Permanent Solution to a Temporary Problem

I'm never, ever going to get suicide.

It's so selfish, so hurtful, so cowardly.

So it's been a pretty hard last 72 hours as I've tried to understand how one of the most laid back, giving, strong, fearless men I have ever known decided to take a seat in a running car and gas himself to death.

Look at this goof. Look at the grin. Look at the purple shirt. Are we done?

Let me introduce you to Mike Whitmarsh.

He was, in a word, a god on the beach. He could roof a ball like nobody's business and he was an absolute laugh riot. I've known him off and on for more than 20 years. I met him in the mid-80s and adored him. We lost touch and remet in the early 90s when his redonkulous ass was playing King of the Beach around the country. We drank, smoked the occasional cigar, made fun of each other and the rest of the world when he wasn't too busy talking to woman far more attractive than I.

And that's thing. He was perfectly happy to spend time with a 225-lbs whale as he was talking to a size zero hottie. He had time for every kid with a pen, every fan with a program, every babe in a bikini. He married a beautiful and talented woman. He had two darling daughters. He'd won a Silver Medal in beach volleyball. He'd been a pro basketball player who once guarded Magic Johnson. He'd battled the loss of his first dream - basketball - and battled the loss of his body when a constant dehydration problem almost ended his career. He'd made and lost lots of money. And shit just rolled off his back. Watching him play nearly 50 pro volleyball matchs, I saw him get pissed, really pissed just once. And as suddenly as it started, the anger evaporated and he was Whitty again.

I don't know what lead him to this. I haven't a clue and I pass no judgment. It's been awhile since the last time I talked to him. But if I could go back in time and get to him one minute before he crawled into that car I would have reminded him of what he once told me when I was in a world of hurt: "The sun and sand will always be there. You can usally find a ball and game, but there's always the sand and the sun. What more do you really need?"

So what more did you need, love? What made you rush the dirt nap? Why couldn't you hang on for one more day to see the sun, the sand and maybe a game? What broke your heart and your spirit?


I'll miss you, my friend. I'll miss having you in my world. The sun and the sand just ain't the same without you beating a ball against a net somewhere - even if I'm not there to see it.

Bitch, please...

I would very much like to salute Andrew Card, former chief of fuckery for The Fruitbat, for being the biggest douchenozzle of all time.

Card, who was an active player in several of the more deplorable decisions of the Bush administration, decided he needed to opine on the perceived fashion faux pas of the Obama administration.

Really?

Cuz you got absolutely nothing better to do? No one is paying you $1 million for your memoirs? You cannot find some Republican groupie to give you a hand job? You're so bored you've become the political version of Mr. Blackwell?

I don't care of Obama and his staff are wearing leis and dancing the hula as long as they are moving forward to resolve the problems of this country. I never cared that The Fruitbat wore his jogging suit in public nor did I care that Ronald Reagan thought Jelly Bellies were good idea. Obama and the gang are doing hard work and when men (and woman who like long sleeves) are doing hard work, the sleeves get rolled up.

So, Mr. Card, please feel free to zip your lip or, even better, bounce on out of the spotlight and join the rest of your ilk hunkered down in dark places to avoid service from the Court of Public Opinion suing you for multiple counts of douchenozzelry.