Is it too hard to wave?

Whatever happened to the courtesy wave? The one where you let someone cut you in traffic and they show their gratitude of your kind gesture with a wave of the hand. Now everyone on the road feels entitled, as if you owe them the spot between you and the vehicle in front of you. The space that’s just a tad too small for their over-sized SUV, a vehicle designed to hold the Octomom family and still have space for King Kong, Godzilla and Mothra to have an orgy in the backseat.

Place yourself in this scenario, it should be one that you’re quite familiar with: Traffic is crawling on the highway. A swarm of baby tortoises pass you on the right. The monstrosity of metal, plastic, glass and rubber to your left signals with their right blinker, indicating that they desire the piece of asphalt ahead of your car. Kindly, you back off and let them merge into your record-setting line of smog-birthing, fossil-fuel-ingesting steel boxes on wheels. You feel a sense of warmth inside for your chivalrous generosity and selflessness.  Surely the operator of the vehicle must think you are a fine specimen of modern humanity. They must be fighting an internal battle to keep themselves from not stepping from their vehicle to approach you with a hug.

You wait, patiently, for their sign of recognition of your good deed. Your eyes darting and searching through the back glass of their rear window, then along the drivers side door, eagerly anticipating the international gesture of thanks – the courtesy wave. But you get nothing. Nothing but disappointment. Nothing but shot down.  You sputter and spit and mutter obscenities under your breath.

“You’re welcome, asshole!” you shout from behind the wheel of your car, hoping beyond hope that they hear you.

This guy can’t be serious, you think. He doesn’t own the road. That’s not his piece of pavement that you so kindly sacrificed for his polar-bear-killing heap of metal. Yet he behaves as if he’s entitled to all parts of the road, as if this favor you so gloriously delivered into his life was actually a debt that you owed to him. His bold display of entitlement is like throwing gasoline on your fire. Rage begins growing deep inside your gut, bubbling and boiling to the depths of your soul. Sweat beads up on your forehead. Now YOU feel entitled and deserved of recognition from the driver ahead of you.

“It’s too hard to wave, I guess” you mumble. And then, in all of your glory, you throw him a hand gesture of your own: the middle finger, with the thumb sticking out to throw an exclamation point on the end of that “fuck you!” 

Reflection. Nostalgia. Sentiment.

You're probably thinking this is a Valentine's Day post if you've read the title and considered the date, but you'd be wrong. No, this post is much more significant, to me at least, and it all starts with one simple fact: I'm getting older. I think I've said that before and this is only my fifth blog entry; but it's true, I am getting older and it's starting to show. And not just because I find myself repeating things. I'm talking about actual physical change here.

The truth is, I'm scared of getting old because death is my greatest fear; the irony is that death is inevitable. It is the only thing any of us are guaranteed in life. Isn't that some shit? But it terrifies me, death does. Life is a beautiful thing. Even on my lousiest days I'd rather be alive than cease to exist. I'd rather spend the next 50 years trudging through rancid manure  than keel over and die today. That's the truth. To no longer live, to no longer see the sky or the trees or the animals, to no longer feel air filling my lungs, those are the pieces of true tragedy. But they are things we all will face. And I've started to come to grips with that because of a recent trip to the barber shop. I'm sorry to disappoint you but this will not be the script for the next Ice Cube movie, he doesn't cut hair at Sal's in Jamaica Plain.

So I'm at the barber, my chin pressed down to my chest, my eyes are closed, the air smells like shaving cream and disinfectant, but it's familiar and comforting. Snip, snip, I hear the scissors repeating over and over across my head. The TV is on in the background and I hear President Obama addressing the needs of our country for a better future. I slowly open my eyes to adjust my head for Nacer, my barber, and I see in my lap a pile of hair. A combination of salt and pepper, still damp from the spray bottle. In an instant I recognized the hair, and though it is my own, I swear it belongs to someone else. How could this hair be  mine when it looks exactly the way I remember my father's? I can picture his coarse salt and pepper from when I was a child so clearly. The way it felt when I gave him noogies when we wrestled in the living room. The way it stood up, all big and puffy, in the mornings when he'd make us breakfast. His hair was such a part of him. It was a prominent feature in his appearance, and something that I hold on to as a memory of my childhood, of a time that I was blessed to be in the presence of my dad, one of the world's most wonderful human beings.

I have many memories of going to the barber with Dad when I was a child. The shop had all the same smells and sounds I find at Sal's today, even the same jar of lollipops beside the cash register. I'd watch his hair collect on the checkered floor in little piles of black and gray, exactly the way mine does today. The same combination of color, the same texture, the same little swirls of hair. Could it be that the man I admired and idolized as a child, the very same man who lived my greatest fear 12 years ago this month, is the man that I'm becoming? If I'm growing up to be like Dad, then maybe getting older isn't so bad.  I can only hope that age will make me half the man that I knew him to be...

5 Men I Loved This Year: This is football, baby!

Football is my favorite sport, hands down. No question. No contest. It just is. The intensity and the pace of the game is unparalleled to anything I've lived in my 31 years on Earth. Every Sunday my TV turns on at 1pm and by the time I go to turn it off around 11pm I'm disheveled, I've lost my voice, tears are running down my face, my retinas are detaching and I'm drunk. My wife, god bless her, knows that once September comes she's lost me on Sundays, Monday nights and sometimes even Thursdays and Saturdays. But after logging all of that time torturing my nerves on the rollercoaster that is the NFL season, what do I have to show for it come February, besides a heart condition? A backlog of memories formed around the amazing triumphs and failures of the players I have grown to love from my couch. So, without further ado, I give to you my top five players of the 2011 season.

5. Drew Brees: The man almost singlehandedly carried my fantasy football team to a surprise third place finish. Sure, third is last place in the winners bracket, but it also means I broke even and got my $100 back. There were games he'd rack up nearly 50 fantasy points all by himself. By the end of the year, I couldn't feel the wind blow without thinking of Brees. Oh, and he also set the record for most yards thrown in a season. No biggie.

4.Ndamukong Suh: Alright. The guy did some dirty things on the field. But it's football. It's not like he stomped on someone's bare head. And let's be real about this, he's not the first player to do dirty shit on the field. Have we already forgotten Bill Romanowski? He's remembered as a linebacker legend, but the guy was a dirty as they come, and he too kicked a guy in the head. Brandon Merriweather kicked a guy in the head in college. And Albert Haynesworth stomped a dude a few years ago while playing in Tennessee. Shit happens. It's a contact sport. If a player doesn't want get hurt, they should stop their crying and go play baseball or something. The fact of the matter is, before Suh came to the NFL the Lions were the laughing stock of the league. Since Suh, they have become one of the most feared competitors in the game. I applaud him for his ferocity and ability to intimidate his opponents and his fans.

3. Tom Brady: What's not to love. The man has fathered two children, one with the most successful supermodel of all time, the other with a drop-dead-gorgeous actress. While I'd typically fault someone for knocking up two different chicks, he's able to afford his child support, doesn't strike me as a dead beat dad, plus who can blame him for wanting to have sex with either of these women? And after this season, he further solidified his entrance to the Hall of Fame by breaking Dan Marino's record for most yards in a season. Sure he's second behind Brees, but his life's a hell of a lot cooler. And his team's in the Super Bowl.

2. Rob Gronkowski: He's just Gronk. Need I really say more? Really? Okay. Fine. This should sum it up:
90 Receptions.
1327 Yards
17 TDS
And Bibi Jones.

1. Billy Cundiff: If you didn't see this coming, then you clearly didn't see the AFC Championship game. I think I am now this guy's biggest fan. First of all, he is now Baltimore's Ray Finkle. That shit cracks me up. Second, he kicked the Patriots into the Super Bowl. Everyone in New England should love this guy. I can tell you now that I will be the proud owner of a Billy Cundiff football jersey. In fact, I may actually sport one for the Super Bowl. It should be said, also, that he did play for the Ravens, but he is by far my favorite Patriot this season. Without Cundiff's incredible clutch performance, the Pats would not be heading to Indy this weekend. And for that, I salute him. And I love him.

I'm Becoming A Sexy British Spy

If you hadn't heard, I'm turning another year older. A whopping 31 years old. And it's happening this coming Sunday, January 29th. That said, this morning, before getting into the shower, I noticed in the mirror the first sign of my new, sophisticated, dignified age: a gray chest hair. While most people would have certainly freaked out at the site of this thick wiry hair, I rejoiced in joyous celebration. Why, you ask? Read on and I will ease your curious mind...

Graying hair is an uncomfortable sign of age and mortality, sure, but gray chest hair is quite the opposite. I have now joined the ranks of Sean Connery and Pierce Brosnan. That's right, folks, I am en route to becoming the next James Bond. No longer will my body be looked upon as that of your average man. From this day on, I can proudly expose my masculine chest and be seen as a suave, charming and mysterious gentleman. Other men will marvel at the patch of salt and pepper that is growing beneath my shirt, and woman will be lost in the sheer desirability of this lush meadow of manliness that grows across my diminishing pectorals. What the Sirens accomplished with sound, my chest hair will accomplish with appearance. The word "irresistible" will be redefined by my flowing mane of dreamy salt and pepper.

Of course, I realize that it takes more than a graying chest to be the next international man of mystery. And that's why I've worked on my British accent. I've mastered it, and I've even added the unmistakable lisp of Mr. Connery's. I sound like a foreigner in my own city. Customs will never believe my American passport. Employers will question my American birth certificate. And women will swoon at the intellectual sound of my voice. I have now become the complete package. All that is dignified, intelligent, charming and handsome. I have taken on the appearance of the a sexy British spy. All I can say now is: "Look out 007! You might have met your match."

Gum Goes in the Trash, Douches.

We've all been there. We've all felt that what-the-fuck feeling from under our shoe, the one where your foot lands down on the sidewalk but resists coming up for another step. It's as if that particular sidewalk panel were made of a strange, rubbery adhesive and it has attached itself to the sole of your cross trainer forever. The culprit? Gum. A lousy piece of shitty gum. And how did this gooey, elastic-like glob of used up halitosis relief become adhered to the tread of your sneakers? Because some lousy human being couldn't muster up the energy to walk their lazy ass to the trash can to dispose of it.

Let's think about that for a minute. Sidewalks everywhere, places where people feel safe and protected to walk freely without worry, are lined with trash cans specifically so that litter doesn't inundate the recreational space that our feet so often tread. Now, some piece of human trash has decided that they can no longer keep their gum inside their mouth another minute. Not even another 100 yards to the next trash receptacle. Instead, they'd rather spit the fucking thing onto the sidewalk, creating a landmine for passersby who will, no doubt, step unsuspectingly onto the saliva-infused, brain-like ball of rubbery gum. I mean, c'mon! Even the grass would be better placement. This gum-spitting imbecile has about as much courtesy as the douche bag who doesn't flush his stink-pickle down the John in a public restroom. I could go on about that one all day, but I best not digress.

Now you may think I'm a little too worked up over gum on my shoe, but have you ever tried cleaning it off? You don't want to touch it. I mean, the thing is filled with the germs of a stranger's mouth. It could have herpes, or the Ebola virus or some shit. That leaves you digging at the bottom of your shoe with a stick, or a pen, or some other pointy inanimate object. And it's hard work. The damn stuff biologically adapts itself to become one with your sneaker. No fucking joke.  You almost need to hire a plastic surgeon to remove what has now become an abscessed growth on the tread of your sole. If you don't break a sweat  as you struggle to free yourself from the gooey clutches of someone's spearmint, then you're not human.

Oooh. Ground breaking thought. I wonder if peanut butter would work? It works on hair. I'm going to have to step in some gum to find out...

Tattoos: The sentimental side.

You're a guy. Strong, tough, rugged....and a softy at heart. Sort of like a lactating Andre the Giant. So how do you get a tattoo that reveals the complexities of your many layers? Can it be done? It can, I say. It can!

For instance, you could get a  fluffy, white and majestic unicorn tattooed on your ankle. Where's the masculinity you ask? Well, fear not, for your unicorn has burning red eyes, emblazon with rage and deeply suppressed emotions. It's the balance of sensitivity and ferocity that is all men; an emblem of your dedication to showing your softer side, while not neglecting the sheer testosterone that is pumping through your rigid veins. 

Of course, we men like options. We need to know what else is out there. So before you decide on the unicorn, consider this: A cuddly, soft, adorable puppy with big floppy ears and rolls upon rolls of snuggley  puppy fat. And it's rabid; foam oozing from it's mouth as if it were regurgitating a venti latte made with curdled milk. Women will say, "Oh, it's so cute, yet so strong and sexy." Your male friends will abhor you for the attention you receive from dames around the world. And that's when you can suggest other possible tattoos to show their tender side..

Imagine, a bright red heart, like a Valentine, with the letters MOM across the middle; but instead of an arrow through the side it has crossbones! Nothing's more masculine than a mama's boy with a bad ass Hells Angels side to him. Onlookers will admire the respect and love that you have shown for your mother, while simultaneously cower at your brazen display of manliness. Never has the delicate and course inner-workings of men been displayed with such perfect harmony. Your tattoo will not only be the envy of bikers, convicts and lumberjacks, but also of fine art collectors, curators and the uber rich.


So, when you decide to show your sentimental side, what kind of tattoo will you be getting?