A Quick Thought On A Saturday Morning

Why the hell does Comedy Central, a network that, by its own admission, is devoted to making me laugh, at its commercial breaks show the longest, most depressing, soul-blackening “starving African child” money-beg adverts?

Think about it. I tuned in because my life is painful and depressing enough. Granted, I’m not an idiot, things could be so much worse, believe me, I know. I’m never ungrateful for what I have, and as I get older, in fact, have become even more aware of how much worse it could be. But on a Saturday morning, when I throw on your channel to watch some funny things, don’t – DON’T – break away from a funny show to tell me the story of “Alex”, whose parents were both killed, and who has to, at the age of twelve, take care of his FOUR younger brothers. DON’T tell me how he fears for the future of his family, and how he often doesn’t eat food for himself, but rather gives it to his younger siblings.

It’s my weekend. If I wanted to feel bad about myself, I’d think of all the time I’ve wasted drinking myself into a stupor and all the missed opportunities I passed up in favor of killing the brain cells the good lord gave me. Show me some damned comedy, COMEDY Central.

Unless you’re planning on changing your name to “Blindside Central”. In which case these choices of commercials will fit in perfectly well with your other planned programming. Which, I assume will include shows about people winning large sums of money only to be told that they will be hunted like animals in order to claim it, and many others.

Fate’s Cruel Hand

So y’all know I loves my surfing. Almost as much as I love whiskey. Ok, maybe more depending on the season, because I would pass on whiskey to go surfing. In any event, last week I was reminded of what a hemorrhoid I am on the ass of the ocean, and I am healed just enough to share now, so on with it.

Last week, early on, some storm thingy (hurricane) was blowing around Bermuda or something. It was sending crazy waves all the way up the coast. Unfortunately, anytime there’s crazy waves, there’s crazy risk, because the ocean really doesn’t get the whole “cooperation” thing. So you have to be willing to risk a little more to get the good rides, because the water’s a little more unforgiving.

Sunday it was unrideable. I mean, really. I watched kids who were good get drop kicked off of waves in a most unpleasant way. And the water was frigid cold. Like not ball-shrinking cold, but ball shattering, like liquid nitrogen on a racquetball in your middle school auditorium during a “Science is Cool/Fun/etc” assembly.

Monday I decided to roll the dice because it looked like things had calmed down enough. And I was ok. Went in, got some action, came out. Tuesday, same deal, even a little better. Wednesday, I decided to go in late in the day, since I had some work to get done, and if you go in at low tide, it’s so shallow that you can get paralyzed if you hit the sand bar the wrong way. (No joke. It happened to some guy that weekend.) So yeah, Wednesday, the water’s really warm all of a sudden, and I go in with no suit, just shorts. Thinking, man, this is really nice, I decide to fool around.

Most of the waves are ok, but not great, but as I soon found out, some of the rougher cousins of the waves on Sunday were still hanging around, long after all the other respectable guests left the party. As I was about to get out, I figured I’d race one more wave, since you had to get your shit together pretty quick, as they were moving fast.

It’s always the last one that does it, right? It’s always “one more job” for the criminal in the movie, where he gets shot or caught instead of spending his golden years sipping margaritas in Mexico. Think Blow, or Heat. Which are both magnificent, and if you haven’t seen them, what the hell is your problem, anyway.

Well my “one more” decided right at the last second to not play fair, and I tried to kick my board away and jump over the back of the wave if I could, except that the wave was bigger than I was, and caught me in the curl and slammed me down instead of graciously letting me get by. I was hurled into the break, and in an instant had the fin of my board jammed into my ribcage two or three times. The force of the wave was throwing me around, and I couldn’t push the board away, all I could do was lay there and take it. My arms got slammed too, as I would find later, when mystery bruises made their appearance.

I think I yelled underwater, and when I got up, I was convinced I would have a hole in the side of my body. I reached around expecting to feel exposed bone, but only felt a sharp pain instead. I limped up the beach, gasping and swearing, and made my way to the shower outside of my house, where I tried to get a better look at what was to make my week just perfect. I couldn’t take full breaths because it felt like someone was jabbing a knife into my side. I say that, and as I have not been a victim of a stabbing, assume this is what a knife would might feel like. At this point, I am convinced I have broken ribs. I’ve never felt a pain like this in my entire life. I start to panic a little, because I can’t get enough air in and all my muscles are tightening, preventing me from doing that any better than I can already. I had to relax just to get air in and keep myself from getting dizzy and passing out, because I was alone, and no one would find me for what I assumed would be hours.

I managed to get a ride to an urgent care clinic, where I had chest x-rays taken. They told me I was lucky, and actually hadn’t broken anything, and my lung was not punctured. I had a soft-tissue contusion, and all my muscles in that area were spasming, and preventing me from breathing/relaxing. So they gave me a shot of some muscle relaxant in my butt cheek, and a prescription for some ibuprofen and painkillers. I hate taking stuff, so I avoided it as long as I could, but man, this weekend was a painful one.

Now, a few days later, the pain is still there, but not as severe (I can breathe properly) and I am starting to feel somewhat normal again. I don’t know when I can get back in the water, but I’m hoping my Wolverine-like healing factor will assist in that regard. I would post a picture of the wound area, but I don’t want anyone vomming on any computers. That would truly be a tragedy.

What a royal pain in the ass, though. I mean, seriously. Summer? Give me a friggin’ break. What happened to you and me just kicking it and laughing at all the suckers? Let’s do that again. Because this shit is totally lame.

Earl May, RIP

The strangest thing just happened…

I turned on the web stream of WBGO, which is a local jazz station in Newark, so I could listen to some music this morning while I worked. I haven’t done this in probably almost a year. Just felt like doing it, out of the blue. Like something told me to do it.

Then I’m listening, and I hear the DJ say that Earl May passed away over the weekend, and I stopped what I was doing immediately. Earl May was a bass player who worked with Miles Davis, John Coltrane, and about a million other people. He was a jazz legend, and a super nice guy. He came to play a bunch of times at Shanghai Jazz, which is a Chinese sit-down restaurant and jazz club (where I used to work after college) and persuaded me to come up on stage with him and play guitar a few times. Just a really amazing guy, and a class act all the way. He knew so many famous people, and had done so much, been around the world, and made such a mark on the music world, he had every right to be a jerk, but he couldn’t have been further from that.

Over the years since then, I thought about giving him a call, or just emailing him or something, you know, to say hello, or whatever, but never really did. I had his phone number, because he gave it to me, as he was really down-to-earth that way.

I don’t know what made me turn the radio station on, but it was like I had to hear that, otherwise I never would have known.

Strange, right?

I’m a little sad now.

I could go on and on about how great he was, but you can read more about him here and here.

Goodbye, Earl. You’re tops in my book.

(pic from Jazz Museum in Harlem page)

Wii Are Freaking Old

I’m all for Nintendo’s phenomenal plan to undermine the recent trends in the videogame industry by creating a game platform that appeals to a wide variety of individuals, the most publicly notable ones being senior citizens with the Wii. But something about this picture is disturbing.

I know I should be like, “Oh, aren’t they cute! Look how they swing that Wiimote around like they’re 62 again!” but in all actuality, this image bothers me. Maybe it’s the fact that they both look like they’re seriously messed up. If these were young people, I’d assume something like they were drunk, but I know that is most likely not the case here, and I’m left with a strange mix of revulsion and pity. I just want to look away, whereas I should want to hug them and praise them for being so fun and willing to try new things.

Nope, just not happening.

Also, this just in, I’m going to hell. Big surprise.

Summer ’07, We Hardly Knew Ye.

I am soooooo absolutely bummed that my super-rad summer filled with awesomeness is over. Labor Day always sounds the death knell for the carefree days of alcohol abuse at the beach and wearing short pants with nary a care in the world, and nothing will ever change that, until I start living on one of the islands I started looking at on The Private Islands Blog. On my private island, I will be shirtless and full of whiskey each and every day, as I capture my dinner from the sea and get so tan and deranged from the sun that I am unrecognizable to friends and visitors.

Now, I love the fall – I mean, really like maniacally love it – the crispness in the air, pumpkin picking, carefree days of alcohol abuse in the woods, wearing sweaters with nary a care in the world… but nothing lights me up like the arrival of summer.

And I will be surfing all through September and into October, and the waves usually get really good, thanks to the Atlantic hurricane season. So I really can’t lament it too much. But I will. Because I am a baby. Of the highest order.

I can feel good, though, about setting out to top the Summer of ’03, which, prior to this summer was the front-runner for BSE (Best Summer Ever), and doing so, in spades. Now this is discounting the fact that certain other summers, say, in college, could have been considered BSEs based on different criteria, such as not working myself half to death, and having fewer responsibilities. But also, I was a poor slob then, and couldn’t do/buy many things, so it all balances out somehow.

All in all, as Lioux will tell you, we’re both big fans of the fall, and I’m sure it’ll kick much ass. But for today, I shed a tear for my good friend summer.

Goodbye, Old Friend

It’s official. My G4 is gone. It’s only been like 4 years and change, and the way I babied that thing, I thought we’d be together forever. It sucks. I didn’t want to buy a new computer. I had talked myself out of it so many times to remain loyal to the old girl, but then she just up and left.

Typical. Women always leave when you need ‘em to stay. You picked a fine time to leave me, Lucille.

Ugh.

As those of you who have been keeping up with SisterKissing already know, we’re back from our tour. And I am bummed out. I had so much fun while we were away, I just keep sitting here, unable to re-adjust to my work landscape. I’m already planning other small trips for the rest of the summer to keep the buzz. I’m bored.

And cranky.

And a little sweaty. But that doesn’t mean anything, because I was sweaty all through the trip.

I met new people and had an awesome time, and now I come home, and my Mac is dead.

So I can’t even sit and reminisce in a good mood, because I have a dead computer sitting here.

I’m so uber-pissed, I may start drinking now.