For a lot of reasons lately, i've been thinking about death.
No, I'm not going anywhere anytime soon (at least i HOPE not. Why? Do you guys know something that I don't? That's SO not cool! Tell me, dammit!), but a smattering of events over the past few months have got me thinking more about mortality than normal.
Actually, 'mortality' isnt really the word i'm looking for. I guess what i've been dwelling on is more about my 'Legacy'.
I'm saying this really badly. Let me start over.
Every few weeks I go to the cemetery with Mini-Me, to visit my grandfather. I can't help but notice that while I'm there, there aren't a lot of people visiting. Most times, it will just be me, Mini-Me, and some random elderly person putting flowers down on a grave every few hundred feet or so.
And that's about it. ALL those dead people. THOUSANDS of dead people. And maybe 50 LIVING folks there to visit them.
And, it gets me to thinking. "HOW is that possible?" How can there be SO few people wanting to pay their respects? Surely, most of these people had loving families, to which they were surely an integral part of their lives. It just seems to me that there should be more people milling about, and i have often wondered WHY that is never the case.....
Then the answer came to me.
For many of the people buried in a given cemetery, most of THEIR immediate family is probably dead, too.
Then i thought, "Well, surely their children visit them periodically." And i'm sure thats true. But what happens when you advance the clock even further, and now even their CHILDREN are gone?
I mean, how many people visit their grandparent's graves? Yeah, i do, but i'm fucking awesome. I would bet that most people don't.
But let's advance the clock even further. Let's talk about GREAT-Grandparents. How many of us have gone to the cemetery to visit THEIR grave-sites? I'd bet the percentage is near 0%. I remember doing it a few times as a kid, but for the live of me i couldn't now tell you where the hell i was.
But go back even farther, and look at the generation before that. I don't even know what my great-great grandparent's names are, or where they are buried. For all i know, i could be fucking STANDING on my great-great grandparent's graves right now, and i wouldn't even know it.
So, the sobering thought occurred to me that, when you die, you could probably expect to be visited by family or friends for about 20 years or so, if you're lucky.
Hell, go out further, about 50 years or so, and you're probably lucky to even have been REMEMBERED by anyone in your family.
Ain't that a kick in the balls? You bust your ass your whole life, trying to be a loving family member and a good dude, and then your progeny procreates a few times and before you know it, you're just some dude that your great-great grandkids find a picture of in their parent's attic and say to themselves, "Who the fuck is that clown?"
That bothers me. It REALLY bothers me. I don't WANT to be forgotten. I don't WANT to just be some dusty old gravestone that people from the future step over when they're walking to the more 'recent aquisitions' in the cemetary.
No, 200 years from now I want kids to gather around my grave and tear up wistfully as they recount stories of their Great Great Great Great Great Great Great Grandpa Slyde.
But that's PROBABLY not going to happen.
Nope. No chance. I'll just be one of a gazillion other forgotten souls that eventually haunt the Wall-Mart that some future community will decide to build over my long forgotten grave site.
I just was checking my archives and i realized that i hadn't done one of these "Pet Peeves" posts in almost a year.
That's a pretty damn long time. It got me to thinking about OTHER things that I haven't done in a year or more...
- I haven't swam naked in a pool
- I haven't punched anyone in the face. I have remarkable self control.
- I haven't gotten a raise. Wait, that's bad, right?
- I haven't changed my underwear.
- I haven't pooped.
Well, one of those things is a lie. You decide.
What was I posting about again? Right, Pet Peeves.
This one really gets my goat.
What is a Lazy Parker, you might ask? A Lazy Parker is someone who drives around and around a parking lot 10,000 fucking times, in the hopes of trying to get a spot that's closer to the store.
My grandfather used to do this all the time, and it drove me fucking batty. Friz, apparently not content to finally let me be at peace now that my grampa is gone, has bravely taken up the mantle and will routinely ferret me around a fucking parking lot like a damn mouse in a maze. It drives me UP THE FUCKING WALL!!
It happens every damn time we go to the mall if she is driving. We will pull into the lot, and i'll see a parking space about halfway down the aisle. Friz will see it too, of course, but she always has her sights on bigger game.
Much to my annoyment, she will cruise past the spot i WANTED to park in, just so she can coast further up the lane in hopes of spotting a magic spot that's closer.
I can't tell you how many times the following bit gets uttered in our car: "See? There IS a spot down there! I TOLD you! Let me drive down there and ..... Dammit! There was a motorcycle in the spot! Why don't they pull in so people know they're in there!!!!"
So, off we go again, lapping the fucking parking lot over and over again, like we're in a relay race, when we could have just parked the fucking car 10 minutes earlier and i could already be inside the mall eating my fucking Auntie Anne's pretzel!
And the WORST..... the absolute WORST.... is when she notices someone walking to their car.....
"Oh look, that guy is walking to his car! I think he's parked right there. Let's follow him. Shit, he crossed over to the next lane! Dammit, ok, let me swing over there before that bitch in the minivan gets it."
THEN, we sit in front of the poor fucker with our blinker on while the guy guiltily tries to throw his shit in his car as fast as fucking possible like a guy in the Indy 500 pit crew.
I will just NEVER understand it. A nice little walk to the mall won't kill you, i promise.
Unless you get run over by some senior citizen not paying attention because they were looking for the perfect parking spot...................
THOSE kinds of girls are yucky! They're all curvy and bumpy and soft and stuff.... yuck!
No, i'm talking about THESE girls....
Please tell me there are other people out there watching this show!
Girls is a new series that began in March on HBO.
This show is SO totally out of my wheelhouse, that if you would have bet me before it first aired that I would completely hate it, i would have agreed with you. But, since i love SO many damn shows that HBO produces, i reluctantly decided to at least give it a try.
Holy Bejeezus is this a fun show! It centers on the lives of four young 20-something chicks all looking for love and trying to live their lives in big bad New York City.
It's kinda exactly like Sex In The City, except that it's not complete horseshit!
What really sets this show apart is that the writing is scathingly funny, and honest. Where a show like Sex In The City continually painted those hags as perfect, jet-setting women with magically NO money troubles or any issues at all except who they were going to bang next, Girls really paints these chicks as typical selfish, self-obsessed, problem filled twenty somethings.
As i said, the writing is superb, and what is completely amazing to me is that is is all due to Lena Dunham, who plays central character Hannah on the show. She is neurotic, quirky, and wickedly funny.
She also writes, directs, produces, and created the show. And she's only 26 freaking years old! She completely rocks and it blows my mind that someone so young is basically putting this show together almost singlehandedly.
Of course, I could do the same thing, but no television network has called me yet. I keep pitching this great concept for a tv show. It's about a gorgeous hunky guy, who goes around the country banging hot women.
I haven't worked any out more of the plot yet, but i figure that should be enough to at least get me a pilot.
I don't ask a lot from my morning commute. I really don't.
All i want is to not hit any bad traffic, to have my air conditioner working if it's hot outside, and to not get into a fender bender.
I mean, I live only 7 miles from my job, so on a good day, i can be here in under 15 minutes. That shouldnt be NEARLY enough time to encounter any weird shit.
But what did i spy with my little eye as i went to work this morning?
Check it, Holmes....
I'm not sure if you can appreciate the grandeur and beauty of what i saw out of my half-closed eyelids today. Maybe if you embiggen the pic, that might help.
But to give you the skinny, this dude was walking down the street, and by the looks of him he was on his way to work.
No biggie there. This street is an industrial drive, it's nothing but office buildings one after the other......
And he certainly was trying to LOOK the part. He had on dress pants, and he was even carrying a briefcase.......
My suspicions that something might be amiss with this fine man only came to my mind when i just happened to notice that his BIG FLOPPY MAN-TITS WERE STARING ME IN THE FACE!
Seriously, what the fuck?
My first inclination was to say he was a hobo, but i can't call Full-Hobo on this dude. He didn't look all disheveled, he just looked like any one of the other hundred corporate asshats i work with, except for the fact that i haven't seen any of THEIR nipples. (At least not yet. A boy can dream, cant he?)
So, weigh in here, people. Tell me a story of what's going on with our gentleman traveler here. Homeless? Didn't want to sweat his shirt up while walking to work? Just lost his job and doesn't give a fuck? Wants everyone to notice how nice his pecs look since he's been going to Planet Fitness? What do you think?
Now, the law clearly states that you’ve got to kiss me.
Well, I’ve missed you all as well. I am tanned, toned, and officially back from the sunny shores of Jamaica. It was a much needed, relaxing vacation. I drank, slept, played a lot of beach volleyball with some hot Jamaican girls, swam with some hot Jamaican dolphins (huh?), and generally fell off the grid for a week or so.
Maybe I’ll put up some pics later in the week.
But for NOW, I’ve got to relay an incident that happened while we were away.
As you might remember, we have a veritable gaggle of pets. The current count stands at 1 dog, 1 cat, and 6 gerbils. My niece, bless her soul, was kind enough to volunteer to take care of them for us while we were away.
It was day 2 of our vacation, and, like Stella, I was just STARTING to get my groove back when my I got a text from my niece saying “Call me right away”.
I knew that there was NO way that could be good. My first thought was that she had lost the pooch.
Turns out that I wasn’t too far off the mark. She told me that one of Mini-Me’s gerbils, a cute little black one that he calls Sergeant, looked to be shuffling off his mortal coil at any second.
My heart sank. My son takes SUCH good care of these animals. He loves them to pieces, and he’s never had to say goodbye to any of them yet. He cried for a day when he lost his fucking BETA FISH, for fucks sake!
I knew that I couldn’t tell him while we were on vacation. It would ruin his trip. My niece said that once Sergeant passed, she would put him in a shoebox in the shed, so we could bury him when we got home.
The thought of having to break the news to the little guy weighed pretty heavily on me for the entire trip. Finally, as we were heading back home from JFK, I told him the bad news.
It was bad. Really bad. I’ve seen my son cry before, of course, but never like this. He was HYSTERICAL. Poor bugger cried so hard that he must have popped a blood vessel in his nose, because the next thing I knew he was gushing blood down the front of his shirt.
Not a fun ride home.
Anyway, I calmed him down enough when we got home to get him into bed, and promised him that when he got home from school the next day, we would have a nice burial for Sergeant.
When he got home from school, he told me that he cried during class and the teacher took him outside to give him a hug. My heart was breaking for my little man. We walked outside to the shed and found the shoebox. Poor Sergeant looked like he was sleeping. Mini-Me started to cry and said his goodbyes.
I put the shoebox on our patio table and went to dig a hole. I was gone no more than 5 minutes.
When I came back, I was surprised to see that the shoebox was upside down. Figuring the wind had blown it over, I picked it up, but was again surprised to not find Sergeant underneath.
So we sat there, scratching our heads, trying to figure out if the damn thing has come back from the dead, when what do I spy with my little eye?
Ozzie, our dog, trotting past me with a huge shit-eating grin on his face….
… and a little black tail sticking out of the corner of his mouth.
Before I could turn him away, Mini-Me also saw it, and started screaming. That brought on another round of blood all over his school clothes.
So there I was, trying to catch this fucking dog, chasing him around the backyard with his toys so he would drop the damned gerbil, while my son continued to spew blood like Ol’ Faithful.
If ever in my life I needed a Calgon moment to just take me away, that was it.
Anyway, it all worked out in the end. I was able to retrieve the thankfully-unmangled Sergeant, and we tearfully laid him to rest.
And the entire time, there was only ONE thing running through my head….
I am going to have to go through this shit SEVEN more fucking times…..