Why? Why does it bother me so much when I come across "friend's" posts on Facebook where they write these long thank you I love and miss you messages to dead moms and dads? Am I cold hearted? Here is an actual post: You've been gone for two years now, mom. It's been the hardest years of my life. There isn't a day that goes by that we don't speak, think, or look at your pictures or remember your smile and laughter. I miss the phone calls every day. Our lives are not the same. I know you are up there laughing with uncle Max and grandpa. Don't let Aunt Hili keep you up all night with the jokes. I love and miss you mom.   Sounds like poor old dead mom is in HELL? If there is a god and a heaven, I am certain that Mark Zuckerberg and his Facebook monster would be restricted to the fires and brimstone place. Is the dead mom poster looking for a Facebook hug; wants me to feel badly mommy died two years ago and he's now a 49 year old orphan? If life goes
CLASS ACTION I didn’t plan on writing right now. Now, as in at this exact moment as I type this. I did plan on getting started writing again, some time over my trip. Just not now, on the plane.  I’m bringing my old school, big lap top with me on a long, by sea, by land and by air trip. Sure, I could write on an iPad or iPhone. But I have these fat fingers and my dexterity with these pork chops makes typing on any device painful. I’m on a plane, heading to Boston with my wife Debbie.  Tomorrow is visiting day at our kids' camp. They are in Maine. Smithfield, Maine. Camp Matoaka.  It’s the best and most wonderfully magical camp in the world.  Of course I’ve never seen or been to another camp, ever. So, I have nothing to compare it to. Based on how much my kids love it and can’t wait to get back there, and based on how much it costs per hour, it better be the best. Our flight from Fort Lauderdale to Boston is short; only three hours. My plan was to sleep for 2 hours.
Giving a Shit I woke up the other day and my low back was extremely tender. As I sat up in bed, the sharp pains worked quicker than Nitro coffee at popping my eyes open, but I couldn’t spring to my feet. As I reached down to pull on my shorts from the floor, yes I sleep naked, I had to move in slow motion. I gave into gravity and allowed my tense body to unfold on the ground. I started inch by inch and stretched the hell out of it. As I tried to spring up off the floor, all of the tightness and cramping remained and I limped to a semi-erect stance. What the hell was going on? Ah, tracing the "what coulda" possibilities for my problems, I fortunately realized that I wasn’t injured injured. Two days earlier I did a super intensive leg and low back work out, first time ever like that, and the muscles were cramping and complaining like a spoiled housewife. And just like a spoiled housewife, I couldn’t beat them into submission; I would have to try and ignore them and hope
Golden T t-shirts When you buy new clothes, you don’t throw out the old ones. Why not? How many times do I have to see you in your favorite Lulu Lemon shirt? If you buy a new shirt, one shirt must be given away. That is a requirement. I was going to write “given away to charity,” but that is too broad a spectrum. Trump had a charity, until a couple weeks ago.  Without better direction, you could buy a new, over priced, $128 t-shirt from Lulu Lemon and then donate an older Under Armour $18 t-shirt to Trump Foundation, a 501(c)(3) charity. Trump’s charity would take your old, worn out UA shirt and they would re-tool, putting a giant golden “T” on the chest. This “new” golden T t-shirt would then be given as a uniform to an illegal alien cutting the grass on a Trump golf course. The employee would later see a $30 deduction in their pay check for the uniform. That’s not the charity I’m talking about. I want to help you. I want to help all of us to find a path to make a differe
Being Made I was sitting in my car waiting and watching the front door. The summer sun in Florida kept my black car at a constant oven ready-to-bake temperature. The parking lot had no trees or shade to hide from the scorch. It was lunch time and I was in the only car in an oversized parking lot for Cafe Romano’s.  I found it strange that there was this supposedly tremendous Italian restaurant in down town Fort Lauderdale that I never heard of. I took pride in knowing all of the Italian spots. Runway 84, Mateo’s, Casa D’Anelgo’s, Frank & Dino’s. I even knew the shitty ones. Somehow, I missed this one. Frankie told me to meet him at 12 sharp at Romano’s. When I said that I never heard of it, he said, “What? Youz don’t know Romano’s, you fuck’en kid’en me, Romano’s! Youz ain’t heard of it? Deah ain’t nuttin betta in all Flarida kid.” He sounded exactly like Joe Pesci in Goodfellas ; exactly. But I never told him that. He said, “it’s right deah, as Sunrise Bou-li-vard ma