Irony?

She Didn't Need A Bodyguard...

Whitney Houston (who died in a bathtub in the Beverly Hilton Hotel) needed a lifeguard.

Suck it, Costner.  If only the pop diva had hired The Lifeguard, she'd be alive today.

(The Lifeguard could also explain the real reason she had a gravy boat with her.)

Bollocks!

The Lifeguard Needed Help With Something

While watching prime time television last night, The Lifeguard saw a PSA that discussed the importance of self-examination to check for lumps in the testicles. Indeed, testicular cancer can be a killer, if not caught early. At the very least, it can lead to becoming a one-balled freak. At the very best, it can be cured (and one can win the Tour de France...seven times).

So, this morning, The Lifeguard started the initial examination, which took only about an hour. Then, he started on the second testicle when this young woman stopped by the house, looking for directions. Fortunately, she had a hard hat, and was appropriately attired to assist with The Lifeguard's examination (although the gloves were a bit rough).

All kidding aside, The Lifeguard recommends that everyone participate in an effort to eradicate the scourge of testicular cancer.

Check yourself regularly--or get some help from a friend.

And, if you have any questions, don't call The Lifeguard.

Business or Pleasure?

Pleasure!

The Lifeguard took a ride, to Ogunquit, Maine, to enjoy a tanning opportunity in the waning days of this New England summer.

The sun was bright, the air temperature was close to 80 degrees, and the beach was crowded. The Lifeguard did a brief talent-check, and found things to be seriously lacking.

Three observations from the Lifeguard's beach towel.

First, if you are over the age of sixteen, you probably should not wear a bikini (unless you make a living by appearing on the pages of Vogue (or Playboy)). The Lifeguard noted exactly one (that's right, one) woman who had the figure to pull off her bathing suit choice. Wait, bad choice of words. One woman who could actually wear the bikini without looking like a tramp (or a fucking retard).

Now, face it, bikinis are nice; but, The Lifeguard prefers one-piece bathing suits. (Are you paying attention, ladies?) Not only are they sexy, they leave something to the imagination. (And, The Lifeguard has one hell of an imagination.)

Second, men (with the possible exception of Michael Phelps at the Olympics) should never wear a Speedo. Ever. Especially if you are fat, forty, and French-Canadian.

Finally, tattoos on fifty-something women look...um...horrible. Remember that, ladies. That tramp stamp that looks good at twenty will look like a UPC symbol when you are fifty. Especially if you are a sun-worshiper, and your skin has taken on the colour (and texture) of fine Corinthian leather.

All right, ladies and gentlemen, The Lifeguard is going sailing.

Peace!

Agreed!

"I LOVE HUMANITY, BUT I HATE PEOPLE."
American poet, Edna St. Vincent Millay, had it right. There is a lot to love about the human race; but, the people? Oy vey! Indeed, The Lifeguard used to say, about the practice of law, "It'd be a great profession if it weren't for the clients."

The Lifeguard, after celebrating an entire weekend of being thankful for various crap, wanted to remind the reader of one of the many things for which The Lifeguard is not thankful.

Like Real Housewives of Atlanta. I mean, I don't have a problem with housewives, or Atlanta. But, these broads get nothing but my undying scorn...and ridicule. I first discovered this train wreck while scanning the channels for some good re-runs of Hogan's Heroes or The A-Team. Instead, I had to watch this abortion (which will not be funded under the obamination that is Obamacare). I never knew that there was a single show that could sour me on an entire sex...or, at least a group of that sex. Thank Christ that there are other, less ugly, examples of womanhood.

Really, all that needs to be said on the subject is, "Ne Ne."

Come to think of it, The Lifeguard is saddened by the fact that he missed Edna St. Vincent Millay by so many years. She sounds like The Lifeguard's kind of woman.

The Lifeguard Runs, Too!

These Women Weren't In My Road Race...
The Lifeguard, wanting to get back into top physical condition for the summer drinking season, planned on entering a 5K that was a fundraiser for a local charity. (Donate here, if you wish.) I talked about it for weeks, until finally Number Two asked, "Dad, when are you going to start training for the race?"

The Lifeguard's snarky (and, totally honest) answer: "When does the race start?"

So, on May 9th, The Lifeguard showed up at 1045 HRS (for an 1100 HRS gun). Stretching for two minutes or so, then pinning on my number, I started stalking the competition. Preferring to trash talk men and women pushing baby joggers, the seemingly mentally deficient, and the physically infirm, The Lifeguard took his place in the herd.

Hell, I knew that the crowd would sort itself out--the racers breaking from the pack, leaving the runners behind. And, the course was suited for that--one lap around the track, then out onto the local roads.

The Lifeguard started in the middle of the pack, getting out of starting area in 1:49 for the first quarter-mile. (A pace that still would not have put The Lifeguard in the money.) The first hill was nearly my Waterloo--I have never done well on downhills--when I started feeling a little knee pain. (The Lifeguard is thinking that it would be really embarrassing to drop out at the 1 mile mark, especially since there is no nearby bar; and, no way to pull a Rosie Ruiz.)

I started thinking, at the 1.5 mile mark about Richard Pryor (who talked about getting a cramp while running).

"Hello, I'll be fucking with you for the next hour or so. I'll be moving from side to side, down your groin, and up your ass. When you drop dead, I will stop."

At the 2 mile mark, the men and women pushing baby joggers were passing me (including one woman whose child was wearing a hockey helmet). Now, don't get me wrong, I get the whole safety thing; but, making your child look like a tool when you are wearing running shorts and a pink LIVESTRONG singlet is so wrong. Kicking my ass while you're doing it? Even more wrong, even more emasculating.

On the uphill to the finish, The Lifeguard was managing to stay focused, in spite of the tremendous buildup of lactic acid (and thoughts of having erred by not training for this race). I managed to pass a few people, too. (Of course, those people were receiving medical attention; but still....)

Then, the finish. Fighting off the pregnant woman (who later delivered her triplets on the infield), I managed to get through the gate in 33:45 (my best 5K time since my last 5K, in 1989). And, while I wasn't first, I sure as Hell wasn't last...so that is something.

And, the day after, The Lifeguard's quads are still screaming; but, I finished.

Next up, The Boston Marathon...

I Have A Dream...

The Snow Is Mostly Gone From The Courts...
and I have been thinking about getting out the racquet and getting ready for the summer. Maybe calling up King and playing a couple of sets. Or, dragging my kids out for an afternoon of smacking the fuzzy (optic) yellow ball around.

But, what I would really like to do is go to Dubai, and play on the court pictured above. Now, that would be the balls.

Happy Father's Day

I Miss You, Dad...

My dad passed away in the latter part of March, 2002. So long ago, it seems, that I often forget that it was not really that far removed from the present. A mere six years--one seventh of my time here on Earth--that he went quietly into that good night.

I remember, fondly, the days of my youth. Days spent riding in his Triumph Spitfire Mk IV. Going to work with my dad, and watching the F-105s, spitting fire, as they roared down the runway at Hill AFB. Playing catch. Getting up at 5:00am to go to help him shovel snow off of the tennis court at the club so that we could play a couple of sets. Driving across this great land, as we took our summer vacations.

Then, as a teenager. The time he flew back to Utah so that he could teach me algebra. The days (and nights) he spent camping with me (and the Boy Scouts). How he encouraged me to earn my Eagle Scout badge. How he helped me prepare for high school debate tournaments. And, how he supported me when I dropped out of high school, hell bent on going to college rather than change schools in my senior year.

When I went away to Wake Forest, he was proud. He called or wrote me a letter nearly every day; and, he supported me, even when no one else seemed to think I would make it. He helped me get my act together, to get off of academic probation, and to graduate with a reasonably fair Grade Point Average. Indeed, when I graduated, I handed him a cigar, a glass (actually, a bottle) of champagne, and my diploma, and said, "Thanks, dad. You earned this as much as I did." I realised that he had gotten smarter with every passing day.

Law school was our next challenge; and, he was my conscience and my guide. He gave me encouragement (again), and helped me to survive the rough patches. He introduced me to the joys of coaching a Little League team (that finished second in the City of Coral Gables), and to umpiring. Some of my happiest moments were those times spent working games together, at FIU, the University of Miami, and at Barry University.

As a grown-up, he was always there for me. With advice, with a little extra money, and with a hug when I got off of the plane in Florida. We played golf, smoked cigars, and drank whisky. We solved the problems of the world every single day that we were together (or, even apart).

And, when he was dying, he told me stories of his youth. Of losing his brother, Sam, when he was run over by a car. The fear that he felt when he woke one morning, paralysed by polio. The sadness in his heart when his dad passed away.

The beauty of his death, surrounded by friends and family. The way he closed his eyes, called out, "Sam", and said, "I love you" to those of us who were by his side. Then, he was gone.

And, part of me was gone, too.

I lost my father and my best friend, all at once.

Not a day goes by when I don't think about him; and, not a day goes by that I do not wish for one more day. One more hour. One more minute with him in my life.

He loved his children and grandchildren. He loved his wife, my mother. He loved life.

So, today, Father's Day, I will think of him as I play with my kids; and, as I umpire a Cranberry League double-header.

And, as I call the game, I know that he will be with me, helping me.

Thanks, dad.