Man, oh man - here we go.
Melancholy creeps. It is inevitable at this time of year. At least if you are a sentient being.
Thanksgiving was magnificent. My family does it up right. And I lucked out.
Had Thursday and Friday off from both jobs. Was supposed to work Saturday night but woke up sick as a dog Saturday morning. Boss man found a replacement. I was jubilant. Tells you where my head is at when I would rather be sick than go to work.
Had Sunday off and then.......it snowed on Monday. Took the day off. So I ended up with 5 days off. In a row.
Got me some Christmas spirit; came out of nowhere. But it got beat out of me. Started when I focused on the fact I was only gonna get one day off for Christmas. Then between nauseating Christmas commercials and all the phony "Merry Christmases" rolling off peoples' lips - bile rose up in my throat.
Got lucky again, though. Had Sat and Sun off before Christmas, took Monday off and then.............. Job I decided they would close on Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday. So I ended up with 5 days off. In a row. Again.
But I did have to get up at 5:30 on Dec 26 for Job II. That sucked royally. Completely destroyed the Christmas glow. And again at 5:30 on Dec 27.
Had to get some whining in. Live with it.
And here I am. Dec 28. Ruminating.
2019 about to come crashing down. At my age it feels like another year gone by. And another year gone by. And another and another and another and another..............
When I "turned" 60 it occurred to me that the decade between 50 and 60 flashed by like a bullet train. I decided I needed to slow things down, dig in my heels, put the brakes on and any other cliche you want to torture.
Next week I will be 66. I never even saw the last 6 years.
Jesus fucking Christ. Time moves fast. For a while life dribbles out of you. Then it gushes like blood from a severed artery.
Started this blog up in 2011. Eight years ago. That means at least 7 new years have been commented on. Occurred to me I could go back and read my thoughts around this time of year to teach me a lesson. Light a fire under my ass.
Because in a nutshell I would read the same shit over and over and over again. I hate my life. I gotta make changes. I'm running out of time. How do I get money. How do I get happy.
I don't think that would serve any purpose. I am well aware of my short comings. Don't need to bludgeon my psyche.
I always try to come up with some specific gift to make my birthday special. Treat my self. But it never accomplishes anything. Buying something from Amazon does nothing for the soul.
Keith got me thinking last week. We were having a conversation and he said I should do something for myself instead of buying something for myself. Like learning to meditate.
Makes perfect sense. Because really, the bottom line, the most obvious solution to my unhappiness, is to change my lifestyle, my approach to life. What I do. The way I think.
A seed has been planted. Doesn't necessarily mean anything because I am not sure at this late date that my brain is fertile enough to nurture growth. But it might be. One never knows.
66 is 4 days away.
I am a little nervous about it. I don't like the number. I'm a tad nervous about 2020. Every new year carries a little more weight.
More to come....................
Saturday, December 28, 2019
Tuesday, December 17, 2019
As You Well Know
"The effects of their drinks had now entered on that secondary stage, vividly described in temperance handbooks, when the momentary illusion of well-being and exhilaration gives place to melancholy, indigestion, and moral decay."
From "Vile Bodies" by Evelyn Waugh
From "Vile Bodies" by Evelyn Waugh
Sunday, December 8, 2019
December 8
Happy Birthday, Gregg Allman.
You would have been 72 today.
Still bothers me greatly that I will never see you perform live again. Some of my greatest memories are of Allman Brothers concerts. The music, the atmosphere, the people, the insanity. The music. You brought me a great deal of happiness; you helped me get away from my life and my troubles, you made me sing out loud with thousands of my closest friends.
You were the blues, my friend. Requiescat in pace along with Duane, Butch, and Berry.
Happy Birthday, Jim Morrison.
You would have been 76 today.
To me you are a guy who rock 'n roll and the music business literally killed. Countless musicians died from excess - too much money, too much booze, too many drugs, too much fun. Understandable.
But you never really wanted to be a rock star. You were a poet. You wanted to write. I love your poetry even though some of it is over my head. But you got sucked into the music world, got raped by the business and could not get out. You were destroyed, stripped of your dignity and individuality. I love your poetry. I love the music of The Doors.
Requiescat in pace, my friend.
John Lennon.
You were killed 39 years ago today. Thirty nine fucking years ago. You were forty years old. Forty. I was sitting at the kitchen table eating breakfast in Billerica before going off to my ridiculous job the next morning, listening to the radio. They played a Beatles song. Then another. And I got chills. Soon I knew that you were dead. You would think I would have known about it - they announced it on Monday night football the night before. Howard Cosell, who was visibly shaken. Rightfully so. I must have gone to bed early that night.
You would have been 79 on October 9 of this year. Wish you were still around. You were on Richard Nixon's hit list because of the way you protested against him. You were harassed by immigration, the IRS and the FBI. I would love to hear what you would have to say about trump. You stood up for what you believed in and campaigned tirelessly for peace. I loved your sarcastic wit. I loved you. Requiescat in pace, my friend.
Related: Mark David Chapman. Drop dead, motherfucker so you can rot in hell for eternity. You have been in prison since killing John Lennon but that punishment is not enough. I want you in hell, writhing in pain for eternity. You shot Lennon in the back, you fucking coward. Four times. As he was entering his home where his son was sleeping.
I cannot end on that negative note.
Gregg Allman, Jim Morrison and John Lennon were three men who brought me so much joy, soothed my soul and breathed life into it. You made my life better.
There is no greater gift.
You would have been 72 today.
Still bothers me greatly that I will never see you perform live again. Some of my greatest memories are of Allman Brothers concerts. The music, the atmosphere, the people, the insanity. The music. You brought me a great deal of happiness; you helped me get away from my life and my troubles, you made me sing out loud with thousands of my closest friends.
You were the blues, my friend. Requiescat in pace along with Duane, Butch, and Berry.
Happy Birthday, Jim Morrison.
You would have been 76 today.
To me you are a guy who rock 'n roll and the music business literally killed. Countless musicians died from excess - too much money, too much booze, too many drugs, too much fun. Understandable.
But you never really wanted to be a rock star. You were a poet. You wanted to write. I love your poetry even though some of it is over my head. But you got sucked into the music world, got raped by the business and could not get out. You were destroyed, stripped of your dignity and individuality. I love your poetry. I love the music of The Doors.
Requiescat in pace, my friend.
John Lennon.
You were killed 39 years ago today. Thirty nine fucking years ago. You were forty years old. Forty. I was sitting at the kitchen table eating breakfast in Billerica before going off to my ridiculous job the next morning, listening to the radio. They played a Beatles song. Then another. And I got chills. Soon I knew that you were dead. You would think I would have known about it - they announced it on Monday night football the night before. Howard Cosell, who was visibly shaken. Rightfully so. I must have gone to bed early that night.
You would have been 79 on October 9 of this year. Wish you were still around. You were on Richard Nixon's hit list because of the way you protested against him. You were harassed by immigration, the IRS and the FBI. I would love to hear what you would have to say about trump. You stood up for what you believed in and campaigned tirelessly for peace. I loved your sarcastic wit. I loved you. Requiescat in pace, my friend.
Related: Mark David Chapman. Drop dead, motherfucker so you can rot in hell for eternity. You have been in prison since killing John Lennon but that punishment is not enough. I want you in hell, writhing in pain for eternity. You shot Lennon in the back, you fucking coward. Four times. As he was entering his home where his son was sleeping.
I cannot end on that negative note.
Gregg Allman, Jim Morrison and John Lennon were three men who brought me so much joy, soothed my soul and breathed life into it. You made my life better.
There is no greater gift.
Monday, December 2, 2019
Snow
My friend Jacques (from Italy) hates snow.
He fucking hates it.
I randomly ran into him today and worked really hard to avoid the topic but it became impossible. I asked "How you doing, man?"
He said:
"How am I doing? It fucking snowed last night. IT FUCKING SNOWED! I had to shovel the fucking stuff. It took me 1 and 1/2 hours. My back hurts. My left knee hurts. My arms hurt. I am fucking exhausted. I hate snow and I hate my fucking life.
Do you know what snow is? It is piss. It is shit. I couldn't be any more pissed off if actual shit came out of the sky and buried my car. Snow is every broken promise ever made to me. It is cancer. Arthritis. It is the public beheading of an innocent man.
Snow is a royal pain in the ass. It is inconvenient. It is stupid. I am stupid for dealing with it.
If a sweet, sexy whore bit my dick off, that would be snow. If you bashed in every bone in my face with a baseball bat, that would be snow. If you buried me up to my neck in the sand at low tide and poured honey over my head next to a red ant hill, that would be snow.
Snow sucks the life out of you. It mocks you. It torments you and laughs while you shovel it.
Snow is ass cancer.
The mailman won't deliver the fucking snow unless I shovel the mailbox out. Do you know how hard that is to do after plows have gone up and down the street repeatedly? I want to wait for the mailman in a snowbank and, as he drives by my mailbox, I want to drag him from his fucking government vehicle and cut off his fingers and shove them down his throat.
Snow, man. I hate it and it hates me. It diminishes my life, reducing an already insignificant thing down to a barely visible speck. It fucking kills me. I wish it would kill me so I would never have to shovel it again. But no, it never takes it quite that far. It leaves me broken, crippled and defeated, with just enough life left in me to have to deal with it again on another day."
I was speechless.
But I agreed in principle.
He fucking hates it.
I randomly ran into him today and worked really hard to avoid the topic but it became impossible. I asked "How you doing, man?"
He said:
"How am I doing? It fucking snowed last night. IT FUCKING SNOWED! I had to shovel the fucking stuff. It took me 1 and 1/2 hours. My back hurts. My left knee hurts. My arms hurt. I am fucking exhausted. I hate snow and I hate my fucking life.
Do you know what snow is? It is piss. It is shit. I couldn't be any more pissed off if actual shit came out of the sky and buried my car. Snow is every broken promise ever made to me. It is cancer. Arthritis. It is the public beheading of an innocent man.
Snow is a royal pain in the ass. It is inconvenient. It is stupid. I am stupid for dealing with it.
If a sweet, sexy whore bit my dick off, that would be snow. If you bashed in every bone in my face with a baseball bat, that would be snow. If you buried me up to my neck in the sand at low tide and poured honey over my head next to a red ant hill, that would be snow.
Snow sucks the life out of you. It mocks you. It torments you and laughs while you shovel it.
Snow is ass cancer.
The mailman won't deliver the fucking snow unless I shovel the mailbox out. Do you know how hard that is to do after plows have gone up and down the street repeatedly? I want to wait for the mailman in a snowbank and, as he drives by my mailbox, I want to drag him from his fucking government vehicle and cut off his fingers and shove them down his throat.
Snow, man. I hate it and it hates me. It diminishes my life, reducing an already insignificant thing down to a barely visible speck. It fucking kills me. I wish it would kill me so I would never have to shovel it again. But no, it never takes it quite that far. It leaves me broken, crippled and defeated, with just enough life left in me to have to deal with it again on another day."
I was speechless.
But I agreed in principle.
Sunday, December 1, 2019
He Writes Poetry
Poetry is a strange beast.
99% of the populace have no exposure to it, by choice or by circumstance. Of those who do, 95% hate it.
Yet time and time again, I hear people say "He writes poetry" when they are trying to pass somebody off as sensitive or intelligent. In the most bizarre of circumstances.
The most recent of which was a discussion I heard on Golic and Wingo. Sports talk radio. Talking about the Myles Garrett/Mason Rudolph stupidity.
One of the commentators actually said about Garrett "He writes poetry". He was not defending the guy - they trashed him pretty good. He was trying to make the point that Garrett is a different sort of cat, a guy who thinks differently, and who knows how someone like that will react in any given situation. He writes poetry.
Poetry runs the gamut from trash to juvenile vulgarity to exquisite expression. I read a lot of poetry but, admittedly, in spurts. I read a lot for a while then step away from it for a while. Typically a long while.
Also, admittedly, I am not the guy to be objective about any discussion about the merits of poetry. I worship words. Sidebar: I wish speech could be outlawed. Then we would all be forced to communicate in writing. Which eliminates interruptions. I despise people who interrupt when I am talking. I want to rip out their tongue and staple it to their forehead.
More to the point, I worship concepts concisely stated. Song lyrics. Poetry. No meandering, no overflow, no excess words. Thoughts expressed in a direct (or creatively indirect) way so powerful they knock me on my ass.
That's what I love about poetry.
But poetry is like an exotic animal. Something you know little about, something you rarely, if ever, experience. So it becomes mystical and magical and subject to all kinds of subjective erroneous opinions.
Most of the time the people who say "He writes poetry" don't know a fucking thing about poetry. They probably hate it, if they have any opinion at all. But they say that, and wrapped up in those words are all kinds of assumptions about intelligence, creativity, sensitivity and god knows what else.
If you put Bukowski's writings in front of them and that of William Butler Yeats and asked "Which of these guys writes poetry?", most people would choose Yeats and laugh at Bukowski.
They would be wrong. Poetry is unlimited. It covers all topics, includes many different styles and is written by humans so diverse they cover the entire spectrum of human existence. (See William Shakespeare vs Gregory Corso).
My meandering point is that the expression "He writes poetry" is meaningless and usually rolls off the tongues of the uninformed.
I write poetry, for Christ sake. It sucks.
But it feels good.
99% of the populace have no exposure to it, by choice or by circumstance. Of those who do, 95% hate it.
Yet time and time again, I hear people say "He writes poetry" when they are trying to pass somebody off as sensitive or intelligent. In the most bizarre of circumstances.
The most recent of which was a discussion I heard on Golic and Wingo. Sports talk radio. Talking about the Myles Garrett/Mason Rudolph stupidity.
One of the commentators actually said about Garrett "He writes poetry". He was not defending the guy - they trashed him pretty good. He was trying to make the point that Garrett is a different sort of cat, a guy who thinks differently, and who knows how someone like that will react in any given situation. He writes poetry.
Poetry runs the gamut from trash to juvenile vulgarity to exquisite expression. I read a lot of poetry but, admittedly, in spurts. I read a lot for a while then step away from it for a while. Typically a long while.
Also, admittedly, I am not the guy to be objective about any discussion about the merits of poetry. I worship words. Sidebar: I wish speech could be outlawed. Then we would all be forced to communicate in writing. Which eliminates interruptions. I despise people who interrupt when I am talking. I want to rip out their tongue and staple it to their forehead.
More to the point, I worship concepts concisely stated. Song lyrics. Poetry. No meandering, no overflow, no excess words. Thoughts expressed in a direct (or creatively indirect) way so powerful they knock me on my ass.
That's what I love about poetry.
But poetry is like an exotic animal. Something you know little about, something you rarely, if ever, experience. So it becomes mystical and magical and subject to all kinds of subjective erroneous opinions.
Most of the time the people who say "He writes poetry" don't know a fucking thing about poetry. They probably hate it, if they have any opinion at all. But they say that, and wrapped up in those words are all kinds of assumptions about intelligence, creativity, sensitivity and god knows what else.
If you put Bukowski's writings in front of them and that of William Butler Yeats and asked "Which of these guys writes poetry?", most people would choose Yeats and laugh at Bukowski.
They would be wrong. Poetry is unlimited. It covers all topics, includes many different styles and is written by humans so diverse they cover the entire spectrum of human existence. (See William Shakespeare vs Gregory Corso).
My meandering point is that the expression "He writes poetry" is meaningless and usually rolls off the tongues of the uninformed.
I write poetry, for Christ sake. It sucks.
But it feels good.
These Are Words That Speak To Me
........................."To Court destruction with taunts-with invitations!
To ascend-to leap to the heavens of the love indicated to me!
To rise thither with my inebriate Soul!
To be lost, if it must be so!
To feed the remainder of life with one hour of fulness and freedom!
With one brief hour of madness and joy."
excerpted from "Leaves of Grass" by Walt Whitman
To ascend-to leap to the heavens of the love indicated to me!
To rise thither with my inebriate Soul!
To be lost, if it must be so!
To feed the remainder of life with one hour of fulness and freedom!
With one brief hour of madness and joy."
excerpted from "Leaves of Grass" by Walt Whitman
Just A Thought
"Life was precious. Life was all that mattered. Yet it meant nothing if you weren't living as you wanted."
"No Beast So Fierce" by Edward Bunker
"No Beast So Fierce" by Edward Bunker
And So It's December (and what have you done?)
Today is December 1.
I let a lot of things slide in 2019. But when December rolls around I get reflective.
Carol and I have been on a bit of an emotional roll since 2016. Somewhat tumultuous.
I semi-retired in 2016. Turned out to be meaningless.
I was diagnosed with melanoma in 2016. Had a chunk of skin removed from my back, a snip off the tip of my nose. The back operation was more involved, obviously, but kind of fun because the surgeon was a hot shit. Played blues on the radio at my request and then proceeded to talk blues with me as he hacked away. Again, compared to what was to come in our lives, my problems turned out to be meaningless.
In 2017 Carol was diagnosed with breast cancer; a tumor was discovered in her brain. She had a mastectomy in September (Labor Day weekend), the tumor removed on November 2. She fought back like a motherfucker.
2018 was a blur. A strangely nothing year. A rebound and deal with this shit year.
In 2019, Carol's job was cut from full to part time. We had to deal with switching over from regular insurance to Medicare. Dealing with Social Security and NH Retirement Fund for Carol. Lots of questions, many decisions. Stressful.
I grabbed a second part time job to try to make our lives a little better. I am tired and stressed.
Today is December 1. I am wondering what 2020 will bring. I feel we have a responsibility to do whatever is within our control to make our lives better. We don't have a lot of time left, and we deserve as much happiness and comfort as we can possibly maneuver.
Selling the house is a number one priority in 2020. That is the single most meaningful thing we can do to knock some pressure off our shoulders. Sell the house, buy a mobile home outright - no mortgage.
The two job thing on my part is designed to make that possible. Make as many repairs to the house as we can afford so potential buyers will be dazzled into offering us one million dollars.
Beyond that I don't know. We like to believe if we sell and buy we will eliminate the need to work. I am not sure about that, but I am willing to believe that, or at least hope for it. My strongest wish is to end my life in dignity and pride. Working two part time demeaning jobs does not fit into that equation.
Carol turned 66 in November. I will be 66 on January 1. Those are big numbers. Intimidating.
2016. 2017. 2018. 2019. Roller coaster ride. Unbalanced. Fear filled, stress filled, less than ideal.
2020. Reaching for hope. Reaching for happiness. Reaching for peace.
We shall see.
I let a lot of things slide in 2019. But when December rolls around I get reflective.
Carol and I have been on a bit of an emotional roll since 2016. Somewhat tumultuous.
I semi-retired in 2016. Turned out to be meaningless.
I was diagnosed with melanoma in 2016. Had a chunk of skin removed from my back, a snip off the tip of my nose. The back operation was more involved, obviously, but kind of fun because the surgeon was a hot shit. Played blues on the radio at my request and then proceeded to talk blues with me as he hacked away. Again, compared to what was to come in our lives, my problems turned out to be meaningless.
In 2017 Carol was diagnosed with breast cancer; a tumor was discovered in her brain. She had a mastectomy in September (Labor Day weekend), the tumor removed on November 2. She fought back like a motherfucker.
2018 was a blur. A strangely nothing year. A rebound and deal with this shit year.
In 2019, Carol's job was cut from full to part time. We had to deal with switching over from regular insurance to Medicare. Dealing with Social Security and NH Retirement Fund for Carol. Lots of questions, many decisions. Stressful.
I grabbed a second part time job to try to make our lives a little better. I am tired and stressed.
Today is December 1. I am wondering what 2020 will bring. I feel we have a responsibility to do whatever is within our control to make our lives better. We don't have a lot of time left, and we deserve as much happiness and comfort as we can possibly maneuver.
Selling the house is a number one priority in 2020. That is the single most meaningful thing we can do to knock some pressure off our shoulders. Sell the house, buy a mobile home outright - no mortgage.
The two job thing on my part is designed to make that possible. Make as many repairs to the house as we can afford so potential buyers will be dazzled into offering us one million dollars.
Beyond that I don't know. We like to believe if we sell and buy we will eliminate the need to work. I am not sure about that, but I am willing to believe that, or at least hope for it. My strongest wish is to end my life in dignity and pride. Working two part time demeaning jobs does not fit into that equation.
Carol turned 66 in November. I will be 66 on January 1. Those are big numbers. Intimidating.
2016. 2017. 2018. 2019. Roller coaster ride. Unbalanced. Fear filled, stress filled, less than ideal.
2020. Reaching for hope. Reaching for happiness. Reaching for peace.
We shall see.
Thursday, November 28, 2019
Somber Words On A Thanksgiving Morn
"A swirl of loneliness, rage and despair washed me into a tearful, blinded madness. I pleaded silently 'Oh, please help me.' The plea was to Fortune, Fate, God or a nameless power, a plea that is torn from every man sometime during a lifetime."
"No Beast So Fierce" by Edward Bunker
"No Beast So Fierce" by Edward Bunker
Wednesday, November 20, 2019
Customer Service My Ass
Finally had the confrontation I have been expecting. And it was fun.
Worked the Steven Wright show last Saturday night. When you work a big show like that you do all kinds of preparation in advance and usually things go fairly well.
But sometimes, inexplicably, things go wrong. Horribly, painfully wrong.
There is an old George Clooney movie called From Dusk to Dawn. It is a vampire movie, believe it or not, and is completely insane. Takes place in a dive bar. Cheech Marin is the bartender. Perfect.
There is a neon sign behind the bar that says "The Customer is Always Wrong". I love that. It has been my motto since I got into customer service 13 years ago.
Before I go on, I must preface my remarks, and all future remarks, with one disclaimer - I am tired. Exhausted. Since I started this two job thing it has become apparent that a 65 year old human body was not made for this kind of punishment.
There is no recovering from it. Period.
I have noticed that sarcasm has been creeping into my customer service because of that. Little by little, bit by bit, gaining strength and confidence over the last two months. I am too tired for restraint. I have been mildly sarcastic but still within acceptable bounds of normal customer service. Sort of.
Now to be fair I have never been one of those kill 'em with kindness kind of people. I don't believe in it. I believe you should be treated the way you treat me. When you are polite, I am a God. When you are rude I get cold. Very cold. Businesslike. No smile. No tenderness.
Even then, I am typically hanging on by the smallest of margins. Right on the edge of spitting in your face. Stopping just short of that.
Until Saturday night.
Saturday night was a night where I had a line of people (meaning problems) in front of me stretching from the box office out to the lobby doors. For 30 to 45 minutes non-stop.
Might not seem like a long time to you, but when you are in the middle of it, it feels like a century.
Dude and his woman came in with tickets they had printed themselves, tickets that had been emailed to them. Their printer cut part of the bar codes off so they could not be scanned. Ushers told them they had to see me. Of course that meant they had to go to the end of the long line in front of me.
When they got up to me this guy was a real shit fuck scumbag motherfucker. You know the kind. A real fuck ass dirt bag jerk off piece of shit. He gave me attitude right off the bat.
I gave it right back. My nerves were frayed at that point and, in case you lost track, I was fucking tired.
I matched all of his anger with anger of my own. And sarcasm. Full blown. Straight from the heart.
I cannot even tell you what I said, but for every objection he hurled at me, I gave him poison. Ripped up the customer service handbook and wrote a new one. One that is more to my liking.
It felt so fucking good. Cathartic.
I expected repercussions on Monday but there were none. I got away with it.
Got me thinking.....................
Worked the Steven Wright show last Saturday night. When you work a big show like that you do all kinds of preparation in advance and usually things go fairly well.
But sometimes, inexplicably, things go wrong. Horribly, painfully wrong.
There is an old George Clooney movie called From Dusk to Dawn. It is a vampire movie, believe it or not, and is completely insane. Takes place in a dive bar. Cheech Marin is the bartender. Perfect.
There is a neon sign behind the bar that says "The Customer is Always Wrong". I love that. It has been my motto since I got into customer service 13 years ago.
Before I go on, I must preface my remarks, and all future remarks, with one disclaimer - I am tired. Exhausted. Since I started this two job thing it has become apparent that a 65 year old human body was not made for this kind of punishment.
There is no recovering from it. Period.
I have noticed that sarcasm has been creeping into my customer service because of that. Little by little, bit by bit, gaining strength and confidence over the last two months. I am too tired for restraint. I have been mildly sarcastic but still within acceptable bounds of normal customer service. Sort of.
Now to be fair I have never been one of those kill 'em with kindness kind of people. I don't believe in it. I believe you should be treated the way you treat me. When you are polite, I am a God. When you are rude I get cold. Very cold. Businesslike. No smile. No tenderness.
Even then, I am typically hanging on by the smallest of margins. Right on the edge of spitting in your face. Stopping just short of that.
Until Saturday night.
Saturday night was a night where I had a line of people (meaning problems) in front of me stretching from the box office out to the lobby doors. For 30 to 45 minutes non-stop.
Might not seem like a long time to you, but when you are in the middle of it, it feels like a century.
Dude and his woman came in with tickets they had printed themselves, tickets that had been emailed to them. Their printer cut part of the bar codes off so they could not be scanned. Ushers told them they had to see me. Of course that meant they had to go to the end of the long line in front of me.
When they got up to me this guy was a real shit fuck scumbag motherfucker. You know the kind. A real fuck ass dirt bag jerk off piece of shit. He gave me attitude right off the bat.
I gave it right back. My nerves were frayed at that point and, in case you lost track, I was fucking tired.
I matched all of his anger with anger of my own. And sarcasm. Full blown. Straight from the heart.
I cannot even tell you what I said, but for every objection he hurled at me, I gave him poison. Ripped up the customer service handbook and wrote a new one. One that is more to my liking.
It felt so fucking good. Cathartic.
I expected repercussions on Monday but there were none. I got away with it.
Got me thinking.....................
Wednesday, November 13, 2019
Truth in Blues
Stormy Monday.
An iconic blues song. The lyrics describe most peoples' lives.
"They call it stormy Monday
but Tuesday's just as bad.
They call it stormy Monday
but Tuesday's just as bad.
Lord, and Wednesday's worse
and Thursday's all so bad.
The eagle flies on Friday,
Saturday I go out to play.
The eagle flies on Friday,
Saturday I go out to play.
Sunday I go to church, yeah,
Gonna kneel down and pray."
I lived my life that way for a long time. And I loved it.
Going out on Friday night, Saturday night, going to a bar, listening to live music, dancing. That is the Joe Testa I know best. That is a living, breathing Joe Testa.
I miss it. In the biggest way possible.
Now, the eagle does not fly on Friday and I don't go out to play on Saturday.
What does that leave me?
Not a hell of a lot.
An iconic blues song. The lyrics describe most peoples' lives.
"They call it stormy Monday
but Tuesday's just as bad.
They call it stormy Monday
but Tuesday's just as bad.
Lord, and Wednesday's worse
and Thursday's all so bad.
The eagle flies on Friday,
Saturday I go out to play.
The eagle flies on Friday,
Saturday I go out to play.
Sunday I go to church, yeah,
Gonna kneel down and pray."
I lived my life that way for a long time. And I loved it.
Going out on Friday night, Saturday night, going to a bar, listening to live music, dancing. That is the Joe Testa I know best. That is a living, breathing Joe Testa.
I miss it. In the biggest way possible.
Now, the eagle does not fly on Friday and I don't go out to play on Saturday.
What does that leave me?
Not a hell of a lot.
Concessions
I have made every concession I can possibly make regarding one of my Big Hatreds.
Cold.
I hate cold, I fucking hate being cold.
In 2019 spring bled into summer, summer bled into fall. Recently it got cold. None of this bothered me. Truthfully. Did not think about it.
I won't say for the first time in my life but, for the first time in a very long time, I did not torture my soul in anguish.
Typically when the good weather rolls around I start counting the days until cold. As a result I don't enjoy the warmth the way I should. The way my soul craves.
This year I made my way through spring and summer and fall peaceably. And it slowed time down. I was amazed. Everything moved slower and I truly dug it.
I walked out to grab Carol's paper the other day, it was around 25 degrees, and my brain did not react. I was stunned. I laughed at myself.
But there is one concession I cannot make.
Snow. I cannot accept it. I will never accept it. The other day as I sat preparing to go to work I kept looking at the snow falling. My spirits sank. I was depressed. I was angry.
Accumulation was negligible. Took me one minute to brush my car off. But I was fucking pissed.
My theory is that life is hard, very fucking hard, and choosing to live in a place that makes life harder is sheer stupidity. Which, of course, is why I have spent my entire life in New England.
A job is an intrusion. It is an insult to my life. It takes me away from reality, so my approach is to minimize the time it steals from me. Leave for work as late as possible, get home as soon as possible.
Unless it snows.
Then I have to get up earlier, I have to shovel, I have to brush and scrape. I have to give up even more of my precious life in order to get to work on time. Get to work on time. I hate the concept of it, the reality of it.
I have to leave extra drive time because traffic will be slow. I will get home later because traffic will be slow.
All because of snow.
Cold does not slow me down. Snow destroys me.
I fantasize about killing someone. I believe if you kill someone who deserves it, who you truly hate and has done you wrong, someone who deserves to die, it must be cathartic.
Generally, I am not capable of that level of violence.
But if it ever happens it will be on a snowy day.
Cold.
I hate cold, I fucking hate being cold.
In 2019 spring bled into summer, summer bled into fall. Recently it got cold. None of this bothered me. Truthfully. Did not think about it.
I won't say for the first time in my life but, for the first time in a very long time, I did not torture my soul in anguish.
Typically when the good weather rolls around I start counting the days until cold. As a result I don't enjoy the warmth the way I should. The way my soul craves.
This year I made my way through spring and summer and fall peaceably. And it slowed time down. I was amazed. Everything moved slower and I truly dug it.
I walked out to grab Carol's paper the other day, it was around 25 degrees, and my brain did not react. I was stunned. I laughed at myself.
But there is one concession I cannot make.
Snow. I cannot accept it. I will never accept it. The other day as I sat preparing to go to work I kept looking at the snow falling. My spirits sank. I was depressed. I was angry.
Accumulation was negligible. Took me one minute to brush my car off. But I was fucking pissed.
My theory is that life is hard, very fucking hard, and choosing to live in a place that makes life harder is sheer stupidity. Which, of course, is why I have spent my entire life in New England.
A job is an intrusion. It is an insult to my life. It takes me away from reality, so my approach is to minimize the time it steals from me. Leave for work as late as possible, get home as soon as possible.
Unless it snows.
Then I have to get up earlier, I have to shovel, I have to brush and scrape. I have to give up even more of my precious life in order to get to work on time. Get to work on time. I hate the concept of it, the reality of it.
I have to leave extra drive time because traffic will be slow. I will get home later because traffic will be slow.
All because of snow.
Cold does not slow me down. Snow destroys me.
I fantasize about killing someone. I believe if you kill someone who deserves it, who you truly hate and has done you wrong, someone who deserves to die, it must be cathartic.
Generally, I am not capable of that level of violence.
But if it ever happens it will be on a snowy day.
Sunday, November 10, 2019
Powerful Truth
A character in the book I am reading met with an older man.
She described the lines and imperfection on his face as "markers of time and damage."
That is perfect. The ultimate definition of aging.
Time and damage.
She described the lines and imperfection on his face as "markers of time and damage."
That is perfect. The ultimate definition of aging.
Time and damage.
Sunday, November 3, 2019
You'll Never Believe What Happened
Carol and I have to replace the screen door on our porch.
I pushed it as far as I could as a responsible homeowner. My approach as homeowner is to ignore everything and let it run down to absolute destruction. Absolute zero. And then let it go a little more.
The screen door made the cut. It was so bad that the outside frame split in one spot. We had to open and close the door delicately so the door wouldn't completely fall apart. Sometimes we had to line up the top of the door with the bottom so it wouldn't sag.
So we motor in to Home Depot yesterday and pick up a new door. A rather nice one, I must say.
Right off the bat I gotta say I was already irritated. Anytime I walk into Home Depot or Lowes or a hardware store, there is an excellent chance I will have a stroke and die. I fucking hate those places and am exceptionally uncomfortable inside them. I avoid them like the plague.
I ain't no fucking handyman.
Got the door out to my car and the fucker wouldn't fit. I had pulled the back seats down without noticing that the opening was limited - it did not span the full width of the car.
We played with it for a few minutes until I angrily decided we would return the goddamn thing and figure out another approach. I was fucking furious. The non-handyman curse strikes again.
Along comes a stranger. "Doesn't fit, huh?" No condescension, which immediately made me suspicious. He took a shot at getting it into the car and then said "Give me a second." Went back to his vehicle and came back with one of those straps. Not a bungee cord; a strap. You know, with the hook on the end and all that. A workingman's strap.
We slide the door in as far as it would go and he proceeded to strap the trunk down and wrap it tight to the door, tying it underneath my car. Said "That is not going anywhere."
I thanked him profusely and asked him how to get the strap back to him. He said "Keep it. I got a million of them." As he walked away he said "Merry Christmas."
We drove home without incident. If he hadn't showed up, the door would be back inside Home Depot.
This incident really fucked up my hard line view of humanity as a bunch of useless assholes to be avoided at all cost.
I really hate dealing with people. Socializing I can do because I am a fun guy and a good actor. But dealing with people fucks me up. I don't want to see people, I don't want to talk to them, I don't want to answer their questions or ask them questions or deal with their opinions. In stores, in restaurants, in public. Anywhere.
I want to sit in the dark with whiskey and music and dream of alone-world.
And then this guy shows up so nice , so helpful, no condescension and unselfishly helps us out.
I don't think I would have done it. The only thing I would consider is if I saw someone unconscious on the ground. I would walk over, steal their wallet and then help them.
He really blew me away. Made me feel good. There really are good people in the world.
Not many, though.
By the way, don't worry. I am not installing the fucking door. Carol found a local dude to do the job.
I ain't no fucking handyman.
I pushed it as far as I could as a responsible homeowner. My approach as homeowner is to ignore everything and let it run down to absolute destruction. Absolute zero. And then let it go a little more.
The screen door made the cut. It was so bad that the outside frame split in one spot. We had to open and close the door delicately so the door wouldn't completely fall apart. Sometimes we had to line up the top of the door with the bottom so it wouldn't sag.
So we motor in to Home Depot yesterday and pick up a new door. A rather nice one, I must say.
Right off the bat I gotta say I was already irritated. Anytime I walk into Home Depot or Lowes or a hardware store, there is an excellent chance I will have a stroke and die. I fucking hate those places and am exceptionally uncomfortable inside them. I avoid them like the plague.
I ain't no fucking handyman.
Got the door out to my car and the fucker wouldn't fit. I had pulled the back seats down without noticing that the opening was limited - it did not span the full width of the car.
We played with it for a few minutes until I angrily decided we would return the goddamn thing and figure out another approach. I was fucking furious. The non-handyman curse strikes again.
Along comes a stranger. "Doesn't fit, huh?" No condescension, which immediately made me suspicious. He took a shot at getting it into the car and then said "Give me a second." Went back to his vehicle and came back with one of those straps. Not a bungee cord; a strap. You know, with the hook on the end and all that. A workingman's strap.
We slide the door in as far as it would go and he proceeded to strap the trunk down and wrap it tight to the door, tying it underneath my car. Said "That is not going anywhere."
I thanked him profusely and asked him how to get the strap back to him. He said "Keep it. I got a million of them." As he walked away he said "Merry Christmas."
We drove home without incident. If he hadn't showed up, the door would be back inside Home Depot.
This incident really fucked up my hard line view of humanity as a bunch of useless assholes to be avoided at all cost.
I really hate dealing with people. Socializing I can do because I am a fun guy and a good actor. But dealing with people fucks me up. I don't want to see people, I don't want to talk to them, I don't want to answer their questions or ask them questions or deal with their opinions. In stores, in restaurants, in public. Anywhere.
I want to sit in the dark with whiskey and music and dream of alone-world.
And then this guy shows up so nice , so helpful, no condescension and unselfishly helps us out.
I don't think I would have done it. The only thing I would consider is if I saw someone unconscious on the ground. I would walk over, steal their wallet and then help them.
He really blew me away. Made me feel good. There really are good people in the world.
Not many, though.
By the way, don't worry. I am not installing the fucking door. Carol found a local dude to do the job.
I ain't no fucking handyman.
Tuesday, October 22, 2019
Nobody Ever...............
Carol and I watched a movie on Sunday called "Harvey. 1950. Jimmy Stewart.
About Elwood P. Dowd and his 6 foot 8 inch invisible rabbit named Harvey. Magnificent movie.
Carol has been pestering me to watch it for a long time. Typically I prefer movies with machetes and beheadings but I am really glad I watched Harvey.
One chunk of dialogue exploded my head.
Elwood P. Dowd talking:
"Harvey and I have things to do. We sit in the bars, have a drink or two and play the jukebox. Very soon the faces of the other people turn towards me and they smile. They say 'We don't know your name, mister, but you're a very nice fellow.' Harvey and I warm ourselves in these golden moments. We entered as strangers and soon we have friends. They come over. They sit with us. They drink with us. They talk to us. They tell us about the great big terrible things they have done and the great big wonderful things they're going to do. Their hopes, their regrets. Their loves, their hates. All very large, because nobody ever brings anything small into a bar. Then I introduce them to Harvey, and he's bigger and grander than anything they can offer me. When they leave, they leave impressed. The same people seldom come back, but that's envy, my dear. There's a little bit of envy in the best of us. That's too bad, isn't it?"
There is a lot of emotion, empathy and insight in those words. The line that cracked my skull was "nobody ever brings anything small into a bar."
How true. How perceptive. If you walk into a bar to kill your pain, it doesn't matter what the source of your pain is. A collection notice on an overdue bill, the fact that your house burned down, or you lost your job. Or you are just feeling down. Or your fucking back is killing you or your kids don't talk to you.
Whatever the reason, it is huge to you. Huge.
Such a delicious surprise, this movie. Sounds silly but it is far from that.
About Elwood P. Dowd and his 6 foot 8 inch invisible rabbit named Harvey. Magnificent movie.
Carol has been pestering me to watch it for a long time. Typically I prefer movies with machetes and beheadings but I am really glad I watched Harvey.
One chunk of dialogue exploded my head.
Elwood P. Dowd talking:
"Harvey and I have things to do. We sit in the bars, have a drink or two and play the jukebox. Very soon the faces of the other people turn towards me and they smile. They say 'We don't know your name, mister, but you're a very nice fellow.' Harvey and I warm ourselves in these golden moments. We entered as strangers and soon we have friends. They come over. They sit with us. They drink with us. They talk to us. They tell us about the great big terrible things they have done and the great big wonderful things they're going to do. Their hopes, their regrets. Their loves, their hates. All very large, because nobody ever brings anything small into a bar. Then I introduce them to Harvey, and he's bigger and grander than anything they can offer me. When they leave, they leave impressed. The same people seldom come back, but that's envy, my dear. There's a little bit of envy in the best of us. That's too bad, isn't it?"
There is a lot of emotion, empathy and insight in those words. The line that cracked my skull was "nobody ever brings anything small into a bar."
How true. How perceptive. If you walk into a bar to kill your pain, it doesn't matter what the source of your pain is. A collection notice on an overdue bill, the fact that your house burned down, or you lost your job. Or you are just feeling down. Or your fucking back is killing you or your kids don't talk to you.
Whatever the reason, it is huge to you. Huge.
Such a delicious surprise, this movie. Sounds silly but it is far from that.
Sunday, October 20, 2019
Wherever The Music Takes Me
For the past two weeks I have been listening on Sirius XM exclusively to the Sinatra channel and the Jazz channel.
I typically dabble in these channels but for some reason - right here and right now - they are captivating my mind and my emotions. That's what I love about music and, frankly, about my open minded approach to it - you never know what is going to give you peace. Make you smile. Make you cry. Make you think.
The Sinatra channel has blown me away with variety. I love a lot of what Sinatra did. I also have heard Tony Bennett, Rod Stewart, Billie Holiday, Ella Fitzgerald, Willie Nelson.
Billie Holiday, man. She alone blows my mind. If you don't know who she was, what her history is, check her out. The opportunity to hear her music is pretty fucking cool.
I dig the Jazz channel because I get to hear old school jazz, the names I am familiar with, and more recent musicians - people I don't know but who manipulate my emotions.
I dig musicians, man - I used to be one. Once a musician, always a musician. As I listen to what these people do - drum solos, trumpet solos, sax (fucking love sax), small groups, big bands - I am thrilled. The Allman Brothers were all about improvisation. Sense a connection?
I think improvisation in music is the ultimate statement of how much talent, emotion and empathy a musician has. And knowledge. You gotta know what you're doing to improvise. It is a direct translation of what you are feeling into musical expression.
I was smiling to myself last night on the way home from work. Smiling at the range of stuff that turns me on. Had Carol's car because my car has been cranky lately. She doesn't have Sirius. I listened to a classic rock station. They played a bunch of Metallica and I was rocking out. I fucking love Metallica.
Heard a song on Sinatra this week called All I Have To Have. Love song, all I have to have is you - you get the point. I loved one section that goes a little something like this:
"If there was no confetti, if there was no champagne, I would eat cold spaghetti standing in the rain."
Is that a good lyric? Or is it corny? I don't know. But I like it. It got to me.
Hal Linden sang the song. Hal Linden played Barney Miller on TV many years ago. Who knew?
OK. That's it. I am done.
I typically dabble in these channels but for some reason - right here and right now - they are captivating my mind and my emotions. That's what I love about music and, frankly, about my open minded approach to it - you never know what is going to give you peace. Make you smile. Make you cry. Make you think.
The Sinatra channel has blown me away with variety. I love a lot of what Sinatra did. I also have heard Tony Bennett, Rod Stewart, Billie Holiday, Ella Fitzgerald, Willie Nelson.
Billie Holiday, man. She alone blows my mind. If you don't know who she was, what her history is, check her out. The opportunity to hear her music is pretty fucking cool.
I dig the Jazz channel because I get to hear old school jazz, the names I am familiar with, and more recent musicians - people I don't know but who manipulate my emotions.
I dig musicians, man - I used to be one. Once a musician, always a musician. As I listen to what these people do - drum solos, trumpet solos, sax (fucking love sax), small groups, big bands - I am thrilled. The Allman Brothers were all about improvisation. Sense a connection?
I think improvisation in music is the ultimate statement of how much talent, emotion and empathy a musician has. And knowledge. You gotta know what you're doing to improvise. It is a direct translation of what you are feeling into musical expression.
I was smiling to myself last night on the way home from work. Smiling at the range of stuff that turns me on. Had Carol's car because my car has been cranky lately. She doesn't have Sirius. I listened to a classic rock station. They played a bunch of Metallica and I was rocking out. I fucking love Metallica.
Heard a song on Sinatra this week called All I Have To Have. Love song, all I have to have is you - you get the point. I loved one section that goes a little something like this:
"If there was no confetti, if there was no champagne, I would eat cold spaghetti standing in the rain."
Is that a good lyric? Or is it corny? I don't know. But I like it. It got to me.
Hal Linden sang the song. Hal Linden played Barney Miller on TV many years ago. Who knew?
OK. That's it. I am done.
Wednesday, October 16, 2019
Pets
Cori had to put Newman down. It got me thinking.
Newman was a part of my life too.
That is the magic of pets. They belong to a family and they belong to every family member and friend who is close to that family.
I am proud of the fact that my family is a pet family. It is a sign of sensitivity and a loving nature.
Carol and I have loved Onyx (our dog), Lokai and Max our cats, all of whom are now gone. I cannot accurately express how much it broke me to put these guys to sleep.
Now we have our two cats Maka, who we have had for 13 years, and Lakota, who we have had for 19 years.
These cats are the loves of my life. On Thursday and Friday mornings now I get up at 4:45. I don't have to do that, except for the fact that I need time for coffee and a book before I go to work.
Most of those mornings I have both cats in my lap. I look at them every single time, and a powerful feeling of contentment washes over me. Strong medicine at a difficult time for me.
My first pet was Sundance. Sundance was a neighborhood cat who used to come around late at night when I got home from a night of insanity with my friends, when I was still living with my parents. I named him Sundance and I loved him. I would sit outside petting and talking to him for as long as it took to soothe my tortured soul.
Keith and Emily had a cat named Liska. She got sick and had to be put down way too early. Broke my heart. I was cat sitting her once. I laid down on the futon, Liska climbed up on my belly and fell asleep. You can never take that memory and the emotions that accompany it away from me.
Keith now has Cooper (dog) and Jack (cat). I love them both. I cat sit Jack a lot and he makes me smile. A lot.
Cooper is hard to get close to. He is high strung. But when I look at his cute face and especially into his eyes, I see love. Especially when I see him and Keith together. I love their relationship.
Craig had a cat named Marley, courtesy of his girlfriend Karen. Marley got sick and had to be put down way too early. Broke my heart. Marley used to fetch things, like a dog does. Pretty cool.
Craig and Amanda now have Murray, a dog. Just got him recently. He is so goddamn cute and lovable it should be illegal.
I just name checked twelve pets that have touched my family. I love and have loved them all.
It broke my heart when Cori posted the news she had to put Newman down. Another chapter closed.
I am proud of my family. The fact that they have pets and the way that they love them is all I need to know about their sensitivity, their empathy, their open-hearted approach to life.
These are the qualities I treasure in people. I love all the pets and I LOVE my family.
Newman was a part of my life too.
That is the magic of pets. They belong to a family and they belong to every family member and friend who is close to that family.
I am proud of the fact that my family is a pet family. It is a sign of sensitivity and a loving nature.
Carol and I have loved Onyx (our dog), Lokai and Max our cats, all of whom are now gone. I cannot accurately express how much it broke me to put these guys to sleep.
Now we have our two cats Maka, who we have had for 13 years, and Lakota, who we have had for 19 years.
These cats are the loves of my life. On Thursday and Friday mornings now I get up at 4:45. I don't have to do that, except for the fact that I need time for coffee and a book before I go to work.
Most of those mornings I have both cats in my lap. I look at them every single time, and a powerful feeling of contentment washes over me. Strong medicine at a difficult time for me.
My first pet was Sundance. Sundance was a neighborhood cat who used to come around late at night when I got home from a night of insanity with my friends, when I was still living with my parents. I named him Sundance and I loved him. I would sit outside petting and talking to him for as long as it took to soothe my tortured soul.
Keith and Emily had a cat named Liska. She got sick and had to be put down way too early. Broke my heart. I was cat sitting her once. I laid down on the futon, Liska climbed up on my belly and fell asleep. You can never take that memory and the emotions that accompany it away from me.
Keith now has Cooper (dog) and Jack (cat). I love them both. I cat sit Jack a lot and he makes me smile. A lot.
Cooper is hard to get close to. He is high strung. But when I look at his cute face and especially into his eyes, I see love. Especially when I see him and Keith together. I love their relationship.
Craig had a cat named Marley, courtesy of his girlfriend Karen. Marley got sick and had to be put down way too early. Broke my heart. Marley used to fetch things, like a dog does. Pretty cool.
Craig and Amanda now have Murray, a dog. Just got him recently. He is so goddamn cute and lovable it should be illegal.
I just name checked twelve pets that have touched my family. I love and have loved them all.
It broke my heart when Cori posted the news she had to put Newman down. Another chapter closed.
I am proud of my family. The fact that they have pets and the way that they love them is all I need to know about their sensitivity, their empathy, their open-hearted approach to life.
These are the qualities I treasure in people. I love all the pets and I LOVE my family.
Life
Here's how life works.
Carol is being rewarded for living a life in sync with who she really is. Sucks that she was forced into part time work before she planned on it, but she has the entire month of October off and then goes back to work on 10/29, working a job that she likes from 10 to 2 every day for excellent pay.
She is happy.
I am being punished for living a life completely out of sync with who I really am. Working two part time jobs, working six days a week including Friday and Saturday nights. I am perpetually exhausted. There is no recovering from a schedule like that.
Life will not leave you alone. If you make mistakes, if you take your eye off the ball, you are not allowed to just keep your head down and slink quietly towards the grave. There is a price to pay. Life will crush you. It will taunt you. It will punish you.
Strangely, and in apparent contrast to my words, I am strangely numb to all this. I am not furious. I get up, I go to work, I come home. Wash, rinse, repeat.
Part of that is assuagement of guilt. Ever since Carol got sick I have felt guilt. She beat the shit out of cancer and kept working full time. While I would often work 2 days a week. I did not enjoy one day of "semi-retirement" after Carol got sick.
So at least right now I am pumping our coffers full of cash in self defense against aging and loss.
The voice in my head says "This needs to be leading towards something. I cannot keep this up for years and years." For perhaps the first time in my life I am thinking ahead.
Maybe.
Hopefully.
Anyway the message is - be careful of life. It is not your friend.
Carol is being rewarded for living a life in sync with who she really is. Sucks that she was forced into part time work before she planned on it, but she has the entire month of October off and then goes back to work on 10/29, working a job that she likes from 10 to 2 every day for excellent pay.
She is happy.
I am being punished for living a life completely out of sync with who I really am. Working two part time jobs, working six days a week including Friday and Saturday nights. I am perpetually exhausted. There is no recovering from a schedule like that.
Life will not leave you alone. If you make mistakes, if you take your eye off the ball, you are not allowed to just keep your head down and slink quietly towards the grave. There is a price to pay. Life will crush you. It will taunt you. It will punish you.
Strangely, and in apparent contrast to my words, I am strangely numb to all this. I am not furious. I get up, I go to work, I come home. Wash, rinse, repeat.
Part of that is assuagement of guilt. Ever since Carol got sick I have felt guilt. She beat the shit out of cancer and kept working full time. While I would often work 2 days a week. I did not enjoy one day of "semi-retirement" after Carol got sick.
So at least right now I am pumping our coffers full of cash in self defense against aging and loss.
The voice in my head says "This needs to be leading towards something. I cannot keep this up for years and years." For perhaps the first time in my life I am thinking ahead.
Maybe.
Hopefully.
Anyway the message is - be careful of life. It is not your friend.
Perspective
And Bob Cratchit excitedly says to his family on Christmas eve: "I'm to have the whole day off tomorrow."
I always thought that was such a sad situation. One day off from work and it was like a vacation to him.
I have always believed that everyone deserves a weekend. Going back to work after one day off is nothingness. Torture. Not fair. You NEED 2 days off in a row just to feel like a human being.
Of course the majority of Americans have been robbed of weekends. It is becoming a fanciful concept. A disappearing dream.
BUT
I am working my ass off right now. 6 days a week. Days and nights. But today.......due to the generosity of the City of Concord, I am home. Even though I am part time, even though I don't even work on Mondays, I get paid 4 hours for the Columbus Day holiday. They can't pay me overtime so I got today off with pay (my Wed hours being noon to 4:00).
I feel so relaxed today.
And last night I was excitedly thinking "I'm to have the whole day off tomorrow."
I always thought that was such a sad situation. One day off from work and it was like a vacation to him.
I have always believed that everyone deserves a weekend. Going back to work after one day off is nothingness. Torture. Not fair. You NEED 2 days off in a row just to feel like a human being.
Of course the majority of Americans have been robbed of weekends. It is becoming a fanciful concept. A disappearing dream.
BUT
I am working my ass off right now. 6 days a week. Days and nights. But today.......due to the generosity of the City of Concord, I am home. Even though I am part time, even though I don't even work on Mondays, I get paid 4 hours for the Columbus Day holiday. They can't pay me overtime so I got today off with pay (my Wed hours being noon to 4:00).
I feel so relaxed today.
And last night I was excitedly thinking "I'm to have the whole day off tomorrow."
Wednesday, September 18, 2019
A Brilliant Sentence
I write differently than I talk.
Writing allows me creative license. Occasionally I talk the way I write but then people look askance at me. It doesn't work.
So I talk the way every one else does. Boring.
When I write I am truly me.
Given a blank page I cannot help myself. Even when writing emails at work.
On Monday I was filling in the boss about stuff at work (he wasn't in). Leaving him an email so he would be informed. This was around 4:15.
My last sentence was:
"Tomorrow at this time I will have a short whiskey in my hand as I listen to ocean waves softly whispering encouragement to my tortured psyche."
THAT is a motherfucking sentence. Could you write a sentence like that? You could not. I'm telling you right now. That sentence is worthy of a Pulitzer Prize. If they only gave Pulitzers for individual sentences.
That sentence could be the basis for a story. A book. A movie. It is wide open with possibilities, and creates an instantaneous mood while simultaneously raising questions.
It makes you wonder. It piques your curiosity.
Now if only I could find a writer talented enough to DO something with it.
Writing allows me creative license. Occasionally I talk the way I write but then people look askance at me. It doesn't work.
So I talk the way every one else does. Boring.
When I write I am truly me.
Given a blank page I cannot help myself. Even when writing emails at work.
On Monday I was filling in the boss about stuff at work (he wasn't in). Leaving him an email so he would be informed. This was around 4:15.
My last sentence was:
"Tomorrow at this time I will have a short whiskey in my hand as I listen to ocean waves softly whispering encouragement to my tortured psyche."
THAT is a motherfucking sentence. Could you write a sentence like that? You could not. I'm telling you right now. That sentence is worthy of a Pulitzer Prize. If they only gave Pulitzers for individual sentences.
That sentence could be the basis for a story. A book. A movie. It is wide open with possibilities, and creates an instantaneous mood while simultaneously raising questions.
It makes you wonder. It piques your curiosity.
Now if only I could find a writer talented enough to DO something with it.
Sunday, September 1, 2019
I Must Be Dead
I feel nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Today is September 1. Spiritually, summer is dead. We will have more good weather, maybe a lot of it, but Labor Day Weekend is essentially a funeral for people who appreciate living easy.
And yet I feel nothing. I felt nothing on May 1, June 1, July 1, August 1.
Typically I spend the 7 months of winter grinding my teeth, head down, guzzling whiskey, killing small birds and eating their bones.
When May 1 rolls around I immediately begin worrying about how quickly summer will go by. As each month ticks off I become more agitated until October 1 rolls around and the small bird population in the neighborhood again begins to diminish.
2019 shattered that pattern. And, honestly, it is a much more peaceful way to live. Winter did shatter me as usual but I watched the good weather go by with no panic.
I don't know why. It's possible I have just given up on ever having the life I want. Also possible I am maturing, learning how to deal with life on its terms which, I now understand, it dictates and I follow.
Period.
I know the second possibility sounds like a fantasy, especially if you have known me all my life, but the truth is I am painfully aware of the small time I have left to live and it is beginning to have an impact on my thought processes.
Case in point. I just landed a second part time job as of this past Friday. Not a shit job like I have been looking at for months. A real fucking job. $17.78/hour, working for the City of Concord. 20 hours/week. I will keep my job at the Capitol Center, working two days a week there and two and 1/2 days a week for the City. Plus whatever shows at the Capitol Center I can squeeze into my schedule without killing myself.
When I worked at the thrift store part time I was miserable because the job was so far beneath my capabilities. There are many days at the Cap Center when I feel the same way. I make myself miserable because I cannot accept the situation I am in.
Now I am taking on two part time jobs and looking forward to it. Because after three wasted years of semi-retirement I can finally contribute to our financial welfare in a meaningful way. Ever since Carol had her health problems I have felt like a shit. Now I want to work my ass off, pay off bills and build up savings so we don't have to live in terror ever single fucking day.
And maybe we can afford to have a little fun along the way.
So, yeah, maybe I am dead. In some ways I feel nothing, in other ways I am more accepting. No clue where this will lead.
Hopefully to a little happiness and pride for Carol and me.
We deserve it.
Today is September 1. Spiritually, summer is dead. We will have more good weather, maybe a lot of it, but Labor Day Weekend is essentially a funeral for people who appreciate living easy.
And yet I feel nothing. I felt nothing on May 1, June 1, July 1, August 1.
Typically I spend the 7 months of winter grinding my teeth, head down, guzzling whiskey, killing small birds and eating their bones.
When May 1 rolls around I immediately begin worrying about how quickly summer will go by. As each month ticks off I become more agitated until October 1 rolls around and the small bird population in the neighborhood again begins to diminish.
2019 shattered that pattern. And, honestly, it is a much more peaceful way to live. Winter did shatter me as usual but I watched the good weather go by with no panic.
I don't know why. It's possible I have just given up on ever having the life I want. Also possible I am maturing, learning how to deal with life on its terms which, I now understand, it dictates and I follow.
Period.
I know the second possibility sounds like a fantasy, especially if you have known me all my life, but the truth is I am painfully aware of the small time I have left to live and it is beginning to have an impact on my thought processes.
Case in point. I just landed a second part time job as of this past Friday. Not a shit job like I have been looking at for months. A real fucking job. $17.78/hour, working for the City of Concord. 20 hours/week. I will keep my job at the Capitol Center, working two days a week there and two and 1/2 days a week for the City. Plus whatever shows at the Capitol Center I can squeeze into my schedule without killing myself.
When I worked at the thrift store part time I was miserable because the job was so far beneath my capabilities. There are many days at the Cap Center when I feel the same way. I make myself miserable because I cannot accept the situation I am in.
Now I am taking on two part time jobs and looking forward to it. Because after three wasted years of semi-retirement I can finally contribute to our financial welfare in a meaningful way. Ever since Carol had her health problems I have felt like a shit. Now I want to work my ass off, pay off bills and build up savings so we don't have to live in terror ever single fucking day.
And maybe we can afford to have a little fun along the way.
So, yeah, maybe I am dead. In some ways I feel nothing, in other ways I am more accepting. No clue where this will lead.
Hopefully to a little happiness and pride for Carol and me.
We deserve it.
Thursday, August 22, 2019
He KNOWS Me. He Fucking KNOWS Me.
"Most people are prisoners, thinking only about the future or living in the past. They are not in the present, and the present is where everything begins."
Carlos Santana
Carlos Santana
Saturday, August 17, 2019
David Bowie
I read a biography on David Bowie a couple of books ago.
Spectacular. The book and the man.
I had a lifelong respect for David Bowie because he experimented with life. His life.
He tried shit out. Tried shit on. Turns out he started doing this as a kid, a teenager. I did not know this.
At some point he decided that he wanted to make a living as an entertainer but was not sure exactly what kind of entertainer. So he started soaking up knowledge and experiences with music, theatre, dance, even mime. As he was doing that he was trying out different ways of dressing, including wearing dresses, makeup etc, changing hairstyles.
The consistent thing that came through in the book from old friends and family members was that Bowie was fearless. He did not give a shit what people thought about what he was doing and how he looked. And trust me, he took a lot of shit for the way he looked.
He caught my attention at first with his music. Hunky Dory came out in 1971 and had the song "Changes" on it. I LOVED that song. Still do. I felt like he was talking about my generation, people who were misunderstood, people who others did not even try to understand. I think critically the song is understood to be more about Bowie's attitude about change; changing himself and avoiding getting sucked into the rock 'n roll soul sucking machine.
When he came out with "The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and The Spiders From Mars" in 1972, THAT was when I said "Holy Shit - who is this guy?" Check out pictures of him at that time and you will know what I mean.
From that point on I was awed by the way he would periodically radically re-invent himself. His look and his music. Which is dangerous for a performer because the audience wants you to always stay the same. They are comfortable with their first impression of you.
He did not care. He would show up for a concert with a different look, a different attitude, different music and people would say "What the fuck is going on? I want to hear Changes?"
Honestly I did not collect the man's music. I have a Ziggy CD, the "Low"CD (1977) and the Earthing" CD (1997). Not because I don't like his music; more because I am easily distracted.
I will eventually get his last two albums, albums he recorded when he knew he was dying. They are mind blowing. I pulled into the parking lot of the Peterborough liquor store to report to work on the morning of January 10, 2016 and just before I turned the radio off they announced that Bowie had died.
I was blown away. Had no idea he was sick. Not many people did. He kept it close and personal. I was blown away by how blown away I was. That's when I realized what an impact he had on my life.
The man was universally celebrated in the biography as being incredibly intelligent - he read and studied anything and everything. He was talented, fearless, creative, curious.
I got a kick out of the fact that most everybody described him as a gentleman. Treating people politely on a one on one basis. The personification of the English stereotype.
Interestingly enough, the author saved many of the negative comments for the very end of the book, placing them chronologically after Bowie died. All of a sudden I was reading comments talking about how he was not a gentleman, that he was selfish, that he used and did not care about others etc. They were like punches to the face. Kind of weird, but a good thing - nobody is ever a God in life except for me.
David Bowie laid out a blueprint for how to really live a life. Most people will not follow it. Most of us become oxen at some point in our life, wearing the yoke until we break down and disappear.
That is why the story of his life is so fascinating.
Great book. Great man.
Spectacular. The book and the man.
I had a lifelong respect for David Bowie because he experimented with life. His life.
He tried shit out. Tried shit on. Turns out he started doing this as a kid, a teenager. I did not know this.
At some point he decided that he wanted to make a living as an entertainer but was not sure exactly what kind of entertainer. So he started soaking up knowledge and experiences with music, theatre, dance, even mime. As he was doing that he was trying out different ways of dressing, including wearing dresses, makeup etc, changing hairstyles.
The consistent thing that came through in the book from old friends and family members was that Bowie was fearless. He did not give a shit what people thought about what he was doing and how he looked. And trust me, he took a lot of shit for the way he looked.
He caught my attention at first with his music. Hunky Dory came out in 1971 and had the song "Changes" on it. I LOVED that song. Still do. I felt like he was talking about my generation, people who were misunderstood, people who others did not even try to understand. I think critically the song is understood to be more about Bowie's attitude about change; changing himself and avoiding getting sucked into the rock 'n roll soul sucking machine.
When he came out with "The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and The Spiders From Mars" in 1972, THAT was when I said "Holy Shit - who is this guy?" Check out pictures of him at that time and you will know what I mean.
From that point on I was awed by the way he would periodically radically re-invent himself. His look and his music. Which is dangerous for a performer because the audience wants you to always stay the same. They are comfortable with their first impression of you.
He did not care. He would show up for a concert with a different look, a different attitude, different music and people would say "What the fuck is going on? I want to hear Changes?"
Honestly I did not collect the man's music. I have a Ziggy CD, the "Low"CD (1977) and the Earthing" CD (1997). Not because I don't like his music; more because I am easily distracted.
I will eventually get his last two albums, albums he recorded when he knew he was dying. They are mind blowing. I pulled into the parking lot of the Peterborough liquor store to report to work on the morning of January 10, 2016 and just before I turned the radio off they announced that Bowie had died.
I was blown away. Had no idea he was sick. Not many people did. He kept it close and personal. I was blown away by how blown away I was. That's when I realized what an impact he had on my life.
The man was universally celebrated in the biography as being incredibly intelligent - he read and studied anything and everything. He was talented, fearless, creative, curious.
I got a kick out of the fact that most everybody described him as a gentleman. Treating people politely on a one on one basis. The personification of the English stereotype.
Interestingly enough, the author saved many of the negative comments for the very end of the book, placing them chronologically after Bowie died. All of a sudden I was reading comments talking about how he was not a gentleman, that he was selfish, that he used and did not care about others etc. They were like punches to the face. Kind of weird, but a good thing - nobody is ever a God in life except for me.
David Bowie laid out a blueprint for how to really live a life. Most people will not follow it. Most of us become oxen at some point in our life, wearing the yoke until we break down and disappear.
That is why the story of his life is so fascinating.
Great book. Great man.
Who Am I?
Currently I am reading a book - a physical book - about Adolph Hitler. I am also reading a book on my tablet about a serial killer.
Perhaps I should seek out more exposure to puppy dogs and sunshine.
Perhaps I should seek out more exposure to puppy dogs and sunshine.
Tuesday, August 6, 2019
A Moment of Forever (I stole those words from Kris Kristofferson)
I was subserviently and obediently motoring to work yesterday, and I flicked on Outlaw Country.
First thing I realize is that Steve Earle is the guest DJ. I am tired of explaining my musical tastes to the uninitiated. If you want to know who he is, google him.
What I immediately understood was that this was going to be legit - the music I was about to experience would revive my suffocating soul.
Here are the first five things I heard.
"Me and Bobby McGee" sung by Kris Kristofferson. You probably never heard that version, the original fucking version. He wrote the damn song and all you can think about is Janis Joplin. Earle referred to him as the maestro. Perfect.
Next up "The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down" by The Band. Great, great song that just covers your entire being with emotion. Even if you are not from the south.
Then "Red Headed Stranger" by Willie Nelson. The album shares the same name and a movie was also made about the story. It was 1975 and Willie was just starting to flex his muscles. Just signed to Columbia records he was given total creative control over his works. Unprecedented.
It is a concept album, which was rare at the time. The story was about a fugitive on the run from the law after killing his wife and her lover. Columbia did not want to release it because it was sparse - mostly guitar, piano and drums. Willie refused to change a thing. It was a blockbuster, going multi-platinum in sales and made Nelson HUGE in the world of country music.
Damn good song.
Then: Townes Van Zandt. I forget what song Earle played but it doesn't matter. I love them all. Townes was a songwriter's songwriter. The highest respect an artist can receive. He was one of those dudes who never made it big, but wrote achingly honest songs.
Next: Guy Clark. I forget the song but it doesn't matter because I love them all. Guy was also a songwriter's songwriter and a good friend of Townes.
ONE TWO THREE FOUR FIVE. Just like that.
Takes me a while to come down off the intense emotional high of a run like that when I arrive at work. Such a menial, superficial job trying to tear me down and make me just like everyone else. Thank God I had the musical high to think back on as I said for the 26,000th time "And the security code?" into the phone.
My musical tastes and knowledge run deep. I don't listen to superficial music, I pay no attention to superficial artists. What I love is meaningful. It has to be. It is my sustenance.
The songs express emotions in a raw and honest way; they tell a story about what it means to be a human being trying to figure out how the hell to survive. How to be happy. The artists have depth and empathy, intelligence, and a soul deep understanding of how hard life is on so many different levels.
I am proud of what I know. I am proud of what I listen to.
It is a massive part of this twisted being identified as Joseph Testa.
Bonus fact: On the ride home I heard "The Week of Living Dangerously" by Steve Earle himself (played by another DJ). Rocked my way home with a motherfucking smile on my face.
First thing I realize is that Steve Earle is the guest DJ. I am tired of explaining my musical tastes to the uninitiated. If you want to know who he is, google him.
What I immediately understood was that this was going to be legit - the music I was about to experience would revive my suffocating soul.
Here are the first five things I heard.
"Me and Bobby McGee" sung by Kris Kristofferson. You probably never heard that version, the original fucking version. He wrote the damn song and all you can think about is Janis Joplin. Earle referred to him as the maestro. Perfect.
Next up "The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down" by The Band. Great, great song that just covers your entire being with emotion. Even if you are not from the south.
Then "Red Headed Stranger" by Willie Nelson. The album shares the same name and a movie was also made about the story. It was 1975 and Willie was just starting to flex his muscles. Just signed to Columbia records he was given total creative control over his works. Unprecedented.
It is a concept album, which was rare at the time. The story was about a fugitive on the run from the law after killing his wife and her lover. Columbia did not want to release it because it was sparse - mostly guitar, piano and drums. Willie refused to change a thing. It was a blockbuster, going multi-platinum in sales and made Nelson HUGE in the world of country music.
Damn good song.
Then: Townes Van Zandt. I forget what song Earle played but it doesn't matter. I love them all. Townes was a songwriter's songwriter. The highest respect an artist can receive. He was one of those dudes who never made it big, but wrote achingly honest songs.
Next: Guy Clark. I forget the song but it doesn't matter because I love them all. Guy was also a songwriter's songwriter and a good friend of Townes.
ONE TWO THREE FOUR FIVE. Just like that.
Takes me a while to come down off the intense emotional high of a run like that when I arrive at work. Such a menial, superficial job trying to tear me down and make me just like everyone else. Thank God I had the musical high to think back on as I said for the 26,000th time "And the security code?" into the phone.
My musical tastes and knowledge run deep. I don't listen to superficial music, I pay no attention to superficial artists. What I love is meaningful. It has to be. It is my sustenance.
The songs express emotions in a raw and honest way; they tell a story about what it means to be a human being trying to figure out how the hell to survive. How to be happy. The artists have depth and empathy, intelligence, and a soul deep understanding of how hard life is on so many different levels.
I am proud of what I know. I am proud of what I listen to.
It is a massive part of this twisted being identified as Joseph Testa.
Bonus fact: On the ride home I heard "The Week of Living Dangerously" by Steve Earle himself (played by another DJ). Rocked my way home with a motherfucking smile on my face.
Sunday, August 4, 2019
Holy Shit - Seriously Dark Lyrics (with some humor)
"I used to know a drug dealer His name was Billy Jack.
The Mexican cartel cut his head off, and he ain't comin' back
God knows I sure do miss my buddy; he had some killer pot
This ole stray dog and Jesus are all the friends I got
The pain pill jar is empty, my Wild Irish Rose is gone
But I found a tube of model airplane glue and I'm gettin' my buzz on
Why's everybody judging me when the Good Book says "Judge not"
This ole stray dog and Jesus are all the friends I got"
That's how the song starts off. Kaboom! It goes on from there in the same positive vein.
From "Old Stray Dog and Jesus" by Paul Thorn
The Mexican cartel cut his head off, and he ain't comin' back
God knows I sure do miss my buddy; he had some killer pot
This ole stray dog and Jesus are all the friends I got
The pain pill jar is empty, my Wild Irish Rose is gone
But I found a tube of model airplane glue and I'm gettin' my buzz on
Why's everybody judging me when the Good Book says "Judge not"
This ole stray dog and Jesus are all the friends I got"
That's how the song starts off. Kaboom! It goes on from there in the same positive vein.
From "Old Stray Dog and Jesus" by Paul Thorn
A Trump Primer
Started reading "The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich" this morning.
Wanna get a solid feel about what to expect from the turd in the White House. I'm only forty pages in (only 1,100 more to go).
It is frightening how similar some of his thought process (if you can call it that) is to Hitler's.
Buckle up, motherfuckers.
Wanna get a solid feel about what to expect from the turd in the White House. I'm only forty pages in (only 1,100 more to go).
It is frightening how similar some of his thought process (if you can call it that) is to Hitler's.
Buckle up, motherfuckers.
What I Have in Common With Adolf Hitler
When Hitler was a teenager his father died, creating a difficult financial situation for his mother.
"Though the ailing widow found it difficult to make ends meet on her meager income, young Adolf declined to help out by getting a job. The idea of earning even his own living by any kind of regular employment was repulsive to him and was to remain so throughout his life."
"Though the ailing widow found it difficult to make ends meet on her meager income, young Adolf declined to help out by getting a job. The idea of earning even his own living by any kind of regular employment was repulsive to him and was to remain so throughout his life."
Thursday, August 1, 2019
Take a Measure of Your Pleasure Wherever You Can Find It
Been listening to Outlaw Country the last coupla days on Sirius XM.
Normally I would avoid a station with an insulting marketing name like that. Implication being you're gonna hear a whole lot of music from the bad boys of country.
Not the case. However the station endeared itself to me because it is intelligent.
Heard a song with Waylon and Willie. In it they refer to Jerry Jeff Walker. Next song? By Jerry Jeff Walker. Not that much of a stretch, but if you don't know who Jerry Jeff is you got a little taste of him.
But they went way beyond that.
Next up - "Four Strong Winds", a beautiful and melancholy song written by Ian Tyson and, in this case, performed by Neil Young. They played "Willin", by Little Feat - one of my favorites. They played a song by Delbert McClinton. Delbert is a blues dude, for Christ sake. They played some Tom Petty. Fuckin' a right. In so doing they mentioned the Tom Petty station on Sirius. I set that puppy up.
You get where I am going with this?
They are painting outside the lines. They are going for a feel, not a genre. I fucking hate that word when it is applied to music. Know which genre of music is my favorite? MUSIC!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Reminded me of when I was a mere teenager listening to FM radio, which was fairly new at the time. They could do anything they wanted to do, and they did.
Sometimes they would play one entire side of an album. Sometimes what they played reminded them of something else, say John Coltrane. Next thing you knew you were listening to John Coltrane on a rock 'n roll station. Tremendous education. Excellent exposure.
They would read poetry or literary quotes. Go on political rants. It was wide open. It was a living, breathing thing.
Now regular radio is programmed by robots and aimed at dead people.
But Sirius XM approximates old tymey FM radio. They are pretty wide open. Steven Van Zandt has a station called Little Steven's Underground Garage. That station blows my mind. No boundaries. You never know what they are going to play and it is all good. From the 40's to right now, maybe going back farther than that. Quite tasty.
Only problem with Outlaw Country is the DJ's. Holy shit, the few that I have heard have heavy Southern accents. And I mean almost indecipherable Southern accents. They sound ridiculous. But I want to believe they are genuine. Otherwise they must be executed.
The icing on the cake came last night on my ride home. Listened to a few good country songs. Then "Free Fallin'" by Tom Petty came on. I belted that out at maximum volume just like me and Alan used to do in 1989. I felt so damn good.
Felt alive.
Normally I would avoid a station with an insulting marketing name like that. Implication being you're gonna hear a whole lot of music from the bad boys of country.
Not the case. However the station endeared itself to me because it is intelligent.
Heard a song with Waylon and Willie. In it they refer to Jerry Jeff Walker. Next song? By Jerry Jeff Walker. Not that much of a stretch, but if you don't know who Jerry Jeff is you got a little taste of him.
But they went way beyond that.
Next up - "Four Strong Winds", a beautiful and melancholy song written by Ian Tyson and, in this case, performed by Neil Young. They played "Willin", by Little Feat - one of my favorites. They played a song by Delbert McClinton. Delbert is a blues dude, for Christ sake. They played some Tom Petty. Fuckin' a right. In so doing they mentioned the Tom Petty station on Sirius. I set that puppy up.
You get where I am going with this?
They are painting outside the lines. They are going for a feel, not a genre. I fucking hate that word when it is applied to music. Know which genre of music is my favorite? MUSIC!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Reminded me of when I was a mere teenager listening to FM radio, which was fairly new at the time. They could do anything they wanted to do, and they did.
Sometimes they would play one entire side of an album. Sometimes what they played reminded them of something else, say John Coltrane. Next thing you knew you were listening to John Coltrane on a rock 'n roll station. Tremendous education. Excellent exposure.
They would read poetry or literary quotes. Go on political rants. It was wide open. It was a living, breathing thing.
Now regular radio is programmed by robots and aimed at dead people.
But Sirius XM approximates old tymey FM radio. They are pretty wide open. Steven Van Zandt has a station called Little Steven's Underground Garage. That station blows my mind. No boundaries. You never know what they are going to play and it is all good. From the 40's to right now, maybe going back farther than that. Quite tasty.
Only problem with Outlaw Country is the DJ's. Holy shit, the few that I have heard have heavy Southern accents. And I mean almost indecipherable Southern accents. They sound ridiculous. But I want to believe they are genuine. Otherwise they must be executed.
The icing on the cake came last night on my ride home. Listened to a few good country songs. Then "Free Fallin'" by Tom Petty came on. I belted that out at maximum volume just like me and Alan used to do in 1989. I felt so damn good.
Felt alive.
.
"Mostly he'd always been a threat to himself and anyone who depended on him."
From The Scarpetta Factor
From The Scarpetta Factor
August 1
A gentle reminder.
I don't panic anymore. We don't do much anyway. It's not like we are out on a cigarette boat every weekend. I am just happy not being cold.
But I thought I would give you a nudge. You may be distracted.
I don't panic anymore. We don't do much anyway. It's not like we are out on a cigarette boat every weekend. I am just happy not being cold.
But I thought I would give you a nudge. You may be distracted.
Thursday, July 25, 2019
Hey Ringo!!!!!!!!!!
Peace and Love, baby.
Every year on his birthday, Ringo celebrates at a very public location. This year it was in front of the Capitol Records Tower in Hollywood, where a large crowd sang "Happy Birthday" and Ringo cut the cake.
The real focus is that he has made his birthday into a celebration of Peace And Love. The drill is that at high noon, wherever you are at on his birthday - July 7 - stop what you are doing and say the words Peace and Love. His theory is that for those few seconds your mind is focused on peace and love and nothing else.
This cannot be a bad thing.
Wherever he is, they do a countdown to noon and then Ringo and the crowd say Peace and Love and flash the peace sign. That is damn good karma.
Of course you think the ritual is silly, but Ringo has been all about peace and love for his whole life. Comb through as many pictures as you can and you will be impressed to see in how many he is flashing the peace sign. I don't care how far back you go.
He took the message of the sixties and made it a big part of who he is.
I researched all this earlier this summer, checked out all the places around the world he has been to do this, all the charities he raises money for by doing this, all the fans he has rewarded - they win tickets to the event. I decided this year on July 7 I am going to say Peace and Love at noon.
Then I completely forgot about it. Fucking forgot. Because I am so fucking busy working 2 or 3 days a week. How does this happen? How is it that you get all the time in the world and it still isn't enough?
About a year ago I was talking to my friend Gary Handley. Told him about my semi-retirement. And he asked: "So what do you do?"
Fucking floored me. I did not have an answer. I believe I use my time wisely, trying to write, now desperately looking for a second part time job - but what do I really do? Feels pretty empty when I'm forced to think about it.
Anyway, Happy Birthday, Ringo. 79. Insane. Peace&Love. I love you, man. Keep on rockin', baby.
Also I don't think I wished Paul a happy birthday on June 18. He turned 77. You know I have mixed feelings about Paul. I think he is kind of cold. In fact I just finished a David Bowie oral biography. 99% of the comments were reverential and loving. Paul only had a few comments in the book and they were predictably thin.
Then again, I saw him recently in a 60 Minutes interview and he was quite human. And that carpool karaoke with James Corden is spectacular. So you never really know.
Bottom line - he is Paul McCartney. So Happy Birthday, man. Keep on rockin'.
Every year on his birthday, Ringo celebrates at a very public location. This year it was in front of the Capitol Records Tower in Hollywood, where a large crowd sang "Happy Birthday" and Ringo cut the cake.
The real focus is that he has made his birthday into a celebration of Peace And Love. The drill is that at high noon, wherever you are at on his birthday - July 7 - stop what you are doing and say the words Peace and Love. His theory is that for those few seconds your mind is focused on peace and love and nothing else.
This cannot be a bad thing.
Wherever he is, they do a countdown to noon and then Ringo and the crowd say Peace and Love and flash the peace sign. That is damn good karma.
Of course you think the ritual is silly, but Ringo has been all about peace and love for his whole life. Comb through as many pictures as you can and you will be impressed to see in how many he is flashing the peace sign. I don't care how far back you go.
He took the message of the sixties and made it a big part of who he is.
I researched all this earlier this summer, checked out all the places around the world he has been to do this, all the charities he raises money for by doing this, all the fans he has rewarded - they win tickets to the event. I decided this year on July 7 I am going to say Peace and Love at noon.
Then I completely forgot about it. Fucking forgot. Because I am so fucking busy working 2 or 3 days a week. How does this happen? How is it that you get all the time in the world and it still isn't enough?
About a year ago I was talking to my friend Gary Handley. Told him about my semi-retirement. And he asked: "So what do you do?"
Fucking floored me. I did not have an answer. I believe I use my time wisely, trying to write, now desperately looking for a second part time job - but what do I really do? Feels pretty empty when I'm forced to think about it.
Anyway, Happy Birthday, Ringo. 79. Insane. Peace&Love. I love you, man. Keep on rockin', baby.
Also I don't think I wished Paul a happy birthday on June 18. He turned 77. You know I have mixed feelings about Paul. I think he is kind of cold. In fact I just finished a David Bowie oral biography. 99% of the comments were reverential and loving. Paul only had a few comments in the book and they were predictably thin.
Then again, I saw him recently in a 60 Minutes interview and he was quite human. And that carpool karaoke with James Corden is spectacular. So you never really know.
Bottom line - he is Paul McCartney. So Happy Birthday, man. Keep on rockin'.
I Had No Choice
I had to recreate the scene where Billy Mack shows up at his chubby manager's house. The dialogue is so damn funny. So you know, Billy Mack is an aging rock star, and Joe is his lifelong manager.
Joe: What are you doing here? You're supposed to be at Elton John's.
Billy Mack: I was there for a minute, then I had an epiphany.
Joe: So what was this epiphany?
Billy Mack: It was about Christmas. I realized that Christmas is the time to be with the people you love.
Joe: Right
Billy Mack: And, I realized that as dire chance and fateful cockup would have it, here I am, mid fifties, and without knowing it I've gone and spent most of my adult life with a chubby employee. And much as it grieves me to say it, it might be that the people I love is in fact............you.
Joe: Well this is a surprise. Ten minutes at Elton John's you're as gay as a meatball.
Billy Mack: No look, I'm serious here, I just left Elton's where there were a hefty number of half naked chicks with their mouths open, in order to hang out with you. At Christmas.
Joe: Well, Bill...........(uncomfortably)
Billy Mack: It's a terrible, terrible mistake, Chubbs, but you turn out to be the fucking love of my life. And to be honest, despite all my complaining, we have had a wonderful run.
Joe: Well, thank you (self consciously). I mean, it's been an honor. I feel very proud. (Reaches out to shake Billy's hand).
Billy Mack: Not that, you moron. (Leans in and they hug each other awkwardly - afterwards Joe has tears in his eyes).
Billy Mack: Come on, let's get pissed and watch porn.
Read this with British accents in your head and it's funnier. Better still - find the clip on youtube. The facial expressions and body movements (especially Billy Mack's) make the scene hilarious.
My favorite movie scenes are small scenes with intense emotion. What does this say about me?
Holy shit - I think I just realized that I am a human being.
Joe: What are you doing here? You're supposed to be at Elton John's.
Billy Mack: I was there for a minute, then I had an epiphany.
Joe: So what was this epiphany?
Billy Mack: It was about Christmas. I realized that Christmas is the time to be with the people you love.
Joe: Right
Billy Mack: And, I realized that as dire chance and fateful cockup would have it, here I am, mid fifties, and without knowing it I've gone and spent most of my adult life with a chubby employee. And much as it grieves me to say it, it might be that the people I love is in fact............you.
Joe: Well this is a surprise. Ten minutes at Elton John's you're as gay as a meatball.
Billy Mack: No look, I'm serious here, I just left Elton's where there were a hefty number of half naked chicks with their mouths open, in order to hang out with you. At Christmas.
Joe: Well, Bill...........(uncomfortably)
Billy Mack: It's a terrible, terrible mistake, Chubbs, but you turn out to be the fucking love of my life. And to be honest, despite all my complaining, we have had a wonderful run.
Joe: Well, thank you (self consciously). I mean, it's been an honor. I feel very proud. (Reaches out to shake Billy's hand).
Billy Mack: Not that, you moron. (Leans in and they hug each other awkwardly - afterwards Joe has tears in his eyes).
Billy Mack: Come on, let's get pissed and watch porn.
Read this with British accents in your head and it's funnier. Better still - find the clip on youtube. The facial expressions and body movements (especially Billy Mack's) make the scene hilarious.
My favorite movie scenes are small scenes with intense emotion. What does this say about me?
Holy shit - I think I just realized that I am a human being.
Tuesday, July 23, 2019
Quotable Quotes
I am reading a David Bowie biography. What a man, and by that I don't just mean what a performer, I mean what a man. I of course will go on at length about the book in the near future.
But for now, here are a couple of Bowie quotes. The first one sums up for me exactly who Bowie was, lays out precisely what drove him in everything he did.
"The thing is, I always wore clothes for a reason, not to be fashionable. I've never seen the point of being fashionable, as then you obviously look just like everyone else. Which is the one thing I have never, ever wanted to be. It doesn't matter in what context you're talking about, I never ever wanted to be, or look remotely like, anyone else."
The second quote is from later in his life and is just super cool.
"I don't look too bad, and I don't feel too bad, if I'm honest. It's a genetic thing, a flesh-and-blood thing. My father's to blame. Considering what I've been through, I'm a lucky so-and-so. It's nauseating, I know, but I'm in love with my wife. I've still got my health and I love my job. So shoot me."
But for now, here are a couple of Bowie quotes. The first one sums up for me exactly who Bowie was, lays out precisely what drove him in everything he did.
"The thing is, I always wore clothes for a reason, not to be fashionable. I've never seen the point of being fashionable, as then you obviously look just like everyone else. Which is the one thing I have never, ever wanted to be. It doesn't matter in what context you're talking about, I never ever wanted to be, or look remotely like, anyone else."
The second quote is from later in his life and is just super cool.
"I don't look too bad, and I don't feel too bad, if I'm honest. It's a genetic thing, a flesh-and-blood thing. My father's to blame. Considering what I've been through, I'm a lucky so-and-so. It's nauseating, I know, but I'm in love with my wife. I've still got my health and I love my job. So shoot me."
Thursday, July 18, 2019
It Really Is The Little Things (And will I ever learn?)
I worked a split shift last Saturday.
12 to 3. 5 to 8.
Split shifts suck. Everybody hates them.
Finished out the second half of the day and got home by 8:30. Of course when you get home late like that it throws you into a different rhythm. Carol eventually went to bed, I watched an episode of "Bad Blood" late, but I wasn't done. Tooled around the guide and came across "Love, Actually".
Hang in there. There is a point to this. It triggered a bunch of references in my diseased mind.
So I dialed it up and caught my favorite scene. Billy Mack has left a party at Elton John's to go to his chubby manager's apartment. His manager is surprised; Billy Mack tells him he had an epiphany about Christmas. He realized that Christmas is a time to be with the people you love, and it turns out his manager is "the people you love". He says "It's a terrible, terrible mistakes, chubbs, but you turn out to be the fucking love of my life." His manager gets tears in his eyes.
That is life on a small scale. Real life. Things that really matter.
Got me thinking about the movie "Beautiful Girls." The scene where Tommy "Birdman" Rowland is in the hospital after getting the shit kicked out of him outside a bar. His on again off again girlfriend is visiting him, and he is realizing that his life has gotten strange. And the killer line is when he says "I mean, I am not even close to being the guy I thought I would be." Killer. Absolutely killer.
That is life on a small scale. Real life. Things that really matter.
Got me thinking about the movie "Nobody's Fool". Rub Squeers works for Sully. Rub is a simple man. Uneducated, slow witted, and fiercely loyal to Sully. Sully's son Peter has begun to work with them and Rub is jealous because he feels that Peter is getting all of Sully's attention. Sully visits Rub; they are sitting on concrete steps on a cold, snowy day. Rub explains how he feels. Sully says: "Peter is my son. You are my best friend." Tears flow from Rub's eyes.
Life on a small scale. Real life. Things that matter.
Here's the tie in. I see Carol so differently since she has gone through hell and come out the other side.
One of the amazing things about her is that she gets genuine happiness from the smallest things.
I always cook enough so we have leftovers. About certain meals she will say "That will make an awesome lunch tomorrow." She says it with genuine enthusiasm. She'll come home the next night and tell me how awesome her lunch was. And she means it.
I hate taking my lunch to work. I feel like a little boy. I feel I should be able to afford to buy lunch every day.
She clips coupons. For lots of stuff. And she takes genuine pleasure in telling me we can save $1 on this, $1.50 on that. Seriously happy about it.
I hate coupons. I feel I should be able to afford anything without worrying about saving $1.
I could give you a hundred examples. I believe this is one of the things that keeps her going. That makes her so cool. Her ability to get genuine pleasure out of little things.
Life on a small scale. Real life. Things that really matter.
I have been tuned into this for almost two years now and she blows my mind. Makes me smile. She goes about the business of being happy, I go about the business of being unhappy.
I can learn a lot from Carol. Changes I could make that will make me happier. Little things.
It's like turning around a cruise ship, but I gotta try.
Right?
12 to 3. 5 to 8.
Split shifts suck. Everybody hates them.
Finished out the second half of the day and got home by 8:30. Of course when you get home late like that it throws you into a different rhythm. Carol eventually went to bed, I watched an episode of "Bad Blood" late, but I wasn't done. Tooled around the guide and came across "Love, Actually".
Hang in there. There is a point to this. It triggered a bunch of references in my diseased mind.
So I dialed it up and caught my favorite scene. Billy Mack has left a party at Elton John's to go to his chubby manager's apartment. His manager is surprised; Billy Mack tells him he had an epiphany about Christmas. He realized that Christmas is a time to be with the people you love, and it turns out his manager is "the people you love". He says "It's a terrible, terrible mistakes, chubbs, but you turn out to be the fucking love of my life." His manager gets tears in his eyes.
That is life on a small scale. Real life. Things that really matter.
Got me thinking about the movie "Beautiful Girls." The scene where Tommy "Birdman" Rowland is in the hospital after getting the shit kicked out of him outside a bar. His on again off again girlfriend is visiting him, and he is realizing that his life has gotten strange. And the killer line is when he says "I mean, I am not even close to being the guy I thought I would be." Killer. Absolutely killer.
That is life on a small scale. Real life. Things that really matter.
Got me thinking about the movie "Nobody's Fool". Rub Squeers works for Sully. Rub is a simple man. Uneducated, slow witted, and fiercely loyal to Sully. Sully's son Peter has begun to work with them and Rub is jealous because he feels that Peter is getting all of Sully's attention. Sully visits Rub; they are sitting on concrete steps on a cold, snowy day. Rub explains how he feels. Sully says: "Peter is my son. You are my best friend." Tears flow from Rub's eyes.
Life on a small scale. Real life. Things that matter.
Here's the tie in. I see Carol so differently since she has gone through hell and come out the other side.
One of the amazing things about her is that she gets genuine happiness from the smallest things.
I always cook enough so we have leftovers. About certain meals she will say "That will make an awesome lunch tomorrow." She says it with genuine enthusiasm. She'll come home the next night and tell me how awesome her lunch was. And she means it.
I hate taking my lunch to work. I feel like a little boy. I feel I should be able to afford to buy lunch every day.
She clips coupons. For lots of stuff. And she takes genuine pleasure in telling me we can save $1 on this, $1.50 on that. Seriously happy about it.
I hate coupons. I feel I should be able to afford anything without worrying about saving $1.
I could give you a hundred examples. I believe this is one of the things that keeps her going. That makes her so cool. Her ability to get genuine pleasure out of little things.
Life on a small scale. Real life. Things that really matter.
I have been tuned into this for almost two years now and she blows my mind. Makes me smile. She goes about the business of being happy, I go about the business of being unhappy.
I can learn a lot from Carol. Changes I could make that will make me happier. Little things.
It's like turning around a cruise ship, but I gotta try.
Right?
Tuesday, July 16, 2019
Why I Fucking Love Sports
You got your highs, you got your lows.
This time of year you are snoozing your way through the baseball season. You just agonized over the Bruins Game 7 loss in the Stanley Cup finals, which was crushingly painful but the hockey was fucking amazing. Before that you exulted in ANOTHER Super Bowl win by THE PATS.
All exciting stuff.
Then you settle into baseball, napping and drooling your way through games.
Suddenly, Wimbledon is upon you. Did you see the mens' final? No? Why the fuck not? Were you polishing your nails? Cleaning out your fucking gutters?
If you don't think tennis is exciting you are scum. A real worthless human being.
Djokovic and Federer played 25 games. IN THE LAST SET. Do you fucking get that? First time ever. You settle in to watch some tennis, mano e mano, and you get an epic match that had to be decided by a tie breaker in the fifth set. First time ever.
I think they played a total of 67 games over the entire match. Fucking mind blowing.
This is why sports rock. You never know when your mind will be blown. (Even in baseball, I hate to admit).
Before that, the American women's soccer team kicked ass and won the World's Cup. How very fucking cool.
I did not watch one minute of that competition and am a lesser man for it. I did not consciously avoid it, I just didn't make the effort.
I should have. It was great stuff. It is great stuff.
Maybe Tiger will win The Open this weekend. Wouldn't that be cool? He won The Masters and that was positively mind blowing. Fucking amazing.
Sports, man. Just when you get lulled to sleep during a 162 game schedule, or an 82 game schedule, someone or somebodies come along and make you say "Holy shit, human beings can do that? They can perform at that level and make my life better?"
Live for that, baby. You ain't got much else.
This time of year you are snoozing your way through the baseball season. You just agonized over the Bruins Game 7 loss in the Stanley Cup finals, which was crushingly painful but the hockey was fucking amazing. Before that you exulted in ANOTHER Super Bowl win by THE PATS.
All exciting stuff.
Then you settle into baseball, napping and drooling your way through games.
Suddenly, Wimbledon is upon you. Did you see the mens' final? No? Why the fuck not? Were you polishing your nails? Cleaning out your fucking gutters?
If you don't think tennis is exciting you are scum. A real worthless human being.
Djokovic and Federer played 25 games. IN THE LAST SET. Do you fucking get that? First time ever. You settle in to watch some tennis, mano e mano, and you get an epic match that had to be decided by a tie breaker in the fifth set. First time ever.
I think they played a total of 67 games over the entire match. Fucking mind blowing.
This is why sports rock. You never know when your mind will be blown. (Even in baseball, I hate to admit).
Before that, the American women's soccer team kicked ass and won the World's Cup. How very fucking cool.
I did not watch one minute of that competition and am a lesser man for it. I did not consciously avoid it, I just didn't make the effort.
I should have. It was great stuff. It is great stuff.
Maybe Tiger will win The Open this weekend. Wouldn't that be cool? He won The Masters and that was positively mind blowing. Fucking amazing.
Sports, man. Just when you get lulled to sleep during a 162 game schedule, or an 82 game schedule, someone or somebodies come along and make you say "Holy shit, human beings can do that? They can perform at that level and make my life better?"
Live for that, baby. You ain't got much else.
The Ultimate Fucking Bottom Line
I immersed myself in "The Wire" and dug the shit out of it.
When I wrapped it up I experienced "end of binge watching" disease. Complete sense of loss.
My first experience with that was with Ray Donovan. I jumped into that SEVEN seasons behind. But I fucking loved it. I watched it maniacally, neglecting to eat, neglecting to wipe my ass when I took a shit. But it was worth it.
Next up was "Game of Thrones". I was on a deadline with that because the goal was to watch the final episode with Craig and Amanda. Again, I jumped into that SEVEN seasons behind. I got it done and it was worth it.
Next up was "The Wire". I watched that at a more casual pace because no deadline was looming. However, when you get into these things you do not want one day to go by without viewing at least one episode. So it becomes a benign obsession. I got it done and fucking loved it.
I recently discovered a show on Netflix called "Bad Blood". It is about organized crime in Canada. I know. You're like, what? Canada is cool. Ain't no crime up there.
Wrong. Anywhere human beings exist there is crime. Because everybody craves shitloads of money and nobody wants to work 9 to 5.
Show is fucking great. Ripped through the first season, just started the second. Very heavy, very violent, but there are many sensitive, introspective scenes.
What can I say? I am drawn to violence, I am drawn to criminality. Because I crave shitloads of money and I don't want to work 9 to 5.
Here's my point.
Just watched an episode where the #1 drug guy in Canada flies down to Mexico to meet with the #1 drug guy in Mexico.
They negotiate a deal. The Mexican dude asks "Why are you looking to expand? You already command a major operation in Canada that makes you very wealthy. What are you looking for? More money?"
The Canadian dude asks "Do you answer to anybody?" The Mexican answers "No". The Canadian says "THAT is what I am looking for."
BOOM.
Of all the things I hate about my life, numero uno is the fact that I have to answer to somebody. I despise the fact that somebody gets to tell me where to be and at what time and how long I have to stay there.
I despise the fact that a scumbag financial institution holds my mortgage and demands that I pay it on this day every month or they will destroy me.
These things make me small.
And I fucking hate them.
This is why I love crime shows and crime movies. I love the idea that you make arrangements and if somebody breaks that arrangement they get killed or you get killed.
May seem harsh but it is a lot better than the slow, tortuous death we all live.
I don't want to answer to any other human being. Ever. It is still my goal.
Could be too late.
Or not.
When I wrapped it up I experienced "end of binge watching" disease. Complete sense of loss.
My first experience with that was with Ray Donovan. I jumped into that SEVEN seasons behind. But I fucking loved it. I watched it maniacally, neglecting to eat, neglecting to wipe my ass when I took a shit. But it was worth it.
Next up was "Game of Thrones". I was on a deadline with that because the goal was to watch the final episode with Craig and Amanda. Again, I jumped into that SEVEN seasons behind. I got it done and it was worth it.
Next up was "The Wire". I watched that at a more casual pace because no deadline was looming. However, when you get into these things you do not want one day to go by without viewing at least one episode. So it becomes a benign obsession. I got it done and fucking loved it.
I recently discovered a show on Netflix called "Bad Blood". It is about organized crime in Canada. I know. You're like, what? Canada is cool. Ain't no crime up there.
Wrong. Anywhere human beings exist there is crime. Because everybody craves shitloads of money and nobody wants to work 9 to 5.
Show is fucking great. Ripped through the first season, just started the second. Very heavy, very violent, but there are many sensitive, introspective scenes.
What can I say? I am drawn to violence, I am drawn to criminality. Because I crave shitloads of money and I don't want to work 9 to 5.
Here's my point.
Just watched an episode where the #1 drug guy in Canada flies down to Mexico to meet with the #1 drug guy in Mexico.
They negotiate a deal. The Mexican dude asks "Why are you looking to expand? You already command a major operation in Canada that makes you very wealthy. What are you looking for? More money?"
The Canadian dude asks "Do you answer to anybody?" The Mexican answers "No". The Canadian says "THAT is what I am looking for."
BOOM.
Of all the things I hate about my life, numero uno is the fact that I have to answer to somebody. I despise the fact that somebody gets to tell me where to be and at what time and how long I have to stay there.
I despise the fact that a scumbag financial institution holds my mortgage and demands that I pay it on this day every month or they will destroy me.
These things make me small.
And I fucking hate them.
This is why I love crime shows and crime movies. I love the idea that you make arrangements and if somebody breaks that arrangement they get killed or you get killed.
May seem harsh but it is a lot better than the slow, tortuous death we all live.
I don't want to answer to any other human being. Ever. It is still my goal.
Could be too late.
Or not.
Thursday, July 11, 2019
Drinking Quotes (Memorize them, unless you're already drunk)
I always come back to this quote on July 4th: "Remember, if you drink a fifth on the fourth you might not come forth on the fifth." It amuses me to think that there are millions of people who don't even know what a fifth is.
"Always do sober what you said you'd do drunk. That will teach you to keep your mouth shut."
Ernest Hemingway
"I cook with wine. Sometimes I even add it to the food."
W.C. Fields
"Always do sober what you said you'd do drunk. That will teach you to keep your mouth shut."
Ernest Hemingway
"I cook with wine. Sometimes I even add it to the food."
W.C. Fields
The Happiest Man On Planet Earth
I walked down the driveway on the morning of July 4th to grab Carol's paper.
As I crossed the street I heard John Denver singing "Rocky Mountain High." Looking to my right I saw a guy riding a bike up the road. I grabbed Carol's paper and as I turned around the guy was right up on me. "What a beautiful day" he said with exuberance. I said "Enjoy your day" with equal exuberance, and he and John Denver faded away down the road.
What a great way to begin a long holiday weekend. The guy made me feel good.
I enjoy these holiday weekends because I am empathetic. Severely empathetic.
Carol and I don't do much anymore. Pretty much hang around and ask "Whaddya wanna do?" "I dunno, whaddya you wanna do?" Then we smoke opium and watch a Law & Order marathon.
But I enjoy imagining other peoples' happiness. I was driving to work on July 3rd and got behind a pickup that was towing a camper, which was behind a pickup towing a camper. My first reaction was "Fuck, now I'll be travelling 45 mph." But I am maturing at a rapid rate, so my immediate afterthought was "What the fuck do I care? I'm only going to work. If I'm late I'm late."
This resulted in immediate relaxation.
I imagined these people setting up in a pristine campground and chilling for four fucking days. FOUR days. For most working people that is a 2 week vacation.
So cool when a holiday falls like that. A lot of people get to escape their harsh reality for what feels like a lifetime. And everybody deserves that kind of break.
But you know my position - our society today is an inoperable cancerous tumor. I believe the majority of working people do not get four days. I would love to see some stats. How many people actually get to enjoy a loooooooooong holiday weekend? I know a number of people who worked on July 4th.
Anyway I am happy for the people who do get time off.
As I always say, you can feel a long weekend. It's in the air, it's in peoples' attitudes. Everybody walking around relaxed, shorts and a t-shirt, strolling out of Dunkin Donuts with no stress on their faces. No fucking stress. People eating outside at restaurants, people barbecuing, hiking, biking, boating. People smiling and laughing. With friends. With family.
I love it. I am happy for everbody's sweet release.
And just so you know, just so you don't think I'm feeling sorry for my self, on Saturday of the holiday weekend Carol and I went to a great party/cookout/fireworks display. Put on annually by our friends Jason and Karen.
Jason is gay and Karen is a transsexual. I don't know how their relationship works but it does. And we are proud to call them friends.
Small crowd because people got spooked by all the rain. Small crowds are better; you don't feel pressured to mix and mingle and engage in mindless conversation. We hung around with my brother and his wife and a few other people and chilled and talked and ate and drank. It was quite pleasant.
Then we wandered down to the lake and enjoyed Jason's fireworks display. It is professional grade. And riveting because Jason prefers rainbow colors.
So that's it. I'm running out of gas. Nothing else to say.
Except to tell you to find ways to enjoy your life. Even in small chunks; measured doses.
Grab yourself a holiday weekend or a bottle of good wine. Whatever works.
And remember to savor the flavor.
As I crossed the street I heard John Denver singing "Rocky Mountain High." Looking to my right I saw a guy riding a bike up the road. I grabbed Carol's paper and as I turned around the guy was right up on me. "What a beautiful day" he said with exuberance. I said "Enjoy your day" with equal exuberance, and he and John Denver faded away down the road.
What a great way to begin a long holiday weekend. The guy made me feel good.
I enjoy these holiday weekends because I am empathetic. Severely empathetic.
Carol and I don't do much anymore. Pretty much hang around and ask "Whaddya wanna do?" "I dunno, whaddya you wanna do?" Then we smoke opium and watch a Law & Order marathon.
But I enjoy imagining other peoples' happiness. I was driving to work on July 3rd and got behind a pickup that was towing a camper, which was behind a pickup towing a camper. My first reaction was "Fuck, now I'll be travelling 45 mph." But I am maturing at a rapid rate, so my immediate afterthought was "What the fuck do I care? I'm only going to work. If I'm late I'm late."
This resulted in immediate relaxation.
I imagined these people setting up in a pristine campground and chilling for four fucking days. FOUR days. For most working people that is a 2 week vacation.
So cool when a holiday falls like that. A lot of people get to escape their harsh reality for what feels like a lifetime. And everybody deserves that kind of break.
But you know my position - our society today is an inoperable cancerous tumor. I believe the majority of working people do not get four days. I would love to see some stats. How many people actually get to enjoy a loooooooooong holiday weekend? I know a number of people who worked on July 4th.
Anyway I am happy for the people who do get time off.
As I always say, you can feel a long weekend. It's in the air, it's in peoples' attitudes. Everybody walking around relaxed, shorts and a t-shirt, strolling out of Dunkin Donuts with no stress on their faces. No fucking stress. People eating outside at restaurants, people barbecuing, hiking, biking, boating. People smiling and laughing. With friends. With family.
I love it. I am happy for everbody's sweet release.
And just so you know, just so you don't think I'm feeling sorry for my self, on Saturday of the holiday weekend Carol and I went to a great party/cookout/fireworks display. Put on annually by our friends Jason and Karen.
Jason is gay and Karen is a transsexual. I don't know how their relationship works but it does. And we are proud to call them friends.
Small crowd because people got spooked by all the rain. Small crowds are better; you don't feel pressured to mix and mingle and engage in mindless conversation. We hung around with my brother and his wife and a few other people and chilled and talked and ate and drank. It was quite pleasant.
Then we wandered down to the lake and enjoyed Jason's fireworks display. It is professional grade. And riveting because Jason prefers rainbow colors.
So that's it. I'm running out of gas. Nothing else to say.
Except to tell you to find ways to enjoy your life. Even in small chunks; measured doses.
Grab yourself a holiday weekend or a bottle of good wine. Whatever works.
And remember to savor the flavor.
Thursday, June 27, 2019
A Very Specific Memory
John Waters was a guest on Bill Maher's show a few weeks ago.
A very outrageous man and fiercely himself at all times in all situations. Seeing him, listening to him, laughing with him brought me back over forty years ago to a very specific time and place.
On that night my friend, Rob McMenimen, enticed me to go see the movie "Pink Flamingos". He was a John Waters fan; I had never heard of the man.
We were in Cambridge, Massachusetts. That alone defines the funk. I don't know if present day Cambridge captures the same spirit, but back then it was delightfully eclectic. You could just feel creativity and individuality seeping into your bones as you walked around. No better place in the world to experience "Pink Flamingos" on the big screen for the first time.
As a teenager I used to take the train in to Cambridge and walk around visiting bookstores and music stores. Made me feel human. Alive. Unique. Then I died and became an accountant, but that is a long, boring story better told at another time and place.
We stopped in to a restaurant, a funky joint, ate some damn good steak and drank a lot of wine. Talked a lot, laughed a lot. He fit the mold of all of my good friends - free spirit, unique thinker, into different stuff than your normal social prisoner.
He then steered me to a very funky movie theatre, also in Cambridge, where "Pink Flamingos" was playing.
Movie blew me away; it was like nothing I had ever seen before. Of course that is the experience I seek every day of my life. At this stage, "nothing I had ever seen before" happens maybe once a decade. Probably less. Not a lot left for me to look forward to, eh?
We had a great night. A great, great night.
Memories like that are almost edible. They mean something. They give you something to fall back on when boredom and despair beat back your defenses.
Now the bad shit.
Rob was married to Becky. Another memory just leaked out of my brain as I prepared to deliver all the news to you. Rob and Becky used to host legendary Super Bowl parties. I'm talking legendary. Becky was a magical cook. Amazing in the kitchen. We were not eating nachos and hot dogs at these parties. We were eating top of the line food. In an abundance that almost prevented us from getting drunk. Big parties, lots of people, lots of fun.
Becky died on February 11, 2007 from some type of brain trauma, like an embolism. Came out of nowhere. They were married for 27 years. She was 51. Fucking 51.
Rob died on December 17, 2015 after a "lingering illness". I don't remember what the illness was but I remember being told at the time that Becky's death broke his heart and he was never the same after that. He was 66. Fucking 66.
That's the way life works, baby. It is a real motherfucker.
But, thankfully, I have the memories of those Super Bowl parties, that night in Cambridge and many other fun things we did together.
I go through my life carrying the burden of innumerable regrets. But I am beginning to realize there have been many great moments too. A lot of fun. A lot of laughs. I am beginning to realize that those memories mean a lot. Up until recently I downplayed that stuff, choosing to focus on the dwindling time left to me, the diminishing (one might say minuscule) chances remaining to make something large out of my life.
But Christ, man - if seeing John Waters on Bill Maher can flood my emotions with warm, happy, positive memories - this memories phenomenon must be pretty powerful stuff.
With memories like that, who needs whiskey?
I do, for Christ sake. Come on, sentimental only goes so far.
A very outrageous man and fiercely himself at all times in all situations. Seeing him, listening to him, laughing with him brought me back over forty years ago to a very specific time and place.
On that night my friend, Rob McMenimen, enticed me to go see the movie "Pink Flamingos". He was a John Waters fan; I had never heard of the man.
We were in Cambridge, Massachusetts. That alone defines the funk. I don't know if present day Cambridge captures the same spirit, but back then it was delightfully eclectic. You could just feel creativity and individuality seeping into your bones as you walked around. No better place in the world to experience "Pink Flamingos" on the big screen for the first time.
As a teenager I used to take the train in to Cambridge and walk around visiting bookstores and music stores. Made me feel human. Alive. Unique. Then I died and became an accountant, but that is a long, boring story better told at another time and place.
We stopped in to a restaurant, a funky joint, ate some damn good steak and drank a lot of wine. Talked a lot, laughed a lot. He fit the mold of all of my good friends - free spirit, unique thinker, into different stuff than your normal social prisoner.
He then steered me to a very funky movie theatre, also in Cambridge, where "Pink Flamingos" was playing.
Movie blew me away; it was like nothing I had ever seen before. Of course that is the experience I seek every day of my life. At this stage, "nothing I had ever seen before" happens maybe once a decade. Probably less. Not a lot left for me to look forward to, eh?
We had a great night. A great, great night.
Memories like that are almost edible. They mean something. They give you something to fall back on when boredom and despair beat back your defenses.
Now the bad shit.
Rob was married to Becky. Another memory just leaked out of my brain as I prepared to deliver all the news to you. Rob and Becky used to host legendary Super Bowl parties. I'm talking legendary. Becky was a magical cook. Amazing in the kitchen. We were not eating nachos and hot dogs at these parties. We were eating top of the line food. In an abundance that almost prevented us from getting drunk. Big parties, lots of people, lots of fun.
Becky died on February 11, 2007 from some type of brain trauma, like an embolism. Came out of nowhere. They were married for 27 years. She was 51. Fucking 51.
Rob died on December 17, 2015 after a "lingering illness". I don't remember what the illness was but I remember being told at the time that Becky's death broke his heart and he was never the same after that. He was 66. Fucking 66.
That's the way life works, baby. It is a real motherfucker.
But, thankfully, I have the memories of those Super Bowl parties, that night in Cambridge and many other fun things we did together.
I go through my life carrying the burden of innumerable regrets. But I am beginning to realize there have been many great moments too. A lot of fun. A lot of laughs. I am beginning to realize that those memories mean a lot. Up until recently I downplayed that stuff, choosing to focus on the dwindling time left to me, the diminishing (one might say minuscule) chances remaining to make something large out of my life.
But Christ, man - if seeing John Waters on Bill Maher can flood my emotions with warm, happy, positive memories - this memories phenomenon must be pretty powerful stuff.
With memories like that, who needs whiskey?
I do, for Christ sake. Come on, sentimental only goes so far.
Tuesday, June 25, 2019
Glorious Sunshine
"The sun, with all those planets revolving around it and dependent upon it, can still ripen a bunch of grapes as if it had nothing else in the universe to do."
Galileo Galilei
Galileo Galilei
Take That, You Wily Motherfucker
Sometimes you just gotta let it all out.
I'm talking expressing yourself as violently as you can, releasing the frustrations, disappointments and broken dreams of your life at someone else's expense.
That is what other human beings are for. To wail on in moments of crisis. They are pissing their own lives away anyway so a beating is not out of line.
Gotta choose carefully, though. If the plan disintegrates into you receiving a beating because you chose poorly, that kinda defeats the purpose.
I'm going out right now to the Henniker Home for the Aged, Decrepit, and Terminally Despaired. If I can avoid being admitted on the spot as a new patient, I'm gonna find me a 98 year old woman and put my knuckles to her face. Stomp her good.
That should improve my mood significantly.
Wish me luck.
I'm talking expressing yourself as violently as you can, releasing the frustrations, disappointments and broken dreams of your life at someone else's expense.
That is what other human beings are for. To wail on in moments of crisis. They are pissing their own lives away anyway so a beating is not out of line.
Gotta choose carefully, though. If the plan disintegrates into you receiving a beating because you chose poorly, that kinda defeats the purpose.
I'm going out right now to the Henniker Home for the Aged, Decrepit, and Terminally Despaired. If I can avoid being admitted on the spot as a new patient, I'm gonna find me a 98 year old woman and put my knuckles to her face. Stomp her good.
That should improve my mood significantly.
Wish me luck.
Saturday, June 22, 2019
Would You Take Advice From This Man?
"Keep your sense of humor, no matter what"
"Create a purpose, a focus, and never take your eyes off it"
"Figure out what's important to you. What's really important"
"Be open. Try anything. You never know"
"Love. You need love. Tons of it. A shitload of love"
"Sometimes you need to be selfish"
"You need support. You're in this alone, but you can't fight it alone"
"The most precious thing you have is time. Don't waste it"
"You're only human"
"And, finally, once again - laugh"
These are Robert Schimmel's words towards the end of his book "Cancer On $5 A Day *chemo not included"
He was a comedian. A comedian's comedian. I liked him. His career was rough because he worked blue and would not compromise. In other words he was a vulgar motherfucker.
In 2000, at the age of 49, and after a long career of fighting to make it big, he was finally being rewarded. He had won the Stand Up of the Year award, had a special on HBO called Unprotected which was a big hit. AND the Fox network had just picked up his sitcom Schimmel, which was scheduled for a September start in the time slot following The Simpsons.
Then he was diagnosed with stage three non-Hodgkins lymphoma.
He and his agent had to inform Fox and of course they put the sitcom "on hold". Which means it never aired. His whole career came crashing to a halt as he began to battle cancer with an immediate and aggressive course of chemotherapy.
The book is a brutally honest telling of what he dealt with, what he was thinking as he went through it, how it affected his family, how it changed his opinion of himself and his life. And he does it with humor. Trust me, there are many things about the book that break your heart, but somehow he manages to make you laugh too.
Fucking amazing.
When he showed up for his first session of chemo they seated him next to one grumpy motherfucker. Schimmel tried to make conversation and all the guy could say was "leave me alone, I have cancer and don't feel like being sociable". The nurses apologized for seating him there and told him they would not do it again.
Schimmel said nope - I want to sit next to him at every session. He made it his mission to make the guy laugh.
And he did. The nurses could not believe the transformation Schmimmel sparked in the guy over time. He became social, told jokes, and generally lightened up.
How fucking unselfish is that? Schimmel was going through his own personal hell and yet he chose to make someone else's life better.
There are so many brutal moments in the book. One of the worst was when he was one session away from completing chemo. He had been through hell and battled every setback, every indignity, every excruciating pain and kept going. He psyched himself with the knowledge that he was almost done.
Then his body shuts down. His is home alone, his ex-wife is away on a family emergency for an hour or two, and he is suddenly freezing. As he puts it: "Vomit rises into my throat, wet, sour, violent. I squeeze my eyes shut to will it away. My head pounds with searing pain. It feels as if someone is crushing my skull between two concrete blocks. The bones in my back and neck burn. And yet I am so cold."
He decides to get up and get a blanket or a jacket. "I turn my head slowly and focus on the closet door a few steps away. I have to get there. I lift my right leg one inch. Pain shoots through me. Forget the closet. It might as well be in another state."
Miraculously his daughter's boyfriend shows up out of the blue and gets him to the hospital, where they save his life. His immune system had shutdown completely.
This episode broke him, and when his dad walked into the room Schimmel asked him to unhook him so he could die. He told his dad he could not take it any more and he wanted to die. His dad walked out of the room, came back with Schimmel's kids and said "Tell them".
Jesus Christ, that is so heavy - and so wise. Of course he could not do it.
He went on to beat cancer. He fucking beat it and got himself back up on stage where of course he did a whole routine on what it's like to fight for your life against cancer. And made people laugh - and cry.
Now pay attention.
In 1998 Robert Schimmel survived a heart attack. In 2000 he was diagnosed with cancer and beat that. On August 26, 2010 Schimmel was a passenger in his daughter's car in Scottsdale, Arizona. She veered off the road to avoid an oncoming car, and flipped her car onto its side. Schimmel was hospitalized in serious condition. On September 3, 2010 Schimmel died of his injuries. He was 60 years old.
I think his advice is gold.
"Create a purpose, a focus, and never take your eyes off it"
"Figure out what's important to you. What's really important"
"Be open. Try anything. You never know"
"Love. You need love. Tons of it. A shitload of love"
"Sometimes you need to be selfish"
"You need support. You're in this alone, but you can't fight it alone"
"The most precious thing you have is time. Don't waste it"
"You're only human"
"And, finally, once again - laugh"
These are Robert Schimmel's words towards the end of his book "Cancer On $5 A Day *chemo not included"
He was a comedian. A comedian's comedian. I liked him. His career was rough because he worked blue and would not compromise. In other words he was a vulgar motherfucker.
In 2000, at the age of 49, and after a long career of fighting to make it big, he was finally being rewarded. He had won the Stand Up of the Year award, had a special on HBO called Unprotected which was a big hit. AND the Fox network had just picked up his sitcom Schimmel, which was scheduled for a September start in the time slot following The Simpsons.
Then he was diagnosed with stage three non-Hodgkins lymphoma.
He and his agent had to inform Fox and of course they put the sitcom "on hold". Which means it never aired. His whole career came crashing to a halt as he began to battle cancer with an immediate and aggressive course of chemotherapy.
The book is a brutally honest telling of what he dealt with, what he was thinking as he went through it, how it affected his family, how it changed his opinion of himself and his life. And he does it with humor. Trust me, there are many things about the book that break your heart, but somehow he manages to make you laugh too.
Fucking amazing.
When he showed up for his first session of chemo they seated him next to one grumpy motherfucker. Schimmel tried to make conversation and all the guy could say was "leave me alone, I have cancer and don't feel like being sociable". The nurses apologized for seating him there and told him they would not do it again.
Schimmel said nope - I want to sit next to him at every session. He made it his mission to make the guy laugh.
And he did. The nurses could not believe the transformation Schmimmel sparked in the guy over time. He became social, told jokes, and generally lightened up.
How fucking unselfish is that? Schimmel was going through his own personal hell and yet he chose to make someone else's life better.
There are so many brutal moments in the book. One of the worst was when he was one session away from completing chemo. He had been through hell and battled every setback, every indignity, every excruciating pain and kept going. He psyched himself with the knowledge that he was almost done.
Then his body shuts down. His is home alone, his ex-wife is away on a family emergency for an hour or two, and he is suddenly freezing. As he puts it: "Vomit rises into my throat, wet, sour, violent. I squeeze my eyes shut to will it away. My head pounds with searing pain. It feels as if someone is crushing my skull between two concrete blocks. The bones in my back and neck burn. And yet I am so cold."
He decides to get up and get a blanket or a jacket. "I turn my head slowly and focus on the closet door a few steps away. I have to get there. I lift my right leg one inch. Pain shoots through me. Forget the closet. It might as well be in another state."
Miraculously his daughter's boyfriend shows up out of the blue and gets him to the hospital, where they save his life. His immune system had shutdown completely.
This episode broke him, and when his dad walked into the room Schimmel asked him to unhook him so he could die. He told his dad he could not take it any more and he wanted to die. His dad walked out of the room, came back with Schimmel's kids and said "Tell them".
Jesus Christ, that is so heavy - and so wise. Of course he could not do it.
He went on to beat cancer. He fucking beat it and got himself back up on stage where of course he did a whole routine on what it's like to fight for your life against cancer. And made people laugh - and cry.
Now pay attention.
In 1998 Robert Schimmel survived a heart attack. In 2000 he was diagnosed with cancer and beat that. On August 26, 2010 Schimmel was a passenger in his daughter's car in Scottsdale, Arizona. She veered off the road to avoid an oncoming car, and flipped her car onto its side. Schimmel was hospitalized in serious condition. On September 3, 2010 Schimmel died of his injuries. He was 60 years old.
I think his advice is gold.
Sunday, June 9, 2019
Couldn't Have Said It Better Myself
"Life is a shit sandwich. Eat it or starve."
David Briggs (Neil Young's producer)
David Briggs (Neil Young's producer)
Saturday, June 1, 2019
Wednesday, May 15, 2019
Ain't Life Grand
"The major Western democracies are moving toward corporatism. Democracy has become a business plan, with a bottom line for every human activity, every dream, every decency, every hope."
John Pilger
John Pilger
The Wisdom Contained in "Classic Rock" lyrics
"The per centage you're paying is too high priced
While you're living beyond all your means
And the man in the suit has just bought a new car
From the profit he's made on your dreams............
...................................
If I gave you everything I owned and asked for nothing in
return,
Would you do the same for me as I would for you
Or take me for a ride, and strip me of everything including my
pride"
From "The Low Spark of High Heeled Boys" by Traffic
While you're living beyond all your means
And the man in the suit has just bought a new car
From the profit he's made on your dreams............
...................................
If I gave you everything I owned and asked for nothing in
return,
Would you do the same for me as I would for you
Or take me for a ride, and strip me of everything including my
pride"
From "The Low Spark of High Heeled Boys" by Traffic
Wednesday, May 8, 2019
More Relevant Now Than Ever Before
"There is a cult of ignorance in the United States, and there always has been. The strain of anti-intellectualism has been a constant thread winding its way through our political and cultural life, nurtured by the false notion that democracy means that "my ignorance is just as good as your knowledge."
Isaac Asimov
Isaac Asimov
Oh Yeah- THAT'S Why I Never Watch The NFL Draft
Jesus Christ it was boring.
The first round is full of guys who know they are going to get drafted - and drafted high up. So there is no excitement at all. They expect it. There is an air of entitlement about them. Their name gets called, they put on a hat and walk calmly up to the stage.
I got somewhat sucked into the "the Cardinals might not go with Kyler Murray for the first pick" bullshit, so I waited with muted interest until, of course, the Cardinals DID go with Kyler Murray. After weeks of speculation and hype.
I also got sucked into to the "the Raiders might just do something crazy with the fourth pick" bullshit, which of course they didn't. Unless I am less knowledgeable about football than I think.
I stuck it out through about 6 or 8 first round picks. The Bruins were playing that night, but I stuck to my commitment to focus on the draft. Until I didn't. It wasn't long before I started switching back and forth, and even less time before I committed fully to the Bruins.
There was one cool moment. Christian Wilkins was picked by Miami as the 13th overall pick (I must of caught this during a Bruins intermission, for those of you who are diseased fact checkers). When he got on stage he jumped up in the air to body bump Goodell, who looked genuinely scared.
Delightful.
Goodell hugs each player and whispers into their ear for a few seconds. I imagine he is saying "OK - I own you now, motherfucker. If you give me any trouble at all, make my job harder in any way, I will kill your mother and eat your pets. Good luck and welcome to the NFL."
Dwayne Haskins pissed me off. QB from Ohio State, thought he was going to the Giants with the 6th pick. They skipped him. He ended up going to the Redskins as the 15th pick.
When they announced the pick he had a sarcastic look on his face. When asked the inevitably stupid question of "how does it feel" he said: "To be honest I'm more motivated now than ever. There's a bigger chip on my shoulder. The NFL done messed up."
What an asshole. You just got drafted into the NFL, the realization of a dream you have had all your life and you're putting out attitude? Reminds me of fucking Eli Manning, who got drafted by the Chargers, who he said all along he would refuse to play for, and ended up being traded to the Giants.
Then the prick went on to get two rings - AT THE EXPENSE OF THE NEW ENGLAND PATRIOTS! I sincerely wish he had crashed and burned. Flamed out of the NFL after 2 and 1/2 games. But life doesn't work that way - assholes get rewarded. Just look to the White House for proof.
The later rounds are the fun ones. Those are the guys who are pretty sure they're getting drafted, but not 100% sure. A lot of them, when their name gets called, cry, clap, jump up and down, celebrate with family - you know, act the way a grateful person acts when they win the lottery.
Of course I didn't see any of that. The first round burned my eyes out of their sockets. Couldn't watch no more.
So next year, maybe, if I have absolutely nothing else to do, I might look in on rounds 2 and 3.
Or I just might chop my right pinkie finger off and feed it to my cats.
The first round is full of guys who know they are going to get drafted - and drafted high up. So there is no excitement at all. They expect it. There is an air of entitlement about them. Their name gets called, they put on a hat and walk calmly up to the stage.
I got somewhat sucked into the "the Cardinals might not go with Kyler Murray for the first pick" bullshit, so I waited with muted interest until, of course, the Cardinals DID go with Kyler Murray. After weeks of speculation and hype.
I also got sucked into to the "the Raiders might just do something crazy with the fourth pick" bullshit, which of course they didn't. Unless I am less knowledgeable about football than I think.
I stuck it out through about 6 or 8 first round picks. The Bruins were playing that night, but I stuck to my commitment to focus on the draft. Until I didn't. It wasn't long before I started switching back and forth, and even less time before I committed fully to the Bruins.
There was one cool moment. Christian Wilkins was picked by Miami as the 13th overall pick (I must of caught this during a Bruins intermission, for those of you who are diseased fact checkers). When he got on stage he jumped up in the air to body bump Goodell, who looked genuinely scared.
Delightful.
Goodell hugs each player and whispers into their ear for a few seconds. I imagine he is saying "OK - I own you now, motherfucker. If you give me any trouble at all, make my job harder in any way, I will kill your mother and eat your pets. Good luck and welcome to the NFL."
Dwayne Haskins pissed me off. QB from Ohio State, thought he was going to the Giants with the 6th pick. They skipped him. He ended up going to the Redskins as the 15th pick.
When they announced the pick he had a sarcastic look on his face. When asked the inevitably stupid question of "how does it feel" he said: "To be honest I'm more motivated now than ever. There's a bigger chip on my shoulder. The NFL done messed up."
What an asshole. You just got drafted into the NFL, the realization of a dream you have had all your life and you're putting out attitude? Reminds me of fucking Eli Manning, who got drafted by the Chargers, who he said all along he would refuse to play for, and ended up being traded to the Giants.
Then the prick went on to get two rings - AT THE EXPENSE OF THE NEW ENGLAND PATRIOTS! I sincerely wish he had crashed and burned. Flamed out of the NFL after 2 and 1/2 games. But life doesn't work that way - assholes get rewarded. Just look to the White House for proof.
The later rounds are the fun ones. Those are the guys who are pretty sure they're getting drafted, but not 100% sure. A lot of them, when their name gets called, cry, clap, jump up and down, celebrate with family - you know, act the way a grateful person acts when they win the lottery.
Of course I didn't see any of that. The first round burned my eyes out of their sockets. Couldn't watch no more.
So next year, maybe, if I have absolutely nothing else to do, I might look in on rounds 2 and 3.
Or I just might chop my right pinkie finger off and feed it to my cats.
Tuesday, May 7, 2019
Think About It. Think Hard.
"Anybody who thinks that "it doesn't matter who's president" has never been drafted and sent off to fight and die in a vicious, stupid war on the other side of the world - or been beaten and gassed by police for trespassing on public property - or been hounded by the IRS for purely political reasons - or locked up in the Cook County Jail with a broken nose and no phone access and twelve perverts wanting to stomp your ass in the shower. That is when it matters who is president or governor or police chief. That is when you will wish you had voted."
Hunter S. Thompson
Hunter S. Thompson
Point of Reference
I just picked up "The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich - A History of Nazi Germany".
Indeed an epic tome. Over 1100 pages.
I want to do my homework so I will know what to expect from trump.
Indeed an epic tome. Over 1100 pages.
I want to do my homework so I will know what to expect from trump.
There You Have It
I am currently consumed with Game of Thrones and the Bruins.
This puts me at odds with Carol who cannot handle GOT and does not like hockey. I started out going upstairs to our bedroom for personal viewing.
You see, I do not have a man cave. One of the major regrets of my life. I need a space to retreat to. I fucking need it.
By the way I hate the term man cave. If I had one I would not call it that. I would call it The Room of Great Release. Or The Peace Room. Or Joe's Sanctuary. But it is all a moot fucking point because I don't have one.
So I go upstairs and sit upright on the bed with two pillows behind me. That doesn't work. In very quick order my back begins to hurt. I squirm, I change positions and end up watching TV from ridiculous, uncomfortable angles.
I tried lying down but I fall asleep. And even on the outside chance that I don't fall asleep, because I wear tri-focals, I have to push them down to the tip of my nose to be able to see clearly. And even at that, it is a bit off.
So I tried bringing a kitchen chair up and sat next to the bed. 15 minutes later the back hurts, I squirm around a bit and eventually ended up standing. Yes, folks - I watched chunks of GOT and Bruins games fucking standing.
Finally I woke up. I downloaded the HBO Go app to my tablet. No charge. This allows me to stream any HBO show. Like Game of Thrones. I began watching GOT in my recliner, with Lakota in my lap, while Carol watched the Red Sox.
Much better. I much prefer to watch it on TV, but this set up is an acceptable compromise. I get to watch it in comfort.
Last night I had a true revelation. I downloaded the NBC Sports app, no charge, to the tablet and watched the Bruins game. Siting in my recliner with Lakota in my lap.
This was actually thrilling. I don't know what it was. Maybe because this really puts the game right in my face. For whatever reason, I was really into it. Didn't bother me at all to not be watching it on TV.
And I had the added bonus of being able to keep an eye on the Sox, who Carol watches 365 days a year. Even in leap years. She'll take one day off in leap years because even she needs an occasional break.
So there you have it. I am 65 years old and still figuring things out. My brain still works to a certain extent. I know, you're saying "Jesus Christ, Joe - this is simple stuff. It is 2019."
I get it. You are correct. But don't forget, I was born in 1954. My brain does not automatically go to technological solutions. Because of how much and how rapidly the world has changed, and because of the enormous amount of dead brain cells choking off natural thought processes. Seems like every time I try to download something or access something new, I get caught up in some torturous loop of stupidity that absolutely drives me crazy. Should be simple - never is.
So I feel good about these two seismic shifts in my life.
But if I ever hit the motherfucking lottery I am going to add on to the house the most impressive Room of Refuge that has ever been built. It will be absolutely palatial.
Anyway, that's it. I thought I'd bring you up to date. This is an enormously boring post.
I will try to do better.
This puts me at odds with Carol who cannot handle GOT and does not like hockey. I started out going upstairs to our bedroom for personal viewing.
You see, I do not have a man cave. One of the major regrets of my life. I need a space to retreat to. I fucking need it.
By the way I hate the term man cave. If I had one I would not call it that. I would call it The Room of Great Release. Or The Peace Room. Or Joe's Sanctuary. But it is all a moot fucking point because I don't have one.
So I go upstairs and sit upright on the bed with two pillows behind me. That doesn't work. In very quick order my back begins to hurt. I squirm, I change positions and end up watching TV from ridiculous, uncomfortable angles.
I tried lying down but I fall asleep. And even on the outside chance that I don't fall asleep, because I wear tri-focals, I have to push them down to the tip of my nose to be able to see clearly. And even at that, it is a bit off.
So I tried bringing a kitchen chair up and sat next to the bed. 15 minutes later the back hurts, I squirm around a bit and eventually ended up standing. Yes, folks - I watched chunks of GOT and Bruins games fucking standing.
Finally I woke up. I downloaded the HBO Go app to my tablet. No charge. This allows me to stream any HBO show. Like Game of Thrones. I began watching GOT in my recliner, with Lakota in my lap, while Carol watched the Red Sox.
Much better. I much prefer to watch it on TV, but this set up is an acceptable compromise. I get to watch it in comfort.
Last night I had a true revelation. I downloaded the NBC Sports app, no charge, to the tablet and watched the Bruins game. Siting in my recliner with Lakota in my lap.
This was actually thrilling. I don't know what it was. Maybe because this really puts the game right in my face. For whatever reason, I was really into it. Didn't bother me at all to not be watching it on TV.
And I had the added bonus of being able to keep an eye on the Sox, who Carol watches 365 days a year. Even in leap years. She'll take one day off in leap years because even she needs an occasional break.
So there you have it. I am 65 years old and still figuring things out. My brain still works to a certain extent. I know, you're saying "Jesus Christ, Joe - this is simple stuff. It is 2019."
I get it. You are correct. But don't forget, I was born in 1954. My brain does not automatically go to technological solutions. Because of how much and how rapidly the world has changed, and because of the enormous amount of dead brain cells choking off natural thought processes. Seems like every time I try to download something or access something new, I get caught up in some torturous loop of stupidity that absolutely drives me crazy. Should be simple - never is.
So I feel good about these two seismic shifts in my life.
But if I ever hit the motherfucking lottery I am going to add on to the house the most impressive Room of Refuge that has ever been built. It will be absolutely palatial.
Anyway, that's it. I thought I'd bring you up to date. This is an enormously boring post.
I will try to do better.
Thursday, May 2, 2019
Better Be Careful
Today is May 2.
Did you know that? It is fucking May already. Bet you didn't know that. Too busy crawling off to work pretending that you are getting somewhere in life.
You suffered through the long, agonizing winter, praying on your knees twice a day every day for 5 months, for warm weather to come. Of course it is not here yet, but it is spring (that mythical season).
April is a motherfucker. That's the month all the believers are running around telling you SPRING IS HERE! SPRING IS HERE! Intelligent people know it is not.
But here's the thing - April does birth hope in the soul. Even the intelligent start to know that warm weather is coming. It is inevitable. But April tortures you.
And then it just blows by. A few warm days to tease you, give you just a taste. Mostly shit weather - cold, rainy, disappointing. You are waiting, still praying, trying to beat back hope so you won't be too disappointed in the now and suddenly, it is May.
Holy shit. It is fucking May. Time to start living (as soon as it gets warm) but you are uneasy. If April blew by that fast, what the hell is the rest of spring/summer gonna do?
BLOW BY, that's what.
So you gotta be alert at this time of year. When a good day rolls around you gotta grab it by the balls. Drop whatever the fuck you are doing and get outside and do something - anything - that allows you to dig on the day. Run around your yard naked and screaming the mantra - warm weather rocks - warm weather rocks - WARM WEATHER FUCKING ROCKS.
Because you don't know what the rest of the "good weather" season is going to do to you. Sometimes it sucks. Not enough warmth, not enough sun, too much fucking rain. And if that happens you will truly regret blowing those 70 degree May days.
Ride the roller coaster of good weather emotion like a pro. Take charge. And always remember:
April is indeed a motherfucker.
Did you know that? It is fucking May already. Bet you didn't know that. Too busy crawling off to work pretending that you are getting somewhere in life.
You suffered through the long, agonizing winter, praying on your knees twice a day every day for 5 months, for warm weather to come. Of course it is not here yet, but it is spring (that mythical season).
April is a motherfucker. That's the month all the believers are running around telling you SPRING IS HERE! SPRING IS HERE! Intelligent people know it is not.
But here's the thing - April does birth hope in the soul. Even the intelligent start to know that warm weather is coming. It is inevitable. But April tortures you.
And then it just blows by. A few warm days to tease you, give you just a taste. Mostly shit weather - cold, rainy, disappointing. You are waiting, still praying, trying to beat back hope so you won't be too disappointed in the now and suddenly, it is May.
Holy shit. It is fucking May. Time to start living (as soon as it gets warm) but you are uneasy. If April blew by that fast, what the hell is the rest of spring/summer gonna do?
BLOW BY, that's what.
So you gotta be alert at this time of year. When a good day rolls around you gotta grab it by the balls. Drop whatever the fuck you are doing and get outside and do something - anything - that allows you to dig on the day. Run around your yard naked and screaming the mantra - warm weather rocks - warm weather rocks - WARM WEATHER FUCKING ROCKS.
Because you don't know what the rest of the "good weather" season is going to do to you. Sometimes it sucks. Not enough warmth, not enough sun, too much fucking rain. And if that happens you will truly regret blowing those 70 degree May days.
Ride the roller coaster of good weather emotion like a pro. Take charge. And always remember:
April is indeed a motherfucker.
Wednesday, May 1, 2019
I Can't BREATHE..........................
"When you drank the world was still out there, but for the moment it didn't have you by the throat."
Charles Bukowski from "Factotum"
Charles Bukowski from "Factotum"
Truth Is Often More Painful Than Lies
"When the ocean starts rising to the level of whatever building they're in and whatever floor they're on as they write their editorials, yeah, then they'll agree that there's a greenhouse effect and we'd better do something about it.........................It's just that the next thing they'll ask is "So how can we make some money off it?" In fact, anybody in business who didn't ask that question would find themselves out of business - just because that's the way that capitalist institutions work............These are simply institutional facts........And if you don't like them, and I don't, then you're going to have to change the institutions. There really is no other way."
Noam Chomsky
Noam Chomsky
"Stairway"? Really?
I'm driving home from work last Sunday night and "Stairway To Heaven" emerges from my car's magical musical machine.
Brief aside: "Driving home from work on Sunday night" is a grouping of words I would prefer never to have to utter. Not because of any religious belief, just because in my gut working on a Sunday represents the collapse of society.
When I was a kid a fairly large portion of the world shut down on Sundays. A lot of stores, banks (Saturdays too), businesses etc. I liked that feeling. It felt like a day when the world could not get at you. You were not owned on Sundays, you were free.
Now Sundays, and especially Saturdays, are just like any other day of the week. You are a beast of burden, forced to go out into the world to earn inadequate pay that deceives yourself into believing you are paying your bills. Getting by. "Making a living".
There is no escape from the constant pressure and obligation. I think that is destructive and very, fucking wrong.
Back to the matter at hand: "Stairway To Heaven" comes on and I found myself responding to it. Really listening. Do you have any idea how many times I have heard that song? It is not humanly possible to count that high.
"Stairway, and "Free Bird" - two songs that are much derided because of the anthems they have become. I like them both but "Stairway" makes a deeper, mystical connection with the soul.
It was released late in 1971. I was 17 years old. My mind went right back there last Sunday night. I was dating Janice at the time and we were both crazy ass Zeppelin fans. Janice was the last woman I dated before meeting Carol.
She was nuts. Could out drink me and out smoke me. We used to go to house parties where Zep was blasting and just party our asses off.
She dumped me, and well done for that. Because I ended up with the most loving, considerate, unselfish woman in the world. The woman without whom, I am absolutely convinced, I would either be dead or in prison.
Anyway I thought about all that, the time period, who I was back then. But the real connection was the moment I was in.
I am a night time guy. As much as I love sun and heat, I am most comfortable in the dark. In the night. Seems I am most sensitive then, most open, most me. It suits me.
I am driving home, in the dark, listening to "Stairway", and really feeling alive. Completely immersed in the song, digging on the dark, digging on the ride (I love to drive, listen to music and, maybe occasionally, sip on a nip - I often wish I had a 5 hour commute home from work - cruising and dreaming) - lost in myself.
Ignorant of my worries, forgetting about my age, feeling happy, feeling good.
It was a really good moment. Spontaneous. Came out of nowhere. The song comes on and bingo, bango, boingo I am transported to a place I rarely visit.
That, my friends, is the power of music.
Brief aside: "Driving home from work on Sunday night" is a grouping of words I would prefer never to have to utter. Not because of any religious belief, just because in my gut working on a Sunday represents the collapse of society.
When I was a kid a fairly large portion of the world shut down on Sundays. A lot of stores, banks (Saturdays too), businesses etc. I liked that feeling. It felt like a day when the world could not get at you. You were not owned on Sundays, you were free.
Now Sundays, and especially Saturdays, are just like any other day of the week. You are a beast of burden, forced to go out into the world to earn inadequate pay that deceives yourself into believing you are paying your bills. Getting by. "Making a living".
There is no escape from the constant pressure and obligation. I think that is destructive and very, fucking wrong.
Back to the matter at hand: "Stairway To Heaven" comes on and I found myself responding to it. Really listening. Do you have any idea how many times I have heard that song? It is not humanly possible to count that high.
"Stairway, and "Free Bird" - two songs that are much derided because of the anthems they have become. I like them both but "Stairway" makes a deeper, mystical connection with the soul.
It was released late in 1971. I was 17 years old. My mind went right back there last Sunday night. I was dating Janice at the time and we were both crazy ass Zeppelin fans. Janice was the last woman I dated before meeting Carol.
She was nuts. Could out drink me and out smoke me. We used to go to house parties where Zep was blasting and just party our asses off.
She dumped me, and well done for that. Because I ended up with the most loving, considerate, unselfish woman in the world. The woman without whom, I am absolutely convinced, I would either be dead or in prison.
Anyway I thought about all that, the time period, who I was back then. But the real connection was the moment I was in.
I am a night time guy. As much as I love sun and heat, I am most comfortable in the dark. In the night. Seems I am most sensitive then, most open, most me. It suits me.
I am driving home, in the dark, listening to "Stairway", and really feeling alive. Completely immersed in the song, digging on the dark, digging on the ride (I love to drive, listen to music and, maybe occasionally, sip on a nip - I often wish I had a 5 hour commute home from work - cruising and dreaming) - lost in myself.
Ignorant of my worries, forgetting about my age, feeling happy, feeling good.
It was a really good moment. Spontaneous. Came out of nowhere. The song comes on and bingo, bango, boingo I am transported to a place I rarely visit.
That, my friends, is the power of music.
Tuesday, April 23, 2019
Intellectual Conundrum (Sadly)
"One of the penalties of an ecological education is that one lives alone in a world of wounds. Much of the damage inflicted on land is quite invisible to laymen. An ecologist must either harden his shell and make believe that the consequences of science are none of his business, or he must be the doctor who sees the marks of death in a community that believes itself well and does not want to be told otherwise."
Aldo Leopold
Aldo Leopold
Two Things That Are Currently Pissing Me Off
1) I have not signed a 4 year, $140 million contract with the Capitol Center for the Arts
2) I am never included in Time magazine's annual list of "The 100 Most Influential People"
2) I am never included in Time magazine's annual list of "The 100 Most Influential People"
Saturday, April 20, 2019
Something To Think About
You have no idea how deeply I wish Jesus Christ was a real thing.
I could use a little forgiveness.
I could use a little forgiveness.
Kris Kristofferson
I could not have been more in awe had I been in the presence of Jesus Christ himself.
Magnificent man, magnificent show.
Those who know me to be a severely unemotional man will be amazed to learn that I had tears trickling down my cheeks a few times during his performance. Not a flood, just enough to express my gratitude (involuntarily) at the words this man has written, the beautiful music he has created, the strong emotions his songs elicit.
He is 82. A bit frail. I kept thinking this might be the last time I ever see him, but I had to shake that thought from my mind because it would have distracted from the simple beauty this man delivers to my soul.
He sang in an understated way, very low key. But he is still Kris Kristofferson, a man worthy of any thinking man's respect. He was backed by Merle Haggard's long time backing band so it was obvious that there were real musicians on that stage. And Merle Haggard's son is in the band - he sang and holy shit, he sounded so much like Merle. The crowd went crazy for him.
There were a few songs he sang that the audience joined in on. This blew me away, knocked me right down. This was an older audience, a seemingly conservative New Hampshire audience shedding their inhibitions to sing along with Kris Kristofferson. He loved it - he really reacted to it - clapped his hand over his heart to show his gratitude. I was among the singers.
"Sunday Morning Coming Down". One of my favorite Kristofferson songs. Of course that's like me saying one of my favorite Allman Brothers songs, or favorite Beatles songs. It's ridiculous, I love all of Kris Kristofferson's songs.
A lot of people sang along with that one. I always say Kris has a remarkable way of capturing pure emotion, describing a mood perfectly. That song is a premier example. Go to YouTube right now and listen to it and tell me afterwards you did not feel the loneliness of an alone morning as if you were the last person on earth.
That song slays me. Every single time. Every single fucking time.
Take a minute to check out "Here Comes That Rainbow Again". Kris describes a very small scene in some very small lives in a way that makes you shout "yeah!!!!!!" at the end.
He played two sets. I wish I was still there. But I experienced the night perfectly. I have learned over the years to control my emotions to a certain extent in certain situations. Used to be in a setting like that I would be so emotional for so long I would "miss" half the concert.
I did get a tad choked up when he first walked out and it took a few minutes to rein in my emotions. After that I opened up my soul and let Kris Kristofferson walk right in. Jesus Christ, what a night.
Music is me and I am music. Gotta have it, can't live without it. There are many people I worship, many people who save my life with their music. I tend to be very partial to people who are good with words, who write mind blowing lyrics.
Kris Kristofferson is King. I love the man. I respect him. I appreciate him. I have seen him three times and I cherish each and every one of those concerts. I will never forget last Thursday night.
Never.
Magnificent man, magnificent show.
Those who know me to be a severely unemotional man will be amazed to learn that I had tears trickling down my cheeks a few times during his performance. Not a flood, just enough to express my gratitude (involuntarily) at the words this man has written, the beautiful music he has created, the strong emotions his songs elicit.
He is 82. A bit frail. I kept thinking this might be the last time I ever see him, but I had to shake that thought from my mind because it would have distracted from the simple beauty this man delivers to my soul.
He sang in an understated way, very low key. But he is still Kris Kristofferson, a man worthy of any thinking man's respect. He was backed by Merle Haggard's long time backing band so it was obvious that there were real musicians on that stage. And Merle Haggard's son is in the band - he sang and holy shit, he sounded so much like Merle. The crowd went crazy for him.
There were a few songs he sang that the audience joined in on. This blew me away, knocked me right down. This was an older audience, a seemingly conservative New Hampshire audience shedding their inhibitions to sing along with Kris Kristofferson. He loved it - he really reacted to it - clapped his hand over his heart to show his gratitude. I was among the singers.
"Sunday Morning Coming Down". One of my favorite Kristofferson songs. Of course that's like me saying one of my favorite Allman Brothers songs, or favorite Beatles songs. It's ridiculous, I love all of Kris Kristofferson's songs.
A lot of people sang along with that one. I always say Kris has a remarkable way of capturing pure emotion, describing a mood perfectly. That song is a premier example. Go to YouTube right now and listen to it and tell me afterwards you did not feel the loneliness of an alone morning as if you were the last person on earth.
That song slays me. Every single time. Every single fucking time.
Take a minute to check out "Here Comes That Rainbow Again". Kris describes a very small scene in some very small lives in a way that makes you shout "yeah!!!!!!" at the end.
I did get a tad choked up when he first walked out and it took a few minutes to rein in my emotions. After that I opened up my soul and let Kris Kristofferson walk right in. Jesus Christ, what a night.
Music is me and I am music. Gotta have it, can't live without it. There are many people I worship, many people who save my life with their music. I tend to be very partial to people who are good with words, who write mind blowing lyrics.
Kris Kristofferson is King. I love the man. I respect him. I appreciate him. I have seen him three times and I cherish each and every one of those concerts. I will never forget last Thursday night.
Never.
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