Warren Z and Me

 "I asked for tenderness and depth of feeling and you showed me that. Nothing more I need to see."

Scrooge said that to the Ghost of Christmas Future.

I would say the same thing to Warren Zevon if I could. I just listened to The Wind - his final album, which was released two weeks before he died in 2003. Two fucking weeks.

I'm flailing around right now (but that's nothing new) trying to find a sense of direction, something to believe in, something to hold on to. Something to fucking do with my life. A purpose, a happy ending. Denouement - I love to use that word.

I'm looking to feel something beyond dread. Warren Z just gave that to me.

He was diagnosed with inoperable lung cancer in the fall of 2002 and told he might live for three months. Instead he made it 10 months - which allowed him to see the birth of his twin grandchildren. And to release this album.

Recording it was tough - I read about it at the time, how tired he was, how he pushed himself to get it done - through pain and fear and fatigue. He had something to say.

I am trying to feel soft right now, to give and get love, to feel like a human being instead of the walking dead. How can I not feel good after listening to The Wind? Quintessential Zevon.

Sharp wit, rocking songs, quiet songs, funky songs, lyrics that skewer, lyrics of raw emotion.

Two songs that brought tears to my eyes.

Keep Me In Your Heart, and She's Too Good For Me.

He put that album together staring death right in the face. That is a strong man. Inspired. Someone with something to say and the will to say it, no matter what.

I always loved Warren Zevon. For a bunch of different reasons.

I love him again. Right now. For taking me away, and for showing me the breathtaking power of the human spirit.

Maybe I can get there too.

Thanks, man.

She's Too Good For Me

"I could hold my head up and say that I left first, or I can hang my head and cry, tell me which is worse.

If you go and ask her why, she might say she's not sure, trust me when I tell you why, I'm not good enough for her.

I want her to be happy, I want her to be free, I want her to be everything she couldn't be with me.

I'd wait here for a thousand years, if she'd come back to me, I have everything she wants, and nothing that she needs.

I want her to be happy, I want her to be free, I want her to be everything she couldn't be with me.

I could hold my head up high and say that I left first, or I can hang my head and cry, tell me which is worse.

If you go and ask her why, she might say she's not sure, trust me when I tell you why, I'm not good enough for her."

She's Too Good For Me by Warren Zevon

Italics provided for emphasis, interpretation, and understanding.

He Does Not Know Himself

He does not know himself, and he suffers because of that. Worse still, his family is cheated by his absence.

In gatherings, when joy is the right emotion, the normal emotion, he withdraws. Not consciously - God knows he wants so very badly to engage honestly and joyfully - it is an unfortunate, automatic, self-defense mechanism that is entirely misplaced. The wrong response in the wrong situation.

The awkwardness he feels is psychologically painful and physically uncomfortable.

Around strangers, of course it makes sense to hide, to play-act, to strangle honest thoughts and smother intense emotions. He has to. They only care about themselves. They want to dominate him, to strip him of dignity. To impose their will, their thoughts, their emotions, their irrational perspective of life upon him to the exclusion of his essence. So, the turtle withdraws his head.

But family is a refuge, a chance to air out the soul and allow it to breathe. Even more important, allow it to express itself, naturally and honestly in complete absence of self-doubt. Family is a bona fide source of life.

Because his self-awareness has died, or possibly never existed - every thought that comes to mind, every word that exits his mouth, is surreal and unnatural. Nothing he says is genuine, to his enormous frustration. Sometimes the words that come out of his mouth shock him - "that's not me, why the fuck did I say that? I don't even believe what I'm saying."

Everyone else talks, laughs, and acts themselves. He is a distant spectator to himself, looking on in horror at the image he is projecting. The family is used to this. They respond to the person he is not.

Over the years, this internal battle has escalated to the point where every gathering is a war. An opportunity to vindicate himself so important to him that he can't possibly achieve it. The enormity of the significance of victory paralyzes him. So he repeats another disingenuous performance. And the hole gets deeper.

I have talked to him about this but his defenses are stout, fortified by self-delusion. I refuse to give up, though.

I like the guy.

Wisdom & Epitaph

Wife: "You've had so much strife but you're always happy. How do you do it?"

Husband: "I choose to. I can leave myself to rot in the past, spend my time hating people for what happened, like my father did, or I can forgive and forget.

Wife: "But it's not that easy."

Husband: "Oh, but my treasure, it is so much less exhausting. You only have to forgive once. To resent, you have to do it all day, every day. You have to keep remembering all the bad things. I would have to make a list, a very, very long list and make sure I hated the people on it the right amount. That I did a very proper job of hating, too: very Teutonic! No, we always have a choice. All of us."

"Izz, I've learned the hard way that to have any kind of a future, you've got to give up hope of ever changing your past."

There are still more days to travel in this life. And he knows that the man who makes the journey has been shaped by every day and every person along the way. Scars are just another kind of memory. Isabel is part of him, wherever she is, just like the war and the light and the ocean. Soon enough the days will close over their lives, the grass will grow over their graves, until their story is just an unvisited headstone.

All the above from The Light Between Oceans, by M.L. Stedman

That last paragraph is the ultimate epitaph, relevant to every human life. An unvisited headstone, the final reality.

Water of Life

 "Whiskey is by far the most popular of all remedies that won't cure a cold."

Jerry Vale

Unfortunately, quite true. However, I used to get lots of colds - at least one bad one every winter, then smaller disturbances throughout the year. I treated them with whiskey and beer (mostly whiskey) according to the wise advice of Dr. Joe.

It didn't cure anything, but it did dry me up. My nose would be running like a fire hose - I used to get nasty colds - but as I drank it would slow down considerably. It didn't dry up completely, but at least I could read a book without gumming up the pages. 

I know you think I am full of shit - just another excuse to drink whiskey - but consider the following - alcohol causes dehydration. The higher the alcohol content of a beverage, the greater its dehydrating effect. Whiskey, because of its high alcohol content, is particularly dehydrating. So if you're gonna treat your cold with whiskey, go for Wild Turkey 101, if you're man enough. Please ignore Wild Turkey 81 - it's a fucking insult to whiskey drinkers.

So yes, whiskey won't cure a cold, but it sure as hell will make it a lot more fun.

And why don't I get colds any more? I sometimes go years without getting a cold. How bizarre, how bizarre. So much so that when I get one I wonder "What the hell is this?" Then I go straight for the whiskey.

Turns out that age is my ally (except for the impending death thing). Theory has it that while the immune system weakens with age, the cumulative exposure to viruses throughout life results in more immunity to specific cold viruses. I must have done battle with some serious viruses in my life, because the infrequency with which I get colds now makes me jump for joy.

And I can always come up with new reasons to drink whiskey. 

Like nap time. Shit, man, I could not survive anymore without afternoon naps. They are glorious. But if I hit the recliner with a clear head, it's a 50/50 crap shoot that I will fall asleep quickly. Typically my diseased fucking brain will come up with things to worry about, both real and imagined. And I can't lie around for two hours waiting to sleep - I am an exceptionally busy man - getting things done, thinking big thoughts, finding solutions, and making the world a better place.

But consuming a moderate amount of whiskey (you define moderate in your way and I'll stick to my definition) eases me into a peaceful siesta. I don't drink Crown Royal though - that would be a horrible waste. Crown Royal is consumed for superior taste, and for good times. For naps, it's Seagram's 7. I keep a jug of it handy for medicinal purposes.

Like naps, or severe stress requiring quick and multiple shots of liquid courage.

A handle of Seagram's 7 cost $20. A handle of Crown Royal costs $43. You say: "For Christ sake, Joe, you are always crying poverty - why not stick with Seagram's?"

You cannot be fucking serious.

Four Kings

First of all, I am once again alive.

The French Open, baby. Bring it on.

Also, earlier this week a retirement ceremony was held at Roland-Garros to honor Rafael Nadal. I had to watch it.

A large part of it was boring. Unfortunately, Rafa decided to go the "thank everybody" route in his farewell speech. I am against that in any ceremony anywhere.

It's boring. No matter the sport or the occasion, we all know it takes a lot of people to create a winner. No need to name them all. A simple "thanks to everybody who got me here" will do. Then get to the meat and potatoes - your emotions, your love of the sport, the beauty it brought to your life, the magnificent people you met and played against, how much it meant to you, how badly you will miss it.

But Rafa did the list. And he did it in English, then French, then Spanish. Took a long time. I almost changed the channel but I love Rafa too much, so I hung in. Lots of tears, that always gets to me. That's how you know how much his career meant to him. LOTS of tears.

Anyway I hung in. And thank God because towards the end there was a short clip played showing the three guys who battled with Rafa over decades. Saying cool things. And then.............they walked out onto the court.

Andy Murray, Roger Federer, and Novac Djokovic. The four of them got together. They hugged, they talked, they laughed. Genuine love and respect.

These guys are titans of the sport. They are fucking gods. 

The things those guys have achieved, the mark they made on the sport (Djokovic still is!!!!!!!) is incomparable. And to watch them talking together, laughing, shedding a few tears, busting each other's balls, well, shit man, it made my fucking day. It was inspirational.

Rafa owned the French Open. He won it 14 times - fourteen. During that time he won 114 matches, losing only 4. That is stunning.

I so much miss seeing him slide around that court. Always playing balls to the wall.

He smiled a lot. He is humble, resilient, and he persevered always, and against every setback and challenge. Until his body could take no more.

Hunter S. Thomson once wrote: "Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming "Wow! What a ride!"

Rafa played tennis that way and I loved him for it.

I wish for him a long, loving, peaceful, and fulfilling retirement.

Dedicated To Our Dicktator

 Ben Franklin:

 "A despot who enriches himself at the expense of his people is not to be feared. He is to be reviled."