his daughter would provide a second grandchild. When he saw us for the last time for a family dinner a few days prior, he didn’t know it would be the last one. When he went golfing for the last time, he didn’t know that it would be. The last ballgame he watched, the last restaurant he ate at, the last time he went to church, the last time he drove up to his hometown. He did all of those things, and entered all of those places with the same smile and enthusiasm that he’d always had. He didn’t know.

Sad.

Here are a few other things he didn’t know. He never knew loneliness or abandonment. He was well-loved, and a very popular guy. He never experienced the kind of disease and illness that take many lives in such a slow, painful and unforgiving way. He died fairly quickly, without a lot of advance notice. In a lot of ways it was a blessing. He died handsome in a suit, and a lot of people aren’t fortunate enough to go out like that. While trying to cope with this I’ve always reminded myself that I don’t think I would have liked to see him deteriorate. To have some extra time with him, would it have been worth it? Probably. I really wish he got to see his grandchildren, but not if it meant that he would be too sick to enjoy them. Not my call though.

What if he knew all of these things? When he was going to die approximately. When he would experience all of these ‘lasts’. Would it have been better? Would he have enjoyed those moments any more? Or would they have just been filled with incredible sadness and grief. Who knows? I just instinctively feel like somehow I was lucky to have as much time with him as I did, but without having to watch it all fall apart slowly. I kind of like that the last time I saw him didn’t feel like the last time.


Dear Ndugu

You either get the reference or you don’t. There was a movie called ‘About Schmidt’ that starred Jack Nicholson, in which he played a retired/widowed man who goes on a journey to visit his daughter, and attend her wedding. As per usual, Jack plays this character brilliantly. Without getting into the nuts and bolts of the plot and spoiling it for whoever hasn’t seen it, Schmidt has an orphan in Africa that he sends money to. He occasionally sends a letter to this orphan chronicling his life over the last few weeks, how it’s falling apart, and other 1st world problems. It always starts in that classic Jack voice saying ‘Dear Ndugu’ which gets a laugh every time. It’s mostly the editing, and how they drop it in that makes it funny, so if you don’t get it, don’t worry, you had to be there.

Is this a movie review? No. Just a lead in. Something that’s been on my mind lately is that I happen to support a child in Africa as well. (We’ll use the name Ndugu to protect the innocent.) I never talked about it much. If I were to bring it up, it would seem like I was fishing for compliments. I feel a little strange about it to be honest. The main reason I did it is because when I worked downtown, I walked past people who worked for this organization pretty much every day. It seemed like a good campaign, and I respected the people out there every day trying to get people to sign up, but at the end of the day, I just wanted a coffee, not another commitment. I walked past them for a year. I never stopped to talk. I just kept it moving and avoided eye contact. They were always smiling and upbeat. They took rejection very well. One day I succumbed to their charms. I stopped and listened. They started telling me about all the horrible shit happening in certain parts of the world. This is information that I typically avoid, because it makes me feel shitty, and there’s not much I can do to change it. This guy asked how much my coffee cost me. Then he did the whole, ‘for less than a cup of coffee a day……’ routine. I knew what it was. It was my turn to pay the tax. I don’t think I had done enough for others up to this point. I’d always wanted to, but there was always a reason (good or bad) why I didn’t. Here I was. In a fortunate enough position that I could probably afford it. What was I buying when I pulled out my Visa? I was buying a feeling. A feeling that I had done something good. It wasn’t as much about medication or clean water (although I hoped my cup of coffee a day would buy lots of that for somebody), but like a lot of people whether they like to admit it or not, I was paying money to lessen the guilt that I feel for being fortunate in life.

Fast forward to a few weeks ago. My wife comes into the room with an envelope from the organization that handles this arrangement. She asks if I’m ever going to open any of these envelopes. I usually don’t. I give the money so I don’t have to think about it. I don’t want to know about some other part of the world that needs help, or read the heartbreaking statistics of the area in South Sudan where the child I support is, or that they really encourage us to write letters to the children we support, and how much that means to them. Am I not stressed out enough by my own life?

She opens the envelope. Sigh!

Did you know? Girls in the South Sudan are twice as likely to die in pregnancy or childbirth as they are to finish primary school? 45% of people do not have clean drinking water? Many children die of preventable diseases like diarrhea!! Awful.

The envelope also contains a postcard. Another reminder that I should just be a man and write a letter. It’s not that I couldn’t, or don’t have the time, but it signifies a further emotional committment that I don’t know if I want to make. My wife reminds me that I “write a blog for god’s sake, so it’s not like you don’t know how to write!” How hard can it be? My dad used to write me postcards all the time. Everywhere he went, he’d buy a postcard and write to me. Probably just so I could see a picture of where he was at. They were short and sweet. He did this, he saw that, doing this tomorrow, see you soon, Love Dad. I could do that! What would I say though? That a kid suffering through poverty would want to hear? Should I talk about how excited I got when I found this awesome Belgian beer at the Liquor store that I’ve been searching for ages for? Should I talk about the awesome meals I’ve had recently? How living in an air-conditioned building, and driving a car are awesome? They don’t want to hear that!!!

How about how just about every moment in my life that I complain about, would potentially be one of the most amazing moments in their life?

Then like a ton of bricks, it hit me. It brought me perspective that I hope I am able to carry with me every day for the rest of my life. It’s helped me at home, at work, and everywhere in between. I realized that my life IS amazing. I remind myself of this when I start complaining about dumb things. Am I starving? Do I have clean water? Yes? Then perhaps this lineup I’m standing in isn’t so bad, right?? I’ve been preaching this to anyone that will (or has to) listen. What did you complain about today? Something inconvenienced you? Would Ndugu think it was inconvenient? No?? Then you probably shouldn’t either. Strangely, this is making me a happier person. I do feel guilty that I now constantly have to reference Ndugu to remind me how none of my problems are really all that problematic at the end of the day. Not compared to what Ndugu goes through. Every moment of my life that I’m fortunate to have is an absolute blessing.

Ndugu has provided perspective for me. I will thank Ndugu with a postcard that reads like this……..

Dear Ndugu,

Greetings from Canada! I hope this letter finds you well. I want you to know that your life, both triumphs and struggles, are an inspiration to us here. We are wishing you the best, and cheering you on in all of your pursuits. You will be in our thoughts and prayers always.
Be good :)

Love,
Your Canadian Family!!


Half My Life

So I meant to write this post about a week and a half ago. I didn’t, and who knows why? Is it because I was too busy crying my eyes out? Throwing up? Lying on the floor in the fetal position with a snot bubble on the end of my nose that didn’t know whether to go in or out? Drinking coffee liquor? Taking a tomato juice bath? Probably all of the above.

What would have me in such a foul, non-bloggy mood? Some smart-ass decided to update his status on Facebook to indicate that he was off to University 20 years ago that day. Who cares, right? Except that I too would have been starting my post-secondary education that day as well. 20 years ago. I was 19. Do the math. I’ve been pushing 40 for a while. Only gently. Now, I’m pushing it like a bully in a room full of dorks. I’m OK with that for the time being, but the fact that I went to college 20 years ago is unacceptable for some reason. I’m not saying that it feels like yesterday. It doesn’t. It feels like 12 or 13 years ago. Not 20.

Let’s analyze just how ridiculous it is that going to College was half my life ago. I’m the same guy, right? Not even close. Not for the better either. The main difference is that everything hurts. Physically I mean, not emotionally. For no reason at all. I am in pain a fairly high percentage of the time. Nothing requiring a get well card. Just that nagging kind of pain that I know won’t ‘get well’ ever. By the way, for all of you who are over 40 and in more pain than me…. this isn’t a contest, so don’t fill up my comments section talking about your aches and pains…… That sounded selfish and mean. OK, tell me about your aches and pains.

I’m kind of crusty and frowny these days. I was NEVER like that! Why would I be? All I had was dumb shit to think and worry about. It was awesome! The simplicity of it all. I would go out for a beer with a buddy, and that was the most important thing I did all day. I walked with a spring in my step. Now I think I limp slightly, depending on the day. I can’t overstate that I think some of this has to do with the fact that I’m in pain. It probably makes me crusty and frowny more than anything.

I’m a husband, father and working professional now. I was maybe a boyfriend, possibly a part-time employee, and a crappy disinterested student then. I’m not saying that was better, but it was much much easier.

My neck is like waaay bigger now. Most of me probably falls into that category too, but the difference in neck size is astounding. My face too. My whole head really. I only suspected this before now, but recently I bought a ‘New Era’ baseball hat, you know, like the kids wear (oh and I say that now with a straight face), and they’re fitted, so you have to keep trying them on until they fit. My head is big, and that’s all there is to it. I hope you don’t have to sit behind me at the movies. So it only makes sense that I would have a big goddamn neck for it to sit on. I wish my ego, or earning potential, or generosity of spirit was bigger. It had to be my neck.

I’m sure I was way funnier back then too. I should have started this blog then. I don’t think blogs existed then, but I wish I kept a journal or something. I was funny. I don’t know that I’m any less funny now, but I am way less interested in whether people laugh or not. That used to mean the world to me.

I do miss those days. I sometimes long for my 19-year-old energy and enthusiasm. The good news (if I’m to make this blog entry one that ends on a warm and fuzzy note) is that I had a blast! It’s like that rollercoaster that you went on, and you loved it, but you have to line up 45 minutes to ride it again, so you say screw it. It was an excellent ride. I enjoyed every minute of it. I am enjoying where the journey has taken me, and I don’t have any recurring nightmares about how I should have done things differently. So if I’m to turn 40 in the not too distant future, I won’t do so with any sort of sadness, but rather a ‘holy shit, I can’t believe how amazing this last 40 years were, and how lucky I’ve been.’ The next 40 I’m sure will be even more amazing. They will hurt. Not emotionally, but physically.


Why I’ll Leave Toronto If Rob Ford Gets Re-Elected

I think this will be my last Rob Ford related post. I’m a little appalled that his name has even snuck into my blogs as often as it has. I guess the whole thing has been a pretty big news story around the world, and living in Toronto has given me that front row seat that I would NEVER have purchased. I don’t want to make it seem like Toronto isn’t big enough for the two of us, but I made a decision a while back that if he should somehow get back into office (which is not entirely out of the question believe it or not), that I will move out of the city. It’s a fairly interesting blog topic, and I’m not sure why I didn’t write about it before now. I saw footage of a press conference the other day. I’m not going to include the link here, but it was so bad. He should have just read off his paper, but he was trying to use his brain and improvise, and is ill-equipped. I don’t even think he was intoxicated. They were asking what he thought the top issue was in this election. He said jobs. Then he later said transit. Then he back peddled, and spent 30 awkward seconds trying to convince the media that if you don’t have a job, then you don’t need transit. If a 5-year-old was saying that I would give him a dirty look. The mayor of our great city? I’m outta here.

Before I discuss the Rob Ford angle, I want you to understand my situation a little further. I have a wife and a young son. We live in a condo that we will soon outgrow. Was I going to move anyway, and I’m just threatening this as a happy coincidence? Possibly. I do live on the very west-end of Toronto. Five more minutes by car, and I’m totally out of the city. To purchase a house in Toronto is going to be more expensive than doing so further away. I’m acknowledging this because some people who know me may not think that leaving Toronto is such a huge stretch in my current situation. That said, I do currently work in Toronto (on the west end as well), and my wife works right downtown. From that perspective, I’d certainly be willing to stay in Toronto if I could do it at the right price. So me leaving is not a done deal. But…….. If this election happens, and Rob Ford gets back in, I’m telling you right now…… The house hunt starts in earnest, and Toronto locations will not be considered.

Why? Am I such a close follower of politics that I would choose a place to live based on who was in office? No. Am I that embarrassed about my city being the laughingstock of the world for the last 4 years, that I would need to leave? Yes, but no. Is there anything being done at city hall right now, or in a future Rob Ford era that I think is going to make the city completely unlivable?? Probably not.

The issue is the voters. When Rob Ford got elected the first time, people didn’t know he was a raging alcoholic who did drugs (and by the way those aren’t even the main reasons why he’s a terrible mayor, but I don’t want this blog to go off the rails, so I’ll spare you the details). They wanted a fiscally conservative right-wing mayor. He seemed like the guy, so they voted him in. I say ‘they’ because I most certainly did not vote for him even then. In fact, I voted for a guy I didn’t even like, in order to try to block him from getting in. My reasons? Simple. I don’t like a guy that can’t look people in the eye. He didn’t seem intelligent. Small stuff like that. That’s OK. I give people a pass on voting him in the first time. They didn’t know he would be a train wreck. They didn’t see it coming. I get it. Now, it’s a little bit different. We know he’s a train wreck. We know that he’s in no shape to run this city. I’m not going to lie to you….. If I was the manager of a McDonald’s and he came in all shifty, and didn’t look me in the eye, I wouldn’t even hire him to sweep floors. So how is he being taken seriously in the next election?

Right-wing voters will seemingly only vote for a right-wing candidate. That’s been my experience anyways. George W. Bush got re-elected. I don’t think anybody thought he was the sharpest tool in the shed. So Rob Ford can get re-elected. He tells right-wing voters what they want to hear. Not in the most eloquent way, but he manages to get the point across somehow. I don’t even care about political ideals. Give these idiots their fiscally conservative mayor, just not the guy who smokes crack. It’s not even the crack. It’s the constant poor judgement. CONSTANT! Judgement is one of the most important things for a mayor to have. His is poor.

Speaking of poor judgement, why would I leave Toronto if Rob Ford is re-elected? It would mean that at least one-third of the population has poor judgment. It would mean that one-third of the population thinks it’s OK to let someone with an absurd track record of poor judgement run one of the biggest cities in North America. It means that if I’m not a Rob Ford supporter, and my next door neighbor isn’t a Rob Ford supporter, then my other next door neighbor is. Sorry, but I don’t want you around my kid! My son isn’t even 2 yet. Do you think as a parent that it would be a good idea to raise my son in a city where at least 30% of the people lacked any kind of good sense whatsoever??? No! It’s a horrible idea. It saddens me, because I love Toronto with a passion, but there are too many goofballs inhabiting this city. I don’t trust the general population. If you think he is a good idea, then what else do you think is a good idea? What other horrible ideas do you have? What other mind-blowingly unacceptable things do you find perfectly fine? I’d be scared to rummage through these people’s basements. What kind of jobs do these people have in the community? The more I talk about it, the more it freaks me out. I’m done.


Oh, I Know What You’re Thinking About

I went to the grocery store on a Friday. Not as bad as a Saturday or a Sunday, but not as good as a Monday through Thursday. I don’t mind the grocery store as long as it’s completely empty, or almost at least. I like food. It’s people I don’t necessarily like. That sounds harsh. People are OK I guess, but when they are pushing shopping carts I find them completely intolerable. Friday it seemed like everyone got paid, and left work early to stock up the refrigerator for whatever weekend madness they have planned. Perhaps that’s what people were also thinking about as they meandered through the aisles aimlessly with their shopping carts, and made perfectly sure that there were no available spaces for the functional humans who might actually have other things to accomplish this day to maneuver through.

Starting with my man who walks up to the cart line to grab his cart, and stops in front of it to read a text message. Don’t get your cart and pull it over somewhere first!!! Read that message now! Make haste! No, it’s OK, I’ll wait here. You must be confused with that alternate universe in which you are the only person in it. It’s ok, I’ll just pretend to look at the massive display of Oreo cookies which are promotionally priced. While I daydream about Oreos, you daydream about some ridiculous weekend decision like which checkered shirt to wear to Phil’s Barbecue, and whether or not Stacey is gonna bring any of her single friends this time. I know based on the fact that you don’t possess the intelligence to pull a shopping cart out of the stack and move it to the side, or alternately move yourself to the side, so other people can shop here too, that you will have a weekend highlighted by your own mediocrity, and if you do manage to get a girl’s phone number, it will be a fake, and you won’t have removed enough barbecue sauce from your ignorant little fingers to accurately punch it into your phone anyway.

Or the Fifty-something guy who is staring at the canned corn with his shopping cart JUST DIAGNONAL ENOUGH to prevent another cart from getting by. I wait patiently, listening to Air Supply on the speakers. How much analysis can you possibly do on canned corn? Let me run it down for you. The name brand one costs more, but they’re both exactly the same. Make sure you check for dents in the can. Are you waiting for the cans of corn to start dancing? That would be about the only reasonable excuse for standing there in full on space cadet mode with your cart blocking the aisle. Just tell me that the show’s about to start, because if these cans of corn start dancing, I will park my cart diagonally as well and watch the show with you, only after I pick up some Cheetos from aisle #3. Oh, they aren’t about to dance? THEN MOVE YOUR CART!! GET OUT OF THE WAY!!! STARE AT CORN WHEN YOU GET HOME!! Or are you trying to avoid going home? Is your wife gonna make you clean the windows and trim the hedges? Are you stalling? I understand, just move your cart to the side.

Or the obnoxious lady checking every single egg in the package. Both sides. While standing in the doorway of the fridge, so less OCD people could just grab some eggs, do a cursory glance at them and check the date. She’s checking them over like she’s at the antique road show trying to put in a bid on some hand crafted trinkets from the 18th century, not like they are something that she will crack in half in less than 2 weeks, and guess where her cart is while she’s doing this? Blocking the way! Was there ever a doubt. She’s obviously thinking about how her life is spinning out of control, and making sure that these eggs are absolutely perfect is the only way to bring some semblance of order to her existence. The irony here being that if she only went through life as the type of person who didn’t stand in the fridge doorway blocking people from getting eggs while her shopping cart blocked the aisle, that she would probably be in a better place where she didn’t have to make sure her eggs were perfectly crafted works of chicken magic.

I of course would also be able to get home quicker.


Buying Back Your Karma, LeBron?

This past Father’s Day was a great day for me. Not only did I celebrate my second year of being a Father, but I became Godfather to my nephew. It was a lovely church service with an all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet to follow, and good times hanging out with family. That was enough to make it an amazing day. Those are life events, and they’re awesome. That wasn’t the end though. As my day was winding down, I watched the NBA Finals in which the San Antonio Spurs defeated the evil empire Miami Heat to win the championship. To say that was the cherry on top of my day is understating. It’s like I was eating ice cream, and suddenly I got caramel, chocolate drizzle, peanuts, candy sprinkles, and frigging gummy bears raining down on my dessert. As a basketball fan, it was so unbelievably sweet. My only objective for watching the NBA playoffs was to see Miami lose. Why do I feel this way?

Four years ago Lebron James, who is the best player in the NBA currently, and when it’s all said and done, might be regarded as the greatest of all time, became a Free Agent. To my non-basketball watching readers, this means he was free to sign a new contract with any team of his choosing. He had played for the Cleveland Cavaliers his entire career up to that point. He was born and raised not far from there, so this was his home team. Up until this point, I kind of liked him. What followed was sort of off-putting. He decided to team up with the other 2 top Free Agents that year, and all sign with the same team, basically guaranteeing that they would be the best team in the NBA. This type of collusion had never really happened in any sport that I was aware of. This is all perfectly within the rules, so can’t be called cheating necessarily. There was a salary cap system that prevented one team from spending more money than all the rest. If the Miami Heat wanted to spend all their money on only 3 players, then I guess the other 9 wouldn’t be that great. Except for the fact that a lot of quality veteran players agreed to take less money, and play a lesser role in hopes that hitching their wagon to these guys might bring them a championship before the end of their career. So instead of having only 3 good players, they had 12 good players, and became the envy of the rest of the league. There was a TV show to announce Lebron’s intentions. There was introduction ceremony at the arena where they boldly predicted that they would win the next 5 or 6 championships. It was all really disgusting to me. I tried to imagine Larry Bird agreeing to play on the same team as Magic Johnson in order to dominate the league, and I think they would have rather died. As good as Lebron was, and as hard as the Cleveland organization really tried to put good players around him, I guess at the tender age of 25, he’d run out of patience with his hometown, and took his ‘talents to South Beach’.

I really just wanted them to lose. I would have cheered for any team who went against them. They made the finals in their first year together, and lost to the Dallas Mavericks. That was pretty sweet, but to be honest, making the finals in their first year as a new team was a pretty decent achievement. I was hoping for their failure to be more extreme. The following two seasons the won the NBA championships. I watched those games, and tried to suppress the bile from shooting out of my mouth onto the entire world. It was all happening, just like they said. I so badly wanted them to be brought down to earth. Finally this year, after making the finals for the 4th consecutive year, they ran into a team that could bring them back down to earth. This Father’s Day I got to see them hang their cocky little heads in shame as they walked off the court. That said, in 4 years they made the finals 4 times and won 2 championships. I wish I could say that they somehow didn’t live up to the hype, but that’s pretty good. I hate them.

Fast forward to now. They had opt out clauses in their contracts, and guess what? They opted out. Weird. I thought as stacked as they were, that maybe they’d go after another few championships. There was no reason to think that they couldn’t. Then this morning I find out that Lebron James is leaving sunny Miami, and going back home to Cleveland. Shocking! It is kind of a feel good story though. It’s kind of making me hate him a little less. Could it be that he finally realized that he would never feel true satisfaction from his achievements in Miami because of the way that situation had been manipulated from day one? Did it suddenly occur to him that if he were able to bring a championship to his hometown, that it would be way more fulfilling than bringing it to a place with nice weather, beaches, and a cool nightlife? Is there a part of him that isn’t whole because he basically sold out his people to take the incredibly easy road to success? I kinda think so.

I think Lebron has come to the realization that there is a thing called Sports Karma which most people don’t know about or understand. What he did only had subtle amounts of evil to it. So when Karma struck, it wasn’t in the form of a career ending injury, or a lack of success, but possibly an empty feeling that he wasn’t able to enjoy his success the way he thought he would. At 29 years old he’s decided to go against all Basketball Free Agent logic, and sign with his hometown team again to take care of unfinished business, and maybe right an old wrong by bringing that long suffering franchise a championship.

I gotta say, as cynical as I am about some of these things, I kind of like this. I think maybe I don’t hate this guy as much as I used to. I almost think that as long as it doesn’t conflict with my Toronto Raptors success, that I might be hoping Cleveland does really well. I did not recently envision a scenario where the sight of this guy wouldn’t really irritate me, but now??? I don’t really mind him. Until he does some other dumb thing I guess.


Guys….. Your Feet Are Fucking Ugly

First I want to apologize to the small number of people who enjoy reading my blog on a consistent basis. I apologize for the inconsistency. I lost my blogging mojo or something. Life’s been a little more challenging in the last while. I’m not going to make excuses, but I just kind of stopped blogging there for a bit. A bit of a shame too because I think I had a two-year streak of a blog a week going, and once I pissed that away, it just became easier to not do it, than to do it. The truth is I didn’t even miss it. I’m not gonna lie, I don’t really enjoy writing. I do enjoy expressing ideas. I should just say them into a recording device and be done with it. All this typing and self-imposed deadlines kind of suck the life out of me. Now I do enjoy what I’ve written. I’ve gone back and read a few. I hope it’s not super obnoxious to say that I’m a fan of my own work, but I’d say I’ve enjoyed reading at least 60%-80% of my blogs. The typing, and brainstorming is just aggravating to me most of the time. Especially on a timeline. Plus, I haven’t made myself laugh in weeks. That’s part of the reason I blog. A good laugh. So today, if you’ve read the title, you’re expecting a rant. I’ve cursed in the title, which I try not to, but it had to be done this time. These rants are building up inside me, and I have to let fly.

First, let me address ‘The Book’. The faithful will know that I thought it would be a good idea to pressure myself into writing a chapter a week of a book, so I could get it done. This was a mistake. I’m officially shutting it down. I will continue to write that book, because it’s something I’ve always wanted to do. It was arrogant of me to think that with no prior experience, and not a lot of free time, that I could just whip up a chapter a week of ‘book worthy’ material. I’m not happy with the quality of what I’ve written. It needs more TLC from the author. I’m not saying this is the last you’ll see of it, but I might just sprinkle a chapter in here and there when I feel inspired. It’s one thing to bang off a blog entry when you don’t feel inspired, but if you decide to write a book, you SHOULD be inspired (unless you’re extremely talented to the point where inspiration doesn’t matter).

So now that you’ve suffered through that, let me address why I’m really here. This has been burning a hole in my state of being for months. I’m here to tell all men that your feet are fucking ugly. Why are so many of you wearing sandals? Are we at a beach? Are you about to go swimming? No. You’re everywhere with these chopped up, beat up, dead nail, unkept feet that make a chicken breast whacked to bits with a meat tenderizer look like pre-Vegas Elvis Presley. I’m not suggesting you should have nice feet. You are men. Have nasty feet, I do! That’s why socks and shoes exist. Wear them. Now if you live in a 3rd World country, and you happen to be reading this blog, do what you gotta do. First World readers???? Cover up those wretched, hairy, dirty, smelly, crusty brillo pads you call feet. They disgust me. Dead skin flicking off into the atmosphere polluting the environment as you saunter around like a fucking Prince. Stop with the excuses too. Don’t tell me how oppressive the heat is, and how uncomfortable your feet are shackled in their sock and shoe prisons. If you own proper footwear, you should feel no level of discomfort whatsoever. Nothing compared to a little rock, or piece of glass getting under your feet while you’re walking which probably happens all the time. Even if you get pedicures and take care of your feet like a woman would, you are still a dude, and your feet probably look even creepier. What dude wants to have feet that look like they’ve never walked a day in their lives. That’s actually worse than having ugly feet if you ask me.

I would never say a human being is ugly, we’re all beautiful inside, but men’s feet are gross. I understand that summer is sandal time. It’s a losing battle for me, but how about a bit of compromise? If it’s not quite summer yet, how about you wear shoes? Like, if you are wearing pants for example, how about no sandals? I mean it’s too cold for shorts, right? If you’re wearing a light spring jacket, how about we rock the shoes and socks for just a bit longer? If you know you’re going to be inside for at least 80% of the day, how about proper shoes? Are you a fucking surfer? No? Shoe em up. Your feet gross me out. I don’t think I’m over-stating it. If I had a choice between holding a random guy’s foot in my hand, or reaching into a garbage can, and grabbing a fist full of garbage, I’m not hesitating. I’m just hoping for banana peels. You’re offending me. Knock it off.

A proud parenting moment….. My son is a year and a half old. On about 5 separate occasions, we have tried to get him to wear sandals. Each time we get the same reaction. He fights us. We overpower him. He tries to take them off. We don’t let him. He cries, and stands in one spot like his feet are in a bucket of cement, and he’s about to get thrown into the ocean like Bruce Willis in ‘Billy Bathgate’. He won’t even take a step. He despises it that much. As much as I hate the wasted investment, there’s a part of me that’s proud of him for not wanting to take part in something as dumb as guys wearing sandals. Even though his feet are totally not ugly yet, he somehow knows that the whole notion is idiotic, and he refuses to participate. That’s my boy.


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