Hello/Goodbye

"I was much further out than you thought/And not waving but drowning."

Stevie Smith

Birds

It appears birds will play an important role in my spring/summer rejuvenation.

They are calling out to me. Woke up this morning to birds chirping in the yard. Delightful.

Walked out of the dentist office (the motherfucking dentist) later this morning to silence. And one, lone bird chirping in a nearby tree. I stood still and listened. Love that sound.

Beautiful.

Birds are a big part of the comfort of warm weather and the beauty of living things in bloom.

I never used to notice birds much because I live largely, almost completely, in my head. Change came around many years ago largely through Carol. Most of the "nice" changes in my life come about through her influence. Otherwise I am a dark soul indeed.

We used to sit out by her garden, in the sun, listening to the fountain and digging on the birds. She would point them out to me and attempt to impart her birdly knowledge into my brain. I do tend to resist learning though.

As far as I'm concerned every tree is a mighty redwood. Every bird is an eagle. I really don't care to learn subtle (?) distinctions. I just dig shit for what it is.

By the way, great story. Many years ago when I was working a second shift job, I got myself stoned before going into work. VERY stoned. I sat outside for a while talking to a tree. I am not lying about this.

Anyway, my body is stirring. Beginning to come alive after another long winter of just being fucking cold.

I am not stupid, though. I don't expect to be comfortable or close to it for at least another month. But I know it is close. I know I will once again be able to assume my true personality.

This is all long overdue. Because of Carol's brain surgery, 2017 bled into 2019. I don't remember much about last summer because I don't think we did much. In fact all of 2018 is just a blur to me.

But here we go. Gonna get warm, gonna get me an improved mood, gonna squeeze a little extra enjoyment out of this warm weather. Live a little.

Me and the birds are gonna get along fine. We will help each other along and communicate and appreciate in a natural and fulfilling way.

Looking forward to it.

Without Apology

Love this paragraph.

"The sun entered the tomb of Lazarus. His putrid corpse lay in grey grave-clothes in a slime-pool of foul decay that drizzled from the shelf of rock. The face protruding from the grave-clothes was grossly bloated and black. Greasy slippages of the skin marked the holes in his cheeks and forehead where fat, white maggot-worms fed, squirming in the holes they had eaten into him. These fat, white worms also filled one of his eye sockets and churned a thick, pus-like substance that foamed in the open sore that had been his mouth."

Sleep well.

From "Under Tiberius", Nick Tosches

My New Hero

Ben Powers senior offensive guard for the Oklahoma Sooners, soon to be in the NFL.

When asked what motivates him he said: "I love taking a grown man's dreams and crushing them."

Fucking beautiful.

There Must Be Something There, Right?

I buy all my books used on Amazon from book re-sellers.

I am not proud of this, but I am fighting valiantly to keep Carol and I from sinking to the eating cat food level of subsistence (we are very close).

I buy so many books from them that they call me once a week and ask "Need any books today Joe? We love you."

In truth I have fallen into the rhythm of buying one book a week and trying to hold the purchase to $5 (so $10/paycheck). That way I keep the pipeline open without breaking the bank.

Never know what cool surprises you will find with used books. Many have notes inscribed in them from people who originally gave the book as a gift. My favorite was a note from a son to a dad wishing him a happy birthday with a note that said something like "Hope this year is much better than last year; hopefully the best of your life."

Felt like dad had a tough year, maybe health wise, maybe financially, who knows, but I found it cool that his son gave the book as a gift and a birthday card. It was a paperback but I bet the dad felt it was worth $100,000.

I have found receipts, shopping lists, notes written on pieces of paper, notations in the margins. Very cool.

Ex-library books get to me the most. I am not sure why this is. I react on a gut level, an emotional level that I can't really articulate.

I am reading Elvis Costello's autobiography "Unfaithful Music & Disappearing Ink." It came from the Bruce County Public Library on 1234 MacKenzie Road, Ontario, Canada.

I hate the idea of libraries getting rid of books. I think all books should be held eternally. Just keep adding wings onto the building. But of course I don't mind being the beneficiary of this disrespect to books.

The dust jacket is always taped to the book when they come from a library, for obvious reasons. I like this. When you remove the dust jacket it erases the books external identity. I get to look at Elvis Costello's face on the front and back of the dust cover every time I pick it up. Stunning.

Here is my theory on why ex-library books get to me. The single most enjoyable thing I do is reading books. And that activity has its roots in libraries. It's where I got my start.

The Winthrop Library. I could walk down there, grab me a book to feed my soul, and go home and sit out on the second floor porch in spring and summer and read in complete peace and beauty and comfort. I did that a lot. A LOT.

In shitty, cold weather I must have read in my room but I have no memories of that. The porch was everything.

I cannot read a book with the TV on or conversation going on or music playing. I need silence. I can read magazines under those conditions but not books.

That might have come from my childhood too. It was quiet on the porch. Not a lot of traffic, not a lot of people.

I guess when something means everything to you, anything that connects back to the origins of that love will trigger emotions.

It never fails. Happens every time. And I don't end up with a lot of ex-library books so it is always a special treat.

So there you go.

Occasionally I Am Delusional

Had a dentist appointment this morning.

I was feeling quite motivated early on so I decided I would get a haircut this afternoon.

But it never happened.

What the hell was I thinking? Sometimes I think I'm somebody else.

When I got back from Dr. Teeth I locked all the doors, pulled down the shades and unplugged the phone. Christ, man - I do not need to deal with another human being today.

Long hair suits me.

Heavy, Heavy Words (100% true)

"If you bring forth what is within you, what you bring forth will save you. If you do not bring forth what is within you, what you do not bring forth will destroy you."

Jesus, Gospel of Thomas

I'm Warning You Right Now

You best tread lightly around me tomorrow if you are one of those irrationally optimistic New Englanders.

Or today, depending on which date you recognize. All my life March 21 was the fictional "first day of spring". Now some recognize March 20 as that imaginary milestone.

Doesn't matter to me. It is a fucking lie.

I have an abundance of snow in my yard. A fucking shitload to be exact. And ice everywhere.

Tomorrow delusional people will tell you it's the first day of spring and "it won't be long before the snow is gone and the temperatures are warmer." Let me explain something. If we still have snow and it is cold it is still fucking winter. Period.

If it was spring my lawn would be visible and the temperature would be 70 degrees. If it is going to be spring it has to feel like spring. The first rule of nature (or me - I get confused sometimes).

Give me a fucking break.

This is how people survive in New England. They ignore the obvious and hope for better weather. They are always hoping for better weather. Until suddenly - it's winter again. And people say I am stupid for yearning to get the hell outta here. Please...............

This time of year is highly dangerous for you if you are going to pull that first day of spring shit around me. I am right on the edge. After five months of being continuously cold I can finally smell good weather. Right around the corner. In a month or so.

I can feel it. All I gotta do is hang on for one more month. Then you come along with your fairy tale bullshit and my brain breaks. I suppose you think you're gonna win the lottery too. And have mind blowing sex with the tooth fairy. And share chocolate fucking eggs with the Easter Bunny.

I happen to know the fucking Easter Bunny is a selfish prick. You try to pry one of those chocolate eggs out of his paws and he'll sink his fangs into your throat. I have seen it happen.

Your best bet is to stay away from me for the next month. I am a little shaky and it will only get worse as winter tortures me a little more. You know how it goes - a sixty degree day out of nowhere and then two days later it fucking snows. And I am smashing my head against the wall.

And you have the poor judgment to say "It's spring. Warm weather is on the way."

Suddenly your two front teeth are in your hand, bathed in blood.

Good for you. Take them home and offer them up to the fucking tooth fairy. Maybe you'll get lucky.

Done Apologizing

I have told this story hundreds of times in my life.

There was a record store in downtown Winthrop, the town my brother Ed and I grew up in. When we were around ten or twelve (I'm guessing) we headed down there and bought two albums.

He bought The Beatles first album, I bought Herman's Hermits. I always make a joke out of that fact.  Ed comes across as a visionary and I settled for pop. I find it especially ironic because I feel I evolved into more of a rock 'n roll aficionado than he did.

Carol and I were watching one of those PBS old rock 'n roll specials over the weekend. Sometimes when I watch those I get a bit uncomfortable. Most of the performers are old - I mean really old - especially the people from fifties rock.

An entertainer has to think like an athlete - you gotta know when to hang it up. Some of these people are really pushing it. I gotta say I have never seen anybody embarrass themselves but they come close sometimes.

Then again, the flip side for me is watching the audience. Old people just like me singing their hearts out and knowing every word. Music means so much. You carry it through your life and it sparks memories. It also raises the same emotions it did decades ago which is fucking medicinal, man - music keeps you young.

Anyway, Peter Noone, the lead singer of Herman's Hermits, was one of the featured guests. He sang a bunch of their songs. And I was smiling my ass off. And the audience was singing their asses off.

They had a bunch of good songs. Fun sings, singable songs. I no longer feel that I made a horrible mistake fifty plus years ago.

"I'm Henry VIII, I Am." That is a great song. You know you love it. I just found out - today - that the song was written in 1910 as a British music hall song by Fred Murray and R.P. Weston. For the past fifty plus years I thought it was a Herman's Hermits original. On top of that it turns out that all of their bigger hits were written by other people. The songs they wrote themselves were not hits.

The sheer volume of shit I don't know could knock the planet earth out of it's orbit.

Sing it with me. But do it right. Drop the H, AND make Henry a three syllable word. En-er-y.

Let's go: "I'm enery the eighth I am, enery the eighth I am I am, I got married to the widow next door, she's been married seven times before, and every one was an enery, she wouldn't have a Willie or a Sam, I'm her eighth old man I'm enery, enery the eighth I am.

Second verse same as the first"

Well done.

Peter Noone is 71 years old. Didn't look bad, sang pretty good. Smiled a lot. He was having a good time. His full name is Peter Blair Denis Bernard Noone.

I know this. I have known it all my life. One of those weird things that stays in my brain. Whenever the subject of Herman's Hermits comes up (not often) I obnoxiously ask "Did you know that Peter Noone's full name is.................."

The audience was belting out these songs. Old fuckers my age. Having a goddamn blast. But I did notice a number of young people (a relative term at my age) singing along enthusiastically as well.

Music, man. Powerful stuff. You would think music alone could save the world from it's ugliness and hatred. Unfortunately, evil trumps good. (Get it?)

Anyway I will no longer apologize for buying Herman's Hermits as my first album. I will no longer be embarrassed.

I am proud of it.

"Something tells me I'm into something good"

Do You Hear Something?

"The real question is: How sturdy and solid is the floor our civilization stands on? How many lives with no prospects, shattered and senseless, can it bear the weight of before it cracks?"

Christa Wolf,  City of Angels: Or, The Overcoat of Dr. Freud

Still Learning My Gazintas

"Teaching is often a dangerous thing. To be taught is often to be impaired. Children are punished for their innate imaginations, and trained to see and do alike, as one might domesticate a free and wild dog into a household pet. Teaching should encourage individuals, not liquefy them into a leaden homogeneity to be poured into uniform molds to cast leaden minds that are all of a kind."

From "Under Tiberius", by Nick Tosches

Haloti Ngata

Haloti Ngata played thirteen seasons in the NFL as a defensive tackle.

Nine with the Baltimore Ravens, three with the Detroit Lions, one with the Philadelphia Eagles.

He was good.

He just retired. And the way he announced it is fucking awesome.

He scaled Mt. Kilimanjaro and stood at the top holding a banner saying "I'm Retiring From The NFL On Top". There is a reggae song playing called "Today's A New Day" by Common Kings. The banner has logos for the Ravens, Lions and Eagles on it and also says Mt. Kilimanjaro - 19,341 feet.

It's on Instagram. Find it. It is spectacular.

Here is what he posted along with the picture:

"Just a man standing on top of the world with a heart full of gratitude. Thank you Lord for letting me play the game I love for 13 unforgettable years. I'm retiring on top. I might be finished playing football, but I'm holding tight to the friendships, memories and wisdom I've gained along the way. 'Nobody who ever gave his best regretted it." Walking away with no regrets, just peace in knowing I gave it my all and had a helluva lot of fun doing it."

He is thirty five years old.

This is a guy who gets it. He worked hard to get himself a spectacular life.

Playing in the NFL ain't easy, baby. It's not like being a part time box office associate (a title not quite as impressive as NFL defensive tackle, although close) in a theatre. Football breaks your body and bruises your mind.

And, if you're lucky, fattens your wallet.

He played, he survived thirteen years - which is a fucking miracle, he is retiring young with a fat bank account and he appreciates it all.

And he is continuing on in style. Climbing Kilimanjaro ain't no walk in the park, Kazansky.

The words are not adequately expressing my feelings. Sometimes when I write I feel like I have a plastic bag wrapped around my brain.

Anyway, I have enormous respect for Haloti Ngata. For playing thirteen years in the NFL, for doing the work and sticking it out......and enjoying it; digging the privilege of making a living doing what he loved.

And I respect the very cool and creative way he announced his retirement.

The guy gets it. He gets that life can be fun, and he gets that you can keep that fun rolling and you can do it with gratitude.

Super cool.

Yup

"One need not lay waste to time by learning the political history of our world. It is all the same, ever repeating. Different names, different faces. But all and always the same save for the extraneous detail of the embroidery. One need learn but a span, and learn it well, to understand eternity. For eternal is the nature of man's treachery, greed, and bestial hunger for power, which, well groomed, is the essence and sum of politics."

                                                                     AND

"Trust no man. Above all, trust no man of wealth who speaks of his concern for the welfare of the people or the common good."

From "Under Tiberius" by Nick Tosches

I Don't Dig Dentists, I Don't Dig Barbers

My hair is ridiculously long.

So long it is curling up in the back. Looks kind of silly. But I cannot get myself to the barbershop.

Because I hate being trapped in a chair and being forced to engage in small talk. It just fucking irritates me. It is unnatural.

When you are in the barber/dentist chair, conversation is manufactured. These people feel that they have to make conversation so things don't get uncomfortable, so they just babble. And they talk about bland, "nice" things.

What they don't know is that I can sit in total silence with somebody 6 inches from my face and not feel uncomfortable. Doesn't bother me at all. I could spend an hour in the dentist chair, 20 minutes in the barber chair, in sweet, soothing silence. It would be a treat.

And the fucking dentist. Come on, man. They ask you questions when you got a mouth full of hardware and cotton and water sucking devices. I think it amuses them. I think they like the power of making you look like a fool - "Yeth, I mmn norm gummmm semmmm" - along with the knowledge that they are charging you outrageous prices to do their thing. Mock your pride, rape your wallet.

Dental insurance sucks, man - what is up with that? Carol spent 7 and 1/2 hours with two surgeons inside her skull and we never saw a bill. I am in the process of getting two crowns and it's going to cost us over $1,200 after insurance.

And yes, I have already been to the dentist twice recently and I have to go back two more times in the next two weeks. Which is why I carry a nine inch Italian Stiletto switchblade in my pocket. I am right on the edge. If it becomes too much I'll just stab myself in the fucking throat.

I hate small talk. I pretty much hate talk. Most of what bleeds into my ears does not interest me. Everyday bullshit. Mindless conversation. Nothing of interest. Nothing shocking.

If you are going to talk to me about the weather, why talk at all? What the fuck is the point.

Tell me you shot your husband in the back of the head before coming to work this morning and you get my grateful attention. Tell me you are a dedicated practitioner of voodoo and you just killed the deli man at Market Basket with one of your spells. Tell me you are a member of a religious cult that plans on killing every man on planet earth named Paul.

I find now that I am home alone so much I figure out ways to not leave the house. Avoid human contact as much as possible. I'll do all my chores in one day, just fucking get it over with, so I can spend two solid days in solitary confinement. Go to the dump, stop at the grocery store, pop into the liquor store, grab more fucking sand for the ice skating rink that is our driveway/yard, anything and everything.

It's challenging, but when I pull back into the driveway I smile inwardly in relief. Because I know that for the next one or two days I will spend 8 hours and 45 minutes per day not talking and not listening. That's how long Carol is gone when she is at work.

My vocal cords are supple and alive. I hardly use them at all so there is little wear and tear. I feel invincible.

So yeah, I got two more trips to the dentist coming up and I have to get a hair cut. I'm at the point in work where customers approach the window, take one look at raggedy Joe and shy away in abject fear, assuming I want to kill them (which I do).

This will not be easy. But I got my 9 inch Italian Stilletto switchblade greasied up and ready.

One quick gash to the jugular and my troubles are over.

Life is not hard when you got a plan.

I Am A Fascinating Guy

Just finished reading a book yesterday titled - "Pimp, The Story of My Life" by Iceberg Slim,

Iceberg Slim is the most recognizable pimp in America (now dead).

Prior to that I read a book titled "Slow Getting Up - A Story of Survival From The Bottom of The Pile" by Nate Jackson, former NFL player.

This morning I settled in with "Under Tiberius" by Nick Tosches. Dig the plot. Deep in the recesses of the Vatican a writer stumbles across a first century memoir offering proof that Jesus existed. Only Jesus is a "shabby and licentious thief with an affinity for brothels", not the Son of God. The writer is aware of the Jews hunger for the appearance of a Messiah, and senses an opportunity to get rich.

So he finds Jesus and offers to become his spin doctor. To promote him as the Son of God to fulfill the prophecy, and as a way of ripping off devout believers.

It doesn't get any better than that.

What have you read lately?

This Is Why Your Life Sucks

"What does the money machine eat? It eats youth, spontaneity, life, beauty, and, above all, it eats creativity. It eats quality and shits quantity."

William S. Burroughs

A Familiar Rant

Fucking winter sucks.

This is something that every human can agree on. When December 21 rolls around society is plunged into blood filled chaos. Mass suicides. Dogs and cats living together. Violence and viciousness.

Hatred. People punch, kick and spit on each other in the grocery store line.

Wow, man - it's pretty rough.

Every year at this time of year there is talk about not changing the clocks anymore, keeping them permanently set one way or the other. If that law is ever passed we should pork barrel the bill with a ban of winter. Make winter illegal.

Wouldn't that be sweet?

Anyway, so 12/21 rolls around and people go mad. During the first snow storm this year I threw my fucking shovel across the driveway after only a few shovelfuls.

That's bad enough. But when March rolls around I snap like a dry twig. I CAN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE.

Yesterday I ran into Mrs. McCronski at her mailbox. She's 94 years old. She was toddling out there to get her social security check. I took a baseball bat to the side of her head, stole her check and left her lying in the snow. Cashed the check thanks to this guy Lefty that I know, ran down to Floyd's Market and bought myself a double rack of Natty Light and an ice cream sandwich.

When I got back, fucking McCronski was still alive, the tough old bird. She begged me to call 911. Instead I tossed her the ice cream sandwich and said "Enjoy your snack, you old bag."

That's just one example.

I am pacing around the house like a caged animal, wild eyed and frothing at the mouth. Can't eat, can't sleep. I stare at the thermometer willing it to climb. It doesn't. It just fucking hangs there.

10 degrees. 18 degrees. 23 degrees. These are not hospitable temperatures. The only people who enjoy those numbers are corpses.

I was driving home from work last Saturday and got tricked into believing it was warm. It was toasty goddamn warm when I crawled into the JoeMobile. I had the sun roof wide open for half the ride, and popped for the second half after I got a bit chilled.

I was fucking ecstatic. I was really feeling it, man. And it wasn't even 50 degrees.

That's what winter does to you, man. It twists your brain, it destroys your perspective, it fucks with you until you start murdering nuns.

No doubt there will be a string of corpses behind me by the time we reach the end of winter in late April. Someone has to pay for my discomfort. But it's OK, most people deserve to die anyway.

Especially the ones who say they love winter.

I'll Take Another Shot of Medicine, Doc

"He drank from the bottle and was grateful for the sense of depression caused by the alcohol which made him feel less of pleasure, pain, anxiety, and hope."

"The Outsider",  Richard Wright

Truth

"Our modern society is engaged in polishing and decorating the cage in which man is kept imprisoned."

Swami Nirmalananda

Shit I Don't Know

As my life gets smaller I define it more narrowly. And when I discover something I don't know, but feel that I should know, I get pissed.

I take pride in my knowledge of music. Specifically rock 'n roll, and the blues. And when those two genres intersect, my mind is blown.

As in The Allman Brothers Band.

Here's a fact I recently became aware of.

There are three people who have sold 100 million albums as solo artists and as members of bands. Only three in history. That's it.

Paul McCartney, Michael Jackson and....................................

Phil Collins.

Did you know that? Could you even have guessed it?

No fucking way. Don't lie to me. You didn't know it, you couldn't have guessed it.

Neither did I or could I. Maybe I could have pieced together the Michael Jackson and Paul McCartney parts, but never Phil Collins.

Here's the deal. I love Phil Collins. Fucking love him. I have so many Phil Collins lyrics in my head, so many great songs, that sometimes I have to clear a few out just to be able to wipe my ass.

I have always said that if I didn't have so many song lyrics in my head I could have been a spectacular financial success. Billionaire. No doubt.

There are so many lyrics in my brain that I just can't think; got no common sense. The brain only has so much capacity, you know.

 Anyway, it pisses me off and simultaneously pleases me when I become aware of a fact like that. I should have known it, but what the fuck, I know it now.

I could rattle off 2 million, maybe three million Phil Collins songs that I love - as a member of Genesis, and as a solo artist.

But let's address the elephant in the room. "In The Air Tonight". Jesus fucking Christ I love that song. And so do you.

The mood, man - the fucking mood that the music creates. Dark, meaningful, thought  and fear provoking. Holy shit that tastes good.

The lyrics - heavy, heavy, heavy. Makes me want to kill every one of my enemies.

And the drum break. Fucking makes the song. So simple but so powerful. I have air drummed that break 253,198 times in my life and will continue to do so until Dr. Feelgood tells me I am so old that my arms must be amputated (?).

Same for you. You know it. Air drumming, playing air guitar, Jesus Christ, man - it makes you feel like a rock star. And God knows we all need that every single minute of every single day of your motherfucking life.

In 1985 Phil Collins performed at the Live Aid concert. In London. In Philadelphia. On the same fucking day.

He played at Wembley Stadium in London, then jumped on a helicopter which got him to a supersonic Concorde jet to NYC, where he jumped on to another helicopter that took him to Philadelphia.

He took a lot of shit for that. "Too over the top". Fuck you - that was rock 'n roll, baby. Fucking amazing.

Anyway, I am happy to learn this about Phil Collins. Happy to reconnect with him. I have been wearing Alexa out with Phil Collins requests.

I hope to have him over to the house for dinner righteously soon. I think we would have a good time. Barbecue up some goddamn good food, drink some wine, talk music.

Talk life, for Christ sake. He's 68, I'm 65, my birthday's January 1, his is January 30. Other than his massive success, his impressive talent, his celebrity, and his massive wealth - we have a lot in common.

Another human being who has brought great joy and abandon to my life.

Ladies and gentlemen - Mr. Phil Collins.

Pain Is Ubiquitous

"People use drugs, legal and illegal, because their lives are intolerably painful or dull. They hate their work and find no rest in their leisure. They are estranged from their families and their neighbors. It should tell us something that in healthy societies drug use is celebrative, convivial, and occasional, whereas among us it is lonely, shameful, and addictive. We need drugs, apparently, because we have lost each other."

Wendell Berry

Prescient Conversation

"The NFL bubble is well formed. It keeps almost everything out: everything but the big stuff. When tragedy intrudes no one knows what to do. We are ill-prepared for life. We don't know how to handle our emotions.
Yes, but Nathan, darling, that isn't an American football problem.
You don't think?
Certainly not. It's the same thing in my life. Everyone is always so distracted, simply cannot be bothered. And when something happens, or someone is honest for once, or someone shows a moment of vulnerability, they're punished for it.
Yes! Because people see it as a weakness that they're trying to convince themselves they don't have, so they suppress it themselves by rejecting it in others. But where does it go? It goes somewhere, right?
(Andy has a look on his face. Then he speaks with his thick Scottish accent). Into our dungeons.....where it rots.
(Lucy agrees with him). Yes, into the dungeons, with the rest of our real emotions. Our emotions are the only things that we truly have, that are truly ours, and we are taught to reject them.
Damn. You're right. So what do we choose instead?
Darling. Pointy balls, of course."

From "Slow Getting Up", by Nate Jackson

Wisdom of the Ages

As I was tooling around the World Wide Web visiting random websites that caught my attention, I came across this quote with which I heartily agree. I shall paraphrase.

"When I am feeling down and somebody tells me to suck it up, I want to break their fucking legs with a baseball bat and tell them to walk it off."

I couldn't have said it better.

Curiouser and Curiouser

Had some time to kill before going to work last Friday so I watched a chunk of Day One of the NFL Combine.

What??????????????????

(Brief aside - at this stage in my life I have NO time to kill. Can't afford it. The Stones did not tell the whole story when they sang "Time Is On Your Side". It's only on your side when you are young, and even that is questionable. Sad state of affairs. Next time I use that phrase, kick me in the teeth and say "Wake up, Almost Dead motherfucker!)

Never watched the Combine before. Why the hell would I? It is a bizarre spectacle. Especially on Day One.

I watched 303 pound linemen running the forty. Not kidding. And kickers. They had kickers running the forty too. The linemen were turning in stellar times like 5.30. Jesus Christ, man - linemen don't need speed. They need beef, strength and stamina. And all kickers need to learn is how to kick and how to tackle.

Very strange show. All these pro prospects being paraded around like sides of beef. I am embarrassed to admit that I went back to it on Monday morning (AFTER SHOVELING FUCKING SNOW), but only to establish a yardstick of comparison. Monday was defensive backs. Burning up the forty.

Then they had to work defensive drills. There was some NFL defensive coach explaining to these guys what they were expected to do. In typical NFL fashion - talking tough, talking fast, telling these guys to ask questions if necessary and then not giving them the time to ask questions because he didn't really expect them to ask questions - they were expected to know this stuff.

These guys were standing around restlessly like the bulls about to be released in Pamplona, and looking at this coach like he was a fucking idiot.

Which he was.

I have recently read three books on football, the last of which gave me brutally honest insight into what it means to be an NFL player. The pain, the never ending injuries, the fear and intensity of trying to hold on to your job. This gave me insight as I watched these hard dudes strut their stuff.

Young healthy men, strong like bull, full of commitment, excitement and intensity regarding a looming NFL career. I kept thinking where will these guys be in 3 years? 5 years? 10 years, if they make it that far, which is highly unlikely. What kind of shape will they be in? How many injuries and damage to their bodies will they have sustained? How much psychological bullshit will they have accumulated from the way the NFL treats its players, especially if they bounce from team to team?

It was a weird lens to view this action through.

Anyway, last Friday I watched 303 pound linemen run 5.30 forties. It was probably the biggest waste of television watching time I have ever spent in my 65 years on this planet.

I watched it for a solid hour and never changed the channel.