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[California Seething] My World Cup Runneth Over

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Posted by :Eric Sims On : July 14, 2014
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Category: California Seething

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How big a deal is the World Cup? Well, when Costa Rica won their first game or “match” as the pinko commie Hilary Rodham Stalin types would want you to call it, the British announcer- possibly Ian Darke or Steve McManamanananananananman declared that it was the greatest moment in Costa Rica’s history. Not their soccer (or “football” as it’s known in poor deprived nations where they don’t have real Football) history or even sports history- but the history of the whole damn country. Now, admittedly, this is Costa Rica’s history we’re talking about, and moments 2 – 10 are all House Hunters International episodes. In fact, the win vs Cal Seething- 071414- houseUruguay displaced the episode with the retired fireman and his family who lost their home in Southern California and had to move to Costa Rica so they could live on his pension. You know the one- it’s the episode where they wanted a  place that had historic charm and character but was also fully renovated with brand new appliances and that was right on the beach but also had a pool and an amazing view. Remember- there was that CRAZY twist where- get this- SHE had super high standards and wanted to make sure she got everything she wanted regardless of cost but HE – and this is the crazy part- HE was all obsessed with the budget and making the numbers work. Wild right? I bet you never saw THAT coming.

Later on, Costa Rica played Greece in the “knockout round”, after beating soccer powerhouse Italy (Mamma Mia! That’s a spicy upset!) and playing England to a 0-0 tie. Yeah, that’s right- a 0-0 tie- (or “nil-nil” as they say in poor deprived nations where they Cal Seething- 071414- costagreecedon’t have the word “zero”) . That’s like, a thing, in soccer. No wonder Ann Coulter says this sport is un-American – I mean- two teams beating up on each other under the sweltering sun for an interminable length of time with nothing to show for it??? We expect that kind of futility from our wars but NOT from our sporting events. Anyhow, the fact that Costa Rica and Greece had to play each other is one of the things I love about the World Cup. Isn’t it amazing that the World Cup can take two countries, thousands of miles apart, who’ve had almost no historical contact with each other (Google Greece- Costa Rica relations and you’ll go straight to Tindr) unite them on a global stage through the majesty of sport and teach them to loathe and despise each other? Yes! It is amazing! Thank you for asking! It’s like some crazy zoo, where the giraffes and penguins have to wrestle for food while thousands of fans cheer them on. (I oppose cruelty to animals in all its forms. Except, I mean, for eating them cause let’s not go nuts here.)

Just think about how much these two countries learned about each other. Why, I bet you that two weeks ago, the Costa Ricans hadCal-Seething--071414--greek no idea that the Greeks were a bunch of lazy, obnoxious, chain smoking mamma’s boys (according to Google, anyhow) and the Greeks couldn’t begin to guess that the Costa Ricans were a bunch of…highly literate, extremely polite, lovely individuals (don’t look at me- ask Google). I know this may not seem weird to you – I mean, learning to hate far away countries for no reason is nothing new to us Americans- hell, it’s the corner stone of our foreign policy. At least in sports, we don’t have to spend a fortune rebuilding the countries we beat, cause if we did, we’d buy Team Iraq the best cleats in the world and they’d use them to run off the field as soon as ISIS got the ball.

And of course, for the Greeks, being hated is no big deal. Everybody seems to hate them. Don’t believe me? Well- here are the some of the search results for “reasons to hate the Greeks”:
Why do Turkish People hate the Greeks?
Do Germans really hate the Greeks?
Why do Albanians hate the Greeks?
Jews hate Greeks
The Dutch hate Greeks even more than Germans
Why do so many people hate the Greeks?
Why do I hate the Greeks?
I hate GreeksCal Seething- 071414- hanks

And can you blame them? Greece is Europe’s drunken uncle. You know – the one who pretty much invented Western Civilization back in high school, like 4,000 years ago, but now he’s just a ruin of his former self, showing up late at night reeking of smoke, in that old Varsity toga that doesn’t fit over his gut anymore, to borrow money that you just know he’s never gonna pay back. And sure, you think he’s fun at first because he’s always sunny and stays up all night, but then you catch him in the kitchen drinking vanilla extract (or, worse yet, ouzo) and you realize what a mess he’s become.

But Costa Rica? Nobody hates Costa Rica. They’re like the Jimmy Fallon of Latin America. If ever there was a country that could “Mom Dance” with Michelle Obama one day and “Dad Dance” with Chris Christie the next- it would be Costa Rica. Seriously, Cal Seething- 071414- jimmyJimmy – you can’t love EVERYBODY “This next guy, I just love him so much. He’s a good friend of the show, from the Khmer Rouge-we’ve got the architect of the Cultural Revolution himself- – POL POT (Roots play funky version of Holiday in Cambodia. Jimmy and Pol play “Counterrevolutionary Beer Pong” and the winner guns down everyone in the audience who wears glasses).

Still- despite their disgusting likability- the Greeks still managed to work up a frothing, violent, seething hatred for Costa Rica. And why? Seriously-have you not been paying attention? CAUSE IT’S THE MOTHERFUCKING WORLD CUP, PENDEJO! It’s the SUPERBOWL of sporting events….that aren’t, you know, already the Superbowl! It’s like the Winter Olympics if they just did biathalon and the whole world was Norway and wouldn’t that make an awesome Will Farrell movie?? (no) It’s games without frontiers, war without tears- and if looks could kill- THEY PROBABLY WILL!! It’s like a gigantic QUIDDICH tournament if I actually knew what the fuck that meant and wasn’t just saying it to suck up to the millenials  I lost with a RANDOM AND SLIGHTLY OBSCURE PETER GABRIEL REFERENCE!!! It’s the love child of World War Three and March Madness with Brazil as Kentucky, Germany as Duke and the US AS FLORIDA GULF COAST UNIVERSITY! IT’S THE PINCHE WORLD CUP, MOTHERFUCKER!!!!! GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOL!

Now, for those of you that still have no idea what I’m talking about- and if you think the word above is pronounced “ghoul” – than you’re who I’m talking about- here’s a breakdown of why this is the world’s greatest sporting event. Or, at least, the best one in June & July.

It’s the most dramatic

A couple of weeks ago, I watched the U.S. – Belgium game with a bunch of co-workers as part of a Work Approved Morale Building Activity. It was awesome. We prayed and screamed and gasped and sighed. For 90 terrifying minutes we held our breath as our Cal Seething- 071414- bloodsportboys withstood wave after wave of attacks from the ferocious Belgians (wow- nobody has said that sentence since the reign of King Leopold II- or at least since Bloodsport) and we screamed in frustration as the US came within INCHES (or “millimeters” as they say in poor deprived nations where they have to use the metric system. Shudder. Twitch. Shudder.) Throughout the game, our viewing party grew and grew as co-workers would stop in to see what all the hubbub was about and find themselves transfixed by the action, unable to move, frozen in place like ancient Greeks in the glare of Medusa or the Greek goalie trying to stop a Costa Rican penalty kick DAMN! OH NO I DIDN’T! The company ground to a halt- for 90 minutes phones went to voicemail, emails went unanswered, meetings were missed (on the other hand – morale surged by 8.6% – up to its highest level since Proposition 8 was overturned. We are a theatre company after all.) And as the clock wound down- or, up whatever on the game, and it became clear we had survived the worst the Belgians had to throw at us (at least, the worst since Universal Soldier: Regeneration) we sat back, untwisted our guts and prepared for Extra Time. Oh- and what was the score at the end of Regular Time? 0 – 0. That’s right. Nil-Nil, Zilch-Zilch, Bupkiss-Bupkiss, The Number of Valid Scientific Reasons for Not Vaccinating Your Children vs the Number of Seconds I Would Respectfully Wait before Laughing my ASS Off if You Told me Jenny McCarthy had Polio. Like the audience of a Beckett play, we had just sat mesmerized for 90 minutes Desert- 052814- godotwatching some weird foreign drama we didn’t understand in which nothing actually happened. Unlike, Beckett, though, in the knockout round of the World Cup, they do keep playing until the game is decided- and wouldn’t Waiting for Godot be like a million times more satisfying if it was resolved with penalty kicks?
Is Godot a metaphor for God? GOAL!
Is he ever going to come? NO GOAL!
Is the world simply a meaningless void of despair where hope is an illusion, human endeavor is doomed, and life is a pointless, undignified, agonizing interlude between cradle and grave? GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOLLLLLL!!!! Also you should hang yourself now with your belt.

Of course, some of the drama and excitement of World Cup soccer, (or futbol as it’s called in Spanish speaking countries because evidently there’s no Spanish word for “foot” or “ball” so they have to come over here and take our words which is just so typical) is due to the announcers. Now I know everybody loves to talk about the histrionic GOOOOOOL screaming dramatic flair of the Telemundo commentators- but I’ve grown very fond of the British announcers with their bizarre Cockney rhyming slang bastadizations of 1940’s American tough guy lingo and the rat tat tat Tommy Gun “live from the front” delivery of a Wold War II radio broadcaster commenting on the Blitz. These guys could make anything sound amazing:

Cal Seething- 071414- ianIan Darke: And the blue paint on the living room wall is starting to be a little less shiny. This is a critical point here. If anything goes wrong here we could have a crack in the paint and have to start all over again and that would spell CURTAINS for our living room renovation. And- wait- I see a bubble. Is that a bubble?  That could be a bubble. A bubble could be trying to pull of a daring flood light robbery the new blue paint. This could be the end RIGHT HERE. THIS COULD BE IT. No. Just a bump in the wall. It looks like the blue is getting dry around the edges. This is a critical time. Just a few more minutes. Anything could happen here. A piece of dust. An unsupervised dog. A kid with peanut butter on his fingers walks by and IT’S LAST CALL AT THE LAST CHANCE SALOON FOR THE LIVING ROOM WALL. But no. it’s almost dry. We’re into stoppage time now. It’s drying. It’s drying. We have a result. It’s… (change channel to Telemundo)

Telemundo Announcer: DRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!!!!!”

But you can’t blame the announcers for being dramatic- the game is relentless – they don’t even stop for commercials- and with the stakes as high as Cal Seething- 071414- catthey are in the World Cup at every second of play- it’s bound to make you a little crazy. It’s like a horror movie with only one killing but dozens of cats that wait until the perfect moment when everything is quiet and you let your guard down and then JUMP OUT OF THE BUSHES AND SCARE THE CRAP OUT OF YOU FOR NO GOOD REASON. Or creepy, laconic stringy haired janitors who sneak up behind you in absolute silence and then, when you least expect it TAP YOU ON THE SHOULDER AND ASK YOU IF EVERYTHING’S OK CAUSE THEY SAY THEY HEARD A NOISE.

So- go ahead. Grab a snack. Take a leak. Check your email. I dare you. I double dare you. Cause, you just know, you just know that the SECOND you look away KER-SLASHO the hockey mask wearing serial killer will come leaping out of nowhere and BRUTALLY CHOP UP THE OVERSEXED TEENAGER WHO SAID “I’LL BE RIGHT BACK” WITH A CHAINSAW INTO TINY LITTLE BLOODY BITS. Or- you know, somebody’ll score a goal. Either way- you missed it. And now- it’s nothing but cats for the rest of the game.- or “match”. Whatever, HILLARY.

Plus- like any good horror movie- it’s never over when you think it is. Just when you see the clock hit 90 and you think- ok, it’s fine, we made it, we’re through, we beat Portugal- BAM! The referee puts 3 extra minutes on the clock, Renaldo scores a last second goal to tie the game and the SERIAL KILLER JUMPS OUT OF NOWHERE COVERED IN BLOOD right behind the idiot policeman who never believed the kids who said they were being chased by a killer and thought they were all whacked out on Angel Dust and KER-SLASHO!!!! THE SERIAL KILLER HACKS THE POLICEMAN TO PIECES before somebody inexplicably blows him up with an oxygen tank and a lighter. Now THAT’S SOCCER! Or “football”. Whatever HILLARY.

Cal Seething- 071414- teddyIt’s a great time to be an American!

Look, it’s not easy being an American. Wait- sorry, let me rephrase that- it’s absurdly, disgustingly obscenely easy to be an American- it’s just hard not to feel like a dick about it – except during the World Cup. Aside from the aftermath of a terrorist attack- there’s simply no better time than the World Cup to feel great about America! Because, while the US is way ahead of the world in pretty much every area, we’re still not great at soccer. Sure- we’ve got super goalie Tim “The Congressional Republican” Howard (he never lets anything pass) but in the grand scheme of things- we’re pretty much on par with Ghana. How exciting is that? We’re neck and neck with a nation with the GDP of Tulsa. Awesome, right? What fun to slum as a scrappy underdog! We’re that bloated record executive in the mosh pit at Coachella with fake hair on his head and real hair on his ears whooping it up with all the kids, losing ourselves in the exuberance of the young nation we once were and not the purple faced sclerotic ruin we’ve become. Plus, come on- nobody chants like the American fans. We may be middle of the pack in soccer- but – when it comes to chest-thumping face-painting hat-wearing jingoism- WE BELIEVE THAT WE WILL WIN! WE BELIEVE THAT WE WILL WIN!

It’s actually been a lot more fun to be the US at the World Cup than to be Brazil. This time, we get to be the wacky upstart BRIC style nation celebrating after a 1-0 LOSS to Germany and they have to be the aging superpower in shocking decline. It’s a glimpse into the future of American mediocrity  and it’s glorious. Let somebody else solve all the world’s idiot problems for a change- time for us to be the Jamaican bobsled team- just happy to be here – enjoying the world’s ride downhill!!! Weeeeeeee!!!!

Of course, the other possibility, is that soccer is yet another thing the US is getting progressively better at and that pretty soon we’ll be the same domineering douchebags at the World Cup that we are at everything else. So- hey- Win-Win or us! I BELIEVE THAT WE WILL WIN-WIN! I BELIEVE THAT WE WILL WIN-WIN!

And the US isn’t the only country whose fans paint their faces and wear stupid costumes. Why, every participating nation from Argentina to Uruguay had fiercely proud contingents of fans decked out in their nation’s colors looking like idiots. And this is another great thing about this tournament – no matter  how powerful a nation or dignified it’s history- the World Cup makes Oakland Raiders fans of us all. I’d say more about how awesome it is when teams lose and their costumed fans look sad, but Mandy Ratliff already rocked that subject here– so I’ll just include what is perhaps the greatest sad fan photo of all time.

Cal Seething- 071414- trophyhug

Hug that trophy, my friend. Maybe if you hugged your children that way, they’d still be talking to you and you wouldn’t have to face defeat so alone. Maybe not.

Have you seen Baseball?Cal Seething- 071414- kevin

Let’s keep it real for a second- the World Cup takes place in June & July. All of the real sports are over by June. After that, it’s pretty much just World Cup or Baseball- and have you seen baseball?? If World Cup soccer is a thrilling horror movie that you watch through your fingers at the edge of your seat then baseball is a Kevin Costner movie- corny, sentimental, earnest and agonizingly dull (and I’m not just saying that because Kevin Costner actually made a movie about baseball that was corny, sentimental, earnest and agonizingly dull but because everything Kevin Costner makes is corny, sentimental, earnest and agonizingly dull.) Hell, baseball’s not even a sport- it’s a “pastime”- it’s like stamp collecting for steroid enthusiasts. I mean, the average soccer player runs like 7.5 kilometers (or “a bunch of miles”) over the course of a game. Prince Fielder’s barely run 5 kilometers in Cal Seething- 071414- princehis entire career, and most of that was chasing the ice cream truck. I mean, sure, Yasiel Puig looks like he works out –but that’s just so he can fight off those Mexican smugglers he owes money to. I sure hope those guys don’t decapitate him- or, if they do, at least they can wait til after Bobblehead night.

And the baseball announcers don’t help matters any. If soccer announcers can make boring stuff interesting, baseball announcers can make even the most exciting events seem painfully dull:

Old White Man Baseball Announcer #1: And it’s a beautiful night here over Tokyo. The stars are out, the moon is bright, and Godzilla is stomping through the Shibuya neighborhood crushing cars and buildings and devouring train cars full of tourists. Heh heh. He sure is a big fella, isn’t he Ralph?

Old White Man Baseball Announcer Who’s Evidently Named Ralph: You got that right!Cal Seething- 071414- godzilla

Old White Man Baseball Announcer #1: And now – I think we’re starting to see just a little bit of fire come out of his mouth. Yup. That’s fire alright. And there goes the American embassy. Up in flames. How about that?

Old White Man Baseball Announcer Who’s Evidently Named Ralph:  That sure is something.

Old White Man Baseball Announcer #1:  And this is the most damage done to a City by an artificially enlarged mutant lizard since Jose Canseco left Oakland in 1992. Of course most of the damage he did was to the game of baseball.Cal Seething- 071414- jose

Old White Man Baseball Announcer Who’s Evidently Named Ralph:  Heh heh. You said it.

Old White Man Baseball Announcer #1: Oh- it looks like Godzilla is headed for the heavily populated Shinkuju neighborhood. And we’ll be right back to see what kind of destruction he perpetrates after this message from Pep Boys.

It’s like death- except death comes with suspense of wondering what’s going to happen after death and the only suspense in baseball is wondering WHEN IS IT GOING TO END ALREADY? And the other summer sports aren’t much better- here’s a post I wrote about just how much I hate all of them. Read it, if you want, or just take my word for it that the World Cup is soooo much better than all of them combined. Actually, forget that- definitely read it. I need the validation.

Well, the World Cup is over. Germany beat Argentina 1 – “nil” in the final game. It was a match up that would prove extremely difficult- both for the players and fugitive Nazi war criminals trying to figure out who to cheer for. Like the product in his hair, Lionel Messi worked hard right up until the end- but unlike his hair, Messi’s efforts fell flat. Still- Messi was awarded the “Golden Ball” for his efforts as the best player, the German goalie received the Golden “I’m Grabbing My Own Tit” Award,

Cal Seething- 071414- messi

and the German team was presented with the surprisingly teeny World Cup Trophy by the flight attendants of Emirates Air.

Cal Seething- 071414- stewardess

Oh, that’s not a joke BTW- those are actually the flight attendants from Emirates Air, one of the primary sponsors of the World Cup, presenting the trophy. I know. It’s disgusting. Roger Goodell is already on the phone with Southwest about Superbowl XLIX as we speak, though I don’t think it’ll be quite the same:

Cal Seething- 071414- farley

God help us all.

Anyhow, it’s over now. And I’m terrified. I’m not really sure how I’m gonna make it until August 3rd when Pre-Season Real Football begins. Still, it was great to see so many Americans getting wrapped up in the World Cup and learning what the rest of the world calls “football”. And I think that we all learned that we’re not so different after all. They had 11 men on the field and we have 11 men on the field. They have passionate fans who paint their faces to show pride in their nation’s colors and we wear Styrofoam cheese on our heads.  FIFA doesn’t give a crap about concussions and the NFL just pretends like it does. We’re all so similar!  We’re like one big happy brain damaged family!

But maybe the next few weeks won’t be so bad. Hey- I can use this time to catch up on important world affairs- like- oh I know- the war in Gaza, or- maybe the war in Iraq, or….hey- maybe the immigration and deportation crisis – that’s a good one- or the catastrophic drought right here in Southern California! That could be…..fun? Huh. Hey- wait- isn’t the Home Run Derby on Cal Seething- 071414- homerunderbytonight? Alright! Let’s hit some dingers! Or…you know, whatever they say in poor, deprived areas of the world where they only have baseball. Maybe this baseball thing isn’t so bad- better than dealing with reality, anyhow. Maybe they just need the right announcers:

Ian Darke: Yasiel Puig steps up to the plate. It’s a critical time here. This could be last call at the last chance saloon for the National League team. Here’s the pitch. Here’s the swing. It’s going, it’s going it’s

Telemundo Announcer: GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONE!!!!!!!!!

And so is the World Cup. See you in Russia for the first game in 2018. Or, “match” WHATEVER, HILLARY.

[California Seething] Tonight, On A Very Special California Seething

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Posted by :Eric Sims On : June 24, 2014
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Category: California Seething

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If you want to find out how badly I react to death, just ask my wife to tell you about her first trip to my apartment and Dempsey the Free Range White Mouse.

The year was 1998 and the apartment was located on 94th St. between 1st & 2nd– the Upper-Upper-Upper East side, (the Manhattan real-estate equivalent of Off Off Off Broadway) in an area fashionably known as SoSpHa (South of Spanish Harlem) by me- and, ok, only by me. Conveniently, it was only six blocks south of a charming little video store that sold weed and also, I’m told, though I never witnessed this personally, actually rented videos. I think there was one copy of Quiz Show by the register which was passed around to all the Dominican families on the block who wandered in there desperate and starved for entertainment because the nearest Blockbuster was on 86th Street, which might as well have been Mars or New Jersey. My Cal Seething- 062314- andydesolate stretch of 94th Street was known primarily for its proximity to Ski Bar- an unpleasant, sloppy, drug infested mess of a D-Level meat market (the Andy Dick of frat bars) with the slogan “We’re the first step on your walk of shame!”.

Also, my desolate little stretch of 94th street was noteworthy for the wildly excessive volume of human feces lining the sidewalks. Seriously – it was the most full of shit thing I’d ever seen- and this was during the Clinton years (ahhh Bill. How I miss voting for that liar. He left such an indelible mark on all the blue states.) Now, some of you may be saying “Golly, Eric. Wouldn’t any amount of human feces on the streets be considered excessive?” – and, yeah, sure- I can see how you might say that if you’re some backwoods Duck Dynasty hick from the sticks and you’ve never actually lived in New York. But if you have, you know better- cause it’s a city where everyone is pissed off and everything’s been pissed on, and while the City never sleeps- it is often Pooped. But 94th Street was special- it was like New York won the Superbowl for being the filthiest city in America, and 94th street was the dung encrusted ring (this is, of course, before Bloomberg ruined  saved New York.

But the really disturbing thing about this situation (assuming that you don’t consider giant piles of shit on the street to be really disturbing) is that we never actually saw anyone on the street crapping. I mean, you would have thought there would just be a non-stop parade: drunks, junkies, Danish tourists, bums, Dutch squatters, Trustafarians with blond dreadlocks and suspiciously well fed dogs, fucked up Finance frat boy fuckers, Salvadoran bar backs with a long PATH train ride ahead of them, more Dutch squatters, Bridge & Tunnel Club Kids, CHUD, and tragic victims of IBS who just couldn’t make it to the nearest Starbucks- a pilgrimage of poopers from all corners of the City descending on 94th street like Muslems on Mecca (Wow. Seriously, don’t tell ISIS Cal-Seething--062314--isisI said that. I’m already in a fight with them. Thanks to their stupid jihad I can’t wear my favorite hat. Come on, FX, I understand a little product placement- but what’s next- the Sri Lankan Bob’s Burgers Liberation Army? You’ve gone too far.) But- in fact, we never saw anyone- in an urban mystery worthy of the great Don Wildman, the poop just appeared like Ted Cruz- a squat brown lump that comes out of nowhere to stink everything up.

The apartment itself was a good sized one bedroom- big for New York, small for Anne Frank. My friend Sean got the bedroom since he booked a major TV ad campaign for Starburst that year. (Sigh. I love you YouTube.) I slept behind a folding screen in the living room- which was a huge upgrade for me since I spent the year before, in an apartment in the Village, sharing a room with the bathroom sink, and so my standards for privacy were as low as my tolerance for poop in the streets was high. Basically, any apartment where my roommates didn’t have to step over my flatulent, beer soaked carcass on their way to the toilet was like a luxury fucking suite at the Ritz (If I’m honest I think my former roommates were also relieved, though they were too polite to say so. OK, they said so A LOT.)

Anyhow, it was the bacheloriest bachelor pad in all the land, and Sean and I wallowed in our unmitigated dudeness like pigs in shit (have you noticed the weird fecal theme in this post? What’s up with me today? Is the Citrucel not working? Cause if so GOD HELP US ALL.) We lived on white bread, ketchup and American cheese “pizzas” (what, you thought Subway invented the Flatizza?) and the occasional package of shoplifted cold cuts (Starburst money only goes so far.) Sean would sit in the living room majestically, resplendent in his inflatable easy chair from Urban Outfitters, slugging down wine coolers like his gay dads were Bartles and Jaymes, and playing the all the free games on the demo Cal Seething- 062314- parapperdisk that came with his Playstation (dude fucking CRUSHED Pa Rapper the Rapper.) Meanwhile, I lounged in semi-private luxury on my inflatable mattress behind the screen, surrounded by the Great Works of Western Literature I never returned the SUNY Albany library proudly displayed in milk crate bookshelves, while the faces of the Spice Girls beamed beatifically upon me from the wall (seriously don’t ask). We were like the Odd Couple with no Felix, surrounded by half empty bottles, overflowing ashtrays and half empty bottles that had been re-purposed as overflowing ashtrays- living large and riding high on cushions of compressed air until one day our bad housekeeping caught up with us when we broke a bottle and our furniture, and spirits, slowly deflated. Things were never the same again.

But, I digress- because before we got to that point- there was Dempsey the Free Range White Mouse. Dempsey was a pale little mouse that Sean got from his pale little girlfriend. We’ll call her Christy- not because that’s her name but because, seriously, who gives a fuck? Christy was a dance student, and she and her freaky-deaky NYU experimental cohorts had incorporated Dempsey into a performance art piece. After the show- they weren’t sure what to do with the mouse, and since Sean had a soft spot for the little white fluffball (and also liked the mouse) he adopted the little rodent, named it Dempsey, brought it into our home and totally got laid off of it (the man was a goddamn professional). Naturally, it was ill befitting to our dudeness to keep our new little dude locked up in a cage, plus buying a cage would have required a modicum of (gasp) effort and possibly (double gasp) a trip to the boroughs, so we just let him roam free around our pad. And for a short while- it was glorious- Sean on his chair, me on my mattress and Dempsey dashing in and out of the shadows and scaring the LIVING SHIT out of anyone who saw him and jumped to the crazy conclusion that our apartment was infested with mice, when really it was just infested with friends. Who were mice. Oh my God we were gross. Let me tell you- Christy’s replacement Kristy was particularly freaked out. Sigh. Good times.

Anyhow, the point of this whole story- is that the first time I brought my wife, then girlfriend, over to the pad, we opened the door to discover Dempsey dead. How he died, I’m not sure. I can tell you that, in the more advanced stages of my professional career as an arts professional I’ve spent a lot of time and money trying to kill mice and rats and have never had one just drop dead as easily as Dempsey. Regardless- there he was- in the middle of the floor, clutching his tiny heart like Stuart Little doing an impression of Cal Seething- 062314- clintFred Sanford. And I handled it… perfectly- with utterly impeccable stoic manly man-ness. I was John Wayne. I was Gary Cooper. I was motherfucking Clint Eastwood in there- all “Looks like Dempsey didn’t feel so lucky. Punk” and I quickly and efficiently disposed of the carcass before my girlfriend even knew what was happening like an astronaut cowboy in shining armor.

So- great. Fine. No problem- why am I bothering to tell you this story? Because everything I just said above is a complete lie. When I saw Dempsey I freaked the fuck out- less Dirty Harry, more I Love Lucy. I screamed, I hyperventilated, I think I actually said “let’s just leave and come back later”- even though Sean was out of town for a week. I guess I was hoping that the Dead Mouse Fairy would be stopping by to pick up the Cal Seething- 062314- lucycorpse and leave us a shiny new quarter in its place. It was my girlfriend who efficiently settled me down, disposed of the corpse and, for some utterly baffling reason that I’m still totally grateful for, actually married me later. I mean, like a couple of years later- not later that day- that would have been disrespectful to Dempsey.

And why am I telling you this? Well, like I said when I started- I don’t deal well with death. And the proof of that? It just took me over 1400 words to tell you a story I could have put into 140 characters (“Pet mouse died. I freaked out. Girlfriend tossed corpse #notclinteastwood #gotsomesplainintodo #dempseyrip”) and why did it take me so long? Well, OK, sure, it takes me 1400 words to order a burger at In & Out (“Could I get that Animal Style- that’s the one with the onions? Right, the grilled onions? Which doesn’t really make any sense when you think about it- I mean- are there really animals out there that are grilling onions? Except for humans of course, I mean, sure humans are a kind of animal and, yeah, sure we grill onions- but if I ordered my burger ‘human style’ you would think I was some sort of cannibalistic serial killer and Cal Seething- 062314- inandout.you’d call the BAU and they would have to fly out in their G6 and search through Bartlett’s quotations for the perfect thoughtful quote for catching a cannibalistic serial killer, like maybe something from the Donner Party- which, by the way- can I just say- Worst. Party. Ever (except maybe the Republican Party). I mean, I don’t know the Donners- but if you’re gonna have a party, the least you can do is buy some fucking Chex mix or something to keep people from resorting to cannibalism- because, honestly, once you get that Chardonnay flowing- you don’t want a bunch of hangry guests on your hand trying to cook the first guest who passes out on the couch.) but, still, in this case, I was clearly procrastinating because, well, like I said, earlier, I don’t deal well with death.

Of course, the funny thing about death is that it doesn’t really care whether you deal well with it or not- it finds you anyhow. Ha! That is funny! Wait, no, no it’s not. Anyhow, last week, death snuck into the theatre without a ticket (or even the Stage Door code) and took away one of my staff. Someone that I really liked- perhaps even loved. Wow. You have no idea how long it took me to write that sentence. I went through a million different permutations: “someone I really cared for”, “someone I was quite fond of”, “someone, you know, super neat” – all terrible. Even when I finally did decide to include the “L” word, I did it hesitantly, with Cal Seething- 062314- dannyqualifiers, hedging my bets- the idiotic middle-school, Danny Zuko playing it cool in front of the other T-Birds instincts kicking in to protect me from mockery by assholes like…uhm…well…me. The woman who passed away, Bonita, had no such compunctions. She told me she loved me when we spoke on the phone during her illness,when I told her not to worry about her job- just to focus on getting well. And she told me she loved me during her long recovery from surgery when I assured her she could come back whenever she felt ready. And then she told me in person during her brief return to wellness and to work, before she got sick again. Love for her wasn’t a currency to be invested prudently for minimum risk and maximum reward, it was a gift she couldn’t wait to share with the world- a shiny red bicycle she could ride through the neighborhood beaming with joy. It was a gift she couldn’t help sharing, even when she didn’t say the words. She shared it with her smile, the attention she paid, the way she remembered names, the little corners of shared interest she found with co-workers. As the emails poured in responding to the announcement of her passing, each person brought up something new that they shared with her- classic movies, Miami Vice, fashion, the Snoopy dance- the stupid little stuff that makes life worth living, the silly string that ties a community together, the little gifts she shared with all of us every day.

At her funeral, we could see the extent of her impact in the number of people that came to honor her from all areas of her life. Much like weddings, whenever I go to a funeral, I’m always struck by just how little I know about the person who is the focus of the event. At weddings, it makes me a little sad- like here I thought I had some special bond with a particular person, and it turns out I’m just one more well wisher waiting in line for a cursory hug.  At funerals, though, it’s reassuring to see how many people show up- like, it’s great to see just how well loved the person was. Which, I suppose, is exactly the same way I should feel during weddings, but, you know, happiness has a way of making people douchey whereas with grief comes largesse. This is why every person should have the opportunity to attend their own funeral, like Deb did, just so they can see how well liked they are.
Also, every person should have the opportunity to sing lead on a verse of “Sugar High” with a kick ass 90’s band on the roof of the record store where they work, like Gina,

every person should have a drum set at work which they play angrily while they blast “If You Want Blood” to blow off steam when a big evil corporation tries to take over their family business, like Joe,
and EVERY DAY SHOULD BE REX MANNING DAY.
(Seriously, YouTube- I don’t care if video did kill the radio star- I still love you.)

It was a Jehovah’s Witness funeral, BTW- the first one I had attended. I was a little embarrassed when I realized that the event was BYOB (Bring Your Own Bible)- but I was still able to follow along to pick up the major points they discussed:

  1. The world as we know it is an imperfect and wicked place.
  2. The good news is that when we die, we simply go to sleep until we are resurrected by Jehovah into a perfect world.
  3. The bad news is that when exiting the Kingdom Hall parking lot, traffic is really bad, so we shouldn’t even TRY and turn left on Slauson.

Cause, you know- even though you’re probably gonna be resurrected and all- they’d just as soon you didn’t go to your long sleep WHILE PULLING OUT OF THE PARKING LOT. Also, and I’m not sure anyone’s thought of this- if you think traffic on Slauson is bad now- just imagine what it’s gonna be like AFTER the resurrection. Cause not only are there gonna be way more cars on the road, but dead people are like the worst drivers ever. I mean, not to be prejudiced, but, come on- you know that you do not want be on the 405 in rush hour behind some dead guy in a Prius. Seriously, dude, when you see that “my other car turned left on Slauson” bumper sticker on the back of the car- you might as well call into work right then- cause you know when they say “the late”, they’re gonna be referring to you.

And, of course, Death never shows up alone. No siree Bob. He always has his bratty little sister, Regret trailing along. Because, while Death stands silent and aloof all decked out in black listening to Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me on his Discman (Death is oldCal Seething- 062314- cindy skool), Regret is trailing behind him in pigtails and a party dress and she’s just saying the darnedest things. Things like “Golly, Eric. If you liked her so much- why didn’t you try harder to find out what was goin’ on with her after she went out of work that last time?” and “Boy- I bet you feel prettttty dumb for saying ‘I’ve gotta call Bonita this week’ while she was out and then not doin’ it. Huh? Dontcha?” and “Gosh, I bet she would have really loved if you would have gone to visit her and brought her a great big bunch of flowers. Butcha didn’t! You’re in big trouble, mister!” And that all brings me back to me first point- which is- that I deal really badly with death. I sort of ignore it for as long as I can until it’s right in my face and then fold like a $3 umbrella in a light drizzle. So- I guess my procrastination was foolish form of optimism- like if I acted as though there was plenty of time, there would magically be all the time in the world. It was dumb. Fortunately, Bonita was smarter than I was. The last time I saw her, I was at the theatre on a Sunday for some annoying reason that I totally don’t remember (I’m just assuming it was annoying.) She was at Stage Door and I was lurching through the building, trying to get out of there and bellowing random instructions at her from around the corner. Well, she wasn’t having any of that. She stopped me in my tracks, called me over, and we talked for a while about this and that- nothing of any major importance. Just catching up. She hugged me and told me she loved me and I said I loved her too, smiled, and walked away. So while that doesn’t shut Regret up completely- it helps to remember.

So yeah, Death- fuck that guy. Hate him. I’d say he’s not welcome in my theatre any more, but, sadly, it’s not up to me. He shows up when he wants to show up and takes who he wants to take and whether it’s a free range little white mouse or a big hearted woman that everybody loved- there’s not a damned thing we can do about it. Huh. Wow. What a terrible ending for a post. OK- let’s try something else.

So- yeah, Death- fuck that guy. Hate him. Takes everyone. But then there are weddings, new babies, conversations in the hallway, birthday cake in the break room, arguments over Fargo, March Madness pools, World Cup games in the lobby, gossipy phone calls, accidental Reply Alls, giggling fits during meetings, new interns, impossible projects, lunchtime therapy sessions, inside jokes, and the million forgotten moments that add up to a life surrounded by people- and Death doesn’t get to take those. Those we can keep- at least til Death takes us. So live your life, share your love, keep in touch with your friends, send Regret to her room. Oh, and be careful pulling out onto Slauson. There’s a lot of traffic out there.