Well, the Worry-Free Weekend™ began with my server going down and intermittent, if any, service. But, being that it’s the Worry-Free Weekend™ I’m not worried. I am going to continue to enjoy my Worry-Free Weekend™ even if it kills me.
This weekend is going to be blog-free, news-free, and worry-free. In fact, let’s start a meme. Worry-free weekend.
I now officially declare the start of Worry-Free Weekend?
So kick back, crack open a good book, make yourself your cocktail of choice and chill the hell out.
Sorry for the minimal amount of blogging of late, but I have been touring the blogoshpere lately and, to be honest, am quite exhausted. Not to mention disappointed, angry, frustrated and sad.
Both sides on any issue howling at the moon. Straying from civil discourse. Baiting each other, ad hominem attacks. Man, what the fuck is going on?
One would think that blogdom would be a place to actually discuss issues instead of flaming them. A place to take people on the merits of their opinion and not slander them on the basis of their ideologies.
For crying out loud people, not everyone is the same. Not every one who believes certain things on the right or the left believes in everything the right or left believes in. Why must everyone be lumped in one pile simply because they hold an opinion different than someone else’s?
Cant we fucking agree to fucking disagree fucking agreeably?
Sorry for yesterday’s lack of posting. I had a little problem over at the homestead that needed my immediate attention.
When I arrived home from work on Tuesday I find Babalu soaking wet in his crate (he is still crate training). I figured he had gone for a dip in his water bowl again. I take him out, towel dry him and see that his bowl is still full of water but the crate liner has about 1/4″ of standing water. What the… The floor area around the crate is also soaking wet. Ohoh. So, I, being that I am in the construction industry, immediately know its a roof leak. It’s directly above Babalu’s crate. The plaster is flaking off the ceiling and it’s still dripping.
To make a long and pain in the ass story short, I had to get up in the attic, crawl on trusses all the way from one end of the house where the access is and search for the leak. Nada. I couldnt find it. So, yesterday was a day of leak detection, ceiling removal, debris cleaning, etc…
I finally found the leak, but I couldnt get it fixed in time. It is now at the top of this weekend’s Honey-do list. Damn. There goes my Saturday.
If you’re a muslim father and your daughter has become a little too westernized what do you do? You hack your daughter to death of course. That’s a no-brainer.
I haven’t mentioned that the Florida Marlins clinched the wild card spot and are in the playoffs because I dont want to jinx them, so I won’t.
A very good friend of mine called me the other day, his voice on the phone not his usual joyous tone. He sounded terrible, stuffed up, and spoke slowly and deliberately, taking deep breaths almost before every other word. I knew immediately why he sounded the way he did.
“How’s your dad, dude?” I was almost afraid to hear his response.
“Val,” his voice trailed off and I knew he was composing himself to continue.
His dad had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer a few months ago. No cure, no chance for any medical breakthough to keep his old man with him just a little longer. I thought it was the call I’d been dreading, the call to tell me his dad had passed.
“Dude,” he tells me. “It’s not good…Complications.” He goes on to tell me about a procedure they’d done on his dad and how while during the surgery they had uncovered yet another byproduct of the disease. One which, no matter what, was not only unstoppable but further exacerbated his condition.
“Doctor says a week. Maybe two, tops.”
My heart lumped in my throat. I wished, at that very moment, I hadnt answered the phone. I wished I were someone else or so far away that no one could ever reach me. I fought the tears back and begged my mind and heart for words, but none came.
“Dude. I am so sorry man. So sorry. I can’t even begin to find the words.” What do you say to someone in that situation? Nothing I could possibly say would help ease his pain. I could hear him fighting back the emotions over the phone.
“Dude,” I tell him, “if theres anything I can do, anything, just say…”
“I know Val,” he sighed. “There is actually something that, it’s gonna sound a little weird but…”
“Dude, whatever you need from me man. Whatever.”
“Well,” he took a deep breath, “Like I said, it’s gonna sound a little weird but, I.. I just don’t think I can do it. I mean, I know what I want to say but I’m not good with words and… I know this will sound fucking strange but, can you help me write his obituary?”
I didn’t know what to say again.
“If it’s too much to ask,” he was almost apologetic. “Don’t worry about it, man. I can have …”
“No no, man. It isnt too much to ask. I just don’t know if something I can write will do justice to you father man. You know? I mean, it’s your old man, dude. I can help you write it but I don’t think I can possibly say about him what needs to be said.”
“I really would never put this burden on you Val, but I just…” He trailed off again. I knew he was crying. “I just can’t do it Val. I can’t.”
“Dude, no problem, man. I’ll help you write as much as you want. But you will need to tell me what you want to say. I know your dad is an awesome dad but…you need to write it and I will help you put it into words befitting him.”
“I have started to write some stuff,” he said. “I’ll finish adding everything and I’ll email it to you..”
“Ok. When I get the email and have read it I’ll call you.”
I recieved the email this morning, read it, cried, picked up the phone and almost called my buddy to tell him that I couldn’t do it. In my mind I was thinking I would tell him that it was perfect. That it said what needed to be said.
But it didn’t. I know his dad. I know the kind of man he is. I know the kind of friend my buddy has been and, I know what he wanted to say about his dad.
So I helped him write his dad’s obituary, and it’s the hardest thing to write I have ever written.
I grew up watching baseball because it was my grandfather’s game. He loved it, knew every subtle nuance about it. When I was a just a little recently arrived Cubanito, my grandfather started taking me to the Orioles spring training games. Needless to say I was hooked. There is nothing like being at a ballpark to watch your favorite team play. The anticipation, the gammut emotions. Even hot dogs and soda’s seem to taste better at a ballpark
My parents however, were never very much into keeping up with sports. That is, until the ’97 Marlins won the World Series. They’ve been die-hard fans ever since that wonderful miraculous season. Saturday, my youngest niece had a couple of extra tickets to the game and took them. It was the Mets-Marlins game and my parents first time ever in a stadium. Imagine that, both of them in their 70’s and never having been to a big league game.
Even though the Mets went on to win, the parents had a great time. I think it was a beautiful gesture on my nieces part and I think, no, I know, my grandfather was watching that game, with his daughter in the stands with her husband of 50 years, and his great-granddaughter there next to them. How happy that must have made my grandfather. And I can imagine my mom sitting there at the park, with the glorious beauty of the basbeball field there in front of her, remembering her father and his undying love for the game. And I am sure they were all rooting for what would have been, if Abuelo were still with us, his team.