Monday, July 31, 2017

Lennon In The Morning

Got John Lennon on the Victrola this morning.

Waiting to go to work. Not feeling it this morning and this disturbs me. If I gotta have a part time job this is the one to have. But I have worked four shaky shifts in the past week and a half and my spirit is limp.

Yet I like the job. I like the people. No problema - I will shake it off.

Lennon was so fucking tough he had no problem being publicly vulnerable. This I love about the man.

He was who he was and he just put it out there. Ferociously. Unapologetically. Can you imagine having him around now with this fucking incompetent dictator in the White House?

Lennon would be in his face.

His music was so deeply personal that it traces the arc of his life and his emotions and his mistakes and his love and his inspirations; his thoughts, his philosophies.

"Whatever Gets You Through The Night" just came around. Love the story of this song. John recorded it with Elton John, who bet Lennon the song would get to #1.

It did and Lennon paid off the bet by making a guest appearance at an Elton John concert on Thanksgiving night 1974 in Madison Square Garden. Lennon had been out of the limelight for a while, indulging in his "Lost Weekend".

To top it all off, he reunited with Yoko backstage that night - they had been separated for 18 months.

Sadly, it was also Lennon's last live performance.

Anyway, I am sitting here wrapped in vulnerability and feeling the vibration in my soul. In my emotions.

I guess that is what I am getting at in here all the time - wishing people could be more openly vulnerable. More honest.

Christ knows I put all my shit out there in here. Of course maybe if I could do it in real life without getting devoured maybe I would not have a blog at all.

Anyway...................Mr. Lennon was a straight ahead, emotionally raw guy. Yeah, he had lots of problems, many weaknesses, he made a lot of mistakes BUT he kept on moving and learning and evolving.

And he put it all out there so we knew exactly who he was.

Man, that takes balls.

Sunday, July 30, 2017

Simple Pleasures, Baby - Really, Is There Anything Else?

Feeling kind of beat up yesterday so I decided to lie down on my bed with the iPod as my companion, ear buds in my ancient ears.

Honestly, I was beat up because I consumed a large amount of whiskey and beer Friday night in response to another tough night on the job.

I worked three shows the weekend before - one on Friday, two on Saturday - I had ticket printer problems for every show. Pretty stressful when you have a lobby full of people waiting to grab tickets and you have to stop to re-program from one printer to another. That holds me up, and the other person who is also selling tickets.

That was on my mind on Friday and sure enough - the place was fucking rockin' and the printers started malfunctioning. Back and forth - first one, then the other.

Although this time I reached a new high - both printers went down at the same time. Lobby full of people staring at me; the two people working with me staring at me. For a few minutes I could not print any tickets at all. Man, I got a sick feeling in my stomach until, somehow, I got one printer back up.

So I came home and got drunk. I have done that all my life when I have problems and it works so well. Definitely puts all your problems to bed. That is the secret to my enormous success.

Anyway I hit the bed and re-discovered my ear buds (one word or two?).

Are you fucking kidding me? The quality of sound these things provide is mind blowing. Sound right out of the middle of my skull, and sound that is so sensitive it transmits every little thing.

Very intimate; exceptionally beautiful.

I haven't used these things in years; I always jam the iPod into the dock and jam out (dance around the kitchen) when Carol is not home. I do this when alone because my dancing is so exceptionally amazing that it shames Carol and I don't want to hurt her feelings.

Listened to a double album by Jamey Johnson. He's that country dude I recently discovered and rambled on about in these very pages.

Perfect fucking moment. Heartfelt music beautifully delivered as I rested in supreme comfort on top of the bed, summer breeze leaking in through the screen door.

So yeah, I am going to start using the ear buds again. It is what I need.

That was Simple Pleasure #1.

Simple Pleasure #2 is Earnest Hemingway. I have actually been enjoying him all week but this morning the pleasure seemed to piggyback on yesterday's sweet joy.

Back when I was still Thrift Shop Boy, a young guy came in with a box full of books. His wife worked for a publisher in NYC so she accumulated a lot of books. They had just moved to NH and decided to lighten the load.

Of course I went through the box before putting them on the shelf. I am no fool - I am #1, baby.

Came across "The Complete Short Stories of Ernest Hemingway". Snatched that son of a bitch right up. Just got around to reading it this week.

Christ, when you read good literature you know it. Very tasty. And it is the complete experience for me. Beautiful hard cover book in pristine condition. I worship hard cover books.

Even the pages are printed on quality paper. Thick, luxurious paper.

I am simultaneously reading and loving this book, and enjoying the physical sensations that come from having it in my hands.

My nirvana.

Simple Pleasure #3. Whipped up scrambled egg tacos for breakfast. Onions, peppers, ground beef. Carol and I devoured them in Sunday peace in front of the television machine.

Simple Pleasure #4. This just occurred to me. I am writing on the screened-in porch. For the first time this summer. Can you believe that shit?

Gorgeous day. Maka curled up on the table next to me. Lakota curled up in her private bed on the couch. Bottle of water to my right.

Simple pleasures, baby. Little things that make my life extraordinary. Been tuned in to them in a more focused way over the last couple of years.

Why not? I ain't never gonna be no fucking billionaire. Might as well keep my eyes and the rest of my senses open to the beautiful things I do have in my life and just dig 'em.

Enjoying the day in a right peaceable way.

Saturday, July 29, 2017


when I drink coffee out of my Three Stooges mug, some of the coffee dribbles over the edge onto Larry's forehead and dries there.

It looks like blood.

It is quite disturbing.

Thursday, July 27, 2017

Truth In The End

Gregg Allman finished recording his last solo album shortly before he died.

It is called "Southern Blood" and will be released on September 8th.

NPR premiered the first song from the album yesterday. It is called "My Only True Friend".

Dig these words:

It opens with the line: "You and I both know this river will surely flow to an end".


"Still on and on I run,
 Feels like home is just around the bend
 I got so much left to give, but I'm running out of time, my friend

I hope you're haunted by the music of my soul, when I'm gone
Please don't fly away and find you a new love
I can't face living this life alone
I can't bear to think this might be the end
But you and I both know, the road is my only true friend"

At some point in the recording process he knew he was dying. So he said good bye in the only way he knew how - honestly, through song, with soul deep bluntness.

This song is haunting; it faces the truth head on, it is soulful, it is deep. And it is gorgeous.

If you care about Gregg Allman at all, if you care about his legacy and the legacy of The Allman Brothers Band, you have to listen to this.

You will shed some tears the first time you listen to it. After that, your soul will come around as if it were jolted by lightening. You will lose yourself in the bluesy soulfulness of this man who lived a life like no other.

And who made music like no other.

We deal with a lot of bullshit in our lives, some a product of just being alive, some we heap upon ourselves. We get lost, we get unsure, we get afraid. We waste a lot of the precious time we have here on this earth.

But no matter what you do or don't do, no matter how you feel about your life, one day you will come face to face with death.

It hangs out there from the minute you are born, waiting to claim you. From the moment you are old enough to be aware, it is in your mind in one form or another. And when you come up on it, you gotta deal with it - there is no running away. It is as real as it gets.

You can avoid a lot of shit in life, you can fake it in so many ways and in so many situations, but death is the one thing you cannot outrun.

Creating beauty when you face death head-on, is the ultimate fuck you to mortality.

It says so much about the creative spirit that, when faced with death, you choose to create one more time. Most of us would curl up in a ball and cry.

It says that creativity is who you are and you have no choice but to express yourself in your own way, to let your soul breathe and, hopefully, to connect with others who need your words and your music - which is the ultimate fucking gift.

Gregg Allman does it with power and class and emotion in this song. Fucking amazing.

Bowie did it too. He too died from cancer; he knew it was coming. His last album was called "Blackstar", and on it was a song called "Lazarus".

With these lyrics: "Look up here, I'm in heaven, I've got scars that can't be seen; I've got drama can't be stolen, everybody knows me now, look up here, man I'm in danger, I've got nothing left to lose, I'm so high it makes my brain whirl, dropped my cell phone down below, ain't that just like me?"

The video for Lazarus is haunting.

By the way - FUCK CANCER.

I worship the creative process in any form or format. I believe creativity comes closest to capturing what it means to be human.

I especially appreciate it when it expresses hard truths head-on. No bullshit. Because that is what we all avoid.

I am glad to get a taste of Gregg Allman's final solo album. It will be mine on September 8.

My life will be better for it.

Sunday, July 23, 2017

Oh How The Mighty Have Fallen (But What The Fuck - Life Is A Fuckin' Roller Coaster Ride, Is It Not?)

Say good bye to The Big Ride.

Say hello to Black Beauty.

How the story ends: On this past Wednesday I traded my 2004 Lincoln Continental Town Car in on a 2011 Hyundai Sonata.

By the time Wednesday rolled around I just wanted to get The Big Ride up to the dealer without the fucking thing breaking down. Had two cars in mind - the Hyundai and a 2011 Jetta. Had no intention of doing any type of inspection/comparison/investigation, and I did not. The Hyundai caught my eye and I went with that.

I did not even test drive the thing. Why the fuck should I? These people - Phillips Auto Sales - this is the fifth car we have bought from them. They are easy to deal with; the cars are reliable. Besides I just didn't give a fuck.

These people are so cool. I called Wednesday, told them I wanted to drive the Lincoln in and leave with another car that day. They made it happen. As far as I know our financing had not even been approved. No temp registration; he put dealer plates on it. We didn't even make a down payment.

I actually drove the car for two days before I technically owned it. Did not finalize the financing until Friday morning.

I wanted to hate this car. I mean, for Christ sake, I loved that damn Lincoln so much I committed objectophilia with it.

I can't hate the Hyundai. It actually leans toward stylish. Nice lines. And it is black. Black on the outside, black on the inside.

Black Beauty, baby.

78,000 miles. High/low, know what I mean?

I don't love it but I like it. It ain't no fucking Lincoln, I can tell you that.

But you know me. I am a positive guy. Cheery as fucking hell. Glass half full and all that shit. Always looking for the silver lining.

What I sacrificed in comfort I gained in technology.

This car has everything.

First of all the AC works. It did not in the Lincoln for the last two summers. I enjoyed the hell out of that since Wednesday.

This baby has a hookup for my ipod. A hookup for my phone. A navigation system. Access to Sirius XM (which you know I am going to activate immediately; I'll be drowning in the blues and The Beatles, baby).

It has 237 other technological marvels as well. Who cares about comfort, who cares about performance, who cares about reliability - I got the toys, baby - I got the toys.

I am just going to enjoy this car.

And I learned a lesson. I am not going to drive it into bankruptcy, like I did with The Big Ride.

In two years I will be looking to trade Black Beauty in. I am too fucking old to deal with automotive fuckology.

I do not want to sink three million dollars into a car again for the rest of my life.

So here I am. At least I am not holding my breath while I drive. This car feels good. It looks good. Its blackness matches the blackness of my soul.

Life is one motherfucking unpredictable son of a bitch.

Wednesday, July 19, 2017

Jesus Hates Me, The Fucktard

Jesus hates me. He fucking loathes me.

That is the only thing that has prevented me from driving an ice pick directly into my brain all these years.

My toughest swear, the go-to of all go-to's, when I am really fucking over the top pissed off is Jesus Fucking Christ.

If there is a Jesus guy lounging around in the sky, I guranfuckingtee you he does not appreciate it when I cut loose like that. Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain, and all that shit.

I am sure I have uttered that phrase approximately 16 trillion times in my life.

So if I did decide to put the ice pick to good use and had to stand before Jesus' dad to be judged, his kid would be on the sidelines whispering "stick it to him good, Daddy - send him to hell for nine eternities".

Finally fucking picked up The Big Ride yesterday. Timeline: Car breaks down on July 7. Car gets fixed on July 18. Finally get it back.

I'm driving home and I get a little melancholy; I am going to trade it in this week - period. I fucking love this car.

Low on gas; stop at a gas station five minutes from my house, put in just enough gas to get me to Concord, where the dealership is located that I plan to visit today.

The car won't start. Did you fucking hear me? THE FUCKING CAR WOULD NOT START. I had the car back less than half an hour and it broke down again.

Of course it couldn't be something simple like a dead battery. Tried to jump start it - no luck. Had to get it towed right back to the place I just fucking picked it up from.

Timeline:  I had to wait 45 minutes for the first AAA guy to show up (neither me nor Carol has cables) to try to charge that puppy up. That didn't work so now he has to call for a tow truck. I originally called around 4:30. Around 6:00 Carol and I finally went home, leaving my car and the keys behind. The car did not get towed until 8:00. It was a whole fucking comedy of errors and miscommunication on AAA's part. A few phone calls back and forth between me and them.

I just called my mechanic this morning. Told him I do not want to spend one more dime on this car. Please just get it started so I can drive it to Concord. PLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEASE!

I have an appointment to see a urologist this morning. The PSA count was up a bit at my physical a few weeks ago. You know, the supposed indicator of potential prostate cancer.

I am not that worried because Dr. Feelgood did the manual check while I was there and did not find anything alarming. It ain't the size of a grapefruit yet.

But I woke up this morning - somewhere around 4:30 ( I got up around 5:15 because I am so fucking irritated) - remembering the only other time I saw a urologist, he stuck a cue tip or a piece of fucking lumber up inside the tip of my dick.

It was the most excruciating pain I have ever experienced. Except for the twenty some odd years I spent as an accountant.

I am hoping that does not happen today. That would just be the fucking icing on the cake this week.

So I gotta see the doc this morning, then check the status of The Big Ride, then make a trip to Concord to buy another car. Carol took the day off so we can get this shit done.

I have family members who have lost spouses. I have family members who have lost children. So lately when I vent in here I realize that my problems pale in comparison to the suffering of others. So I try to lighten up a little bit.

So here we go. I am the kind of guy, when I get furious, I need to break things. I need to punch, I need to express myself violently. But society dictates that when you have a spouse, you should not disturb said spouse through violent action.

So I kept it all in yesterday. As all this was going on and my anger built and grew and just fucking metastasized to gargantuan proportions.

I went to bed shortly after 10:00. Couldn't sleep. Tossed and turned. At one point I rolled over on my back and spontaneously started to bang my fists into the mattress. I beat the shit out of that thing. It came out of nowhere. I just exploded. Must have looked like a drooling madman.

Or a child.

Fortunately, we have one of them fancy foam mattresses. That thing took a beating and just bounced right back. No harm done. To me or the mattress.

Shit, man it is pure joy to be alive in 2017.

Tuesday, July 18, 2017

Fractured Hip, Broken Car

Say good bye to The Big Ride, ladies and gentlemen.

My amazing car blew up on me. July 7 was the day. A day that will live in infamy.

Got it towed on July 8. Today is July 18. Still don't have it back.

How do you feel about that?

Needs some air bladder thingy, which apparently is being walked over to the U.S from Australia. Or maybe it's like getting a liver transplant. Maybe I have to wait for somebody else's 2004 Lincoln Town Car to expire before they can remove the bladder, pack it in ice, and ship it to good ole Henniker.

Doesn't fucking matter. I'm just waiting to get it back so I can trade it in.

When I bought this beauty I made the assumption that, because it is a Lincoln, it will last forever. Figured I would drive it for a bunch of years and when it finally gave up the ghost I would run right out and buy another Lincoln.

I was wrong. The car has not been a pain in the ass but the pace of repairs has accelerated over the last two years.

I don't want to deal with it anymore. I'm tired of it.

Breaks my heart.

I am not in the position to buy another Lincoln. My dream of riding in luxury until I am laid in a luxury casket is shattered.

Now I just don't give a shit. Just want a car. Any car. Preferably something that runs.

I'm thinking of making an ironic statement. Thinking about getting me a Ford Pinto. The one that was famous for bursting into flames in the seventies. Gotta be some fucking low life criminal that has one or two of those hanging around just looking to sell it to a guy like me.

I will drive it like a madman too. Tempting fate. I'll set it up with a secret compartment that can hold a 1.75 liter bottle of Crown Royal. With a hose. A hose I can suck on and easily conceal if the coppers come around.

So I'm just waiting. Not waiting on a friend, as The Stones sang about. Just waiting. Just fucking waiting.

Waiting to see some goddamn specialist dude about the hip. Got an appointment for this coming Thursday.

Fucking medical community. They get all up in arms. Holy shit - you got a fractured hip. We gotta get you in here. You gotta get a cane. You gotta be careful. You gotta ride in a car with a luxury air bladder in it.

Then they keep me waiting three weeks.

Meanwhile, unfortunately and disconcertingly, the pain has increased.

I am riding a bubble of negativity. Unfortunate. But that's the way it goes. You know the feeling. I know you do.

But I am a very positive guy. Always looking on the bright side. Cheerful and encouraging. With me the glass is always half full. Especially when it has whiskey in it.

I know that in a couple of weeks I'll be riding around in my Pinto and the hip will have been dealt with.

I will win Powerball to the tune of $675 million bucks, I will buy a second home in Arizona, a third in Hawaii. I will join a health club, lose twenty pounds and get a call from Johnny Depp asking me to co-star in his next flick. I will finally take Carol to Niagara Falls. I will be invited to tour with The Stones.

Yeah, baby, life is a thrill-a-minute joy ride, ain't it?

My future's so bright I gotta wear shades.

Tuesday, July 11, 2017

This Allman Brothers Thang

I work with a VNP.

Very Nice Person. Amanda.

We just started working together in May. For Father's Day she gives me a book about The Allman Brothers.

"One Way Out. The Inside History. The Allman Brothers Band." Very cool thing to do.

And an excellent book. Of course I already have it and have already read it, but I did not tell her that because I appreciated what she did.

At first I was going to slip it into the book case, but then I got to thinking that this was the perfect time to re-read the book.

So I did.

The book was written by Alan Paul, a guy who has been following and writing about the band for 25 years. The thing I like about the book is that it is an oral history based on hundreds of interviews over the years.

What I really like about it is that when he gets conflicting stories from different people about the same situation he just puts them right out there side by side, instead of trying to get at the truth (a concept that doesn't exist).

"Yeah, that's when Gregg bought me a plane ticket to get back from the west coast."

"Yeah, that's when Gregg sent him gas money so he could ride his bike back from the west coast."

"Yeah, that's when the crazy son of a bitch hitch hiked all the way back from the west coast."

Let's face it - memory is subjective - especially when you cloud it with a whole bunch of booze and drugs.

Anyway, reading the book was the right thing to do. I read it reverently and with a totally different perspective, given the finality of the situation.

It reiterated the fact that I loved the whole package about this band.

The music, obviously. But the rebel image too.

They looked wild, they looked tough. They were insane. They traveled throughout the south in the late sixties with a black man in the band. And took a lot of shit because of it. But they always stood up for Jaimoe - they never backed down. If he wasn't allowed in a restaurant then none of them ate there.

When they weren't making any money they established a rule that the roadies got paid before the band did. Who the fuck does that? The only other band I ever heard of doing that was The Grateful Dead.

They were a pure democracy. Come decision time every member got a say. Duane was the unacknowledged leader but he never imposed his will against that of the group.

They started what came to be called Southern Rock, a description they hated because they felt it pigeon-holed them. But they did start a movement, a genre of music that wasn't there before and that inspired a lot of other bands to follow.

I loved the book, it inspired deep emotion in me (again) and I'm glad I read it.

Then I decided to take it all the way and re-read Gregg Allman's autobiography next.

Excellent. He has his own story to tell in some ways, apart from the band's history.

He was such a sensitive and vulnerable guy who was thrust unwillingly into a leadership role when his brother died in 1971. Duane was the tough guy and a natural born leader; Gregg was shy and inward directed and it was tough for him to have to carry the Allman Brothers' mantle.

He did the best he could.

I am glad I re-read the books. The timing was right and I was emotionally raw enough to get a different feel, a different perspective this time around.

I would like to now declare a moratorium on the deaths of musicians who feed me soul. I need some time to regain my balance.

Unfortunately that reality is out of my hands.

Saturday, July 8, 2017

Marsellus Got It Right

In Pulp Fiction, Butch asks Marsellus Wallace: "You okay?"

Marsellus says: "Naw man. I'm pretty fuckin' far from OK."

Solid quote.

Universally applicable.

I Never Know What Will Save Me

Robert Klein. "Still Can't Stop His Leg". Just watched it. A documentary about his career and his life.

If you don't know where the title comes from, please don't bother me. In fact, turn off my blog.

If you don't know who he is, kill yourself.

You ever get your mind moving in the wrong direction?

I do. Happens a lot.

Got me a new job a couple of months ago. I dig it. I was happy to escape the thrift shop and the withering stares of the wealthy patrons of O's Steaks and Seafood across the street.

Went to work my first day and realized this was a job and these were a people I could dig.

Had the next day off. Motored my way into Concord and my car broke down. Got it towed, and fixed up the next day but I was late for my second day on the job.

I of course called apologetically and it was no big deal.

But a seed was planted.

Coupla months later I find out I got me a fractured hip. Last week, actually. Been playing telephone tag with the fucking doctors regarding follow up and so far I have gotten no where.

Pisses me off.

Driving into work yesterday, the car makes a strange sound as I negotiated "Keith's exit" off 89. Call it that because it is the exit we take to get to Keith's house.

Definite something breaking sound. I drove slowly for a couple of minutes (something I rarely do). Could feel that the Big Ride was not driving right, not quite as smooth as usual, but nothing really scary going on.

Drive home last night. Pull onto my road, go over a bump and literally heard an explosion. Sounded like a gunshot or bomb going off.

I said "What the fuck?" and slowed way down. Car started bouncing like a red rubber ball. I nursed that baby home, the car bottomed out as I pulled into my driveway. Rear end was way low.

Then I noticed this thing lying in the driveway. A piece from underneath my car. About a foot and a half long with a hunk of rubber flapping loose. A severely torn piece of rubber - the victim of the explosion.

Bummin' last night. Bummin' even more this morning. This afternoon got The Big Ride towed to Danny's for a Monday morning rendezvous.

Too much negative shit on my mind. Which I stretch all the way back to last summer's cancer bullshit. Start thinking about all the negative shit that has happened since I semi-retired.

What the fuck.

Just an average life keeping me from getting cocky.

Get back from Danny's and my brain is severely bruised. Looking for release. Distraction.

Got me about 300 things saved as favorites on the magical X1 Infinity machine. So many that I don't remember what I have saved.

Troll it and come across Klein.

Yeah, baby - I could use a laugh.

Fucking spectacular.

He is a funny dude, man, and a comedian routinely mentioned in the same breath as Richard Pryor and George Carlin as a pioneer.

By comedians like Jerry Seinfeld,  Jay Leno, Billy Crystal, Bill Maher, Jon Stewart, Ray Romano, Larry Miller, and David Steinberg, all of whom admit Robert Klein had a major influence on them.

Made me feel good. Made me laugh. Got my respect vibe working.

I never know what is going to save me. Today it was Robert Klein.

Christ I was down. I feel better now. Not cured, but better.

Not half bad, baby.

Wednesday, July 5, 2017

The Stupidest Thing In Sports

A third base coach giving signs.

Run the hand along the bill of the cap, touch the nose, swipe across the letters right to left, swipe down the right arm, tug on an ear, swipe across the letters left to right, go to the belt, tug on the other ear, swipe down the left arm, clap twice and spit.

You have to be fucking kidding me.

Gotta keep the opposition from stealing signs, but that is serious overkill. I believe they still do it that way because it has become ingrained in the sport - it is a thing - and because they think it looks cool, and they feel cool doing it.

And the batter has to stand there for two and a half minutes squinting down at the coach to pick up the one gesture or combination that means something.

I think it is fucking hilarious.

Qualifying The Rant

Obviously I became emotionally invested in "Winter Passing" yesterday, and connected that in my brain to the Chris Gethard special, which also touched a nerve with me, and jumped out of my recliner and ran to the laptop to emote.

Actually I am not jumping out of anything these days or running towards anything either, but you get the picture.

When my emotions run deep, what comes out is the truth - but it is a little raw, a little unfocused.

I do hunger for emotional release, emotional connection, but it really is not practical in life. The characters I connect with in movies tend to be broken people connecting with broken people - that seems like pure honesty to me and the ultimate expression of what it means to be human.

But of course, it is the movies. That shit does not happen in real life. Can't do it. Gotta keep on keeping on.

People are too afraid to expose themselves emotionally. Too damn dangerous.

People who are consumed with emotion typically become writers. Or actors. Or musicians.

Or accountants.

Because there is no other way for them to express themselves; to be themselves. Society does not allow that.

If you travel in the bubble of creativity you are somewhat insulated from the "real" world. Although it is a harsh and a difficult way of making a living. Ironically, if you try to make it creatively you will face 100 times the rejection an average person faces. But for some people there is no other choice.

Because if you try to survive as a deeply emotional person in the every day world you will get eaten up. No emotions allowed. No vulnerability. Suck it up.

So yeah, every time I come across an emotional experience that resonates with me I fly away to "I wish" land, because I detest superficiality.

Because of this hunger that will never be sated.

And I bet I have done it 777 times in here. After a movie, after reading a poem, after devouring a book. I cannot help myself. Because as I am experiencing those things, everything else about me is stripped away.

And what is revealed is so powerful to me and so honest that it trips a breaker in my brain and I go berserk.

Small example: I was recently in the company of a friend. We had music on in the background. "I Am A Rock" (Simon and Garfunkel, if you are musically challenged) came on and I mentioned that this song has one of my favorite lyrics of all time. When asked what it was I recited: "I have my books and my poetry to protect me."

He replied something like "OK, I don't get it, but if it makes you happy...."

There are very few people, if any (at least in my life) who would say "I know exactly what you mean" and go on to have an animated discussion of the lyric, and then books and then poetry with me.

And yet to me, those words are powerful. They mean something to me. Deeply. They spark emotion in me; a response. Every fucking time.

And that is a very small example, tip of the iceberg type stuff. There is so much more that resonates with me deeply and meaningfully that cannot be expressed in every day life. At least not in my every day life.

How bizarre, how bizarre.

Apparently I have chosen the wrong friends. Or not enough friends. Or maybe I am not putting myself out there forcefully enough. Or maybe I have tried to put myself out there forcefully and been consistently rejected.

This is hilarious. I came in here to try to explain yesterday's rant because I felt like it was a little skewed.

Feels like I am bending it even further away from where you are.

I won't lose sleep over it.

Tuesday, July 4, 2017

EMOTION - Pure and Simple

The central paradox of my life is that I am pure emotion.

It starts at skin level and penetrates down to and through my heart and my soul and my essence.

And yet I cannot live my life in that way. Openly. Honestly. Emotionally.

Gotta put on the show; gotta deal with everybody else putting on the show.

It feels so disingenuous to me, such a waste of time. And life.

Because so many people are sensitive and deal with emotional pain and insecurity and doubt and confusion. I want to sit down with these people and talk - honestly. No fucking bullshit.

I want to open up. I want them to open up. No fear of retribution. No fear of ridicule.

It just doesn't happen.

There are many things about my life that frustrate me but, suddenly I realize, that is THE thing, the truth, that keeps me off balance and prevents me from feeling any peace at all.

Two recent experiences have sparked this violent reaction in my brain.

I watched a "comedy" special on HBO featuring a guy named Chris Gethard called "Career Suicide".

Heavy fucking duty.

The guy is a deeply sensitive, insecure guy who attempted to commit suicide in a spontaneous and somewhat bizarre way.

Obviously he survived. He decided to put together a performance where he airs out all his insecurities; where he talks about the suicide attempt.

There are long periods of time during the performance where you are not laughing. Where what is being said is raw and personal. Then he makes you laugh.

I love stuff like this. I do not need a laugh a minute riot. I need deep and thought provoking stuff that makes me uncomfortable - and then makes me laugh.

This is the kind of show where many insensitive assholes would describe Gethard as a fucking wimp. People who would say "What the fuck is this?" As he bares his soul.

Fuck them.

These are people who cannot admit to their own insecurities. Bluff and bluster. Actors.

I have no use for them.

Exactly ten minutes ago I finished watching a movie called "Winter Passing".

Fucking emotional.

I am not even going to bother summarizing the plot.

All I can say is that it dragged me in immediately, emotionally, and kept me there until the end.

Personal relationships. Family. Fuck ups. Unconventional connections and lifestyles.

Ed Harris is one of the characters. I love Ed Harris. If you want a real treat it also features Will Ferrell in a deeply emotional and vulnerable role.

Every fucking time I come a cross a movie like this - a performance like this - a book like this - a play like this - a poem like this - it breaks me down to exactly who I am.

And increases my sadness at not being able to live my life within this reality of who I am. Not being able to spend time with people who are willing to be brutally honest about who they are, what they are afraid of, what they genuinely feel, how they deal with their life and how they want to change it.

People who are not afraid to speak their dreams aloud.

I don't know what to do about this.

Words To Live By, Baby

"Quality of life is important. Time is as important as money at a certain point in your life. Maybe more important."

Oteil Burbridge, bass player, Allman Brothers Band

Wait A Minute...........What Did You Just Say?

Had a physical last week.

That is one thing I am pretty good about. Get checked out every year; been doing it for a long time.

That way I can keep track of how my health is deteriorating. That's how I know I gotta deal with high blood pressure, high cholesterol, asthma, and acid reflux.

Poppin' the pills, baby - every morning. But, what the hell - they are doing the trick and I have not experienced any nasty side effects. And the prescriptions I take have not been increased for years, so at least I am maintaining.

Which is good. Helping me hang around a little longer to drive Carol crazy and perfect methods of embarrassing my sons.

My right hip has been paining me for about a year and a half now. Typically a low level, annoying kind of pain. But it does spike every once in a while to a level that makes me grimace. And limp.

Mentioned it to Dr. Feelgood at last year's physical. She was going to set up an x-ray to check it out, but that was also the physical that led to the whole cancer diagnosis, so the x-ray got lost in the shuffle.

I brought it up again last week because it is a lot more annoying now. Got x-rayed that day; she called me later that day to tell me my hip was fractured.

What? Fucking fractured? How the hell did that happen?

I should have been suspicious when the x-ray technician asked me, while he was checking the x-rays to make sure they came out all right - "Have you had an accident or some kind of trauma to the hip?"

I didn't even think about it because I have been assuming it is arthritis or some other old person type thang.

Now, I did fall twice this winter in my fucking skating rink of a driveway, BUT I have been experiencing pain in the hip for a year before that. So who the hell knows what is going on.

So Dr. Feelgood wants me to get a cane or a crutch until this thing gets dealt with. Which of course I am not doing. I've been walking around on the goddamn thing for a year and a half; I don't think it is suddenly gonna snap now.

Except it does change the mind set.

Before, I dismissed it as arthritis. When you get old enough you deal with pain every day. I have learned to ignore it.

But now, every time I get a twinge or the pain spikes, I get a little worried. And of course the responsible voice in my head is saying "Get a goddamn cane, idiot." And, you know, if I do get a cane it is going to be one funky motherfucker.

So now I wait. I will be scheduled for an MRI to assess the extent of the damage and I have to see an orthopedic dude to figure out what comes next.

But of course the 4th of July holiday has put everything on hold.

In addition, Dr. Feelgood told me to stop exercising. That fucking sucks. Another thing I do religiously is ride an exercise bike, and she knows this. I average four days a week; sometimes I hit five on a good week.

I am already morbidly obese.

Carol and I stole a shopping cart from Shaw's just to get me out of the house. Shaw's sucks; we would never steal a shopping cart from Market Basket.

The way we work it is I roll off my recliner onto the floor, where Carol has the shopping cart tipped over on its side. I roll forcefully into the cart so it begins to tip upright; Carol guides it the rest of the way. She then wheels me out of the house and tips me into her trunk.

It all works just fine.

Anyway, I will have to live on carrots and water until this thing gets figured out, so I don't begin to resemble Jabba The Hut's long lost brother.

How does a fractured hip heal? I am probably going to have to use a cane or a crutch, keep the weight off, until I am whole again.

I am not happy about this.

But what the fuck - at a certain age you gotta roll with the punches as your body begins to betray you.

Another chapter, baby - another chapter.

This Should Have Been Me

Willie Perkins, telling the story of how he became the Allman Brothers Band road manager.

"Butch called me from Cleveland and said Twiggs was in jail and they needed me. They were on their way back to Macon. About a week later, they had a gig in Atlanta, at Georgia Tech, and I met them there. I got onto the Winnebago and Duane came and sat down in the lounge and said  'Man, we are a handful. We will sure enough drive you crazy.' I knew that he was shooting straight and telling me the truth but I was in. I told him I needed two weeks to give notice and then I'd start.

I was a suit-and-tie-wearing auditor for the Trust Company of Georgia in Atlanta and everyone thought I was absolutely insane. My colleagues and friends and families could not understand what I was doing. They all said 'You are throwing away a promising career to go run around with a bunch of crazy hippies who make no money.'