Turdburgers

Chilly 60 today. Considered a jacket, but in honor of the last weeks of summer I had to say no. Jacketless, I write you now.

Got a call from my old copy chief at Ogilvy yesterday. Seems he’s in a state of distress. “Do you have some time to help me with a heinous IBM project?”

I’ve always admired the way Andy tells it the way he sees it. All real. No crap. If he says it’s heinous, there’s no reason for me to think otherwise. He didn’t try to dress it up, or enroll me, or set me up for disappointment. He served up the disappointment straight out. Now I have zero expectations for the assignment, which is far better than having great expectations that will never be fulfilled.

Good on ya, Andy. Much appreciated.

I’m sure you’ve expeirienced the sales pitch before. And you probably fell for one of two of em. Matter of fact I’ve met salespeople so good at selling a lie, that they actually believe their own ball of crap. They actually share in the disappointment when reality walks in the room. Them's special folks, indeed.

Salesmanship is powerful tool, friends.

I mean, the entire country has been eating turdburgers sold to us by the powers that be. And those powers have been gobbling those burgers right with us. The scary thing is, those powers like the taste.

Most of us think the burgers taste, well, crappy. But they keep sellin and gobblin, enjoying the taste of their own poo.


G

Twitches n Glitches

Up early on yet another rainy morning. For the love of God, if the sun is still up there, please write me a note and remind me what she looks like. I’ll bet she’s purty.

Did a little Yoga to try and relieve the aches in my back a bit. I chose the ab workout on the DVD for no particular reason, but it appears I made the right choice. The poses were easiier than the upper body and lower body ones, which can only be performed by circus freaks.

This back is effin’ dibilitating I tell ya. I can’t do the simple things like putting on my socks without pain shooting every which way. I just want it to go away. No Advil (waste of money). No doctor visits. No needles. No voodoo. I just want the hurt to exit my body. Quietly.

I’m also draggin the arse a little today due to caffiene deprivation. I’m cutting out the coffee due to an eye twitch I recently developed. It’s a reoccurring theme; when I pump my body full of that stuff, it has lasting effects on me. When I cut it out, the twitch subsides. Today, it’s almost completely gone.

So the body is in a shambles, but the mind? Sharper than ever, folks.

Cam’s back in daycare now, and that’s a little sad, though she’s adjusted seamlessly. K is ramping up her dual career (part soccer coach, part personal trainer). I’m busier with work, so I’m in NYC more. So the house is in more transition, and the balance is off.

I think we’re enjoying it, but there’s so much activity, so much scheduling that we don’t have time to smell the roses if ya know what I mean. Not a moment’s peace.

I’d like to put the brakes on, kill the obligations, disconnect the phone, unplug the TV, and just be.

GM

200mg of Placebo

Advil doesn't work folks. It's a sham, a ploy I tell ya. You've been bamboozled. I helped my good friend Ben move on Saturday and played two games of soccer and my back hasn't been the same since.

After much moaning and complaining, Tessa was kind enough to offer her last two Advil gelcaps complete with 200 milligrams of ibuprofen. 200 milligrams doesn't sound like much. I mean, I'm sure if you look at a milligram you probably can't see it. So 200 of those can't be significant.

I found this list of references to give us a better understanding of 200 milligrams:

• An average sneeze expells 200 milligrams of snot.

• The average amount of gum trapped in your shoe treads is approx 200 milligrams.

• A spider web weighs approximately 200 milligrams.

• There is approx 200 milligrams of frosting dusted on each mini wheat.

So that must mean ibuprofen is some powerful stuff. I imagine a teaspoon of that junk will bore a hole straight through you.

Or it will won't do a thing.

It's the latter. It's a marketing trick, friends. Don't let the smilers in the $1 million TV campaign fool ya. I could've downed the whole bottle and it would still feel like a 5 alarm fire crawling up my spine.

My grandparents would always say "At least you have your health." It was one of those reflex phrases with them. It meant absolutely nothing.

Now that my poor back feels like it's about to snap, I'm kinda gettin what they meant all those years. Wise folks indeed. When you're healthy, you don't know it. When you're not, you always know it. Apprecaite those times that you don't have an ache or a pain or even a sniffle.

Take it light. Keep yerself tuned up and you'll get plenty o mileage. Or you can move furniture all day then run around like an idiot for 180 minutes like me.

GM

What's Sump?

And the rains came. And haven't stopped since Friday evening. We have a sump pump in our basement that pumps water out before it leaks in (not sure how it works, really). Well, the thing is going friggin haywire. It's coming on every 3 seconds. I have two 5 gallon buckets down there ready for bail duty, and the plumber on speed dial. Our $10k basement renovation is in the hands of a piece of equipment the size of a saucepan.

Needless to say, I'm not confident in it.

As I write this, I'm imagining water silently creeping up and out of the well, infiltrating and spreading across the basement floor. Creeping into every corner and crevice. My baseboards drinking it up and expanding and warping, pulling nails from the framwork. Drywall no longer dry as the moisture bleeds up the walls.

My basement renovation has become an expensive petri dish for mold spores.

OK. Just writing about that scenario made me take action. I just called a plumber.

I'll write later to tell you about Mr. Plumberman's verdict on the situation, how much he cost me, and, of course, his ass crack.

Stay tuned.

Update 9:32 am: Never saw $500 go so fast. The sump pump was working great when the plumber came. He spent a total of 6 minutes looking at it. He told me a new pump would be $500 including installation. I said "no thanks." The old pump (which looked like it was from the 1930's) seemed to be working fine. I'd just keep my eye on it to see if there were any problems. Then he said, it'll be $105 for the visit. Oh, fuckin' great. $105 for 6 minutes of work? Put the damn pump in an earn your money pipe monkey.

Update 10:10 am: Awww. He ain't so bad. Gave me a price break on it, came to $370-sumthin. The $105 was applied to the install. So all I had to pay for was parts. Now I don't have to worry about my basement flooding. Yay! And no plumber crack, the guy had his shirt tucked in.

Update 1:09 pm: Just found out my next door neighbor had 18" of standing water in his basement. I suppose I got off light.

G

Questionnaire

Ah yea, another day with too little ticks on the clock. Good Lord I'm in the weeds. And what do I do? I join another soccer team, of course. I'm up to three teams now. What the crap is my problem?

I keep on obligatin' myself to more and more and more. Why do I do that? It's crippling, I tell ya. My mind can't find a moment's peace.

Yet I keep diggin deeper and deeper. Will I ever climb out?

I have so many interests. So many things I want to join. So many ideas. I'm addicted to action. My mind is always churning, craving something new. It's like I'm a meth addict upstairs. I'm doing everything I can, but can't get enough.

Am I looking for something? Or escaping something?

Enough freakin questions.

I gotta go.

G

The Cycle of Life

The day after I gained a beautiful nephew, I lost a friend. I’d like to dedicate this blog to Mach Arom, who died suddenly yesterday.

I was honored to be part of Mach’s Team at Ogilvy. I see members of Mach’s Team scattered about here and there doing different things. When we run into one another, it’s always “How’s Mach?” “Seen Mach?” “What’s Mach up to?” You are our kindred spirit.

Yes, you strung us together, but you did so much more. Mach’s Team calls me when they need help. Mach’s Team is there when I need them. Mach’s Team invited my family to Kansas for a wedding. Mach’s Team recently opened a business with me. Mach’s Team will always be with me, and so will you.

You simply brought people together. And that’s why you will be so sorely missed.

Love,

G

Quick Word

Sorry for the short one today, friends. I have tons of catching up to do at work. But I’ll give ya a quick rundown of the events that have transpired over the past few.

Block Island, Rhode Island
Stunning place. Just got back from 4 days there, sans Cammy. Tough on us to separate ourselves from Cam, but a much needed break. BI is simply amazing. 360 degrees of beaches. Rocky ones, sandy ones, wavey ones, placid ones. No car needed, just bike where you wanna go.

Uncle Greg
Welcome Carter Philip Monaco. A little scat cat from the Colorado Monacos. Congrats to Perry. Some scary moments for him because the delivery didn’t go as expected, but all is well, Polly and Carter are healthy.

Under 100
My father broke 100 on the golf course. Only two him two years of relentless work, but he is officially better than 90% of the hacks you’ll see on the average course. Well done, Philip.

Tick Tick
Cammy had a tick on her yesterday. A little guy latched on right behind her ear. Thought it was a freckle. But it looked too sinister to be a freckle. My neighbor suggested I use diswashing soap on a q-tip. Only made the little guy dig in more. Finally got him out with gentle coaxing from a tweezer. We'll watch to make sure no infections or rashes transpire.

It for now. More catching up to do.

GM

Keep Yer Dern Promises to Yerself

Nice day. Sunny. Warm. Yawn.

I’m in one of the backward seats on my train commute today. Some seats face the future, others face the past. “I don’t know where I’m goin, but I sure know where…” whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold it right there, G. Quoting Whitesnake songs is a mammoth no no on this blog. We don’t want to encourage those morons.

I know Bobby Plant, Mr. Coverdale, and you sir are no Bobby Plant.

Rough moment yesterday, neighbors. I had to tell a client that I couldn’t deliver what I promised. That never happens. Never. Never!

In a moment of insecurity, at a time where I was a little too eager to please, I made a promise that was impossible to keep. It backfired. Completely counter to my relentless work ethic. The notion is like sandpaper to the soul.

Then, later that evening, I get an email from one of my other clients. She was introducing us to a colleague of hers.

“These guys are creative, hardworking, fun and I am lucky to call them friends. I can’t recommend them enough.”

Just when I was set to curl up in a corner somewhere and cut myself off, she has to go and write something like that. Ruined the entire moment.

I was counting the pills. Drafting a will. Dividing my CDs.

But life rocks. And then it rolls.

Pulled from the quicksand of self pity, I am reborn. You may applaud.

On vacation tomorrow, friends, through the weekend. You won’t be hearing from me until Monday. But I’ll try and write one last one tomorrow morning to hold ya over.

No promises, though.

GM

That Damn Morakis Kid

Low, dark blanket hanging overhead. Air’s hot, humid and heavy. Sky’s gonna explode any minute, you can just feel it. My front lawn could use a good soaking. Blades are curled up, brittle n brown—not that there’s anything wrong or unusual with that.

You see, that’s a perfectly normal state in the summertime. The grass goes dormant in the relentless sun only to spring back to life when the air cools and the water’s aplenty.

I know this because I am lawnman. The grandmaster of grass. The king of the blades. Yes. My thumb is a spring green and—given enough time and fertilizer—I can make any yard look like a putting green.

Not sure what brought this about in me, folks. Never thought of myself as, well, as my father. He was always quite meticulous about the landscaping. He’d grumble when the hoodies would use our slice of America as their thoroughfare.

“There’s that damn Morakis kid. Next time he steps foot on our lawn I’m gonna break his legs. Then he’d have to wheel himself down the sidewalk instead of trample on my grass.”

Something like that, my friends. See me pops always got the creative juices flowing when he got angry. Never heard I guy as quotable as my father in fits of anger. But we’re talking about grass here.

Know what? Screw it. Grass is boring. Let’s talk about my father’s quotes. That’s funny. Let's play a game. Match the situation with my father’s quote:

1. “Shit, piss and corruption!”
2. “I get as much respect as the man on the moon!”
3. “Once is an accident! Twice is stupidity and inconsideration!”
4. “Take your two f-ing dollars! You need it worse than we do!”
5. “There goes the whole goddamn season!”
6. “Take one more step, and I’ll f-ing deck you!”
7. “Get one of those things, and I’ll rip your ear off!”
8. “Financial f-ing ruin!”

a. Said to Greg after repeatedly knocking over Dad’s coral decoration.
b. Said to Greg after wrecking Dad’s Oldsmobile.
c. Said to family after hearing repeated smart-ass comments.
d. Said to some anonymous wanker at a soccer team fundraiser.
e. Said to Greg after asking if he can get an earring.
f. Said to a referee at an Under-14 soccer game.
g. Said to nobody in particular for nothing in particular.
h. Said to TV when any Tampa sports franchise loses their first game.

OK. OK. I know it may look as if my father is a tempermental freak with serious anger issues, which is exactly the case. But we all love him dearly and accept him and his testosterone-fueled rages.

Answers tomorrow.

GM

Randomized

Got me iPod randomizin right now. No clue what surprise is next. I have 7704 songs that the little robotic brain inside can choose from. Right now, John Hammond is singin’ the blues “Here come the big black Mariah” or something like that. I can’t really tell cause it sounds like he has a mouthful of cotton.

Oh, next up They Might Be Giants. It’s hard to write with those guys playin. So spazzy n quirky. Hang on a few…

Now it’s Miles Davis, that’s better. The words will flow more freely now.

I can only hope your weekend was half of mine. Pure perfection. Kicked the ball around yesterday. The world must be coming to an end, because my crappy soccer club actually won a game against an even crappier side from North Branford. 7-0.

Since Kris passed her personal training exam, I’ve become her test subject. She put me on a program Saturday. Custom designed it for me. She had me lungin, squattin, thrustin, pushin, pullin—and then we went to the gym. Ha ha. It's my blog. I can lay down a cheap joke for ya if I want.

Now Primus is on, talk about spazzy. They are like a cartoon. Impossible arrangements complemented by an impossible voice. I saw them live once and somebody kept throwing shoes up on stage. Not sure if he smuggled a bag of em in, or was stealing them from stage divers. The singer got tired of dodging the shoes and calmly walked up to the mike, ”I read somewhere that people who throw shoes are more inclined to have insignificant genitaila.”

Shoe problem solved.

Not to trivialize the nightmare in the Mideast, but I wonder if some of those problems couldn’t be solved with a witty line or two. A well-timed joke. Perhaps a thoughtful satire.

Blowing up children sure isn’t working. Let’s send over Brian Regan, or that fat guy from Last Comic Standing. I mean, c’mon. Isrealis and Hizbollahs are human beings. And aren’t all human beings equipped with some kind of sense of humor?

All we need to do is find what is universally funny. The kind of comedy that all nationalities and religions can appreciate, like:

• somebody walking through a spider web.
• an unzipped fly.
• a Benny Hill episode.
• white people dancing.
• my lactose-intolerant brother after drinking a glass of milk.
• nerds.
• my 22-month old daughter saying the word “delicious.”
• dog poo.

Let’s use Shakespeare’s formula, infuse a little comedy to defuse the tragedy. Worth a shot, eh?

Well, Devo just came on the iPod. I’ll leave you with one final thought: Whip it. Whip it good.

GM

Old Man Rock

Woke up to a real gamey cup o joe this am, folks. As it turns out, your humble scribe forgot to change the filter which was full of soggy, day-old grinds. Deee-licious. I suppose that's what I should expect after coming home from NYC at 2am.

Saw my favorite band, The Church, perform at The Irv last night. After 26 years, they're still bangin drums and shreddin geetars. Great show. Pulled some obscure stuff out of the archives for us. Stayed for 2 encores.

One thing I noticed was they looked, well, old. Earth's gravity is starting to pull these guys toward the soil. You can see it in their faces. Grey streaks through their thinning hair.

Come to think of it, everyone at the show looked old. The guy sitting next to me was sporting a dunlap. (A dunlap is when your belly dun-lap over your belt). And I'm no spring chicky with my silver sidewalls.

I should've anticipated the age issue when I bought tickets. Irving Plaza is a standing venue: A giant ballroom with a stage. But, for this particular show, they brought out the folding chairs for us. Our arthritic knees and brittle spines couldn't take a couple hours of standing.

Or maybe they decided on chairs because a post-concert bingo game might break out.

I also heard through the old vine that this was an acoustic show. They were putting down those loud electric guitars and sticking with the acoustic variety. Us geezers can't take too much noise and racket. Especially those of us with tinnitus. Thankfully, the volume knob hardly exceeded a 6.

A variety of Church t-shirts and cds littered the merch table. I imagine, soon, we'll see them hawking kits of old man rock essentials: Ear plugs, aspirin, and branded hankeys.

Rock on, you wrinkled old bastads!

GM

Uselessness

The weather outside is pleasant, sunny and surprisingly cool, but the weather inside is a little gloomy. I’ve been in a funk the past few days, which contributed to yesterday’s no post. I was too busy finding ways to deflect responsibilities to write to y'all.

I find, when the motivation isn’t there to produce, it’s very hard for me to not produce. It takes work for me to shirk work. Unproductivity is a tough business. I can’t just launch into it. I need a plan for my futility, a course of action.

When I worked at big, 11,000 employee multi-national, I had friends who would cut out in the middle of the day to catch a movie, take a 3 hour lunch, go shopping, or go home to take a nap. They wouldn’t think twice about it. An effortless transition to unproductivity. My heros. (Update: they all lost their jobs and have since moved on to other, I imagine less-productive, careers.)

Yesterday, in my attempt to be useless, I walked around the block a few times, diligently searching for nothing to do. I was on my way to nowhere in particular when a woman broke my very deliberate stride.

She was desperate for directions. Poor thing didn’t realize she was asking a guy with the navigational sense of an earthworm.

When people ask me directions, I freeze up like racoon in a flashlight. I usually have no clue where their desitnation is. But I really like helping people, so I stand there and look off into the distance purporting the illusion that I’m picking the best route.

Sometimes, I’ll point randomly and create faux landmarks, “you see that fruit stand,” or “there was a bank over there.” This buys me a little time while I try and draw a mental map, with crayons.

We were on Bowery and 1st and she needed to find Bowery and 2nd. Easy ‘nough, that would be one street north of where we were standing. OK. Now where’s north? I unconsciously look up. Not sure why, perhaps searching for the north star? I string together about 40 or 50 uhs and ums to buy more time.

This is when I thought of pointing out something behind her and running away when she turned. Luckily somebody else heard my Bevis and Butthead imitation and saved the day.

Her destination was exactly 60 steps from where we were standing.

Now I can go back to being useless.

GM

Rude Awakenings

Oh, how I loathe the rigidity of my train schedule. I can get up at 3am and still find a way to make myself late. It’s an inevitability, folks.

I send the entire house into a tizzy. I am the Tazmanian Devil. I am a freak tornado. I am Dagwood Bumstead kissing Blondie at full sprint out the door. If my mailman delivered at 7:16 am, he’d have envelopes gently cascading down on his unconscious, twitching body.

My morning crisis never sets the day right, my friends. The body isn’t ready for this kind of full on assult. My pulse rate is clocking in at “hummingbird.” An unspecified dose of adrenalyn just shot through my body causing my sweat glands to misfire—my shins are soaking, the rest of my body, bone dry. My bloodshot eyes are darting back and forth just like a meth junkie.

Is this healthy? Eyes aren’t meant to snap open. Bodies don’t just leap into action. Brains certainly don’t dive into problem solving.

Mornings should be a gentle introduction to the day. We need to work in a little time for aimless wandering, a yawn or two, and scratching areas that don’t necessarily itch.

Early birds do catch worms, but those are the drunk worms who passed out on the lawn the evening before.

Counting Carbos

An ambivalent sky today. No discernable clouds. No discernable sky either. Just a blanket of neutral gray. The temps have dropped dramatically over the past few days and gave us a sweet weekend.

We saw the Goo Goo Dolls and Counting Crows at Jones Beach Theater Friday night. Thank yous to Taso and Kimi for an unforgetable eve. Jones Beach Theater is arguably the coolest music venue on the planet. The stage literally sits on the water as you overlook the Atlantic. The setting just opens you right up to accept whatever's played at ya. There could've been a dixieland band with washboards n spoons up there and it wouldn't have mattered.

K and I were dubbing them "Counting Carbos," the singer and lead guitarist have serious obesity issues. And the signature crop of dreadlocks spilling from the top of the singer's head was fodder for a little mid-concert brainstorm. What does that ridiculous hair make him look like? Here's what K and I came up with:

1. A Court Jester
2. An Aloe Plant
3. A Big Muppet
4. The Fountain Head
5. A Fat Ass Pineapple
6. An A-hole with a Ridiculous Hair-Do

Today marks K's first day as a licensed personal trainer. Just left the house a few minutes ago to embark on her new career. She will spend the next few weeks shadowing the gym owner to learn ze ropes. If all goes to plan, she'll be abusing her own clients in no time.

Perhaps she should contact Counting Carbos?

G

Runner's Low

The Emerson Street marathon is happening as I write. Slick skinned runners with pained expressions are filing past my living room window. Faces drawn, mouths open, these folks are clearly pushing their body somewhere it doesn't want to go. Unfortunately for them, it doesn't get any better. They are heading toward a pretty steep hill. The thought makes me giggle a little.

Running is a perfectly awful sport. That may sound weird coming from a soccer player but I can't take it. The mind-numbing monotony, the relentless pounding, the aching knees, all the huffin n puffin adds up to nuffin for me.

Some people claim a runner's high. K says, "I get a lot of thinking done." I don't get it. The only thing I'm thinking of is cutting corners. Pulling that imaginary finish line closer and closer.

To all my Kenyan, marathon-running readers out there maybe you can explain this runner's high to me. I believe it's a temporary state of insanity due to O2 deprivation. But set me straight, if ya can.


GM

Monadamus

Apologies go round to my faithful readers around the globe. Work time conflicted with blog time yesterday. I promise to make it up to ya. I'll stuff yer stocking with some turkish delight. Maybe I'll write ya a poem, or take yer kids to a picture show. Until then, today's entry will have to do.

My prediction of a blackout was absolutely spot on. It frightens me when I see the future like this. The premonition came to me like a flash. I closed my eyes and saw darkness spill into nothing wrapped in black—I knew what was in store for NYC.

I was a medium for the divine, a messenger of time.

The day started out quite uneventfully. I enjoyed my extra dark coffee and bird seed n milk as I always do. Showered up, worked in little shaping gel for extra strong hold, and Tossed Cam around for a bit.

Then, my prediction came to light, or dark, or whatever. One entire city block in a remote area of Queens went dark. About 600 people lost power. Three shop owners, a few residents, and one deli counter lost power for a couple of hours. Battery sales at the Radio Shaq around the corner (they had power) skyrocketed. People agonized about their perishables for over an hour. The story made huge headlines in all the neighborhood newsletters.

Next time I talk of the future, I'm sure you'll be listenin.

Other big news yesterday: Kris is certifiable. She passed her exam and is officially sanctioned by the National Academy of Sports Medicine to personal train the living snot out of you. To twist and contort your body until you can't recognize your own limbs. To shred each and every muscle you didn't know you had.

She's declared a jihad on fat, and 200 insults will rain down on you if you fail to maximize your rpms on the treadmill.

Asses, prepare to be kicked.

GM

Blackouts Are In

Oh. My. Lord.

Serengetti heat. Hotter-than-spaghetti heat. The starchies are soaking through their blues and grays today, my friends. I feel all smug in my shorts and sandals. I’m playing their game, but by my own rules.

I’m awaiting the inevitable NYC blackout. If it’s gonna happen, it’s gonna happen in the next day or so.

The last blackout experience, actually, the only blackout experience I had was a few years back, when the entire Northeast grid went down. Everything north of Ohio and into Canada went down.

I was in the worst possible place: a subway car heading downtown—between stations. I was on my way to present some advertising ideas to American Express.

The Account Executive and I were on an express train that was moving along at a pretty good clip. Then it sputtered, the lights cut out, and the entire train came to an abrubt stop—as if someone pulled the emergency cord.

The emergency lighting popped on, which gave us enough light to see faces and shapes. We were sitting in a literal black hole. Any light soaked into the tunnel’s colorless walls.

It took no more than 6 seconds for New Yorkers to start cracking jokes. A big, sassy woman started shouting “Bin Loud-in’s comin’ and I got my water jug, my batteries and my butcher knife. I’m ready for his sandy ass.”

That earned applause.

An announcement came on about a “city-wide blackout” and we were going to evacuate the train. “Everyone move to the front car.” A line quickly formed.

Another voice from the shadows, “I’m a tourist, shouldn’t I go the front?”

“Not here, pal. Tourists go to the back.” A classic NYC line. More applause.

The MTA was surprisingly efficient. We stepped off the train and got to do something none of NYC’s 8 million residents get to do: Walk the tunnel.

More about that tomorrow. Until then, stay cool.

GM

One Less Fortunado

In the suffocating heat, among the swarming gnats, and on a field that was better fit for a tractor pull, we managed to defeat our opponents 5-3 in a turbulent co-ed soccer matchup.

I’m happy to say, that Monacos were responsible for four of our five goals last night. Kris notched the first one by launching a shot that popped just over the keeper’s reach. I scored two and assisted on one.

So our undefeated co-ed season is still going strong despite a category-four tantrum by the coach’s son, Fortunado Jr. He is one of the three Fortunados on our team and he not only managed to get himself kicked out of the game, but kicked out of the league.

Bravo, idiot.

Fortunado Jr. doesn’t look or act like a soccer player. He’s built like a bouncer: triple reinfoced muscle on top of cinder block. Riveted into his mountainous shoulders is a perfect bowling ball head: equally dumb, twice as hard, and quite shiny.

He’s the worst kind of player, injuring more players than completing passes. Reckless on and off the ball. A freakish temper. And a foul mouth. All of these traits came together last night in the perfect storm.

This is a co-ed league, so men and women play together. Nicely. For the most part, that’s how it goes down. The rules are basically the same except for one big change. No slide tackling.

A slide tackle is an aggressive defensive play where a defender slides on the ground feet-first to tackle the ball away—like a baseball player sliding into second base. This type of tackle is very effective, but also results in a lot of injuries from players taking knees and ankles with the ball. That’s why it’s banned in our friendly league.

Fortunado Jr. forgot the rule.

Some unfortunate guy stole the ball from him. He didn’t like that at all. And like a scud missle, he tracked his opponent down and layed down a viscious slide that left them both tangled on the ground. Their effort to untangle was just as viscous, elbows flying.

The referee was quick to show Fortunado the red card (ejection). It’s usually a yellow card (warning), but Fortunado Jr. has a repuation and he enjoyed a few extra elbow shots after the foul.

He went nuclear. He argued with the referee. Argued with his father. Argued with his Uncle. Argued with his sister. He threw three water bottles onto the field and a pair of soccer shoes. He told the referree he’d punch him in the face. Told his father to go f-himself. He asked to be kicked out of the league and quit the team in the same cuss-infused sentence.

Needless to say, Cameron learned a new word or three.

Good riddance.

GM