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Posted by on Jul 31, 2012 in Blog, Rants and Raves | 6 comments

When Masterbation Becomes an Olympic Sport

 

volleyball-team-olympics

 

Passing through a crowded casino this weekend, I couldn’t help but notice hundreds of people – primarily men – crowded around several television screens at one of the bars.

So, what were they watching?  It’s not football season yet, and no one gives a shit about baseball, at least until the playoffs begin.

Answer — the 2012 Olympic Games.

More specifically, the men were watching women’s beach volleyball.

Right.  You’re thinking exactly what I’m thinking.  I’m sure most of those guys with their eyeballs glued to the television screens really gave a flying rat’s ass that the United States was playing Australia in a preliminary medal round.  Hell, it wasn’t even the finals.  But for many of those men, no doubt, the match concluded with one hell of a climax.

Beach volleyball?  Don’t call this charade a sport.  It’s the world’s largest masturbation festival — plain and simple.  It’s a cum-dumpster parade.  Women in panties prancing around in the sand.  They might as well be having  a pillow fight or wrestling in jello.

Confirming my suspicion that most of the viewers had no real rooting interest in the Olympic match other than the tits and ass tally, sometime later when I passed through the same area after dinner and this time men’s volleyball was being shown, virtually no one was watching.  MENS VOLLEYBALL.  Poof!  Everyone was gone!  I don’t know — perhaps someone yelled “fire” inside the casino and I missed it.

The bottom line is, most of these gold medal events aren’t really “sports” at all.  They are excuses for getting as many athletes from as many nations as possible into a televised viewing frame so that as many products as possible can be plunged down our throats in the form of a non-stop parade of commercials.  That’s it basically.  The Olympics are nothing more a delivery device for rampant consumerism — be it cell phones, sports cars, or soft drinks.  It’s the globe’s biggest assembly line for product placement — on every wall, on every uniform, on every sign, on every conceivable frame of real estate that might possibly be viewed by someone, somewhere.

Which brings me to what should be the Olympic Games’ most expensive product platform — the ASSES of the volleyball girls.  Hell, that real estate is more prime than a penthouse on Central Park West.

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Posted by on Jul 30, 2012 in Blog, Essays, Personal, What's Left | 0 comments

Hitting Life’s Reset Button

Life's Reset Button

 

If you could go back and live your life all over again, would you?

I suppose most of us would answer – it depends.

Let’s say you could turn back the clock  and relive your life with the benefit of all the knowledge you now possess.  Given the inherent wonders of knowing what the future would bring, most of us would agree to a replay.  Let’s say you could go back to 1969 and bet on the New York Jets or take full advantage of MicroSoft’s 1986 IPO, you’d be very wealthy indeed.

Then there is the “Dead Zone” prospect of going back and purposefully changing the future.  For instance, who among us would not feel compelled to try and alter the terrible course of events which occurred on September 11, 2001?

But what about going back in time and facing utter uncertainty?  Would you choose to live your life over again and then be willing to accept the consequences if things were to turn out very differently?

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Posted by on Jul 25, 2012 in Blog, Essays, Travel | 1 comment

Three Dogs and a Mexican (Part 2)

 

It was a Sunday.

Boulevards normally jammed with traffic were less so and moved more freely.  It was a day of leisure.  People were out and about.

The park was busier than the day before.  Children ran in circles.  There was laughter.  Music played.

And, my eighth run began alongside the concrete aqueduct.

Just as the day before, I ran about a mile, and then veered off the right.  I scaled the first wall effortlessly and ran a considerable distance before coming upon the same cinder block barricade I remembered from the previous day.

I had arrived at the blue tent.

But this time, the tent had an occupant.  A small-framed man, perhaps 30 or so, sat upright on what appeared to be a sleeping bag.  I did not want to startle or disturb the man.  So, I quietly made my way over the wall and began to proceed down the path to continue my run.

Suddenly, one of the dogs started barking.  And the other dogs too, joined in unison.  The canine alarm bells had gone off.

I could not see the man’s face clearly.  But, he must have been fearful.  After all, few passersby run along the aqueduct and certainly no one scales over two barricades – on a weekend, no less – to invade the solitude this man had etched for himself in what was a gigantic foreign metropolis.

Alerted by the barking mutts, the man quickly rose to his feet when he saw me.  He appeared startled, and it was easy to understand why this was so.

Seeing a invader passing along the aqueduct, in a place off-limits to pedestrian traffic, had to be a terrifying prospect for this frightened man resting in solace, who was clearly Hispanic, probably Mexican — and almost certainly an illegal alien.

That’s right — an illegal alien.  Chew on those words for a moment.

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Posted by on Jul 24, 2012 in Blog, Essays, Travel | 2 comments

Three Dogs and a Mexican (Part 1)

 

This is the story of a man you will never know.

This is the story of a man you will never see.

Yet, it’s the story of so many who live amongst us – hidden away within the crevices of all towns and cities, invisible to the contemporary consciousness.

Los Angeles’ arteries are not highways — but rather its aqueducts. They are a meandering maze of concrete vessels bringing life to millions. Mostly unseen and largely ignored, they lie burrowed amid a gigantic quilt of industrial parks and busy freeways choked with traffic and frustration, channeling clear water from the snow-packed High Sierras down to valleys, and ultimately to our sinks, bathtubs, toilets, garden hoses, swimming pools, and restaurants.

There is one man  the who calls the aqueduct his “home.”

This is the story of how I came to stumble upon that man and how I became aware of the numerous challenges he faces each day.  It is the story of an unintended series of personal events which reminds us that compassion and generosity are not measured by volume of deeds but rather by the simplest acts of human kindness.

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