August Sucks

I have written more than once in this space about my distaste for the month of August, which, along with February, competes each year for the status of most hated month. February’s sins are obvious enough. It’s the dead of winter. But why should August be singled out for ridicule? It is, after all, a summer month, a time when many people vacation. It should be a time of lazy days and memories.

But, there’s this...

To my friends in Maine, these may be curious images indeed. Why are the windows of your house fogged over with moisture at 6:15 in the morning? Is it raining outside? It looks like the sun is shining. Correct. The sun is shining. In fact, there isn’t a cloud in the sky. No, no...this is August in Short Pump, that delightful time of year when the simple act of walking to the mailbox causes you to sweat off a pound. You will never hear anyone from Virginia begin a sentence with the phrase, “Remember that delightful August day when...” No, August is something to be endured, like gout or diarrhea. There are no holidays in August. What would be the point? 

The conditions under which I took the above photographs were as follows:

6:25 am

Temperature: 73

Relative humidity 97%

Wind: 1 mph

How on Earth can the humidity be 97% if it’s not raining? Excellent question, the answer to which no Southerner knows. All I know is it will be this way until the middle of September. My Mosquito Authority guy is coming today to treat the yard, possible the most pointless exercise of all time, since there isn’t enough money in all of Christendom to make me sit outside on my deck during the month of August. August nights around here are for inside sports...like walking around the house naked lifting prayers of praise and thanksgiving for the invention of Air Conditioning. Speaking of which, why isn’t this man on Mt. Rushmore??

Wills Carrier. Inventor of Air Conditioning.

Is This The Handsomest Man in China?

Li Haotong is a professional golfer from Communist China. At the beginning of the third round of the PGA tournament, he was in sole possession of the lead, a first for a player from his country. The philosophical contradictions of a communist playing the game of golf for insane amounts of money is just one more thing to chalk up to the Twilight Zone that is 2020.

Mr. Haotong, unlike most professional golfers, seems to have a personality, in that he has proclaimed himself the most handsome man in China. Apparently he has the claim etched on the back of his sand wedge. Here’s a picture of him. You be the judge.

 I’ve never been to China. Maybe he is that nation’s handsomest man. I’m the last guy in the world you would want judging a male beauty contest, and handsome is most definitely in the eye of the beholder and all that, not to mention the fact that different cultures have different standards of what makes a human being handsome. But I’m thinking that he looks like a simple doofus, nothing more. Wait...I found a more flattering picture...

Nope...doofus.

Of course, who am I to judge?

Unfortunately for Li, the white hot glare of the spotlight took its toll on his golf game in yesterday’s third round when he lost his lead by shooting a 73, winding up in a tie for 13th place. But, at least he has his good looks to fall back on.

Worst Dad Jokes of the Week

Friday can only mean one thing. That’s right, it’s time for the very worst Dad Jokes of the week, compiled here for your reading discomfort:

Why did the mexican push his wife off a cliff?

Because he wanted...tequila 

What do you call a painter who loves running through the grass?

Jackson Frolic.

Where does virgin wool come from?

Ugly sheep.

How many ADHD kids does it take to change a light bulb?

Let’s go ride bikes!

How do we know that Matt Damon is a religious man?

Because he’s always...Bourne again.

I think I know why people get so angry when you call them “average”.

It’s a...mean...thing to do.

I told my wife, “Don’t get upset if people call you “fat”

...”you’re bigger than that.

A Day of Dread

Men of a certain age will totally understand this post. Younger guys either won’t or will smugly roll their eyes. But, today is a day that I dread every year...my annual medical exam.

It used to be that I never had an annual physical. I only went to the doctor when I was violently ill or leaking bodily fluids. Now I’ve become a regular, not just with my family doctor, but a host of specialists. I have a couple colonoscopies under my belt at this point, and one prostate exam, I think, so I got that going for me. Today is the annual physical, that appointment that my wife started insisting on after my heart thing 18 years ago and the mini-stroke misunderstanding of a few years back. Each year it’s the same. I set the appointment far in advance, forget to write it down in my appointment book, then get that frightening phone call a week out reminding me of the appointment I made six months ago. The friendly nurse reminds me to show up thirty minutes early, (not gonna happen—I have no intention of taking five minutes to fill out a form, then waiting in a room full of terminal germ machines for 25 minutes for my appointment), and that I can have nothing except black coffee and water eight hours before my arrival. Pam always gives me a helpful list of things I need to ask the doctor. It’s a good thing too, since without her list I would just sit there holding my breath waiting for it to all be over.

My doctor is great. Very personable. He occasionally even glances up from his laptop to make eye contact. Some of his helpful comments are:

Doctor: Wouldn’t hurt you to lose a couple pounds.

Me: Yeah...

Doctor: Does it hurt when I do this?

Me: Yeah. Stop doing that.

At some point he sends me down the hall to have blood taken out of my arm by a perky group of nurses in a small room where all of them are going on and on about something that happened last night at Bojangles like I’m not even in the room...

Nurse: Anyways, this cow starts yelling at the cashier—make a fist for me, honey—and I had just about had enough so I yell at her, “Yo, b**ch, shut the f**k up ‘for I come over there and mess you up”—-little pin prick now—I’m telling you, she was craaazy!

Then I am instructed to donate a urine sample into a handy little cup thing. Be sure your aim is true!! When I hand the specimen back to the nurse it always gives me the creeps for some reason.

Of course, no annual physical would be complete without the obligatory anal exam, which is a whole other level of awkwardness. Doc pulls on his gloves with an authoritarian snap, then begins his probing all the while trying to make conversation:

Doctor: So, how about this weather, huh? Hot enough for ya? Cough for me now. How’s the family?

The basic problem with the annual physical is the fear that this year will be the year when he finds something...

Doctor: Everything seems to be totally fine...wait, Hello...what have we here???

So today I will do my duty. I will faithfully ask all sixteen questions on Pam’s list...number 14–Why is he so_______? Hopefully, I will leave his office with renewed vigor, energized by his positive view of my overall condition, pending return of all blood work results.

Of course, every woman over the age of 40 is reading this thinking...what a baby! You want awkwardness? Try a mammogram and a gynecologist appointment every year buddy boy!!

Child of God

My friend has been battling cancer for a year now. Our text-correspondence began in earnest in August of 2019. It’s been a year of pain, agony, joy and miracles. It has also been 12 months of truly terrible jokes. This morning’s exchange was pretty typical...

She’s been through just about every set back you can imagine. Every single side effect you can possibly imagine from chemo has been faced and endured, if not overcome. This month will be a particularly difficult one for her. There are tons of tests and another surgery, plus more chemo. If it were me, I would probably have given up by now. But, Pam is a rock star of fortitude and faith. She just battles, grinds, does what needs to be done. 

Yes. She has had a few bad days, where she gets down on herself. Every once in a while she gives in to self pity. But it’s rare. When she is in one of those moods, she has been able to count on me to talk trash to her, give her hell for the bad attitude, etc... What she doesn’t know is that I always feel bad for being mean to her. Even though she always thanks me for my “straight talk” and assures me that it helped, I always feel rotten for doing it. I compensate with extra horrible jokes.

The truth is, I have no idea what I’m doing. I’ve never gone through having a friend with cancer. Half the time I don’t know what to say. What I do know is that any difficulty or awkwardness that I might experience can’t be compared to the truckload of difficulty that has been dumped on her. There’s another thing I know...she is going to beat cancer. In many ways, she already has. But she will beat it for good one day, and that day is getting closer and closer.

Here’s a picture of her on her birthday a couple of years ago pre-cancer...

Here’s one of her from a couple of weeks back after a year of fighting...

Cool hat. Same smile, and as she would say, “Same child of God.”

Yay or Nay??

For over 17 years I have been a three times a week workout guy at American Family Fitness in Short Pump. Or, at least I was until it was closed down back in early March due to COVID. When you’ve done something for that long it becomes an integral part of your life. The reasons that I have been so committed to working out three times a week are complicated. Yes, exercise is good for my health, but it’s more than that. For me the primary benefit is stress relief. I always go around 3 o’clock in the afternoon when the crowd has thinned out. I do 45 minutes of cardio, then some light weights, hit up the sauna and pool, then take a quick shower and head home. Takes an hour and fifteen minutes. Three times a week. For almost 18 years.

Back in March, April and May AmFam was good enough to forego my membership dues. But for the last two months they have started hitting up the checking account for the fee on the first of the month. In June, Pam and I were still in super cautious mode, not wanting to catch anything that might jeopardize Maine. In July, we were in Maine the whole month. Now that I’m back, it’s time to consider returning. To that end, I thought I would head over and check the place out yesterday afternoon, to see what changes they had made. They were gracious enough to allow me to take pictures, a practice they normally frown upon, since they knew that I needed to convince the COVID police, ie...my wife! Here’s what I found:

No steam room. No sauna.

No basketball.

Social distancing at AmFam is 10 feet, not 6 feet.

No more free water.

Literally every machine of every description has it’s own disinfectant spray bottle.

Upon entering the facility, everyone must take and use a blue wiping off equipment towel.

Don’t get too close in the locker room, fellas.

Only use the equipment without the red cones!!

I went over right around lunch hour which is normally a busy time. On the entire first floor I saw maybe four and five people. I asked Al, the manager, about the crowds. he pointed to the nearly empty floor and said, This is about how it is all the time...

So, what say you? Should a 62 year old man with more than his share of risk factors go back...or not?

The Wages of Fame

Since my return from Maine I have gotten back into the rhythm of my normal life, which includes a daily dose of news with my first cup of coffee. I’ve learned of Donald Trump’s plans to cling to office after the 2020 election, even if he loses. I’ve been brought up to speed on the 60 day protest lalapalooza that is Portland, Oregon. I have learned about the nine women who are being considered as Joe Biden’s running mate. I’m all caught up on the latest leaks from the Jeffrey Epstein case, including the shocking news that Bill Clinton was seen on the premises of Pedo Island with not one, but two underage girls on his arms. But, honestly, the story that has captured my imagination the most is the Fall of Ellen DeGeneres. Holy Crap.

Ellen has been on an unprecedented roll for what seems like decades now. The heiress to the vacated Oprah throne, Ellen had it all. She was funny and cute. Her show featured super fun stunts and gags. She was reliably progressive, famously lesbian, and all of the beautiful people adored her. What could possibly go wrong? I mean, seriously...if anyone in Hollywood was bulletproof it had to be her, right? Sure, Harvey Weinstein was powerful, but he was a man, and a Jewish one at that, in the age of #METOO. But, Ellen DeGeneres?? Untouchable, one would think.

Confession, back in the days before COVID when I was a three days a week American Family guy, I would find myself on the treadmill during the airing of her show, so I watched it quite often, sometimes with subtitles sometimes without. Either way I always found her incredibly charming and funny. I particularly liked her sign off line...be kind. Now, if I understand correctly, her show was a hot mess of racism, and sexual misconduct and Ellen herself was a diva-tyrant.

I have no idea what to think about it all. Does it really surprise me that a Hollywood type would wind up being an epic phoney baloney? Of course not. But on the other hand, isn’t this always the way? Isn’t this what we do to every big shot in this country? We love our stars...right up until the moment when we don’t. We applaud them during their ascension, then watch, transfixed, when they crash back down to Earth. It’s like a parlor game with us. Most of the faux friendships that Ellen cultivated when she was Queen vanished into thin air at the first whiff of scandal. She has become untouchable. That Quick.

Fame is fleeting, they say. But in America, too often, when it exits your body it leaves you with nothing.

I think I’ll pass.