Goals:
1) Get money
2) Get skinny
3) Get happy
Strategy for achieving goals:
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Saturday, December 29, 2018
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
From "Go Tell It On The Mountain", by James Baldwin
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
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.
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
From "Bangkok Babylon", by Jerry Hopkins
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