December 31, 2017.

December 31. The pulse quickens.

Maybe, maybe not.

Always feels that way to me. My pulse quickens. My thoughts run deep. Anticipation overwhelms me.

Now that we are older and not caught up in craziness, if we are not working on New Year's Eve day (like today), it feels like we are just hanging around waiting for midnight.

Not exciting, not fun.

We started today off well. Met Jason and Karen for breakfast at 9:00. Good conversation, some laughter, great friendship. Felt really good.

Got THE PATS at 1:00. Today feels like it will roll us comfortably right into 2018. I like it.

I hope Carol is able to stay up until midnight. I don't want to bring the new year in alone. It means too much to us this year.

Lots of people gearing up for a good drunk tonight. I got no problem with that. Anything you gotta do to escape reality for a few hours is vital to your survival.

However I always felt that new year's eve madness is a strange mix of hope and hopelessness.

Everybody wants a new life in a new year. Everybody wants change. Everybody wants a better life. Everybody knows nothing will change. That on December 31, 2018 they will be in the exact same place they are in right now.

January 2 is the cruelest day of the year. January 2 is the day everything returns to "normal".

And normal hurts. Normal sucks.

In one way everything will stay the same for Carol and me as of January 2. The best, the very fucking best thing that could happen, would be that Carol wakes up fully healed on that day. 100% back to normal.

That is not going to happen.

She will continue to struggle. I will continue to shed tears.

But in another way, I know Carol will continue to fight like the warrior that she is. I know she will be fully healed this year and she will have her health back and I will have my wife back.

I also know that I am committed to doing everything in my power to make our life better. Fully fucking, seriously, dedicated and committed.

This is on my shoulders.

So 2018 will be different in that way. Different in that Carol will emerge victorious against the fucking evil things that have knocked her down. Different in that I am going to make happiness happen.

So bring on 2018. Bring on January 2.

Never had a more meaningful new year than this one. That says a lot considering the fact that Jonathan and Sarge died at the end of 2014. 2015 meant something too. And then, unfortunately, Kevin died in March of 2015. You never fucking know what life is going to slap you around with.

But hard as it is to say, this year it is even more personal.

Carol and I are united in our tenacious commitment to making 2018 a good year.

"Fairytale Of New York". The Pogues. Got some lines in there that mean something to me.

"Got on a lucky one, came in at eighteen to one, I've got a feeling this year's for me and you.............I can see a better time when all our dreams come true."

Typical delusional bullshit that we all wallow in. Yeah, things are going to get better. But, in a way, I feel like Carol and I could really make that happen.

Why not? Is there some immutable fucking law of karma that says you can't go from the worst year of your life to the best year of your life?

We are going to give it one hell of a shot.

Earned Wisdom

I am so sick of people describing life as a journey.

Life is not a journey.

Life is a fucking carnival ride.

Belatedly

Happy Birthday, Keith Richards.

On December 18, 2017 you celebrated your 74th birthday.

No one ever thought you would live this long.

I always knew you would.

Love you, man.

Today Is December 30, 2017

Here we go again.

Last weekend of the year. I get introspective. New year. My birthday. It is a blessing and a curse.

I decided to start writing today because I have a lot on my mind.

I am usually selfish at this time of year. Whining about what I don't have, what I should have, what I didn't do, what I should do.

Despite my words, despite my inspirations, despite my intentions, I have not made a lot of progress.

This year my mind is all twisted up in the harsh reality and unpredictability, the fucking fragility of life.

Strange doin's, yesterday. I was at work. By 1:30 I was the only one left in the box office. By 3:00 I was the only human being in the entire building. I was there until 6:00.

The phone wasn't ringing, nobody was walking in the door. I took a couple of breaks to walk around the place. It really is a historic and amazing building. Just the people who have performed there will blow your mind.

Willie Nelson, Jackson Brown, Bonnie Raitt, John Prine, B.B. King, Buddy Guy, George Jones - fucking unbelievable.

I needed something to hang on to. I got in front of my computer, got into a poetry website that has an amazing database of poets and poems - and I spent hours reading poetry.

I am a man of words. A man who worships words. And I am feeling so empty. So hurt. I really do need something to hang on to as 2018 comes crashing in. Inspiration. I need it.

I need a reason to believe that 2018 will be a good year. A more solid reason than just "I want us to be happy."

I am going to do everything in my power to make our life better. To love my wife. To fight back against life. I am not just full of shit this time.

I can't do it alone. I know this. I know this from a lifetime of disappointment. I am searching for a poet or a philosophy or a mantra that can prop me up when I begin to sag under the weight.

I am watching Carol continue to struggle. Every day, every fucking day she has a hurdle to clear.

A problem with one of her eyes developed right around the time she got sick. Severe dry eye and it drives her crazy. She struggles with a clear eye patch that she puts on when she needs it but it is awkward. Her eye frustrates the hell out of her.

She bounces back and forth between contacts and eye glasses, depending on what her eye is doing to her.

Her facial muscles have not come back as much as we would like. Her face sags, her speech is slurred.

She suddenly has high blood pressure, which it has taken three weeks to finally get under control, with two medications.

She cannot just get up and have a good day.

It breaks my heart every single day. Not one fucking day goes by without me shedding a few tears, although I have learned to hide that from her.

2018 is not all about me. It is all about me doing everything in my power to make our life better.

I am semi-retired. The only reason we can afford that is because Carol is still working full time.

Didn't seem like a crime two years ago. Now it makes me feel like a piece of shit.

Watching her walk out of the house in zero degree cold, tip toeing through the snow to get to her car to get to work - breaks me. I always watch her walk to her car because I cannot feel comfortable until I see her safely inside it.

That is the moment every day when the most tears are shed.

I am searching for something different this year. For me. For us. Not sure what that will be.

I had three hours alone in a historic building yesterday to think it over. I was surrounded by history; pictures on the walls. Pictures of people who make their way through the world expressing their emotions. People who connect with millions of others because their emotions are honest and are in sync with the raw emotions that come with life's struggles.

People who understand empathy; people who ooze empathy.

I had quiet. I had poets. I had the life that I have already spent to think about, and the life that still lies ahead of me too.

I had Carol on my mind. If her troubles cannot wake me up then I deserve whatever punishment may come my way.

2018 Mantra? (except the wife stuff)

I got sick of my job, sick of my wife,
sick of my future and sick of my life
I packed up my car and I got some gas
and told everybody they could kiss my ass

I'm going to Partytown
I wanna party down
I wanna have some fun
I wanna fool around
I'm going to Partytown

"Partytown", Glen Frey

Christmas. 2017.

Fuck cold.
Fuck snow.
Fuck Christmas.
Fuck winter.

I feel better now.

Christmas got to me on Monday. Caught me by surprise.

Because of the fucking impending snow storm on Monday, Carol and I celebrated Christmas on Sunday with Keith and Craig.

It was spectacular as always. I will never be able to emphasize enough how much joy Carol and I get from having Keith and Craig around.

Monday rolled around, I went out and shoveled for a couple of hours, and came in to chill for the rest of the day.

That's when it hit me.

We did not put up our tiny tree this year, no decorations in the house, we did not exchange presents. I did not think I cared about this; really gave it very little thought.

But depression took over. Every once in a great while I get so down that it is a fucking effort to speak. If I have to leave the house it is overwhelming to have to deal with another human.

On Monday I realized that I could not make the obligatory phone calls. I usually call Dina, talk to Eddie etc.

I could not do it. Could not muster up any phony Christmas enthusiasm. So I did not call.

I knew the only humans I could genuinely talk to were Keith and Craig. And we did, later in the day.

Of course Dina and Eddie called me and I felt sorry for them. I sounded so down they must have thought I was holding a knife against my throat.

I don't know where this shit came from. The only answer I can come up with is that it has been such an awful year that I was royally pissed that the weather conspired to fuck with our holiday. One more fucking slap in the face.

Carol has suffered, everything is upside down and Christmas got re-scheduled.

What the fuck else do you have in store for us, motherfucker?

"Love, Actually" is a Christmas tradition for me and Carol. We watch it every year and did so again on Monday afternoon.

It hit me hard. It is a silly little movie but it is packed with sensitivity and human emotion. Fucking tears on my cheeks. Unbelievable.

Monday night we watched "A Christmas Carol" starring George C. Scott. My favorite version of this movie.

Again, intensity and tears.

I honestly am not sure what happened to me on Monday.

I missed the tree. I like to look into the lights at night and think deep thoughts. Like a flower child on acid.

I felt like I should have found a way to give Carol a present. If anybody deserves a treat, a surprise, a break from harsh reality, it is my loving wife.

I was empty. That kind of describes it. I felt hollow. Something was missing, something I wish was there, but I don't think I can describe it.

Fuck 2017. Fuck Christmas 2017.

Bring on 2018. My birthday. January 1, 2018. My 64th birthday, kicking off the next year in our life.

I shit on 2017.

I intend to take 2018 by storm. My Number 1 Goal is to pursue happiness for me and Carol. With a motherfucking vengeance.

We have come too far and worked too hard to get fucked by life at this point.

I issue a warning to 2018. Do not get in my way. Do not harm us anymore. If you do I will take a baseball bat to your head, knock you down, kick and break your ribs, bust your fucking teeth out and bruise your kidneys.

You will piss blood.

Happy Fucking New Year.

Feed Your Soul

"But if nobody loves you
  and you feel like dust
  on an empty shelf
  just remember
  you can love yourself"

"You Can Love Yourself",   Keb Mo

Good Night's Sleep My Ass

Nobody who earns under $100,000 a year sleeps well.

Law of nature.

I haven't had a good night's sleep in 30 years. I go to bed tired, I wake up tired.

Me and every other person I know as well as 98% of the people I don't know.

Jesus Christ - take a look around. Look at the bags under the eyes, the yawning, the short tempers.

Sleep is a fucking joke. And the sleep industry whips us all up into a frenzy. Sleep is a "thing" now.

Gotta get a good night's sleep if you want even a chance to live beyond the age of 30. You cannot succeed in life without a good night's sleep. Sleeping well brings you closer to God.

And the fucking mattresses. Holy shit. You gotta finance your mattress purchases these days.

Carol and I slept on the same piece of shit mattress for 25 or 30 years. I slept like shit. We went out and bought one of those magical, mystical memory foam mattresses for about $100,000. I believe we are making payments on the fucking thing.

The only memory our memory foam mattress has is the memory of me lying awake every night.

I still sleep like shit.

Then you get desperate, right? Bring on the alcohol, baby. The booze kills your pain and helps to keep you docile so you just keep on plodding along in life "earning a living". And you tell yourself that it helps you sleep.

Which any drinker knows is bullshit. You definitely fall asleep quickly, but you eventually and always wake up at 3:00 am when the booze wears off and your fears come flooding back.

You get up and take a piss, crawl back into bed and proceed to lie awake until 5:45. The alarm goes off at 6:00.

I know. I tried that approach for about 40 years. I don't even drink that much any more and I still sleep like shit. There is no justice. Jesus hates me.

You work your ass off and pray you will live long enough to be able to "afford to retire" (another phrase that should be stricken from the English language, along with the word "weekend" - these are no longer really a thing).

Your best friend says "Hey Joe - you are 72 years old. Why the fuck don't you retire?"

And you respond "I can't. Gotta pay for my mattress."

I don't know, man. There is a large slice of society that is cut off from real people. People who preach the benefits of a good night's sleep, people who ride their fucking Peloton, people who eat kale, and take black elderberry to strengthen their immune systems.

Who the fuck are these people? These people who are completely divorced from reality?

They are the fucking devil, man.

And they are coming after your soul.

Incomprehensibility and You

Sometimes when I see my shit in writing it blows me away.

In incomprehensibility (from your point of view).

That whole merry fucking Christmas thing made perfect sense in my mind and at the time. Still does.

John Lennon, Sarge, Jonathan, Carol, Keith, Craig, the insulting phoniness of Christmas - fucking death, suffering, loss and disappointment - it came upon me in a flood of emotion. All the dots were connected.

When I finally got around to writing about it I struggled with it a bit. That's what happens when you wait a week to translate emotion into words.

Still, I thought I got it down.

When I read it now from your point of view I see you scratching your head.

I don't really care.

I would like to cogently transmit my thoughts, emotions and opinions to you every time. But, ultimately I don't really care whether you get it or not.

I am one of a kind.

I cannot expect people to understand me in general.

In short - I feel absolutely nothing about Christmas this year. Nothing.

We don't even have our tree up yet and I don't give a shit. (Author's note - Our tree is about 2 feet tall, sits on a table, and takes 8 seconds to put in place. Catch my drift?)

Of course we will put the thing up. It is a law. The Christmas police will be peeking in our picture window soon.

OK. That's enough for now.

Ciao, baby.

Merry Fucking Christmas

Three years ago today my brother-in-law Sarge died from cancer. Three years ago tomorrow my nephew Jonathan died of a heroin overdose.

Those two deaths will always be linked together with Christmas.

Period. No way around it.

Those two days and the resulting aftermath are permanently burned into my mind, my heart, my soul.

Cori called us early in the morning to tell us about Sarge. Carol and I crawled back into bed, cried, and talked about her amazing brother.

The very next morning, early, my brother called to tell us about Jonathan. He actually apologized to me. I will never forget that. He knew about Sarge and he said something like "I'm sorry to tell you this after hearing about Carol's brother but......". He lost his only son, his only child, to that fucking drug and he still took the time to worry about my emotions.

We crawled back into bed, cried, and talked about Jonathan, the nephew I never really got to know, to my eternal regret.

I was driving to work last Saturday, December 9, listening to The Beatles station on Sirius. They were discussing John Lennon's assassination with the last person to ever interview him. This guy spent 3 or 4 hours in the Dakota interviewing John and Yoko on the day John was killed. After the interview John asked the guy if he would drop him and Yoko off at the recording studio, which he did.

John was shot to death by fucking Chapman after leaving the studio that night.

The worst part of that deal was that John had just come out of a 5 year hiatus. He dropped out of the music business to spend time with his son Sean. He and Yoko ended up putting together an album called Double Fantasy, released 3 weeks before he was killed.

The music was so positive, so uplifting, so full of love and happiness. Lennon was at a very good place in his life and in his head. And then he was dead.

My emotions about John come and go at this time of year. Sometimes I give it a little thought; sometimes I give it a lot of thought.

Last Saturday the emotions came flooding back and became interconnected with Sarge's death, Jonathan's death, Carol's brutal battle with cancer, and the problems my two precious sons, Keith and Craig, are dealing with.

It all got wrapped up with a pretty bow in my mind relative to fucking Christmas bullshit.

I never really liked the holiday. It is so fucking phony and creates so much stress. It is a holiday that tries to manufacture emotion and do it at the expense of already empty wallets.

When I watch TV and endure endless commercials hawking products and trying to make it look like all is happiness and light, I want to fucking puke. I want to choke the life out of the people who create these commercials; I want to destroy the people who schedule them to play every 15 seconds.

It is relentless, it is mindless, it is soul sucking and offensive.

My wife Carol has endured the worst year of her life. A mastectomy on Labor Day weekend, a tumor removed from her brain on 11/02, from which she is still recovering. Her speech is off, she is limited to what she can eat because chewing is not easy, she gets exhausted easily. Her body has been under assault for four months.

I don't give a fuck about Christmas. Except for the fact that I will get to spend the day with Carol, my sons and my brother. That's what it is all about.

It is not about fucking presents and fucking phony "Merry Christmas" rolling mindlessly off everyone's fucking tongue.

You know what my best present would be? To have my wife back. Healthy and happy.

And if I feel this strongly about it, imagine how Carol feels about it.

I think of Christmas as a second Thanksgiving. That's how we approach it. Thanksgiving was magnificent; just the four of us sitting around the dinner table talking, laughing and reminiscing.

Christmas will bring the added bonus of having my brother Ed here. Carol did not want Eddie here on Thanksgiving because he has a new woman and Carol was not comfortable meeting her considering the way Carol looks and the way she talks.

But Carol being Carol, the amazingly strong person that she is, she realizes that she will have to deal with this bullshit for a while, so she decided she would rather have Eddie here and deal with meeting his woman.

We are looking forward to 2018. We are focused on that and only that. We want a new year. A good year. We deserve it.

Carol will not be completely healed by January but at least we can put this fucking year behind us.

Meanwhile, for the rest of 2017, I will be loving my wife. Thinking about her. Protecting her. I will be thinking about John Lennon. Sarge. Jonathan. Keith. Craig.

Instead of putting out phony emotions I will be thinking about the things that matter in life. The things you can lose.

In a fucking heartbeat.

You want the tinsel and the bullshit, you go right ahead. Go for it.

I will be focused on the people I love and how they make my life worth living.

And to you I say:

Merry Fucking Christmas.

Tomorrow

Carol goes back to work tomorrow.

Part time. 10 to 2 for the rest of the year. I wish with all my heart she never had to work another day in her life.

Of course it had to fucking snow. I shoveled like a motherfucker. I put sand down everywhere I could.

But I am working all goddamn day. I'll be here when she leaves, so I can pull the car around, help her negotiate the fucking snow.

I will NOT be here at 2:30 when she gets home. Son of a fucking bitch.

I told her not to stop and get the mail; just drive in and get in the house safely.

My heart breaks and it breaks and it breaks.

Carol has said more than once that she looks stupid with a droopy face. That she is self conscious about her speech.

If I had any brains at all I would have made a lot more money in life and she wouldn't have to deal with this.

She is sleeping on the couch right now. She gets tired.

I don't know how tomorrow will affect her.

Son of a fucking bitch.

December 8

Happy Birthday, Gregg Allman. I miss you as if you were a member of my own family.

Happy Birthday, Jim Morrison. I always worshipped your insanity and your deeply informed creativity.

Mark David Chapman. I hope somebody slips razor blades into your next meal and you die the most painful death imaginable.

! (?)

You can lose the weight and regain the dignity

You can earn money on the side doing what you love, and make your life easier (if you try)

You can awaken and elevate your brain power to the place it ought to be; you can be smart

You can make your life your own; it is not too late

Painful Fucking Truths, Baby

And on the brave and crazy wings of youth
They went flying around in the rain
And their feathers, once so fine, grew torn and tattered
And in the end they traded their tired wings
For the resignation that living brings

"Before The Deluge", Jackson Browne

Shitting My Pants

Last week Carol drove for the first time since the brain operation.

Had to register her car and drop it off for inspection.

I followed in my car. I literally edged towards the side of the road a couple of times because I was watching her car like a hawk instead of focusing on my own driving.

As if I was fucking Superman. Like if her car suddenly swerved I would be able to fly out the driver's side window of my own car and rescue her, and make it back to my car before it rolled off the road.

I was shitting bricks.

I am shitting bricks for next week too. Emotional bricks.

We have yet another follow up appointment at Dartmouth-Hitchcock this Friday, where we expect the Doc to give Carol a thumbs up for going back to work, part time.

She can handle it. I think she is ready. Except we both thought her speech would be back to normal by then.

It is not. It is not even close.

It breaks my heart that she will have to deal with that. And although she is not as emotional as I am, I have to believe it will bother her.

She has to keep on dealing with hard things. She doesn't deserve this.

When we talk at home, it breaks my heart every time. I know how frustrated she is about the lack of progress. I hate to see her this way, I hate to watch her have to deal with it.

Her first day back will be just one more day in this process when I will think about her obsessively. Worry about her.

I want my wife back.

I want her to be happy.

A Noble Goal

Just worked 7 days in a row.

Can't complain. I was covering for a co-worker who's husband had a serious operation. Just as she did for me when Carol went through her own private hell.

But I am tired. And very much on edge. Have been for a while, for obvious reasons.

My goal for today is to not leave the house. For any reason.

If the house catches on fire I would assist Carol to safety and then walk right back in through the door.

That's just the way it is.

A Durable Quote

Pulp Fiction.

Marsellus Wallace gets raped by Zed while The Gimp keeps an eye on Butch. Eventually Butch breaks fee, kills The Gimp, and rescues Marsellus.

Butch asks Marsellus "Are you OK?"

Marsellus responds "No. I'm pretty fucking far from OK."

That's how Carol feels.

That's how I feel.

We are pretty fucking far from OK.



But we are working on it.