Saturday, December 29, 2018

Conquering 2019

Goals:

1) Get money
2) Get skinny
3) Get happy

Strategy for achieving goals:

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Thursday, December 27, 2018

2019

2019 lurks. It's right around the corner, baby.

New years are strange animals. Everybody wants a new start. But usually, once you shake off the hangover, everything looks depressingly the same and nothing changes.

That is a killer.

2018 ground me down. Hollowed out my insides and left me numb. There were noticeable changes in my demeanor, which I have given a great deal of thought to. I wanted to chalk them up to learning, evolving - a sudden ability to not sweat the small stuff.

But I don't think that is true.

2018 started on November 2, 2017 when Carol had a tumor removed from her brain. She has not been the same since. And every day since then, when I look at her, when I listen to her, it breaks my heart. I didn't realize the toll it was taking on me until recently.

Having said that, what a stupid and a selfish thing to say. She is the one who has suffered - enormously - who had her life turned upside down.

Unfortunately, Carol is not real open about her feelings, a trait that has frustrated me for forty years. So she doesn't talk about it much. I know she is frustrated, but I don't have a sense for the the depth of her hurt. Then again, I am not sure she has a feeling for the depth of my hurt.

I got fat in 2018. This is not conducive to a positive self image. I am pretty down on myself, and feeling strange premonitions of foreboding for 2019.

Not the way I want to greet a new year.

I will be 65 on January 1. Not happy about that either. I don't feel old, at least not too old, but there is a sense of finality about that number, a sense of measurement - a yardstick.

Cancer lurks. Got the melanoma thing out there and not sure where that may lead. After I got over the initial shock in 2016 I joked about it. Stage 1A. Baby stuff. But I know melanoma can turn nasty. Go internal.

Also got three cancerous spots on my prostate. Being monitored. So that shit is out there, along with the whole turning 65 thing.

If I was smart I would draw from the examples Carol and my brother Ed set.

Carol fights like a warrior on this facial muscle thing and maintains a remarkably positive attitude. I hear her tell people over and over again that if this is the worst to happen to her, she doesn't have it so bad. If anybody else said that I would think they were full of shit. I believe Carol means it.

Ed has been through the toughest thing any person ever has to go through. He has also had a few other serious setbacks in his life. And he keeps bouncing back better and faster and stronger. He has an amazingly positive attitude as well.

I don't know if I am smart. I don't know if I can learn from them. I don't know if I can adapt their toughness to my own situation. Maybe I could withdraw a syringe of determination from each of them and inject it directly into my essence.

I am feeling flat about 2019. Feeling kind of broken. But I have a sense that if I don't turn things around, I never will. And I could not live with myself in that case.

Feels like a big year coming up. An important one.

I must try to be equal to the challenge.

Tuesday, December 18, 2018

Never Be The Same

Another December four years down the road and it never gets any easier.

Been four years since Sarge and Jonathan died - December 16th and 17th. That deeply painful time scooped a chunk out of my soul that has never been refilled. And never will be.

It was mind blowing to discover how hard you can hurt. Carol and I spent a few days driving back and forth from Maine to Massachusetts to wakes and celebrations of life. Drowning in tears - our own, and those of every family member and friend who was devastated by these deaths.

I drove down to spend a night with my brother. When I first got there and got out of my car we hugged in the parking lot. And sobbed. I think it was in the parking lot. Could have been his apartment. I don't trust my memory through that painful fog.

When he called me on the morning of Jonathan's death he said "I lost my boy." Broke my heart. Broke my fucking heart.

I remember crying in Cori's arms. She said to me "He was the love of my life. What am I going to do?"Broke my heart. Broke my fucking heart.

In both cases I felt powerless to in any way ease the pain. That is just the way it works.

Early on, life gives you things. A spouse, kids, a house, jobs. A purpose. Later on life begins to take things away from you. Family members, friends, your health.

The more life takes away, the more precious what or who remains becomes.

I am not sure that lesson sunk in four years ago. Or since. I am wrapped up in myself and am a bit myopic as a result.

Until Carol got sick. That opened my eyes and my heart wide.

These things hurt. They rip you up. People will tell you it's a part of life, which is true. I don't need cold-hearted cliches to explain away my pain.

It hurts. It all fucking hurts. Period.

I miss Sarge, I miss Jonathan, I miss Kevin (who died in March of 2015), I curse the days my wife was diagnosed with breast cancer and a brain tumor.

I get by because I have sons who love me. And Carol who loves me. And family members and friends who love me.

That's it. That's what it is all about.

This time of year will never be the same.

Happy Birthday, Keith

Keith Richards is 75 years old today.

A pretty big fuck you to all the people predicting his premature death.

I try to get in here every year and celebrate his birthday because I love and respect the man. I have always felt like I had to defend my opinion because so many people judge him superficially.

Fuck that. Either you get him or you don't.

He is a giant in the rock world because of his musical chops, his knowledge, his thirst to keep learning about his instrument and the music, his confidence and his willingness to speak the truth to anyone at anytime.

He is respected. He is loved.

I find it amusing and hypocritical that so many people criticize him for his drinking and his drugging over the years. These are the same people who get home from work and drink themselves numb because they hate their job, they hate their life.

Sometimes I think it is pure jealousy. They can't stand that he loves what he does, he is successful at it, and he has a hell of a time doing it.

He has given me a new wrinkle to consider this year. He quit drinking. For the most part.

"I pulled the plug on it. I got fed up with it. It was time to quit. Just like all the other stuff." That is Keith talking to Rolling Stone magazine recently. And "It was interesting to play sober."

Apparently he enjoys an occasional glass of wine or a beer but that is it.

The man does what he wants to do. He knows his body. I remember reading that he respected either his father or grandfather (I can't remember which) because he had a "strong constitution". When people asked him over the years how he handled drugs and booze he said he knew he had a strong constitution, he knew he could handle it.

People died trying to keep up with him in the partying department. Trust me, you gotta know what you can handle.

What I love is that he gives up drinking with no apologies and no regrets. It worked for him until it didn't. Then he pulled the plug.

Keith got into rock music (via the blues) and made it his own.

Keith Richards is rock 'n roll.

Happy Birthday, man - have yourself a blast.



Other December Considerations

I have been lousy in the last few years about getting in here on December 8th.

So, belatedly, here I go:

Happy Birthday, Gregg Allman. You would have been 71 on December 8, and I sorely wish you were here to celebrate that birthday. You gave meaning to my life and a way to escape everything I hated.

Happy Birthday, Jim Morrison. You would have been 75 on December 8, but you never even came close. Rock 'n roll came along and stole your poetic heart and broke it.

John Lennon - you were killed on December 8, 1980. 38 years later I still shake my head and wonder why anyone would want to kill a man who dedicated his life to bringing about a peaceful world. You were ragged and you were real.

Saturday, December 15, 2018

No Dispute

Just got home from work a short while ago.

Carol was baking chocolate chip cookies, listening to Barry Manilow on Alexa. Absolutely fucking perfect setting.

I wolfed down two WARM cookies, went upstairs to get comfortable. Came downstairs, poured myself a short whiskey and hit the recliner.

Now I have two cats sleeping in my lap. I dialed up a bunch of John Prine songs on Alexa.

When I was out I picked up hamburger rolls for the cheeseburgers I'm gonna barbecue tonight.

Gonna watch a few more episodes of The Marvelous Mrs.Maisel before I cook.

Got me a pretty nice life.

Wednesday, December 12, 2018

Every Parent Cannot Be Right

Every parent in the world will tell you they have good kids.

Except Jeffrey Dahmer's.

The best, the brightest, the most talented, the most successful, and on and on and on. They can't all be right.

Some of their kids have to be dope fiends, alcoholics, murderers, deviates, miscreants, rapists, sluts.

Maybe a lot of them.

It's like when you watch Wheel of Fortune and Pat Sajak asks "Who do you have in the audience" and the responses invariably come back "my beautiful wife, my amazing husband, my awesome kids, my incredible parents........."  Does every fucking wife in the world have to be beautiful? Every husband amazing?

I guarantee some of those people go home and say "I'm going upstairs to watch TV, asshole." "Yeah, OK - do whatever you want, shithead."

By the way, I used to hate watching game shows. Felt I was wasting my time, not making full use of my massive intelligence. Now I dig it. We don't do it every night but when we do I don't feel like I should poke my eyeballs out.

I have lightened up in many ways in the past year. Especially when it comes to weather. I did not panic when summer ended or when it got cold. I felt absolutely no anxiety, which is a fucking miracle. I felt nothing at all.

Except for snow. When the first snow hit I was outside throwing my shovel around the yard. Not kidding. Flinging the fucking thing in disgust. I will never get used to snow, never cut it any slack.

If snow could be given human characteristics I would cut its balls off and shove them down its throat.

We are coming up on Week 15 in the NFL and I am experiencing zero panic. None. The season is coming to a close and I remain serene. That may be the ultimate fucking proof that I have lightened up.

Anyway, back to my point. The amazing thing is my sons are the two most amazing humans on planet earth. How did that happen? What a miracle. And it's truth.

Don't take my word for it. Just ask Carol.

Fucking intelligent, personable, successful, hilarious, handsome, brave, clean and reverent.

So while I listen to you brag about your kids, all the while thinking to myself (Jesus fucking Christ, do you really expect me to believe this shit, you blow hard?), I take comfort in knowing that my sons will one day be elected to the Offspring Hall of Fame.

In addition I am amused to think that when they are asked "How much credit do you give to your father for making you the men you are today?" they will respond "Zero. Are you fucking kidding us? He was nothing more than a lovable loser and no account boozer. And he didn't even understand the game of basketball."

Oh well. I never wanted kids anyway. A Ferrari Testarossa would have been a hell of a lot more fun.

A Perfect Line

"Perhaps her sin was so extreme that it could not be forgiven; perhaps her pride was so great that she did not need forgiveness."

From "Go Tell It On The Mountain", by James Baldwin

Dropping F-Bombs

In life, it's important to move fluidly and speak fluently.

Tuesday, December 11, 2018

I'm Pretty Sure

Two situations (out of many) that I definitely find it to be incongruous to have two cats sleeping in my lap in the recliner:

1) Watching football

2) Watching Ray Donovan

Thursday, December 6, 2018

Might As Well

A while back I watched "A Football Life" about Dwight Clark.

You know, the guy who made "The Catch". He played for the 49ers.

January 10, 1982 - NFC playoff game between the Cowboys and the 49ers, 58 seconds left in the game, Niners down 27-21, Clark makes a leaping catch in the back of the end zone to tie the game. The extra point won the game. The 49ers went on to win Super Bowl XVI.

I got educated. I always wondered what the big deal was, always felt it should be called "The Throw" because Montana put the ball exactly where it needed to be.  Of course there is some prejudice there because I loved Joe Montana (is that not the greatest football name ever?) and did not know a goddamn thing about Dwight Clark.

Anyway, I was wrong. After watching this show and listening to players - former 49ers and players from other teams - talk about it - I have humbly changed my opinion.

It was a great catch.

I learned a lot about Dwight Clark as a human being. He was a cool dude.

In March of 2017 he announced he had been diagnosed with ALS. Subsequently, when asked if he would change anything about his life, given the diagnosis, he said no. He loved his life, his football career, and if his life was going to be shortened, so be it.

This kind of thing kind of stuns me. Other football players have said the same thing. But Ricky Gervais recently put it into perspective for me.

He was being interviewed by Alec Baldwin who asked (I am paraphrasing) do you feel you need to drink a little less wine, slow down a little, to increase your odds of longevity? Gervais said something like "people tell you to take better care of yourself and you might live ten years longer. What they don't tell you is those are the ten worst years of your life."

Fucking hilarious. And true. And applicable.

Dwight Clark died on June 4, 2018 from ALS. He was 61 years old. I did not see this coming, I did not know he died. I was so wrapped up in the show that I shed a few tears when they got to his death.

And in a related story......................

I just read a book titled "Bangkok Babylon", written by Jerry Hopkins. Cool book about unique characters, ex-pats all, who moved from their home country (mostly the U.S.) to Thailand because it was wild and exciting and free spirited. Very cool book which could be the subject of another post.

Jerry Hopkins was a cool dude. In 1980 he wrote "No One Here Gets Out Alive", a biography of Jim Morrison. A book that I have read, of course, and still own. He went on to write a lot of music related biographies.

I did not know a lot about him so, after reading "Bangkok Babylon", I decided to do some research.

He did a lot of things. He wrote 37 books, 1,000 magazine articles, he wrote for The Village Voice, Rolling Stone, he opened the first head shop in LA, MC'ed love-ins and on and on and on.

He lived in California, moved to Hawaii and finally settled in Bangkok in 1993, where he stayed. Like all of the ex-pats in his book he was constantly reinventing himself.

I also learned that he died on June 3, 2018. He was 82 years old.

This got to me. No tears, but a definitely heavy, sinking feeling. I felt like I just got to know him and then I find out he died 6 months ago.

Just like Dwight Clark.

What the fuck.

Death is a motherfucker, baby. Nobody wants it around. I feel death brushing right up against me, whispering in my ear. Whether it's in two weeks or twenty years, it is making its presence known.

I gotta do something. Football is out so I might as well move to Bangkok.

Saturday, December 1, 2018

So Fucking True

"I have very little in common with anybody in the States. They've got it down to a science, you never make enough to get off the treadmill, paying off the house, paying for the kids' shoes, paying your wife's alimony, whatever the fuck it is, you're on the treadmill for the rest of your life. It's perfect. It's beautiful. If I were going to create a system of slaves, that would be it."

From "Bangkok Babylon",  by Jerry Hopkins

Wednesday, November 28, 2018

Ray Donovan

I have taken a deep dive into this show on Showtime.

They are into Season 6; I started watching about 2 weeks ago and I am half way through Season 3.

Fucking awesome show. Reminds me very much of The Sopranos. You know, you got these bad ass characters you should hate, but because you get to see their sensitive side, you love them, you root for them.

Man, every time Ray Donovan kills somebody, I celebrate with champagne.

Anyway, as I try to fine tune my life before there ain't nothing left, and I am wondering how to handle a certain situation I say to myself "What would Mickey do?"

Referring to Mickey Donovan, Ray's Dad. Played by Jon Voight.

Awesome character. "Devil may care I don't give a shit about anything" kind of guy.

Jesus Christ I love this fucking show.

Best Pre-Game Hype EVER

Been meaning to tell you.

Football players go crazy right before the game, on the field, trying to pump up their teammates. 99% of the time the talk is so lame it is embarrassing. A fucking joke.

Example: "We are gonna kill these guys. How we gonna do that? We're gonna score more points than them. How we gonna do that? We're gonna score more touchdowns. More extra points. More field goals. If we are ahead at the end of the game I guarantee you a win. On three. One-two-three: "more points."

Kirk Cousins gets my award for best pump up speech ever. This season, Week 6, Vikings/Cardinals.

"Hey, I got a question for you. How did you feel after last week's victory, men? Great, right? That's because it was earned, men. Nothing in this league is free. Nothing's a gift. You can't just roll your helmet out there and play. You gotta go out there every play and earn it. And you gotta take it, men.

Defense, I've been a rookie quarterback before. You can suffocate him. You can suffocate him. Make him miserable......all game long. Get us the ball back."

Fucking awesome. Absolutely fucking awesome.


It's True

Gonna change my name, legally, to JuJu Smith-Schuster.

That name is too fucking good for only one man to own.

This Is Why We Have A Dickhead In The White House

"The 1960's were over, and for all the noise and strong points protesters had made during that extraordinary decade, the sense remained that an opportunity to forge fundamental change had been missed, that the American government was as unresponsive and autocratic as ever, that America remained divided as ever by inequalities of race and class. The great rebellion had fallen short. The hippies were moving on, taking jobs and moving to the suburbs. They would pull out their dirty old t-shirts and bell-bottomed jeans to attend Dylan concerts, but the next morning they would dress again in suits and ties and head to their office jobs downtown. Their strident songs and dances hadn't quite done the job."

From "Ali: A Life", by Jonathan Eig

I have been saying this for decades but this paragraph says it better than I ever did.

My generation rose up as one, threw a spotlight on all the injustices and corruption in this country, and tried to make a change. There will never again be a movement like that in this country. It was a one shot deal.

You can blame us for getting sidetracked by drugs and sex (not a bad way to get sidetracked), and that is true to some extent. But the real force, the true, overwhelming reason behind this failure was and is the power wielded by the government, corporations, and the wealthy.

They saw an uprising that threatened to upset their lifestyle, that threatened to wrestle control away from them and give it to the people, where it truly belongs. And they fought back with everything they had. Money, power, corruption, violence, lies. You know, the weapons they use every day to keep us in our place.

Hope resurfaced briefly in 2008 and 2012 when Barack Obama was elected and re-elected to the presidency.

What, a black man?

But if you paid attention, right after he was elected the first time around, you noticed people lynching him in effigy all around the country. Those assholes exposed this country openly and honestly for what it is.

A vicious, racist, violent country. A country founded on bloodshed, torture, slavery, lies, corruption and a massive imbalance between the haves and the have-nots.

trump and the cretins who support him are the ultimate result of this horrible karma.

My generation mistakenly thought we could win that fight in the sixties. We never had a chance.

And no one ever will.

Goin' Shoppin'

Heading out to The Gravitas Store.

Gotta get me some gravitas.

Sunday, November 25, 2018

I Don't Understand The Rules

Per society's cast in stone laws:

At what age are you no longer allowed to stoke a fire in the belly?

Stuck In The Middle With Me

I am not as bad as I used to be, not as good as I could be.

Wednesday, November 21, 2018

Psychotic MD

Is it possible to sustain brain damage from repeated figurative blows to the head?

One of The Many Reasons I Loved HST

"More than six hundred reporters had arrived in Zaire, and, with the possible exception of Rolling Stone's Hunter S. Thompson, who spent much of his time shopping for elephant tusks, smoking marijuana, and getting drunk, most of the journalists were miserable."

From "Ali: A Life",  by Jonathan Eig

The man always knew how to have a good time in any situation.


Sunday, November 18, 2018

What A Fucking Conundrum

Got a lot on my mind right now. Not sure why. Not exactly sure what exactly is on my mind (that's a fucking lie).

Can't sleep. Waking up at 3:00, lying awake for hours. Hasn't happened in a loooooong time.

Last night I strolled downstairs at 4:00 and tried to sleep in my recliner. Lakota climbed up into my lap and I was so comforted. Until half an hour later she jumped down and found someplace else to sleep.

I experienced a feeling of being alone like I have never experienced before. Gut level alone.

So I got a lot on my mind. But I have recently lost my mind. So I won't really know what I have on my mind until I find my fucking mind

What a fucking conundrum.

Tuesday, November 13, 2018

Quite Possibly My Favorite Poem of All Time


Clay comes out to meet Liston

Clay comes out to meet Liston
and Liston starts to retreat,
if Liston goes back an inch farther
he'll end up in a ringside seat.
Clay swings with his left,
Clay swings with his right,
Look at young Cassius
carry the fight
Liston keeps backing, but there's not enough room
It's a matter of time till Clay lowers the boom.
Now Clay lands with a right,
What a beautiful swing,
and the punch raises the Bear
clean out of the ring.
Liston is still rising and the ref wears a frown,
For he can't start counting
till Sonny goes down.
Now Liston is disappearing from view,
the crowd is going frantic,
But radar stations have picked him up,
Somewhere over the Atlantic.
Who would have thought
when they came to the fight?
That they'd witness the launching
of a human satellite.
Yes the crowd did not dream,
when they put up the money,
That they would see
a total eclipse of the Sonny.

Cassius Clay

Sunday, November 11, 2018

I Was Just Thinking......

I live in a run down house, got me a run down bank account and a run down body.

I think I can turn things around.

Friday, November 9, 2018

Thursday, November 8, 2018

What Love Is

Love is a strange little animal.

Between humans, anyway.

It starts out as one thing and then becomes the real thing, if you are lucky.

Confident people approach love with cockiness. "Yeah, I know I am attractive, I am personable and I know people naturally want to be around me."

That kind of attitude makes meeting people easier, but I think it complicates things in the long run. You gotta get past the ego and get down to what love truly is; you gotta dig down with sincerity and an appreciation for how powerful love can be before you can honestly say that you are "in love".

Most people fail at this. Or don't even try. And then love becomes an endurance test. Or divorce.

Shy people avoid this. Just summoning the courage to ask someone out is a big deal. If they get over that hurdle I believe shy people are more honest. I am talking about people who do not fit the classic definition of being physically attractive, and people who have little or no self confidence. People who maybe get little respect and attention in their daily life. People who just are.

Love to them is magic. "Holy shit, this person agreed to go out with me. Maybe I won't be alone for my entire life." They understand on a deeper level what it means to open yourself up to another person, how risky that van be. They get how hard life is and how amazing it is to share it with someone. They skip the whole "trying to impress each other" bullshit. They go right to the "this is who I really am" chapter in the story.

This is my theory. I could be completely full of shit. I often am.

And I am not demeaning shy people. I am respecting them. They are more honest.

When I see a scene like that in a movie - two shy people having dinner for the first time - or read it in a book, it resonates with me. You say "For Christ sake, Joe - it's only a movie." Yeah, I get it but what the hell do you want me to do? Stalk shy people?

Movies quite often depict life as it truly is. At least good ones do.

For me it always comes down to honesty - straight ahead emotional and intellectual communication. No bullshit. I ache for that. I get it from my family, but when I walk out the door it's a whole different story.

I don't blame people. You gotta shield yourself to survive. This is why I hate going out in public.

If I have to talk to someone I want that communication to be pure. Silly, huh? I just think that if you gotta interact with people it would be nice to interact with who they really are.

Ridiculously unrealistic. Which is why I have my books and my poetry to protect me. Can't resist - I dredge that lyric up from time to time because it resonates with me. Thanks, Paul Simon.

Anyway, what I meant to say is that's why scenes of shy people stretching out into love rocks me. It just seems more real to me. And it shines a white hot spotlight on how risky it is to decide to trust someone.

Tuesday, November 6, 2018

A Certain Type

There is a certain type of movie that resonates with my soul.

Do you have that? I fucking hope so. You need it. You need something so powerful that you can escape your own life for a couple of hours.

If you don't have that you are probably an alcoholic or a drug addict, and that is completely understandable.

For me, the story, the characters, the setting , the music - every single piece of it connects with exactly who I am.

There is no one  stereotype - I could list at least a dozen movies - probably 25 - that mean this much to me. I am not going to list them because what resonates with me does not resonate with you, and if you do not connect with what I connect with I just don't give a shit. This is my life.

A recent comparison. There is a movie called "Heat". Pacino. De Niro. Everything about that movie validates who I am. There is one scene in that movie that I have elevated to iconic status in my mind.

Al Pacino is a detective. De Niro is a high level crook. At one point they meet in a diner to have a conversation. And that conversation is dripping with awareness.

Pacino knows who De Niro is and what he has done, De Niro knows Pacino is a cop who will do anything to take him down.

The tension in the scene comes from an awareness that each man respects the other, but there is also an awareness, blatantly obvious, that each man will kill the other if it comes down to it. Their conversation is direct, and whatever subtext there is, is right out there in the open for the two of them to consider.

Watch the movie. Unless you are fully committed to watching Vin Diesel in The Fast and The Furious XXV. In that case, go fuck yourself. You are not a movie fan; you are a celebrity fan.

In 2016 a movie called "Hell Or High Water" showed up. Starring Jeff Bridges. Grabbed me by the throat.

The final scene is mind blowing, reminiscent of the Pacino/De Niro scene in "Heat". I put it on the same level. The whole movie is good, maybe you'll have the guts to watch it (I don't fucking care), but that last scene between Jeff Bridges and Chris Pine (Toby Howard in the movie), is what life should be all about, but isn't. Just like Pacino and De Niro.

What I fucking love about this is that "Heat" came out in 1995, "Hell Or High Water" came out in 2016. Movies keep rolling along and, if you are lucky, you keep stumbling across a movie that just pins you to your seat and opens your mind to possibilities of a life you may have led.

Or a life you wish you had.

Brief aside: I am on a Jeff Bridges kick right now. Watch "Crazy Heart" if you dare. I have 4 or 5 or 6 times now. Last Tuesday was the most recent. Very human, very straight ahead real.

The movies that I watch save me. So far, anyway. They provide a reality I wish I could incorporate into my own life. To avoid boredom, to avoid phoniness, to avoid political correctness.

To avoid niceness. Christ I fucking hate being nice.

Sunday, November 4, 2018

Ultimate Epitaph

The ultimate epitaph that is appropriate for the vast majority of human beings on this planet:

"Please forget you knew my name".

Wednesday, October 31, 2018

Tuesday, October 30, 2018

The Way I See It

The way I see it, the Boston Red Sox won the World Series for Carol.

When she had the mastectomy last year on the Friday of Labor Day weekend she drove the people at Concord Hospital crazy before the operation. "Do you people get the Red Sox channel? What number is it? Will I be able to get it in my room? I want to watch the game after the operation."

She is a devoted and knowledgeable Red Sox fan.

5 and 1/2 hours of surgery, 1 hour in recovery (the first time in my life I ever saw Carol high), finally up to her room. I immediately turned on the TV and found the game.

She was in and out of it, but she knew the Sox were on and she was happy.

By November 2, when she had the brain tumor removed, the season was over and the Sox had been bounced out of the playoffs.

It has been a long, hard road since November 2nd. Almost a year now. And the Red Sox gave Carol an absolutely mind blowing year. Gave her so much happiness, so much excitement. Capping it off with a World Championship.

We celebrated Craig's birthday on Sunday. With Keith, Eddie, Carolina, Craig and Amanda. Such a perfect day. We welcomed Amanda into the family and she jumped right in like she has been with us for years.

Fantastic day. Everybody left just before the game started. And the Red Sox went on to win the game and another championship.

It absolutely could not have been a better day for Carol.

I shed a few tears in happiness after the final out. Not for the Red Sox. For Carol.

The Red Sox mean so much to her and they delivered. They helped her forget about what she is dealing with and they did it game after game this year. They won a championship for her.

Sunday was just an amazing day all around.

I am hoping Carol can coast on that good feeling for a little while.

She deserves it.

Carol Down The Stairs

On weekends, Carol sleeps later than me.

I am usually up by 8, she sleeps until 9. Which is fine. She deserves anything that gives her comfort and makes her happy.

I am always sitting in my recliner, 1 or 2 cats in my lap, cup of dark roast coffee by my right hand, reading a book. I watch her come down the stairs.

The right side of her face is facing me as she comes down. That is the side with the weakened muscles; it droops a bit. When I tell you her situation breaks my heart every single day, that's where it starts on weekends. That exact moment.

But...............I watch her come down the stairs to another day, another day of disappointment and not enough progress in her recovery, and there is no give in her. No hunched shoulders, no sense of defeat, even though I know she is enormously frustrated.

I know she will get to the bottom of the stairs. I know I will say "Hey, baby." I know she will say "Good morning." I know she will brew herself up a cup of coffee, walk over to the couch and say something positive. I know she will talk excitedly to me about something in the newspaper or about a blouse she wants to buy or about the Red Sox or about Keith and Craig.

Her mind is always working and always thinks positive thoughts. She continues to look for solutions to the weak facial muscles. She's gonna do a dry needling thing this week. She tried Reiki last week.

I had no idea who I married almost 41 years ago. Not really. I just thought she had nice legs. I'm a leg man. That, and the fact that she was her own person. She knew who she was and was not afraid to show the world.

I now know that she is the toughest person on planet earth. Toughest and most positive. Inspirational.

I now know that she deserves all the love and respect and sensitivity that any one could possibly give her.

There are times when I feel like my heart will burst with love for her.

I came to this much later than I should have and under the wrong circumstances. But I am glad I finally fucking woke up.

I know that the first Saturday that she comes down those stairs after her facial muscles have bounced back, I will most likely saturate my face with tears. Won't be able to hide it, like I do now.

And I won't feel a speck of embarrassment.

The Heaviest Thing

According to the Guinness Book of World Records, the heaviest object ever directly weighed was the Revolving Service Structure of launch pad 39B at NASA's Kennedy Space Center in Florida.

It weighed 5,342,000 pounds.

I believe Guinness is trying too hard.

The heaviest thing known to man is guilt.

Wednesday, October 24, 2018

They Just Keep Coming

"He had called himself a coward and a puppet and Bosch could think of nothing much harsher that a man could put on his own tombstone."

"The Last Coyote",   Michael Connelly

Saturday, October 20, 2018

Something To Think About

When you begin to judge your own failures through the prism of the successes of the people you worship, no matter how unrealistic that may be, you know you have fallen into a deep and very dark place.

Thursday, October 18, 2018

Chilling Reminder

We have a magnet on the side of the refrigerator that says:

"ServiceLink - Aging and Disability Resource Center"

This disturbs me greatly
                                     

Wednesday, October 17, 2018

Pushing The Product

Taking it's cue from the Florida Orange Juice Growers, the National Funeral Directors Association is test marketing a new ad at their NFDA International Convention & Expo in Boston this year:

"Death. It's not just for breakfast anymore."

(Editor's note: Funeral directors apparently are as subtle and creative as accountants.)

A Startling Realization

"He reminded himself more of the dead than the living."

"The Last Coyote",   Michael Connelly

Bluebirds Got All The Answers

Johnny Fuckubot was talking to his friend.

Johnny F: I got real problems, man. I mean serious shit. Shit I gotta figure out. Right now. Right the fuck now.

Whoa, slow down friend. Can't nuthin' be that fucking urgent. What's goin' on?

Johnny F: I don't understand life. Never have. Probably never will. I mean, life has rules and those fucking rules are iron clad, my friend. No bend. No give.

Well, that's just the way it is. Those rules apply to everybody. Well, almost everybody. Except the ones who lie and cheat their way to money.

Johnny F: Here's what you don't understand. I am confused. And life feeds on confusion like cancer on the body. Know what I mean? I mean, as soon as you reveal confusion life says "Oh, boy - I got another one." And then it commences to eating your life away slowly and painfully until your path is narrow, it becomes the only path, and it leads in one inevitable direction.

Jesus, man - I've been trying to practice positivity, but you are making it a real challenge.

Johnny F: I need bags of money. All those fucking fools who say, mindlessly, money is the root of all evil are full of shit. It's the lack of money that is the root of all evil. I need money. So I can buy my way to dignity.

I can float you a fiver for now, man, if that helps.

Johnny F: Jesus Christ you don't understand. I need hundreds of thousands. Millions, even. What if I live 30 more years? Thirty years of rapidly escalating medical bills, thirty years of decreasing mobility, thirty years of wholesale deterioration. Money is the only thing that will grease me through all that shit. I don't have any. Don't know how to get what I need.

How old are you?

Johnny F: 64.

You won't make another thirty years.

Johnny F: Probably right. I feel that. I feel it every day when I crawl out of bed. Nothing specific but I definitely do not feel healthy. I am the kind of guy who will get that "You only got 6 months to live" diagnosis. Know what I mean? When it comes, it's coming all at once. But it will give me time to fucking think about it. Time to wallow in regret. Time to stew in the poisonous knowledge that I did not do anything with my life. Just let it fucking slip by.

That's dark, man.

Johnny F: Well you fucking brought it up. And speaking of time, I got no relationship with it except in connection to death. Every day is the same. The same boring, humiliating shit. Same worries, same sense of loss, same conviction that I have pissed it all away. Every day trickles by unnoticed. I feel like a cowboy who has lassoed my own tombstone and is dragging it closer day by day. That is the only way I see time.

You gotta lighten up, man. Have yourself a drink. Shit, have yourself a party.

Johnny F: The lottery presents a pretty realistic retirement option but I keep forgetting to buy tickets. I say to my wife, "How come we never win the lottery?" She says "Because you never buy tickets, dear." I say "Oh, yeah. Good point." Apparently I got some sort of fatal flaw in my ability to think logically. Might explain how I ended up this way. Painful realization.

I'm speechless.

Johnny F: I feel life eating away at me. Shit, I can hear it. Smell my life, my hopes, my dreams rotting away and dropping off.

What can I do to help?

Johnny F: Nothin'. Not unless you got a couple hundred thousand bucks laying around to give me.

I don't.

Johnny F: Forget about it, man. Don't worry about me. I am alone with my life. Been a loner all along. Didn't make the right moves, the right connections, the right decisions. Lost in a perpetual fog of confusion about how I fit in and what to do about it. Fuck it.

All right, JF - I gotta run. Gotta attend a meeting of The Bluebirds of Positivity Club. We're a happy bunch. Wanna come along?

Johnny F: Fuck that. I'd rather eat my own shit.

Good luck with that, brother.

Thursday, October 11, 2018

Reflection

I don't know if I own any big boy pants

The Latest Defibrillator

Football just might save my life.

I am consuming football at an alarming rate this year. Watching all the live football I can squeeze in, watching "Inside The NFL" every week, watching "Good Morning Football" 2 or 3 mornings a week, watching "A Football Life" every fucking week.

Yesterday morning I worked from 8-12 (I hate that fucking shift), did some responsible home owner stuff when I got home, then settled in to watch "Inside The NFL".

Had an epiphany. That is just the way shit hits me sometimes.

The Allman Brothers Band kept me alive for a very long time. They broke up a few times but their last transformation was the one that breathed life into my soul. Got back together in 1989 and ran that mutha all the way to 2014.

During that span of time I saw them almost every summer. At least once, many times twice and one memorable year three times. That year they played Manchester NH - I couldn't get anyone to join me so I went alone..............and had a fucking blast with the young people who sat near me. They saw me as the wise Allman Brothers elder and asked me a whole hell of a lot of questions. And we talked and laughed and smoked. Fuckin' eh.

Those trips could consist of four people, could consist of 15 people. Every concert was different but every concert was mind blowing.

And I lived for them. No matter how much my life sucked and my job sucked and my financial situation sucked and my dying dreams sucked - when I went to those concerts I forgot everything - I dug the band and I dug my friend Phil, who was my reliable partner in crime.

The band split up with finality in 2014. Me and Phil caught their second to last concert ever, at The Beacon Theatre in NYC thanks to Keith and Craig - who bought me two tickets to the show. I am forever grateful to my sons and will never forget what they did for me.

Me and Phil were OK. We figured we could catch Butch Trucks in concert, Gregg Allman in concert - we would get our fix.

In the summer of 2016 me and Phil caught Butch Trucks and his band in concert at a small venue that we love. Mind blowing. In January of 2017 Butch Trucks committed suicide. He fucking committed suicide.

In May of 2017 Gregg Allman died. We never even got to see him after 2014.

In 2017 the hole in my heart became bigger than my fucking heart itself. I have no idea how I am even still alive.

I have latched on to football this year like I never have before. And that is saying a lot because I have loved this game for 54 years. The only thing that comes close is my love for The Allman Brothers - 49 years.

When I watch the highlights on "Inside The NFL" and "Good Morning Football" - I focus my attention like a laser beam. I am watching a ton of football this year and I am excited.

Patrick Mahomes is lighting up the league, Jesus Christ I have watched a lot of Chiefs football this year and I shake my head and smile. I say holy shit a lot.

You know who else is lighting up the league? Drew Brees. So cool to see. Drew is 39 years old. Patrick Mahomes is 23. One of the many reasons I love this game. Talent is talent, baby and the cream will rise to the top.

I fell in love with The Browns in the pre-season thanks to "Hard Knocks". Not only because they lost every game last season - every fucking game - but because they are determined to turn things around, and because their coach - Hue Jackson - had his mother and his brother die on him in a two week period just as the pre-season was heating up. He's a human being with a broken heart and the weight of an entire city on his shoulders. I was ecstatic when they won their first game.

I have watched a lot of Browns football - they are 2-2-1 and I love it.

I need football to feel alive. I need football to be alive.

When I watch the highlights I thrill. At full speed they blow your mind because you are seeing camera angles you don't see during a game. Fucking unbelievable.

When they back it down to slo-mo, the sport becomes an art. Beautiful. Exquisite. Mesmerizing.

To me the highlights are bonus football - I watch them like I am watching a game and it feeds me.

I have lost a lot in the last four years. Jonathan, Sarge, Kevin, The Allman Brothers. My sons have been through difficult emotional times. I have watched my wife go through fucking hell and continue to be enormously frustrated, which is so unlike her. Her battle is unrelenting and even her enormous strength gets tested. It breaks my heart every single day. Every single fucking day.

The Allman Brothers were my go to good time. They allowed me to crazy go nuts, to express my passion, to indulge my insanity, to just feel alive. Alive, alive, alive.

They are no more.

Subconsciously I have grabbed on to football with both fists. I did not make a conscious decision to embrace the sport harder than ever before as my savior. It just happened.

Deep down I think I knew I needed something - something, anything, to revive me, to excite me, to feed me and keep me going. I am passionate to the core and I have a desperate need to express that passion.

Or I shrivel up and die.

I honestly do not know how the hell I am here at 64. Don't know how the hell I keep on going. Most of that answer is a mystery.

Except for The Allman Brothers and football. Those are facts.

Fuckin' football, man. Can't live without it. The fucking hot sauce on boring, reheated leftovers.

Bring it on, baby.

No Breakfast For Jo Jo

This guy (a friend) comes up to me and says: "Holy shit, man - people are trying to break my face off and crush me down to tiny Jo Jo pieces. Trying to kill me until I am dead. Completely fucking dead."

What? What the fuck are you talking about?

He says: "No, man it's true - they are trying to crunch me down into a little ball so they can kick me around. Fuck me up so my brain don't work no more. That way I won't be able to out think them like I usually do."

What kind of drug are you on this time? Be honest with me - I can help you.

He says: "I ain't on no fucking drug, man. You gotta believe me. These people are scumwad fuckbags - I mean real dirtbags - they want my money, they want my cats, they want me dead."

You don't have any fucking money. What the hell are you talking about?

He says: "You gotta listen to me, man. The other day I was on my way to work, walking down my driveway to my car, when these dudes pulled in right up next to me. They started beating at my head with wiffle ball bats. Don't kid yourself - wiffle ball bats fucking hurt, man. They beat on me for about ten minutes and then they tell me next time it will be real bats."

What did you do?

He says: "I got up and went to work. Some blood on my face, a broken tooth, one missing tooth. Don't matter with my job, me being just a warehouse grunt and all. My boss looks at me for about ten seconds and tells me to get to work. Tells me I am half an hour late and he ain't gonna pay me for it. Didn't even ask what the hell happened to me. Didn't offer me no band aids or nothing. Motherfucka."

Why do these people want you dead?

He says: "Because I am the coolest of the cool, man. They don't understand me. Nobody does. Everybody thinks I am stupid but that ain't it. I am just different. I am smarter than most people so I can't talk to them. I don't make no friends. All I can make is enemies."

Brother, I gotta tell you. Your story is kind of fantastical, you know what I am saying? And don't take this the wrong way, I mean, I love you and all, but all you are is a low level grunt crawling your way through the world. You got nothing and you got nothing to offer. Doesn't matter if you live or die. Nobody notices one way or the other. Nobody is out to get you.

He says: "You're wrong, man. I got a lot to offer. People just can't see it. People are just too fucking selfish. They are just too, what's the word, judgmental. Yeah, that's it - too fucking judgmental. And they are jealous too. Fuck them. I don't need nobody."

I'm outta here, my friend. Gonna grab me some breakfast.

He says: "Can I come?"

No.

Tuesday, October 9, 2018

Dug In

So Zeke says: We're dug in, man - the wife and me - we're dug in.

Pete: I always dug Kevin Kline's line in The Big Chill. The one where he is describing his life. He says "We're dug in". Possibly one of the greatest movie lines ever.

Zeke: I'm not talking about that kind of dug in. I'm talking about me and the wife, the life we are stuck in, we're dug in and it ain't gonna end pretty.

Pete: Why not?

Zeke: We got nothing. A little social security. Enough to buy beer, cigarettes and cat food, but that's about it. And it's gonna get worse. Gonna get sick. Gonna have hospital bills. Shit, it's already happening, man.

Pete: That's a shame. Life's a bitch.

Zeke: I wish I planned ahead, know what I mean? Wish I had put a little somethin' away. But shit, man, there never was a little somethin' to put away. I don't know where the hell it went.

Pete: That's just the way life works. Sucks, but it's true. We're all in the same boat.

Zeke: Then what the hell's the point? Ain't no dignity to it. Shit, the only dignity I get is when I get in someone's face. Ain't gonna let someone shit all over me.

Pete: I know what you mean. Feels like some people are laughing at you. Lookin' down. Talking about their high dollar vacations. Fuckin' SUV's. Fuck them.

Zeke: Yeah, me and the wife are dug in. We're dug in good. And somebody took the fuckin' shovel away too, man. No way out. Doesn't really matter, my fuckin' back hurts all the time anyway.

Pete: I hear ya.

Zeke: You think dyin's a good deal? Seems like it makes more sense to skip right to the end instead of dealin' with the bullshit.

Pete: What the hell you talkin' about, man?

Zeke: Saw a Jack Lemmon movie once. He was pretty down so he hopped on an exercise bike and tried to ride himself into a heart attack. It was pretty funny.

Pete: You're crazy, man.

Zeke: Am I? Really?

Pete: You gotta stick around - see how the movie ends. You might hit the lottery.

Zeke: Ain't gonna hit no lottery, man. My life is not about luck. Trust me, it is fucking not about luck.

Pete: Well, I'm here for you, man. If you're gonna have any fun at all, it's gonna be with me.

Zeke: I dig that about you. Always have. What the fuck, why don't we run out and grab a 30 rack of Natty Lights, see how many we can put down in one day?

Pete: Now you're talking. Shit, if you're gonna die man, you might as well die drunk. Skip the fucking hangover. Now that's a plan.

Zeke: You're a fucking philosopher, man. I dig that about you.

Thursday, October 4, 2018

A Flaming Fucking Injustice

So, yeah - I got called into work this afternoon.

Doesn't that suck? Do you know what that means? I planned on working 2 days this week. Now I have to work 2 and 3/4. Because there is a fucking show tonight. I gotta work a show.

That means dealing face to face with customers. Jesus Fucking Christ.

You have any idea how stressful this is for me?

How many days a week do you work?................. Six? Really? Holy Shit.

But you make good money right?.................... $7.25/hour? Oh my God.

But you like your job right?........................ No? You fucking hate it? Jesus.

You dig your co-workers though, right? .....................You'd rather see them dead?  Wow.

I am an ungrateful, selfish prick.

(At this point the author raised a gun to his head and blew his brains all over the fucking living room. Which the cats feasted on with great delight.)

Wednesday, October 3, 2018

Did I Tell You?

Everyone who hates me must die.

Isn't that how you operate?

I can't have people walking around with hatred in their hearts directed at me. It is impractical. And dangerous.

However, in my situation, the solution is problematic. Because everybody hates me.

How did I get here?

I don't know how it happened, I don't know why. But I can see it. I can feel it. Every time I leave the house. And sometimes when I don't.

People staring at me, glaring at me really, with malicious intent. Some people stop me on the street - complete strangers - look me in the eye - and tell me they hate me. Just like that. And then walk on.

I am a nice guy. At least I used to be. I mean, I treat people well - give them full on empathy, listen to them intently while I am thinking "What a fucking moron you are - your life is insignificant and expendable." But apparently I am giving off some kind of negative vibe, an invisible but detectable signal that my heart is filled with poison, my brain with hatred.

When I was younger everybody loved me. Probably because I was not yet fully formed, not yet twisted by life's bizarre sense of justice and vengeance. I was pristine, as pure as the driven snow, my heart was open, my mind was free and laughter came easily.

Now I am somewhat guarded. There are those who claim I am bitter.

It is not bitterness - it is maturity. At some point you understand life within the framework of the mistakes that you have made, and the lights go out. I mean, you keep moving, keep on working, producing, paying the bills, smiling an Oscar worthy smile, but your truth exists deep within and it ain't pretty.

I used to distribute intense love beams of empathy and be greeted in return by the kisses of women and genuflection of men. Now I shoot out what feel to me like those same beams and I am greeted with punches, kicks, derision and projectile saliva.

I don't get it.

An intelligent man told me that internal death cannot be hidden, that it colors every form of communication - verbal, emotional, body language, silent connection. He said once you die inside that fact cannot be hidden. People sense it in the same way cadaver dogs locate decomposing human flesh.

But everybody is dead inside, no? So aren't we all doing the same thing, putting on the same play?  Well, except for you pretentious pricks who drive Porsches and gloat over well stocked retirement funds.

Even though most of us are on the same page, still, we viciously attack when we can. Punches, kicks, derision and projectile saliva. The delicious irony of being human.

Anyway, these people gotta go. They must be eliminated with extreme prejudice. Must be removed from my life, diverted from the path I walk so I can march undeterred to Hell.

I am excited for the challenge. It will give me something to do.

Did I tell you I am "semi" retired?

Tuesday, October 2, 2018

Holy Shit, Can You Believe It?


I have Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Saturday and Sunday off this week.

Or to put it another way, I am only working two days this week. Two.

So here I go, here I am again. Feel like I got five days to rearrange my life. To find solutions. To change directions, attitudes and create possibilities.

Five days to overcome and redirect the deranged momentum of the past forty years.

Five days to put in place a dignified retirement plan. To make myself happy. To make Carol happy. To make our cats happy.

Five days to derail the M.C. Escher-like reality that my life has become.

Five days to lose thirty pounds.
Five days to establish a profitable writing career.
Five days to expel all the demons from my head.
Five days to overcome bad habits.
Five days to develop good habits.
Five days to re-wire my brain to think differently.

Yeah, baby. I got all the time in the world.

Or not.

Wistful Thinking

I see a fair amount of people walking by the side of the road and on to a new life.

They are sporting back packs. Not the book bag type, but the kind you strap to your back when you are traveling. Shit, I saw a guy the other day with the whole fucking rig. You know, on an aluminum frame where the bottom is down to his ass and the top is over his head. Looked like it weighed 105 pounds.

It happens with some regularity. I have to believe these people are off on some sort of adventure. Chucking aside the life they are living and moving on towards the unknown.

How very fucking attractive.

Is it NH? That would make sense to me. NH is a nothing state. Nothing romantic or heroic about it.

Some states project excitement. Personality. Uniqueness. Romance. It is immediately evoked in their name.

Texas. California. Hawaii. Alaska.

Those are the most notable. I would also add Montana, Colorado, Arizona, Nebraska, New Mexico, Oklahoma. The second list is kind of arbitrary, but overall I think the list I have put together represents states that immediately awaken an image in your mind.

Fucking NH? Massachusetts? Connecticut? Total nothingness. So maybe I see backpackers with frequency because they are fucking bored.

But I am not here to rag on NH. I am here to describe the deep feeling of longing I get in my gut when I see these people. It would be such a relief to walk away from my life. The burdens of it. The obligations. The responsibilities. And start over in an interesting place, even at a very low level. Like a one room apartment and a hot plate.

I am not saying I want to walk away from Carol, Keith and Craig. That is a ludicrous assumption. I am just talking about the feelings we all have that our life is wrong and there is an answer some where else.

Started another Reacher novel this morning. That is what kick started my impressions to life. Reacher does not live anywhere. He travels from town to town and state to state randomly, as situations develop.

He doesn't even pack. Carries nothing. He buys new clothes every couple of days and throws the old ones out. So he doesn't need to do laundry. And when people question him and ask "Isn't that an odd way to live?", he always replies "Isn't it odd to be tied down to a house and mortgage payments and routines and commitments?"

That always slays me.

Shit, man - now that I am semi-retired I spend a lot of time in this house. Alone with the cats. And I look around and think about what an anchor this thing is on our life. Especially since we are paying for it twice. Especially since we are desperate to find a path to full retirement with dignity. I am not even in love with it. It sure as hell isn't the kind of house I would have bought if my life played out intelligently.

Owning things is a drag, man. Weird thing for me to say because I really am a materialistic guy. I would amputate my left leg for the chance to own a Ferrari Testarossa. That's why I drive a Hyundai. The two are so similar.

But making payments on the things you "own" makes you subservient. You have to have a fucking job, you have to have a job that pays enough to pay the bills. Or get two jobs. Or three.

And we delude ourselves. We say we own our cars, we own our houses. Bullshit. If you are making payments on it you don't own shit. The bank owns it. And life owns you.

There is no dignity in working. The only dignity in life is in independence. Of course only 1/1,000 of 1% of us are independent. The rest swallow their pride and  sacrifice their dignity.

I despise the fact that I am "semi" retired. I will always be "semi" retired. Because I fucked up. It is on me. I didn't plan ahead, I didn't take life seriously, mostly because the life I was living wasn't my own. It was more like a bad trip on acid.

But, what the fuck, here I am. I make my escape in movies. In sports. In whiskey. In pot. In books, baby.

The only backpack I am ever going to wear is in my mind. Makes sense, ultimately. I am not a backpack kind of guy. I'd rather escape in a limo.

Friday, September 28, 2018

No...........really

It's important, as you make your way through life, to keep your chin up.

That way, life has a clear shot when it kicks the shit out of you.

Wednesday, September 26, 2018

Oh, I Get It Now....................

Totally immersed in football this year. Drowning in it.

Watching THE PATS, of course, but also every minute of other football I can possibly squeeze in. Thursday night, Monday night, other games on Sunday. Watching Good Morning Football religiously and Inside The NFL. Recording every episode of A Football Life.

Just watched the Lawrence Taylor episode of A Football Life, which is why I am here.

That man was a beast. He was a monster. He controlled the game. He changed the game. And he was fucking insane.

One of the many things I love about football is the insanity. The sport is intense - because it is violent, because the season is so goddamn short. Most teams play 16 games; 19 is the most you can play if you make it to the Super Bowl.

Think about that.

Fucking baseball is 162 regular season games. That's why you see people yawning at baseball games, literally aging before your eyes.

"Is that grandpa in the stands? How old is he? Well, son he was 75 in the first inning - now he is 89."

The men who play football are over the top. Crazy. Outgoing. Vocal. Twisted.

And so am I. I am a genuinely over the top guy. Out of my gourd. But I have had that beaten out of me by life.

The ridiculous job choices I have made have required me to behave. Respectable jobs. Excuse me while I puke. Shirt and tie jobs; they might as well have required handcuffs and leg manacles.

Jesus Christ, what the hell was I thinking.

Except one. Tending bar. I loved that job more than any other. Just couldn't make any money at it.

But I could be myself. Putting on a show behind the bar. What a fucking blast.

In hindsight I should have kept the job and lost the house; it would have been worth it.

Anyway, I was watching Lawrence Taylor and the other crazies on the field and on the sidelines and I realized the connection in my diseased mind.

I love the game for what it is. But I also love the game because when I see them, I see me. The me I am, the me I want to openly be.

It's kind of like coming out of the insanity closet, or should be about coming out of the insanity closet.

What the fuck you gonna do? Life is a strange and twisted existence. Nothing is black and white. Nothing is defensible, nothing makes sense.

Shit, I am the fattest I have ever been in my life and I am planning to try to qualify for the mens' Olympic gymnastic team in Tokyo in 2020.

Doesn't make sense. I cannot figure it out. I'll keep you posted.

I got a lot of rubber in me. I have spent 40 years bending but not breaking. I am good at it. Maybe I got enough left to snap back to the original me.

The human I was on January 1, 1954. The same human who has been leaking and losing unconventionality at a frightening pace every day since. My shoes are soaked in it every time I make it home.

I lick it off in an effort to replenish, but the licking is a stream and the leaking is the mighty Mississippi.

Fuck it. Gonna keep digging on football.

Man that shit makes me feel alive.

Shut Up, Son

NFL Network has a commercial for NFL GameDay Morning.

That's one of those shows that gives you 188 hours of pre-game coverage on Sunday morning.

The commercial shows a dad waking up his young son early, early in the morning. Still dark.

Dad microwaves the kid's breakfast, the kid is sitting at the table yawning with breakfast and a glass of milk in front of him. They climb into dad's truck, drive out into the woods and climb to the top of a hill.

In front of them, across a lake and high up in the hills is an enormous TV with GameDay morning on, and Michael Irvin doing his thing.

The kid starts to say "I love you, dad" but dad shuts the kid up with a shhhhhhhhh  before he can get all the words out of his mouth.

THAT, my friends, sums up the magic of football perfectly.

Saturday, September 22, 2018

Sweet Inspiration

Woke up this morning with the following words in my head:

"Every fucking scumbag is a jerkoff motherfucker".

Not kidding.

Symptomatic of a great deal of repressed anger, apparently.

When I drank heavily (I know nobody believes me, but I do not drink anywhere near as much as I used to. That being said, Dr. Feelgood would still prefer that I cut my drinking in half. Fucking killjoy.) Carol used to tell me that I would yell in my sleep "Fuck you. Fuck you. I will fucking kill you." She would ask me who I wanted to kill but of course I did not answer. And I would never be aware of or remember these episodes.

Anyway, I love the rhythm of this sentence.

Every fucking scumbag is a jerkoff motherfucker. I could really do something with an opening line like that. Like write a poem.


Every Fucking Scumbag

Every fucking scumbag is a jerkoff motherfucker.
The guy was tall, the guy was tough, a fucking crossroad trucker,
He stole my girl, he stole my booze, he broke my nose and ribs,
he had a real mean outlook, man, in everything he did.
I chased them down to Kansas, man, and really don't know why,
my girl was nothing but a whore, she never really tried.
I gave her love, I gave her cash, but all she ever did,
was lie to me and cheat and steal, and fuck my best friend Syd.
I caught them in a cheap motel, a cheesy neon sign,
a bag of pills, some weed, some coke and lowlife cheapo wine.
She straddled him, he gasped and moaned, I stood inside the door,
Until I said "Get off him, bitch, you fucking scumbag whore."
He tried to move but much too slow, my gun pressed to his head,
his eyes were wide, he drooled and shook, he knew he'd soon be dead.
I said "You fucked with me you stupid shit, you brainless moron sucker,
every fucking scumbag is a jerkoff motherfucker."

And when my girl told me she made a mistake and still loved me,
I blew her head off too.

How's that?

The Simple Truth

I know this guy, he says to me, he says: "I hate my life. I hate myself. I hate the way I look. I don't know how to be happy."

I says to him, I says: "Wow, man - you got some real problems."

He says to me, he says: "Don't I know it."

Tuesday, September 18, 2018

A Subtle Shift In Outlook

Don't get in here as often as I used to. Not sure why.

Maybe I am just confused.

Holy shit, man - I have been consuming sports lately as if it were a gourmet meal, or some very delicate designer dark chocolate.

I watched so much tennis during the US Open that my head turned into a tennis ball. Unfortunately for me, Carol noticed. Somehow she dug up an old tennis racket of mine and began volleying me around the house.

"Go wash the dishes, you lazy motherfucker". Whack. "Go out and stain the deck, you pantywaist". Whack. "Crank up another load of wash, loser boy". Whack. "When the hell are you going to vacuum the rug, slime bucket". Whack.

It was painful but enlightening.

I watched the Open from start to finish. Watched people work their way up through the brackets, watched people lose who were supposed to lose, watched people lose who were not supposed to lose. Watched Serena's meltdown in the finals, saw Nadal end his semi-final match early because of injury. Watched these people struggle with 90 plus degree heat in high humidity.

I began rooting for people. Like Juan Martin del Potro. He is from Argentina. He had a bunch of buddies sitting together in one of the upper boxes. They were rowdy. I loved it. Tennis needs more rowdiness. I watched him work his way up to the semi finals, where Nadal dropped out with an injury. At that point he was asked if he would be celebrating with his friends that night. He said "If I do that I won't make it to the finals". I love it.

Unfortunately he got his ass kicked in the finals.

Football. I am gobbling that up like I am addicted to it. Which, of course I am.

Had to work last Sunday but it was a light load and I made it home by 3:15. Made myself a sandwich, put down a shot of whiskey, grabbed a beer (how the hell do you get ready for football?) and went upstairs to catch a big chunk of the Vikings/Packers game and the Chiefs/Steelers game (Carol was watching the Sox downstairs). Fucking awesome games. I was floating in football ecstasy.

Then I crawled downstairs to watch THE PATS with Carol. A painful loss to the jags. But Jesus Christ - did you see that one handed catch that Keelan Cole made against THE PATS? My lifelong love of football allows me to dig aspects of the game even if THE PATS are losing. Wish to hell I could bottle up football and drink it. At least my liver would have a fighting chance.

Here's my point. Carol's illnesses have impacted us both in many ways. One thing I realized is that I give up too much because I am lazy and not forceful enough, and because I feel like I should be sociable with Carol. I sit in my recliner like Jabba The Hut instead of dragging myself upstairs to watch what I want to watch.

So along with the fact that I want Carol to be happy more than I want anything else in the world, I have also decided that I should be happy too. Seeing what she has been through, along with the minor health problems I am dealing with, along with the fact that I am 64 - these things have motivated me to grab a little more happiness.

The Open thrilled me. Football always thrills me. I gotta have these things. They make me happy. Distract my diseased brain from worry and regret and fill it with contentment.

Can anyone argue with that logic?

Carol and I still spend a lot of time together and I enjoy that more than I ever did. But I am also committed to squeezing out as much individual happiness as I can in the time I have left.

That's a win win, baby.

Makes Perfect Sense To Me

"I drink not from mere joy in wine nor to scoff at faith - no, only to forget myself for a moment, that only do I want of intoxication, that alone."

Omar Khayyam

Thursday, August 30, 2018

Something You Don't Know About Me

I love tennis.

I fucking LOVE tennis.

A LOT.

Played a lot of it when I was a kid. A LOT. And I was good. Very good.

I love to play it; I love to watch it.

I played baseball as a kid. Made A division on my first try out. I didn't think I deserved it but there you go. But I didn't love it. Never really felt comfortable on the diamond.

I was at home on a tennis court. Even when it was 312 degrees out. Like it is this week at the U.S. Open.

I got away from tennis. I have gotten away from a lot of things I love in my life. I don't know why. There must be some kind of explanation but I can't fucking figure it out. If you can, keep it to yourself.

I am not interested in your opinion.

I decided I am going to watch a shitload of the Open this year. To feed my tennis Jones; to rekindle my love.

And I have. Started right away on Tuesday (worked Monday) and been digging it since. Doesn't matter if it is men or women - it is all spectacular.

By the way, I think if you have a passion for something - an overwhelming passion that just fuels your soul, pumps it up and gives you a new lease on life - maybe adds a few days on to your life expectancy - you should be allowed to call in to work.

"Hello - Capitol Center? - I won't be in today. Gotta watch the U.S. Open." "OK Joe - no problem. Enjoy it and let us know when you will be back. Of course we will pay you while you are out."

Doesn't that make sense to you? Wouldn't that make life better?

Just watched a match between Johanna Larsson and Angelique Kerber. Fucking spectacular. Hard fought, amazing rallies, ups and downs, ins and outs - it was a joy to watch.

I was rooting for Kerber because she has great legs - and she WON. Cool, I get to see her again.

Federer is about to play right now in the second round. A Thursday afternoon does not get any better than that.

What the hell else am I supposed to do? Watch Dancing With The Stars? Give me a fucking break.

I love tennis because it is one on one. You are alone, baby. You win - it is on you. You lose - it is on you.

Ain't nothing more dramatic than match point. If you are up, you are on the verge of ecstasy. If you are down, you are on the verge of suicide.

If I lose 100 pounds I might be able to play tennis again.

It could happen.

Wednesday, August 29, 2018

Holy Moly, Baby

"The idea of death, the fear of it, haunts the human animal like nothing else."

From "The Denial of Death", by Ernest Becker

What Is Life

Came across this poem somewhere. It is bleak. Enjoy.

What Is Life

Is life just a bowl of shit? Could that really be it?
A standard issue spoon at birth and a mighty appetite.
Seems a bit futile, don't you think? A bit of a waste.
What about happiness? Peace of mind? How does one
go about getting these things?
Are you even allowed to try?
Or does the trying upset the natural order of things?
Death hovers over everything, poking and prodding,
goading with an evil smirk.
When will you get the life you want? When will you succeed?
It truly sucks that death never loses.
Flash the phony smile, project disingenuous optimism.
These are your weapons. Embarrassing aren't they?
"All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players".
Well said. Substitute "life" for "world" and you get truth.
We play at life. We are actors. While the real thing, this "precious gift",
slips by unnoticed. Unremarkably.
We know nothing, learn nothing, understand nothing.
Seems absurd. Don't you think?







Gettin' All Literary On Your Ass

"All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
his acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined.
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts,
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide.
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange, eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything."

From "As You Like it", Act II, Scene VII.......................William Shakespeare



Friday, August 24, 2018

Mercy

"My father could use a little mercy now
 The fruits of his labor fall and rot slowly on the ground
 His work is almost over it won't be long, he won't be around
 I love my father, he could use some mercy now"

"Mercy Now",   Mary Gauthier


It's True

Ultimately in life, my goal is just to be a well behaved boy.

Wednesday, August 22, 2018

Just A Thought

Thinking about writing a poem titled "Suckass Motherfuckers".

Might not go over well with the puppy dog/kitty cat crowd.

I honestly don't give a shit.

Tuesday, August 21, 2018

The Blues On Two Levels

I listen to the blues in two different ways.

I noticed this at work just the other day. When I am alone in the box office cage I dial up the blues on YouTube. I used to do Pandora but they think they are smarter than me. They are always doing the "if you liked this song, maybe you will like this one" bullshit.

No. I don't work that way. I know what I like and I want it when I want it. I do not want to be listening to two or three Allman Brothers songs and then suddenly have a Lynyrd Skynyrd song thrown in the mix along with a Marshall Tucker Band song.

Now dig. I like both of those bands. I like them when I want to like them. Not when some marketing geek decides he's gonna expand my horizons for me. My horizons are already expanded. By me.

At least with YouTube they will keep playing whoever I pick for a bunch of songs in a row. And when they get off track I just click on my choice again and bingo bango bongo I am right back where I need to be.

And if I really want to veg out I got videos to watch. You want weirdness? Check out "Hell Broke Luce" by Tom Waits on YouTube. It will thrill you into another dimension. Or not.

I noticed that sometimes I listen to the blues superficially. I think to myself "I am so fucking cool. I am so smart to listen to this music; real music, music of the soul; I am highly evolved". Sometimes I wish for a fellow employee to walk into the box office and say "Who is that?" So I can puff out my chest proudly and say "Why that's John Lee Hooker".

Frankly I make myself mildly nauseous when I think that way. Because then it's all about me and not about the music.

Then there are times when I am one with the music. I noticed it one early morning when I was firing up the box office machinery. Had the blues cranking and it became aware to me how superficial everything I was doing was. Heating up two computers in case one failed, testing both printers in case one fucked up, checking emails.

I was in a fog. The things I was doing meant nothing to me. They were a bit of a joke. Superfluous to reality. The music was reality. I wasn't angry about what I had to do, was not looking at my job as stupid. I was just kind of aware of myself performing these menial tasks as if I was outside my body, disconnected from my essence, while the music had my emotions roaring.

The part of me that was responding to the music was alive. The part of me that was performing menial tasks was dead. It was as simple as that.

Of course I always want it to be that way when I listen to music. Because music is so much better than life. But it doesn't work that way. Sometimes the ego gets in the way, sometimes life gets in the way. It is difficult to experience anything good in purity.

OK that's it, crime stoppers. Another Joe rant about music.

You getting sick of this shit yet?

Thursday, August 9, 2018

Definition of Insanity

Getting excited for pre-season football.

Pre-season football is as about as exciting as the Pro Bowl. Who could possibly give a shit?

ME.

Goddamn it I love football.

I get sucked in at this time every year. Start watching the NFL Network.

They got around the clock coverage of training camps. Training Camp Live. You have any idea how boring that is? Commentators sitting around forever trying to find interesting things to say. Squirming to find a way to make anything interesting. Often failing miserably at lame attempts at humor that make them look like fools.

And of course you have Andrew Siciliano's ears.

It's like when there is a tragedy and the news stations give you around the clock coverage. They tell you everything you need to know in the first ten minutes, but go on and on for hours repeating the same shit over and over again in the gravest of tones.

Training Camp Live is like that. And I watch it.

The NFL Network has a show called "Good Morning Football". Are you fucking kidding me? Every show about football should just be called "Motherfucking Football". Period.

Good Morning Football is a cutesy name and they do a lot of cutesy stuff. There is no room for cutesy in football.

I watch the show.

They have a series called Hard Knocks. I do love this show. They follow one team through training camp and the pre-season. You get a real feel for what it is like to be a football player. You also get emotionally caught up as guys try to make the team. Some get cut and that is a painful thing to watch.

This year they are following the Cleveland Browns. For you non-football fans, the Browns lost every single game last year. 0 and 16. Should be an interesting show.

I have finally come to grips with my relationship to football. I hate the injuries it causes, the lives it ruins. I hate Roger Goodell. Fucking guy ain't nothing more than a glorified CEO. He is not a football guy. I should be the fucking commissioner of the NFL. I deserve it. I have been loving football for 54 years. Of course I also want his salary (typically upwards of $30 million).

I hate the way the NFL sacrifices the health of its players and then covers it up and lies about it. I hate the rich white owners who are arrogant and don't give a shit about their players. To them the game is "product"; to them players are "assets".

I gotta give Robert Kraft a pass. I love him. I gotta love him. I am not aware of any bad shit about him. If he is ever exposed as a fraud it will break my heart. But it might open the door for my opportunity to become the owner of THE NEW ENGLAND PATRIOTS.

At that point I would give up my position as commissioner of the NFL and pass it on jointly to Keith and Craig.

All that being said, I still love football. I will always love it. I cannot help myself. When I die you might as well bury me in an Allman Brothers t-shirt, and place a bottle of Crown Royal and an official NFL football in the coffin. And that football better be autographed by Jim Brown, Joe Namath, Jerry Rice, Joe Montana and Tom Brady.

I will watch THE PATS' pre-season Game #1 tonight. Against the redskins. You better believe I will watch it. For about half an hour. After that it gets stupid as all the youngsters get their chances.

Apparently Brady will play tonight. He'll get a few plays in and then bow out. Knock off a little rust, get a feel for his receivers.

I won't see anything exciting. But I'll still be drooling.

It's coming, baby. The 2018 NFL season. I cannot fucking wait.

I will watch some games with Paula & Bill in complete insanity and abandon. I will watch some games with Keith and Craig in pride and love and laughter. I will watch many games sitting next to Carol with a cat in my lap. Carol has made such an effort to understand the game over the years that I think she gets it better than me.

All of that is OK with me.

Brief aside: It is impossible to get football crazy with a cat in your lap. I only lost it once when something happened and I just yelled in excitement. I don't remember which cat it was but she shot off my lap like a rocket. I have learned to control my emotions since then.

Football gives me something to live for even when I know snow is coming.

Powerful stuff.

Tuesday, August 7, 2018

Impressions

Carol and I spent last Saturday in Groton, MA celebrating the 70th birthday of my friend Alan.

He is an elderly gentleman.

And one of my closest friends.

Alan and I share an insane, sensitive, and honest history. The killer is that he had a stroke thirteen years ago that turned his life upside down and has never backed off, never allowed him back to full functionality. His left arm is almost entirely non-functional.

At one point he and Carol were sitting side by side on the couch to my right comparing notes on what they have been through. They are both strong, they are both positive. I had to fight back tears once or twice to see how they were connecting, how the troubles they have endured give them a shared perspective about life; how their fiercely positive attitudes set them apart from the rest of us mere mortals.

Super cool and inspiring.

Simple twist of fate: A woman who was at the party said she recognized me from the Capitol Center - she volunteers there. She is Alan's cousin. How insane is that?

It gets better. At one point she was talking to Carol and staring at her intently. She asked "Have you recently had surgery?" Carol said "Yes" and this woman, Marge, said "Acoustic Neuroma".

Boom. Turns out Marge went through the same exact thing that Carol is going through. Oh my God, they connected like magnets. Carol asked a lot of questions, Marge gave a lot of advice and encouragement. I was so happy for Carol to see someone who endured the same surgery and has come out the other end whole. She stood in front of Carol as living proof that she will be OK.

I was unsuccessful in fighting back tears during that conversation. I turned away once or twice and sneakily wiped my cheek so no one would see what a wuss I am.

I don't know, man - I am never sure how I feel about fate or karma. But that day, that meeting just had to happen. It was so random, but it made so much sense and it meant so much.

One more thought.

When we first got there, as we got out of the car, an old black dog came slowly towards us.

Dhani. Alan's dog.

The name probably means nothing to you but it does to me and to Alan. Dhani is George Harrison's son. When Alan told me what he named him I just thought it was the coolest thing.

I remember when Alan first got him. Dhani was a frisky, crazy, fun dog. He never listened to Alan, which drove him crazy. I haven't seen him for a long, long time.

Now he is old with white whiskers and moves very slowly.

For some reason that really got to me. I guess it was the stark contrast from the last time I saw him.

Alan and I are aging together; I don't see him often enough but I do see him from time to time. So our mutual physical depreciation is not shocking. But in my mind Dhani went from a young pup to an old dog in three seconds.

Alan turning 70 doesn't scare me; me being 64 doesn't scare me (too much). But seeing Dhani being old triggered something in me that has been bothering me ever since.

Call it discomfort. Call it awareness.

Anyway, what an amazing day. I took the day off from work to be there. Imagine if I said no, I can't go, gotta work. Imagine what we would have missed.

I am jaded, I am a realist, but I gotta tell you, life still surprises me sometimes.

Even on the downhill slide, life can make you feel good in your heart and in your soul.

Carol

Gotta talk about my amazing wife some more.

As I have previously said, I see her in a much different way now.

It makes me sound like an asshole, but my love for her has been re-awakened.

Truthfully, almost any couple that has been together for forty years becomes complacent. Not a lot going on there, not much excitement; predictability and routine dominate, which is never good for the soul.

However, longevity should never be an excuse for complacency. Love should transcend that.

I guess most of us are lazy.

I watched Carol talk to and connect with Alan in a deep and meaningful way that many cannot appreciate. I sensed her strength, her positive attitude; I was so proud of her and felt so good for her.

I watched Carol talk to Marge about their shared experience battling a brain tumor. Again, I sensed her strength and positive attitude. She is all about getting to where she wants to be. Marge gave her advice about facial exercises to do and Carol gobbled up that advice.

There is no "woe is me" in Carol.

It is hard for me to describe my emotions in these situations and many others. Suffice it to say my reaction is powerful and sometimes overwhelming.

Carol has a tough month this month. Reminiscent of what she went through last summer after being diagnosed with a double dose of cancer.

She calls it being poked and prodded.

She had a follow up mammogram yesterday in Concord. On the 15th we head up to Dartmouth-Hitchcock for an appointment to discuss possible help with her hearing issues. On the 17th we head back up to Dartmouth-Hitchcock for a follow up MRI on her brain and a meeting with one of the surgeons who operated on her.

Pain in the ass, tough for her because it makes her feel like a piece of meat, but necessary, and we both know in our hearts the news will continue to be good.

I am looking at her Patient Information Sheet from yesterday's mammogram. Under problems the following issues are listed: Acoustic neuroma, impairment of balance, malignant tumor of breast, unilateral hearing loss, hypertensive disorder, tachycardia (not sure where that came from).

Next to that block of information is written, in black sharpie, two words:

"No concerns."

I looked at this sheet twice earlier this morning and dropped a couple of tears. I am looking at it right now and doing the same thing.

Guess that's the best way to tell you how I feel about Carol.

Friday, August 3, 2018

Think About It

"A man's outlook is shaped by the tortured tragedies of his life."

Anonymous

Thursday, August 2, 2018

Keep Your Soul On The Mend

Hello. How's it going?

Two lines from Gregg Allman's song "The Road Is My Only True Friend" from his final album:

"Keep me in your heart
 Keep your soul on the mend"

It's the second line that fascinates me. Keep your soul on the mend. How do you do that?

It is what we all want to do, what we all need to do, but generally the soul suffocates a decades long slow death.

I dig the whole soul concept. I don't believe it is a religious thing, I don't believe it is a form of energy that escapes into the universe when you die.

I believe the soul is your essence. Not your personality, not your beliefs.

Your essence. Intangible to others, extremely tangible to you.

It is who you truly are. Stripped of your experiences, your hurts and triumphs, separate from the opinions of others.

Only you know who you truly are, although, bizarrely enough, you can lose that. You can get lost in the deadlines and commitments of life, making adjustments along the way as survival mechanisms.

Adjustments that help you survive, but initiate the process of soul suffocation.

I believe unhappiness comes from the soul's attempts to keep on the mend. You get beat up, beat down, dreams die, diseases assault, friends and relatives die, money flows out like a flood and trickles in like a leaky faucet.

Your soul keeps trying to rise up through the sludge and get some air.

Hopefully your soul never stops trying to assert itself. Of course many people give up and I don't fault them for that. You can only take so much.

It is routine for life to beat people down to the point where they see no point in feeding the soul. The walking dead waiting to die. Glazed over eyes, grim and despondent, going through the motions day after day with no point or purpose. No goals. No hope.

Personally, I believe my soul is still strong. I sense this because I still believe that Carol and I can improve our lives. Ridiculous as that may seem given our age, Carol's health issues, our financial situation.

There is still something positive? hopeful?, whatever, going on in my brain. It is the only reason I get up in the morning.

If I looked at our "now" and our future in black and white terms, as merely facts, I would be applying for a gun permit.

There is some special sauce in there, something in my soul, that holds on to the idea that we can make things better. We still have room to maneuver.

The last two years have been real eye openers for us. I semi-retired in June of 2016. Fun stuff, good stuff.

I was diagnosed with melanoma in August of 2016. Carol was diagnosed with breast cancer and a brain tumor last summer. Endured a mastectomy and the removal of a brain tumor. A couple of months ago the doc found three cancerous spots on my prostate, one tic below the level where action has to be taken.

Intensity has been ramped up, baby.

All I want is for our remaining years together to be happy and comfortable.

I am relying on my soul to get us there.

And In A Related Story...................

I think I am in love with John Mellencamp.

It has been a slow growing romance but, recently, it has burst into flame.

A few years a go I picked up a CD of his titled "No Better Than This". I was blown away by it. I listened to it over and over and over again. It is filled with songs about every day people and every day lives, and small emotions and huge emotions, nostalgia, sadness and humor.

Fucking amazing.

A couple of nights ago I watched a new documentary on and by Mellencamp titled "Plain Spoken".

Which is a perfect title because that is exactly what he is and always has been.

It was footage of one of his recent concerts, with Mellencamp speaking over the broadcast. He talked about his life, his career, his values, his approach to life and relationship with the music industry and life itself.

Very enlightening.

He floored me near the end. Absolutely floored me.

He said "There is no reward in this world for settling for something you don't want. There is no reward in this world for settling for something you don't want. There is no reward in this world for settling for something you don't want."

He said it three times. And followed it up with "If you settle for something you don't want, then you are going to be disillusioned, you will feel cheated, and you are not living life to the fullest."

Sound like you? You know it does. Sounds like me.

The feeling of disillusionment and being cheated, the awareness of not living life to the fullest, is the sound of your soul suffocating.

I love this man. I love his music. I respect what he has done with his life.

I appreciate his wisdom.

Thursday, July 26, 2018

Truth (Hard To Hold On To)

"You're only given one little spark of madness. You mustn't lose it."

Robin Williams

Nope

"Is there anything a man don't stand to lose
  When the devil wants to take it all away?"

"Mexicali Blues",   Grateful Dead

Sunday, July 15, 2018

They Keep Taking Things Away From Me, Goddamn It

Toucher and Rich will no longer be simulcast on TV as of this past Friday.

They are moving to a new studio on Monday; this I knew. I did not know they would no longer be on TV.

This is a radio sports talk show that has been simulcast on TV on NBC Sports Boston. It is hilarious. The three main guys are funny. They make me laugh.

I need laugh.

Rituals. Gotta have them.

On work days, before heading out, I usually spend an hour or so reading, comforted by coffee and cat. Then I microwave myself a gourmet breakfast sandwich and watch an hour of Toucher  & Rich.

I do this for the laughter. For the insanity. Not for the sports knowledge.

They make me laugh, which makes me feel good.

So officially, as of tomorrow morning - which is the next time I am required to report for duty - I will be lost.

"Oh my God Joe, that is horrible. Why don't you just kill yourself? Or even worse - watch an endless loop of trump spewing mouth diarrhea?"

I know, right? But we all have our comforting rituals. It is not just comfort food. It is familiar things that ease our minds or distract us or entertain us. Things that we need to feel human.

Of course the show is still on the radio. I know I could listen to it. I also know I won't.

Some people don't get it. Carol used to ask me why they felt they had to broadcast a radio show on TV. I get that. But, somehow, it was comforting to me.

Sit back in the recliner, munching on a gourmet breakfast sandwich, mindlessly enjoying the witty banter. I did enjoy the sports conversations; I learned stuff and also gained a perspective I wouldn't have had because these guys are so knowledgeable, so immersed in the world of sports.

But they also played insane games, went off on non sports tangents, busted balls and just generally had a good time.

That was one of the big deals for me. These guys laughed their asses off at work. They had fun. Who does that?

So when I was watching it Friday morning and they talked about that being their last simulcast show, I was blown away. I felt empty.

I know you think I am overreacting - I can see it in your face. But that is just the way I feel.

I am not sure what I am gonna do tomorrow morning. I could just keep reading, which is indeed a peaceful pursuit.

But I need the insanity. Laughter is hard to come by these days for me.

Maybe I'll dig up some comedy stuff on Netflix. There are tons of comedy specials out there featuring comedians I don't know. Could be a goldmine.

Or maybe I will just sit and stare blankly at the wall. Like Puddy on the plane in Seinfeld.