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.
Friday, September 28, 2018
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.
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.
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?
"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."
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.
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
Omar Khayyam
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