The Padre

I am drawn to churches.

Never walk into one but I am drawn to them. There is always a risk if I visit one I will be immediately struck down dead. I'll keep that in my back pocket as a get out of jail free card if my life ever truly goes south.

Peace of mind is what I crave. It is what we all crave. Buried under the detritus of my mind is the faint belief that if I walk into a church and sit alone for a while in perfect silence in a building built for reflection, peace of mind will come to me. 

There are three views from the parking garage I use for work. One faces the insane asylum/daycare building. One looks out over a Concord city neighborhood street. One faces a church.

I used to rotate them to avoid boredom. Lately I have been choosing the church view. It is a typical stone church, an imposing edifice with a stone rectory in back. 

I almost always arrive at the garage 15 minutes before I have to trudge to the office. This is because the idea of parking and leaping out of my car to immediately have the shackles attached to my ankles nauseates me.

I need time. Time to prepare mentally for the blandness of the day.

I see the Padre sometimes, puttering around the property, and he looks exactly as you imagine he would. Around my age, beard streaked with white, somewhat frail, not intimidating. Exuding a thoughtful air.

I was sitting there on Christmas Eve morning wondering if that is a crazy time for him. Wondering if he is running around in a panic preparing for Christmas Eve mass and Christmas Day mass.

This is the highlight of the year, baby. This is for all the marbles. Gotta impress The Big Guy to have a shot at sainthood.

Somehow my mind drew a parallel to my accounting career. Every month-end was a pain in the ass. Working through lunch and on at least one Saturday, of course for no additional pay - the joy of a salaried employee.

But year-end was the Big Kahuna. Throw out any semblance of dignity. Working through lunch every day and on as many Saturdays as it took. A frenzied pace to a rushed outcome that gets revised and revised and revised again.

Please note - contrary to popular belief accounting is not a black and white science. It is all about manipulating the numbers to get as close to the desired result as possible.

I was sitting in my car at 7:00 am on December 24 wondering what the Padre was going through. 

Was he running around the church putting the final touches on whatever he had to put the final touches on?

Was he sitting in the rectory attempting to work up the two best sermons of his life? Was he nervous? Was he stressed? Was he checking off shit on a list?

I did not see him that morning. It is a 50/50 chance I'll see him walking around. He must have been busy.

Maybe he was deep in prayer, praying that he wouldn't let god down. I don't know, praying to god that you won't let god down sounds like cheating to me.

I don't understand devoting your entire existence to the priesthood. But if you are a true believer and you aren't diddling little boys, I respect you. For the pure of heart it must be an incredibly fulfilling existence. Especially if you succeed at transmitting your love and belief and commitment to other people; if you can inspire hope in their souls. People need hope.

If you are doing it out of a soul-deep and honest belief, then I commend you.

I sincerely hope the Padre had an awesome Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. I hope he filled his soul up with love and spiritual devotion; I hope he connected with his people and added something to their Christmas that made it glow.

Maybe I will pop into his church someday. Maybe we will come face to face. If he tries to preach to me I will gently send him away so I can heal in the peace of his church.

If he is a sincere Padre, he will understand.

Exhale (For Now)

There. That's done.

Christmas is over. I feel 500 pounds lighter today. It is so strange. Christmas was weighing on my mind like an elephant sitting on my skull. 

I feel light today. Happy. I exercised. Ate a bowl of oatmeal. 

My final theory is that as a dramatically emotional guy, this year has been slowly eroding my ability to function. 

Had to put Lakota down in January. Broke our hearts. Had an MRI in January which led to the discovery in November that I have some nasty cancerous spots on my prostate. Carol endured 20 hours - twenty - of surgery in February over a period of two days.

7 and 1/2 hours of brain surgery scared me to death in 2017. This was worse. On the second day I spent large chunks of time sitting in the waiting room bent over with my head in my hands. I could not do anything else. I was that broken.

Then along came Covid.

I have been getting progressively shorter of temper and more depressed as 2020 rolls along.

Thanksgiving was stressful until we made The Decision. It didn't kill me. Christmas is just too emotional a holiday, too filled with melancholy in my humble opinion. That pretty much did me in.

Here comes 2021. Here comes my birthday.

I will get all twisted up this week. This all feels heavier than usual to me. I feel like a fool for pissing my life away. And I can say with confidence and honesty that I have pissed my life away. I know it in my bones.

The usual qualifier is that on the personal side, the family side, I could not have been luckier. My god, what man could ask for a more tolerant wife than Carol. And loving. Keith and Craig - I can never quite put into words what they mean to me although I try and try and try.

They are everything to me.

It's the professional part of my life that I wasted. I should have done so much more. And I should have been involved in creative pursuits. Not fucking accounting. Not business. I was so far off base.

I am The King of Underachievers. 

I am going to conduct a dangerous exercise. I have been writing in here since 2011. Nine years.

I am going to go back and go through all my year end entries. It will be painful because it will be repetitive.

I hate my life, I hate myself and on and on and on. You know the drill.

It will be painful because it will be so obvious that I complained about the same things over and over again and did nothing to bring about change.

For Christ sake, Joe - why do that to yourself?

To kick my own ass. 2020 shook me up. It has slowly paralyzed me.

I have to find an answer. I have to.

I am hoping that confronting my own weakness in my own words year after year after year will finally wake me the fuck up.

I am running out of options.

And time.

And So This Is Christmas

December 25, 2020.

It is here. Doesn't mean much. But, hell, it's a day off. With good food, good booze. Carol and Maka. Nothing to do. Gonna watch movies.

Here is where I am at.

Sad.

I am just sad. Sadness covers me like a blanket.

You might have noticed that some of this is connected with Christmas. Have I explained that thoroughly enough?

It goes further than that.

January 1, 2021. I go through this every year and never have anything substantially positive to show for it.

Still I persist.

Been doing a lot of soul searching this year. Taking a hard, honest look at myself. I will probably write about it, but if I do it will have to be brutally honest. No performance art.

I sometimes show off when I get in here because I am proud of my writing abilities. I perform.

I don't like myself physically. Never thought I would look like this. I don't like what is in my mind. Don't like the poison that holds me back. 

I am a center stage performer who has spent his life as a supporting actor.

I don't have confidence that I will be strong enough to bring about the change that is necessary in 2021.

I have been weak lately. Unable to sustain a regular exercise schedule. Unable to eat intelligently. Unable to deal with the demeaning fucking job I am chained to. Sleeping like shit. I have been on a consistent downward slide for months now.

Disquieting.

Urgency hovers. This cannot go on.

Anyway I hope everyone who is capable of it has a Happy Christmas. Enjoy the day. No matter what the fucking world throws at us as human beings we have to find temporary oases of happiness.

Or you lose your fucking mind.

Apology Accepted

Please ignore my previous post.

I had just woken up from a 3 hour nap. A 3 hour nap is not a nap. It is half a night's sleep.

What can I say. The early days kill me. This week - Wed at 5:30. Thurs at 5:30. It has a cumulative effect.

I was still half asleep and operating from a position of pure emotion. No thought, no filters.

I am fine now.

Fine for 2020, anyway.

Cruel Holiday

I was exhausted when I got home from work today. These early days kill me. Yesterday and today. 

Gettting by on about 4 hours sleep each day.

Fortunately the torture got cut short - the city shut down at 1:00; my boss booted me out of there at 11:00.

Came home, wrote some drivel in here and took a fucking nap. The nap ended up being almost three hours. I just woke up, for Christ sake.

And I find myself drowning in emotion. Carol is listening to Ray Lamontagne on Alexa. Love the man. His music is amazing and powerful and emotional.

When I woke up Carol said "It doesn't feel like Christmas Eve." That destroyed me. Because it is true.

My emotions are an ocean and I am drowning in them. This fucking holiday is taking everything shitty about this year and amplifying it to unbearable levels.

Tomorrow we should be laughing and talking and eating and drinking with Keith and Krista and Craig and Amanda and Eddie and Carolina at Eddies place in Hudson, NH. 

Not going to happen.

Everybody will be doing their own things in their own places in their own ways.

That is not the way it is supposed to be. It is fucking unnatural.

Fucking Christmas songs and Christmas cards and Merry Christmas and Christmas movies are everyfuckingwhere, taunting us, smothering us with grotesque visions of hope and happiness and joy. 

Fucking joy.

We will be alone tomorrow. Me and Carol and Maka - alone together on Christmas day. Fuck that. Thank god for the together part. 

Jesus, man - this holiday is cruel this year.

I am hurting.

Commuting to Work on Christmas Eve Morn

On the road at 6:30 this morning.

Dark. 23 degrees.

That's depressing stuff, man. 

Everything is different around Christmas. A lot less traffic for one thing. 

I listen to two sports talk radio stations on my early morning commutes.

Dial one up this morning and they are broadcasting a weight loss infomercial. Jesus, are you kidding me? First of all I am looking for distraction. Secondly I am not looking to be reminded that I am morbidly obese.

I immediately switched to Christmas music. Glad that I did.

Sheryl Crow does a great rendition of "Blue Christmas." Heard that. Springsteen doing "Santa Claus Is Coming To Town". I love rock 'n roll Chrstmas songs. Fucking love them.

Springsteen, and U2 doing Christmas (Baby Please Come Home) are two of my all time favorites. On the way home today they played both of them BACK TO BACK. My spirits were buoyed.

I finally figured it out today.

Christmas is palpably different than Thanksgiving. A whole different thing. It literally feels different in a deeper, emotional way.

Been listening to a lot of Christmas music. And it hit me that it is all about wishes and dreams and hopes and love. Requited and unrequited.

The intangible stuff that keeps you from committing suicide.

What makes Christmas so difficult is that we all know our dreams are just that - dreams. They won't come true. But they sustain us like food. And every Christmas song, every Christmas card puts that hope, those dreams right in front of your face.

Christmas is false hope. That is why I love "Fairy Tale of New York." It is so honest.

"Got on a lucky one, came in eighteen to one, I've got a feeling this year's for me and you, so Happy Christmas, I love you baby, I can see a better time when all our dreams come true."

That's what we do. We fool ourselves to survive. The song gets much darker but I won't quote the lyrics because you are an obedient human being who cannot handle the truth.

This explains my emotions. I hear Christmas music and it simultaneously brings me hope and fills me with despair.

This is confusing.

Especially this year. The baseline we are starting from is bleak. So a rollercoaster of false hope and vicious reality is crushing.

Strangely enough I will continue to listen to this music.

"So I'm gonna hurl myself against the wall, 'cause I'd rather feel bad than feel nothing at all."

Warren Zevon. "Ain't That Pretty At All."

A Miraculous Medical Breakthrough

I show up at the hospital yesterday at 10:30 for the whole body bone scan.

I just love saying that. Whole body bone scan. Sounds ominous doesn't it? Mysterious.

The bone scan guy tells me he will be injecting a radioactive isotope into my arm. It takes 2 to 3 hours to circulate in the blood and get absorbed in the bone.

So I will have 3 hours to kill before the scan. However I can leave the hospital, do whatever I want.  He told me I can eat, drink - doesn't matter. Nothing interacts with the isotope and nothing affects the bone scan.

So of course I asked if I can drink booze before I come back because I am very nervous. I am not good inside machines.

He said absolutely. If I want a couple of drinks, have a couple of drinks. Just don't show up drunk.

Holy shit. Are you kidding me? This is the guidance I have been looking for ever since I morphed into an old person who spends more time in hospitals than I do in bed.

They micro manage everything when you are having a procedure. You get so paranoid that you think "Holy shit - I ate 2 Cheez-Its 7 and 1/2 hours before surgery. Am I going to die?"

And of course - no alcohol. 

I leave the hospital at 11:00 after the injection and go home for a 2 hour bliss break. Poured myself a whiskey immediately because I was already wound up. Just before I left the house at 1:30 I poured another whiskey, a rather stiff one. Not stupid stiff though.

When I laid down on that bone scan machine I was relaxed.

Turns out I was overreacting. A bone scan machine is nothing like an MRI. You are not imprisoned inside anything. There is a mechanism above and below you that peeks inside your body. It moves. It is only about 3 feet wide. 

They start with your head. The machine is lowered to within 2 inches of your face. The head scan takes 3 to 4 minutes. Then the machine moves down your body. When it moves you are wide open; nothing above you, nothing to the sides.

So when I saw that machine coming down I closed my eyes and kept them closed. Deep breathing, forcing myself to keep them closed. I kept pushing for one more minute, one more minute. I knew if I opened my eyes and that goddamn thing was right in my face I would panic.

Finally I asked the guy if it was off my face. He said "Open your eyes." It was already down by my hips.

Hallelujah!!!! By the way, it is a very quiet machine. So the bone scan thing was a piece of cake.

Some learning for you: The bone scan will only tell you if there is cancer in your bones. They do this because if prostate cancer spreads it typically spreads to the bones. So if I have pancreatic cancer I am still fucked.

What are you gonna do?

He told me typically three days for results. So it's possible I will get a call on Christmas Eve saying "Mr. Testa, your bones are riddled with cancer. You have 7 days to live. Merry Christmas!"

I don't expect that to happen, of course. I have dodged a lot of bullets in my life. But a "procedure" like this does put thoughts like that in your head.

So I have a new attitude. Bold and fearless. In the future when I am meeting with the experts preparing for a procedure, and there will be many more of them, I'm gonna flat out ask "How about a couple of drinks before we get this thing started? You know, for relaxation."

What have I got to lose?

By the way, me and the bone scan guy got along pretty well.

A Harsh Truth

 There is nothing more depressing than listening to Christmas music while sitting impatiently in a hospital waiting room.

More Christmas Thoughts (I Told You I Am Obsessed)

Enjoying Christmas this year is a tough slog.

There is so much misery and loss and heartache and suffering in the world that it would feel somewhat hypocritical, on Christmas day, to get drunk and dance naked in the snow like a whirling dervish.

And of course we won't be with Keith and Krista and Craig and Amanda.

Honestly I don't think we will enjoy it.

Of course Carol continues to move forward. She is cooking her sour cream gravy pot roast which is fucking excellent. She is waiting on my decision about what to have for dessert. I have decided on lemon bars but have not told her yet.

So shhhhhhhhhhhhhhh..................

Gonna get a little selfish here too. Tomorrow I pop into the hospital for a whole body bone scan. They put you into a machine similar to an MRI machine. The point is to find out if there is any other cancer in my body besides the prostate.

Fun stuff to do a few days before Christmas.

I am getting older. What are you gonna do?

Christmas will happen in some weird permutation and then..................... we will be staring down January 1, 2021. A new year and my birthday.

Are you fucking kidding me? What are we supposed to do with January 1?

I am going to be 67 years old. That's 27 years older than I want to be. Perhaps I can find an alchemist to thwart the aging process and give me the gift of 40. I would pay him handsomely. It would be weird being the same age as Keith. 

"Keith it was nice to meet your Dad. He is supercool. He looks kind of young though - how old is he?"

"He's 40."

"Well how old are you Keith?"

"I am 40."

"OK. I gotta go now."

So, yeah - my belly will be full on Christmas day. Full with Carol's amazing cooking. We will have a quiet day - a VERY quiet day together. Fuck it - we have no choice. At least we have each other.

We will crawl forward into 2021. I will turn 67 against my will.

We will just have to wait and see what happens after that.

Strange days indeed.

Sorry Keith (Richards)

I do this every year.

I missed your birthday.

On December 18 you turned 77 years old.

You have been an inspiration to me for all of my adult life, and some of my pre-adult life.

I am tired of defending you so I won't. People will make their jokes and reveal their ignorance.

I believe your longevity is a result of living life exactly the way you wanted to. Staying 100% true to your nature in every situation always.

Easier said than done.

I hope your birthday was spectacular.

Happy Birthday, Keith

A Frightening Truth

 If I test positive for Covid-19 and die before getting a chance to be vaccinated.......................

I will be fucking pissed.

Christmas. 2020.

I am experiencing Christmas through a distorted lens this year.

For some strange reason I need it. Not to be happy, or to lift my spirits, or because I expect Santa to deliver $1 million dollars on Christmas morn (although we deserve it). I need it in a pensive, reflective, sullen way.

Got two Christmas music stations dialed up on Sirius in my car. Listening to them religiously. 

We put our Christmas tree up on Thursday. A grueling experience. It is about 3 feet tall and sits on a table by the TV. Takes about 20 minutes to set up and decorate. You should see the tiny ornaments.

Perfect for where we are in life. Our life is smaller so Christmas is smaller.

I love staring at and reflecting on the tree when it is lit at night. Even more so if I am lit. It soothes me.

A Very Murray Christmas. Bill Murray made this 1 hour Christmas special in 2015. It is still available on Netflix. I have watched it 3 times this week. There will be more viewings.

Quirky little thing but I love it. I love it because it reflects Christmas in the way I see it. Melancholy. I don't think it is a happy holiday for a lot of people.

It used to be fun when the kids were little. We made it fun whether we had money or not. But they grew up and selfishly decided they had to live their own lives. They actually moved out. Unbelievable.

What are you gonna do?

The film has quirky characters, Murray's understated sense of humor and great music.

"Fairy Tale of New York" is one of my favorites. It opens with: "It was Christmas Eve, babe, in the drunk tank, an old man said to me, won't see another one". Slams you right in the face from the get go. Then it goes on to describe false hope in sad cliches.

Thanksgiving was a torturous series of negotiations and false hope ending in mostly disappointment.

Christmas is worse. Dead silence. We are not even talking about it. It is a done deal. Ain't gonna fucking happen. So strange.

So I am wallowing in Christmas like a lost soul. No real connection to this Christmas thing, still I have to do it. But the emotions I am experiencing are off tune.

I don't even know what I expect to get out of this exercise. I dial up a Christmas music station and wonder to myself "Why the hell am I doing this?" But I keep doing it.

I guess it is reflective of the times. Life is so unrecognizable in 2020. Christ, what is New Year's Eve going to be like? What the hell are we going to celebrate? More of the same?

This is my Christmas this year. I can't even say I am making the best of it because I am not. I am just riding the tide of whatever emotion comes to the surface from a song or a movie or a tiny Christmas tree.

How very bizarre.

An Amusing Story

Just went down to the pharmacy to get me some drugs.

There was a little old lady in line ahead of me. 

I use that line cautiously. Little old lady. Am I a little old man? I don't think so. But an 18 year old kid might disagree. Could be a 30 year old would disagree. Doesn't matter.

So there was a little old lady in line ahead of me.

When I got out to my car she was sitting in my front seat just closing the door. I politely tapped on the window and she looked at me in confusion. I told her this is my car. She got all flustered, then grabbed her bag and stepped out. And said: "Nothing looked familiar, I knew something was wrong."

I went out of my way to make her feel ok but she was embarassed.

Her car was parked right next to mine. A silver Kia. I drive a silver Hyundai. They are somewhat similar. I am sympathetic to her confusion.

Because in a few years that will probably be me.

13 People

Crawled, fought, danced, and jived myself through another insanely demanding work week last week.

Just kidding. About the insanely demanding part. Come on, man - a 2 and 1/2 day work week is a walk in the park, Kazanski. Any two year old can handle it.

But let's get serious - working in an office is about as natural as shoving an ice pick into your left eye. And equally as painful.

A naturally back-stabbing environment and I have never understood why. Do your fucking job and don't be cruel. Don't be two faced.

Is it human nature? Or the environment? Nature or nurture?

Someone shits all over someone else privately, and then laughs and jokes with the victim five minutes later. This happens with alarming regularity.

Feels like it happpens more often in this office than anywhere else I have worked. City employees. Is that the reason? I honestly don't know.

But it is a weird environment. 

Nothing, and I mean nothing stands in the way of a lunch break or leaving the office at exactly four o'clock.

If someone wandered into the office and tried to decapitate me with a machete at 10:00 am my office mates would rush to protect me. If it happened at 3:59 I would be headless.

There are only thirteen people in this office. You would think it would not be difficult for thirteen people to get along. I mean we are all in close proximity, see each other a lot - considerate humanity should be a natural. Camaraderie.

Nope. Not a chance.

I wish I could set up a secret surveillance system to record what people say about me behind my back. I would truly love to hear that. The thought fascinates me.

It is near impossible to believe anyone could have a problem with an engaging, humorous, intelligent, sensitive, resourceful, well-read and learned man like me. But I am sure in some of my officemates' eyes I am a lowlife, scumbag, idiot, lovable loser, no account boozer, shithead of a man.

As Tony Soprano frequently used to say "Oh well - what are you gonna do?"

So here it is Monday and another work week looms. 2 and 1/2 days, man. Are you kidding me? How inconceivably horrific can it get? 20 whole hours. I deserve medals. Lots of them.

I am better positioned to deal with work this week. It took two weeks of self flagellation to get me here after my delicious vacation. I wasn't exercising at all until this weekend. I sat in my recliner like Jabba the Hutt and drank whiskey and ate Velveeta cheese.

Exercise is key. I worked out Satuday, Sunday and today. I am determined to make it four for four tomorrow.

Exercise makes me feel so good, physically and mentally. It truly builds positivity.

I am positive that Wednesday, Thursday and Friday are going to suck.

Royally.

Self-acceptance

 Writer and activist Audre Lourde on how self-acceptance reduces the power others have over you:

"Nothing I accept about myself can be used against me to diminish me."

Christmas Songs

Christmas music is knocking me out this year.

Came out of nowhere. Did not see it coming.

Sirius XM advertised two Christmas music stations - one featuring classic Christmas stuff. You know, Bing Crosby, Nat King Cole. Beautiful, beautiful stuff.

The other one is contemporary Christmas stuff. You know, like Springsteen singing "Santa Claus Is Coming To Town." 

I decided to check them out. And I fell over.

Both stations caused a deeply emotional reaction in me. I was not expecting it.

Christmas is essentially bullshit to me because it is a manufactured emotion. But every couple of years I get into it. For my own highly justifiable reasons.

This year more than ever, apparently.

A few years ago I would come up to this room every night and play three songs in a loop. "Happy Xmas (War Is Over)" by John Lennon and Yoko Ono. "Imagine" by John Lennon. "The Winter Song" by Angel.

I was up here writing the fucking amazingly inspirational shit that I write, and listening to these songs on my ipod. I would rewind them and rewind them and rewind them.

"Happy Xmas" becaue I feel this is the ultimate Christmas song. Instead of asking what are you going to give me, the song asks what have you done? Those words should smash you in the face. Because that is what Christmas and the end of the year is about.

WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?

I ask myself that every year and come up short. 

"Imagine" is a Christmas song to me because it paints a picture of the world the way it should be. Which, again, is what Christmas should be about. Hope, baby. Fucking hope.

"The Winter Song" is a little harder for me to defend because it is a personal thing. I just fucking love this song. The song describes winter perfectly but does not really talk about Christmas. But it kind of creates a Dickensian vision of Christmas. Even has a choir singing backup. And at the end of the song when the lead singer echoes the lyrics the band is singing - oh my god it gives me goosebumps.

Every single time. And I have listened to it hundreds and hundreds of times.

Check it out on youtube. 

And don't be distracted or overly amused. This is a 70's/80"s glam band hair band. Complete with jumpsuits and big hair etc. However, if you get goosebumps you are one of my tribe and I welcome you.

If not, you are not one of my tribe. You will need to be executed.

Feels like I am going to put those three songs back into rotation this year.

Anyway, I have listened to Christmas music on Sirius with serious emotional investment.

Here is what's going on.

When you live through a pandemic you develop a Happiness Deficit.

You are suffocated and alone even if you have someone. Life is a strange and unrecognizable thing. Fear and paranoia haunt your every trip outside the house.

You cannot be happy under those conditions.

Christmas music is happy. It is hopeful. It goes right to the heart of where you want to be. Where you need to be.

It wakes up the human in you. It provides fuel for the deep longing you have to live a real life again.

It is food for the soul.

I am going to keep right on digging Christmas music this year. Turns out I need it. Like I need oxygen.

Like I need peace of mind.

The Grand Experiment

Most humans fall off a cliff when they get out of work on Friday.

Abused and underappreciated; dehumanized.

They take some time to lick their wounds and find a way to forget. Then they begin the painful climb back up self-respect hill until they are ready to do it all over again.

But what if you get out of work on Friday and just keep on falling. Pinwheeling through the air, arms akimbo, screaming, trying to grab on to reality as your fingers keep slipping off the damn thing.

And work comes a-calling again.

What do you do?

The Grand Experiment begins.

December 8

A mixed bag, baby.

Happy Birthday, Gregg Allman. 

You would have been 73 today. You should have been 73 today. But I got no complaints. You gave me 3 lifetimes worth of happiness. Your music is my go to. You save me every time I listen to your music and that of The Allman Brothers Band. That is a soul-saving gift. So many memories of Allman Brothers concerts. Absolutely epic. You have been a soothing inspiration in my life for 51 years. I am deeply appreciative.

Happy Birthday, Jim Morrison.

You would have been 77 today. But I think your life span made sense. You were deeply creative and well read. They forced a life upon you you didn't want. Like a square peg in a round hole. You wanted to be a poet. You were a poet. You just couldn't escape the trap they set for you. Your creativity was a fierce thing; your life would have been short no matter what.You are buried in Pere Lachaise cemetery in Paris. So perfect. Along with Oscar Wilde, Chopin, and many others who chipped away at the world. I read your poetry, I listen to your music. You feed my soul.

Drop dead, Mark David Chapman. You killed John Lennon on December 8, 1980. I hope you get raped and killed in prison today. Why would anyone want to kill a creative person? If life was just, you would have dropped dead from a heart attack the minute Lennon died. Anyone who robs the world of creativity is the worst pig imaginable. Fuck you.

Life Advice Tip #239

If you are just setting out in life, slipping into the "responsible" portion of your meaningless existence, please take heed.

Buy yourself a mini throw pillow. Strap it to the side of your head every night when you get home from work.

That way when you beat your head against the wall in desperation you will do minimal damage.

This is important because you will be assaulting the wall repeatedly throughout your life.

Why?

Because you will never learn your lesson.

It's Good To Be Old

I was sitting in my recliner at 8:30 this morning.

Maka in my lap. Book in my hand. Coffee steaming next to me. Carol in bed.

These are my most peaceful moments in life. Most. Hands down. In fact if that was all I had to do for the rest of my life I would live to be 876 years old.

I rolled out of bed at 7:00. Sleep is a myth for me. A fucking joke.

I go to bed because I am tired. I wake up tired. I stagger through the day tired. I go to bed tired.

It is a wonderful existence. Something I dreamed about as a kid.

I went to bed at 11:30 last night. I woke up at 2:00. Visited the bathroom like any 99 year old man. Drifted in and out of sleep between then and 7:00.

I hate going to bed. I hate being awake. What does that leave?

I was sitting in my recliner at 8:30 this morning. Travis showed up to shovel the snow. Initially I was surprised. We only got an inch or two. He only shows up for heavy duty shit.

But he was out there hacking and scraping and stabbing and attacking. Apparently it is a bit icy. Crusty.

Better him than me.

We are old. We have a guy who shovels snow for us. He is reliable. He's a good guy.

We are supposed to pay him cash money but I refuse. I learned that from trump. I toss him a crust of bread as he stands there, breathing heavy and sweating in the cold. Then I offer him a tumbler of premium whiskey.

He drops to one knee and says "Thank you so much. You are very kind." He goes away and comes back for the next snow storm.

It's good to be old.

We have servants now.

Venomous Hatred

Back to work Wednesday, Thursday and Friday.

I was suicidal. Off the rails. Maniacal. I was actually surprised at how fucking insanely angry I was.  Out of control, baby.

I did not expect to feel blissful after so much time off but I also did not expect the virulent anger that rendered me almost non functional.

Time for a change, baby.

You are probably not aware of this but I hate my life. Hate my job. Hate that I need a job. Hate that I am 66 and my life is still dictated by others.

Personally I did not handle those 2 and 1/2 days well at all. I descended into real degeneracy. Pain killing at its finest and most creative. 

But I flashed that smile, baby. Acted the part. I'm a team guy and a real go getter.

Something's gotta give. I have reached the outer limits of hypocrisy.  Pretending to be what I am not.

I am at the edge, on the edge, peering over the edge. I couldn't decide which phrase I liked better.

Play-acting. I am polished at doing that. Been doing it all my life. I have shelves of Oscar's from the "You hate your life but lie about it" crowd. This is a group of reprobates who meet secretly every year and compare the level of misery they are experiencing in their lives. And applaud heroic efforts to disguise the suffering.

A talented bunch all. But I have emerged as the Katharine Hepburn of the group. I have earned the most awards. Something I am quite proud of. 

This anger was something different this time. All consuming. My tortured brain screaming Noooooooo!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! You cannot do this anymore. Stop it! What the fuck are you doing? When are you going to learn?

Shit like that.

It's hard to focus on laminating food licenses with a noise like that in your skull.

We are shooting for July 1, 2021 as the Day of Freedom. We are in the process of refinancing the house which, hopefully, will save enough money for us to be able to quit our jobs.

I am not sure this is the right solution. We were talking about selling the house. Getting out from under. Now refinancing is the dream. I am tired. Just along for the ride. Let's take a shot at something and see what happens.

Hell if things go bad maybe we'll try selling rancid food to food challenged families at $250/box. You gotta have goals.

July is seven months away. I don't know that I can hang on that long. My hope is that I will come across a sack of money on the side of the road on my way to work. $250,000 would be enough.

It could happen. This is America and that is the American Dream right there. Quick aside - perfect George Carlin one-liner. "The reason they call it the American Dream is because you have to be asleep to believe it."

Next week is coming. Next week includes a Wednesday and a Thursday and a Friday.

God help me.

They Give Me Drugs

I'm that kind of guy.

I'm likeable, with a tendency towards degeneracy.

It has always been that way, but it reached a crescendo when I tended bar at the American legion. That period was approximately 2006 through 2010. The exact dates are, as you might expect, a bit of a fog.

2006 was a watershed year. That is the year we got Maka, a precious cat who still brings enormous happiness to our lives. That was the year I shed all pretense towards normalcy, escaped the accounting profession, and became a bartender. Stunning.

Working at the legion. It was like stepping into an acid dream everyday; bizarre, entertaining and challenging to negotiate.

When I started there the bar opened at 9:00 am.  And there was always one or two guys waiting for me to unlock the door at that time. Years later they pushed opening time back to a more sedate 11:00 am. The members were furious.

I got there at 7:30 am to whip the bar into shape. The guy that worked the kitchen (and prepared fabulous food) was a coke head. Always had primo coke. We did a line or two every morning. After that I would treat myself to a couple of shots of Crown Royal.

When I unlocked those doors I was flying, baby. Kind of took the edge off.

There was a guy that came in at night who gave me free pot. He called it treats. A very funny and very insane guy. 

He used to toss his beer cans out the window of his car while he was driving. One night the can bounced off the hood of the car behind him, which just happened to be a police car. That cost him a few bucks. But he didn't give a shit; he owned his own business, had a wad of cash and a good lawyer who always got his transgressions knocked down a level or two.

He was the most "I don't give a fuck" guy I ever met.

He would get up close to the bar and say "Hey Joe - I have treats." At some point I would meet him in the kitchen and he would hand me a baggie. If no one was around we would smoke.

There was a real degenerate who supplied me with Oxycontin. Lots of these guys had prescriptions from the VA, always way more than they could use. Most of them sold the excess. This guy gave them to me free.

I learned a lesson with that shit. I liked it. I would take some on my days off when Carol was at work. Until the day he gave me a pill and didn't bother to tell me the doc had upped his dosage.

I spent the day sitting like a zombie in my recliner praying the effects would wear off before Carol got home. I couldn't do anything. Could barely move. The effects did wear off and I got away with it. But I never used that shit again.

Here's the real point of this story.

Fast forward to 2020. A woman I work with gives me drugs. Ibuprofen, baby. Things change, man - things change. She has had a hip replaced and a knee replaced and her doc prescribes megadoses of Ibuprofen - 800 mg tablets. Many more than she can use. 

I have had a lot of trouble with my knees recently. Lots of pain. Every once in a while she gives me a couple of prescription bottles loaded with these pills. But it's just like the drug deals of days gone by. She is very secretive about it and makes sure no one is watching us. What a kick.

Truthfully I don't even use them. Tried them but they didn't do much for the pain. I let her supply me anyway; it makes her feel good.

Used to be free coke, Oxycontin and pot. Now it's free Ibuprofin.

But still - they give me drugs, baby.

Empathy

I am beginning to think that all of life boils down to empathy.

Think about it. If you can emotionally connect with what someone else is feeling, you have made human to human contact. There is nothing more important than that. Nothing that means more than that.

No bullshit, no playacting, no ego, no lies - just one human zeroing in on what another human being is feeling, and understanding that on the most basic level of what it means to be a human. To be alive.

I just made a booze run to procure what it is gonna take to get me through the next three days.

The manager of the store used to work "under me" when I was Assistant Manager of the Peterborough liquor store. She was spectacular. Sheri. She was always prepared, always knowledgable, always positive, always willing to help out customers.

We forged a deep bond. She called me her surrogate father. That was a large compliment to me.

Her father was an asshole. He treated her like crap. I am 20 years older than Sheri. She asked for advice, I always gave it with the caveat that I didn't know shit. She felt differently.

I retired, she got my job and eventually moved on to manage a store. I expected this. I have enormous respect for Sheri.

I popped in to buy enough booze to kill the pain of the next three days return to work, after a 110 day vacation. Sheri's store is literally 5 minutes down the road from me.

Every time I walk into her store, every time, she stops what she is doing, walks up to me and announces to anybody within earshot that I am one of her most favorite people on planet earth. Then she hugs me.

It feels very good.

She asked me today how Thanksgiving went - I explained how Keith and Craig both felt that a traditional Thanksgiving was risky and we would have to improvise. The woman at the counter said "They were thinking about you".

I loved that. I don't even know the woman but she was defending my sons - she was showing empathy.

I talked to her, I talked to Sheri - all of our Thanksgivings were compromised. Sheri is a very devoted family Mom. She has kids, she has a grandkid. She is super close to them. 

But we agreed that it was for the best. For 2020. We also all agreed that 2021 will be a massive celebration as soon as we can pull it off.

I was in a liquor store talking to a close friend and a woman I didn't know and we were all on the same page. All feeling the same things, all expressing the same thoughts.

That is life right there.

2020 sucks big time. It is a fucking nightmare. So painful. 

But for 10 minutes I had a conversation with two people who were going through exactly what I am going through, feeling the same deep disappointment that I am feeling, the same pain of separation from their families, but somehow sharing that pain made it more bearable.

That is what it means to be human. That is empathy.

I am coming around to the opinion that if you are empathetic, then you are contributing something to society. You are making someone's life better just by understanding their feelings. That is huge.

If you are not empathetic then you are probably a selfish prick.

If that is the case you should just kill yourself. I fucking encourage suicide. If you can't be empathetic you do not deserve to identify as a member of the human race.

A Kick In The Head

Can't you just hear the corporate wheels grinding away today?

A fearsome sound. Crunching the bones of subordinates and employees.

Holidays are double edged swords. They create the illusion of independence and dignity. Time off, baby - to do what you like. To be with your family and celebrate and appreciate; to be with hookers, snorting cocaine off of heretofore inaccessible body parts.

Whatever makes you happy is fine with me. Because happy is a struggle and you gotta step away from "life" any way you can any time you can.

But Monday always rolls around. It is relentless. Like the honey badger.

Then you are forced to bend your knee and laugh at the boss man's jokes.

Monday after a holiday weekend is a death sentence. Exponentially worse than a "normal" Monday.

I am sitting here writing about this and I don't even have to go to work today. Or tomorrow. Or until 12:00 on Wednesday. But the back to work blues are already creeping in.

Man, I have had 8 days off from work with 2 and 1/2 more to go. And I achieved a level of peace that surprised me. Quite delightful. Indescribably delicious.

I will walk through that door on Wednesday and nothing will have changed. It will feel like I never left.

What I want is for a red carpet to be rolled out. I want people to exclaim "Hey, Joe is back - aren't we lucky". I want applause. I want bosspeople (I have 3 of them) to hand me a 375 ml bottle of Crown and say "Shit, man - take your time - ease back into this thing. Don't answer the phone until you are ready. Don't wait on a customer unless you are sure you won't kill them."

That most likely will not happen.

First of all, my alter ego will be chomping at the bit to get the fuck out the door. When I get there - usually at 11:55, he almost always has shut down the computer and is standing, leaning against a table, waiting for my arrival. My arrival signals the beginning of his weekend - he is not due back until Monday morning.

A vapor trail typically follows him out the door. Dragging with it paper, pencils, notebooks, staplers and any pretense towards professionalism.

I don't blame him. I would do the same. On Friday nights the last five minutes of the day are water torture agony - praying the phone won't ring or a customer will not stumble in.

On Wednesday the phone will probably ring at 11:59. My alter ego will look at me and say "It's all yours."

And the agony begins.

Still, I am not working today. Millions upon millions of people are. And they are defeated and depressed.

Even worse, millions of people worked on the day after Thanksgiving. And on Thanksgiving.

Ain't that a kick in the head.

A kick in the head is not what we are promised on the day we slide out of the womb.

Then again, maybe it is.

Feels So Good Part Deux

Carol dropped the bike and helmet off yesterday.

Turns out it is not technically a Toys For Tots deal, it is a local Christmas for kids thing - which I like even more. In other words it is aimed at Henniker kids whose families need help.

Carol told me that previously but it didn't sink in with me because, essentially, I don't listen that well when she talks. She talks a lot.

So we have that and our upcoming donations to the Henniker Food Pantry. I like keeping it local - we have lived in this town for 34 years and have loved every minute of it. Even now. It feels good to give back.

Anyway.................

She said they went crazy when she walked in with the bike. They have a box filled with stuffed animals and board games - the guy said that a very lucky kid is gonna get an awesome present. They were psyched.

Obviously that is what we are aiming at - making a kid's day extra special.

So that's where it ends. Honestly we would LOVE to see that kid's face on Christmas morning but it will not happen. And it shouldn't.

We are not looking for credit or thank you or any kind of recognition. 

But I gotta tell you it is an amazing feeling.

Doing good things could become addictive.

Who knew?

Feels So Good

Carol and I bought a bike and a helmet yesterday which we will donate to Toys For Tots today.

We are so excited. Wish we could see the face of the kid that gets it on Christmas morning.

We have been watching the news every night for 9 months now, seeing the heartbreaking stories of broken people.

People who have lost family members to this fucking disease, people who have lost jobs and are about to lose unemployment benefits, people who can't pay their rent or mortgage and face eviction and foreclosure.

People who cannot afford to feed their families. Waiting in line for hours to receive enough charitable food to get them through one more week.

All of this through no fault of their own. Victimized by a random pandemic and the incompetent, cold-hearted response of their own government. 

We have been watching all this and we keep saying "We are so lucky". We both held on to our jobs, we live comfortably, we eat well. For Christ sake, we made money for four months due to enhanced unemployment benefits when I was furloughed, and now have a fatter savings account.

Part of my brain says we deserve this in this stage in our life; we'll take any good fortune that comes our way in any circumstance.

But really, it is ridiculous.

We finally decided to do something about it.

As we walked out of the store yesterday, wheeling the bike to the car, we were floating on air. Smiling and talking excitedly. Not out of pride but out of genuine excitement to know that some kid is going to wake up on Christmas morning and have his mind blown.

We also decided to start donating to the Henniker Food Pantry.

What is happening in this country is so wrong. And it is always the people with the least who suffer the most. Always.

I honestly don't believe in the tortured and overused phrase "we are all in this together". Because we are not. The phrase is thrown out there to imply that we are all part of one big happy family that will pull together in times of crisis.

There are millions of unintelligent, insensitive people who don't give a damn about other peoples' suffering. Don't care if their selfishness results in someone else's death. Blows my fucking mind. I work with some of these people and they disgust me.

On another level we are all in this together. In the sense that what you do could affect my life, my health.

Anyway, I will get off my soapbox.

Carol and I are lucky and we decided to share our good fortune with people who can benefit from it. It is as simple as that. Our decision was driven by empathy.

I wish I could produce empathy like a vaccine and administer it to every human being on planet earth.

Thanksgiving Post Mortem

Not bad.

All things considered. Craig and Amanda swung by, which was a bonus. 

They were going to celebrate Thanksgiving in Henniker at a friend's house. So they called us and said since they were going to be in Henniker they would stop in (out) to see us. Turns out their plans fell through but they drove up anyway.

The ultimate Covid-19 Thanksgiving. On our screened-in porch. They showed up at 11:30. With Murray, who is so goddamn cute. I had picked up Dunkin Donuts pastries, Carol brewed coffee, and we sat around the table chowing and talking. It was 39 degrees.

But we dressed for it, and Carol and Amanda wrapped blankets around themselves. Surprisingly, it wasn't too bad. Which for me is saying a lot because I hate being cold.

They stuck around for an hour and a half, wished us a Happy Thanksgiving and Carol a Happy Birthday, then drove home to their own Thanksgiving. It really was a very nice visit.

I was keeping a close eye on Carol when they left. I was very tuned in to her emotions yesterday, but she was fine (as far as I know).

I promised her as part of her birthday present that she could binge-watch Law & Order all day and I would watch no football. I kept my promise. 

So we laid around lazily all day, except Carol did cook a magnificent pork roast with potatos and carrots. And she had baked a pecan pie (my favorite) the day before. So we ate very well. Very well.

Keith called around 8:00 and we had a great conversation. He celebrated Thanksgiving with Krista and Krista's roommate. They had themselves a fine meal and, I'm sure, shared good conversation and laughter.

We enjoyed our usual warm conversation with Keith and he signed off after wishing us a Happy Thanksgiving and Carol a Happy Birthday.

Later on we chowed pecan pie as we watched more Law & Order.

A holiday in pieces.

Could have been devastating for Carol but I think we all made the best of it.

I hope it never happens again.

Are You Serious?

I have new found respect for Frito-Lay.

They have a new commercial for Doritos featuring Post Malone.

Talk about balls. I love it.

Nicknames

My nicknames for Maka are:

Dollface

Doll

Cutie Pie

Little One

Cutie Doll

My Little Girl

Little Doll

Is that excessive?

Early in her career I called her Cutes McToots. I gave that up. Too much work.

Billy Crystal

What the fuck, man.

Used to be when I saw Billy Crystal on TV, being interviewed, I felt like he was a pretentious prick.

Not any more.

I recently read "Still Foolin' 'Em: Where I've Been, Where I'm Going, and Where The Hell Are My Keys?" Published in 2013 when Billy was 65.

He addressed aging in the book, and so much of what he said resonated with me. Especially as an aging man. The indignities of aging dressed up in his insightful sense of humor. I figured out that in writing he really makes me laugh. Out loud.

Better than medicine, baby.

Yesterday and today I read "700 Sundays", published in 2005. This is an autobiography dealing with his relationship with his father, which was deep and meaningful. Billy adapted the book to a Broadway play, which I truly wish I had seen. 

His father worked two jobs forever and had only Sundays to spend with his family. Hence the title.

Billy worshipped his father and worshipped his Sundays. His father died of a heart attack at the age of 54 at a bowling alley, where he and Billy's Mom used to go weekly and loved doing, because they had so much fun with their friends.

Billy was 15 years old.

This book is so insightful and so emotional. I shed a few tears. When his father died; much later when his mom died. Other times as well.

I smiled a lot at his memories of his extended family - dinners, celebrations etc.

His mom used to put on big dinners for his school friends. Baseball team, basketball team etc. My mom used to do the same thing. She had our sports teams over, she had the high school band over, because that is what me and Eddie were involved in.

I remember feeling very proud. My friends had no idea what they were getting into. Eating Italian, baby - course after course after course. My friends' eyes were wide. The food for the most part was home made and made with pride and love. They were blown away.

The book opens with a memory of his dad buying his first brand new car. His dad told the family to be out in front of the house at noon, when he would be returning home.

Boom. Instant memory for me. I remember standing on our second floor porch waiting for my dad to drive up in his brand new Cadillac or Mercedes. I don't remember if we did that for lesser cars that he owned, but I do remember feeling great pride to see my father driving these cars.

And he let me and Eddie drive them. Unbelievable. 

I remember driving my Dad's Cadillac to my junior prom with my girlfriend Janice. Beautiful fucking car - dark brown body, tan roof - I loved that car. I remember thinking I had been driving drunk for over a year at that point - driving a car that my father bought for me - and I didn't hesitate to drive his beautiful car while drunk.

Thankfully nothing bad happened.

"700 Sundays" resonated with me because you really get a feel for the closeness and quirkiness of Billy Crystal's family. And how that affected him. How it impacted his life.

My family used to have massive dinners for holidays and birthdays. I didn't appreciate them at the time. I would kill to sit down for dinner one more time like that.

My own family, me and Carol and the kids, used to have big get togethers many years ago. Not any more.

Time takes that away from you.

Great quote from Billy's grandfather when Billy's father died: "Time is a bastard: When you're sad there's too much of it, and when you're happy there's never enough."

That's all you really need to know about life.

The book is great because it gives you an honest and gritty feel for what family is all about. The good stuff, which makes up the majority, and the bad stuff.

I have read two books written by Billy Crystal and both have touched deep emotion in me.

Never be too quick to judge.

The Prophet

 When you are driving to work and a Bob Dylan tune comes on the radio, you feel like a fool to just keep on driving.

Empty Hangers

We are slowly clearing out the house. 

It is a lot of work. Working to eliminate 34 years of clutter with the goal of selling this albatross. 

We cleaned out the spare room. Gave the bed to friends of ours, cleared out a whole bunch of stuff so we can actually get to the closet in that room.

I use that closet all the time. Got jackets and coats in there. Believe it or not I have been leaning against boxes and things, stretching out to reach into the closet. For years. Amazing what you get used to.

It is wide open now. Easy in easy out. 

We bought a bunch of plastic hangers so we could hang up peoples' coats on Thanksgiving instead of throwing them on the spare bed.

Thanksgiving has been cancelled.

We are left with empty hangers.

Thanksgiving Is Dead

2020. The gift that keeps on giving.

Carol and I agonized over this decision. Rationalized, lied to ourselves, hoped against hope.

Been talking it over for weeks. Trying to decide what to do. At one point I suggested we just forget about it. My heart was not into it. I was nervous. 

Carol cried.

She lives for Thanksgiving. Lives for it. When she gets up in the morning she is already happy. It is so obvious.  She works her ass off for hours until that meal hits the table. She has to steal minutes here and there to visit with Keith and Craig in the living room. And she still loves it.

When we all sit down to the table she is in her glory. Beaming in happiness and pride. And the meal is always perfect.

Broke my heart when she cried. Carol does not cry often. So I backed off.

I compromised by uninviting Eddie. My brother. That sucked. But we know he is not as diligent as us at protecting against the virus. Then I threw the ball in Keith's and Craig's court. Which was cowardly of me. I should have just made the decision I knew to be right. But Carol and I decided if either of them wanted to be here we would go ahead. Roll the fucking dice.

Fortunately they were both responsible and decided they didn't want to take the chance.

So there will be no Thanksgiving.

Eddie is going to the Fatalos'. Big defiant celebration in that house. A fuck you Thanksgiving. I actually hope someone there gets Covid. Not the kids. Never the kids. But one of the many trump loving adults in attendance - get sick and suffer a little. Don't die. I don't want death on my hands. All I want is a lesson taught. Arrogance punished.

Eddie is exempt. He is my brother. I love him. I could never wish him harm. I disagree with his politics - big time - and I do not respect his attitude towards Covid. But I love him and have enormous respect for him.

Carol's heart is broken. I am hurting. 

Keith was born in 1980. We have celebrated Thanksgiving as a family in one form or another since then. 39 years. Until now. This sucks, it hurts, it is not right, it is not natural.

By the way, this year Carol's birthday falls on Thanksgiving. That makes this situation even more painful.

I will try my best to make her happy on Thanksgiving. On her birthday.

But my heart will ache knowing the pain and disappointment in her heart.

I Was Furious

Big Boss Man wandered over to my desk on Friday and asked me about Thanksgiving.

We were having a conversation about how fucked up the world is this year when someone higher up on the food chain walked into the office. Big Boss Man immmediately started talking to this person. Right in the middle of our conversation. No "excuse me, Joe", no consideration at all. It was as if I suddenly became invisible. Which, of course, I did. Because I am.

They were talking close to my desk. I dutifully went about my job because I am a well behaved boy, but I am damn sure my body language communicated the intensity of my anger. I was fucking furious.

I am a glorified clerk. Low man on the totem pole. Bottom rung of the org chart.

I know this. I don't like it. I fucking hate it. I am 66 years old, working a clerical job in the lowest position in the office. How humiliating.

Of course I tell everybody it pays well, which it does, and the hours are awesome, which they are. I make it sound like I am happy to have the job. Truth is that does not matter to me at all. I hate sitting at that fucking desk, I hate doing that fucking job. I hate it every minute of every day that I am there. It is rock solid confirmation of my failure as a human being.

There are little incidents/comments/attitudes all the time to remind me of just how inconsequential I am.

Ten minutes after the Holy Conversation, Big Boss Man came back to my desk and said he was sorry our conversation got interrupted and tried to pick up where we left off. I answered him, but my anger was obvious. He did not like it. 

I know he only came back because he sensed my anger. I know the next time that situation arises he will disrespect me again. In a heartbeat.

I was still furious when I got home so I medicated myself and that solved everything.

Between September 2019 and March 2020 I was working two part time jobs. In 2020 it got to the point where I was hurting myself. I was so angry, so frustrated, so burned out that whiskey flowed like water. Whiskey solves everything until it doesn't.

Since July I have only been working this job. At first that was glorious. Lots of time off. Now I am right back to where I was early in the year, emotionally. And.................Big Boss Man decides it is acceptable to openly shit on me.

Carol and I both took next week off from work. It was supposed to be a grand buildup to Thanksgiving, now it is a grand buildup to nothing. Still, we are out of work.

Today is November 22. I don't go back to work until December 2. That is a good long stretch.

I intend to use it wisely.

I need to quit this job ASAP. I need freedom and dignity. Can't do that until the mortgage is paid off. So all I have to do in the next week and a half is come up with $150,000. Seems doable.

Might as well lose 25 pounds while I'm at it.

And perfect an approach to life that eradicates regret and shatters fear of the future.

Shit, man - having a concrete plan for success is quite calming.

Might even go to church today and thank jesus for the peace and beauty that lies ahead.

Happy? What Is Happy?

How is a human being supposed to navigate this shit?

I mean everything. All of it. 

Fucking pandemic made exponentially worse by a president so cold hearted that thousands of deaths sit on his shoulders and he goes golfing. Does nothing to help defenseless victims even though it is well within his power to do so. What a fucking prick. He belongs in prison and eventually on an execution table.

He is committing 1st degree murder every day and getting away with it. Jack McCoy would never allow it.

Economic instability. Job instability. Invisible family members.

Prostate cancer.

Met with Dr. Feelgood yesterday and found out, as he so accurately put it - "the game has changed."

Had an extensive biopsy done on 11/16. Been cruising at Level 6 for a couple of years now. Cakewalk. Now I am looking at some 7's and some 9's. Got the doc's attention.

Let me be clear. This is not life or death. It is not an emergency situation. It is something to be dealt with. Or not.

The man buried me with information and options. I was fucking dizzy when I walked out of there.

I got three options. 1) Radiation. 25 visits, 15 minutes at a time. 5 days a week for 5 weeks. 2) Remove the prostate. 3) Do nothing.

Radiation requires hormone therapy prior to the treatments. I don't know why. Sounds ominous. I think he said it lasts/goes on for 3 to 6 months. He told me it seriously depresses production of testosterone. Negates sex drive. Honestly I am 66 and married 42 years. Talk to me about something relevant.

He also said it reduces muscle mass. This concerns me because I fight very hard to avoid developing flabby old man arms (even though I have a flabby old man belly). Phony baloney weight work, phony baloney push ups.

He also said something like we review the effects in 3 months to evaluate quality of life. This suggests to me there could be other side effects.

Removing the prostate results in me wearing a catheter for 10 days and a diaper for 3 to 6 months. That is never going to happen under any circumstances.

My brother-in-law Danny was diagnosed with Stage 4 cancer after a hard life of smoking and drinking. He refused treatment and said let me die. And that is what he did.

I would do the same if removing the prostate was my only option. 

My doc is a hot shit. He said I could choose to do nothing and with today's treatments he could "keep me alive" for up to 15 years. That gets me to 81. He doesn't recommend it because he can't guarantee a reasonable quality of life.

No matter what I do, the next step is a "full body bone scan." The purpose of this is to determine if there is cancer in other parts of my body. Because if there is, focusing on the prostate accomplishes nothing.

I don't know how a bone scan works. I fear it involves inserting me into a machine like an MRI, after radioactive shit is injected into my body - 3 hours earlier.

That would not work for me unless they can knock me out. I am claustrophobic, big time.

You have picked up on the fact that there are a lot of "I don't knows" in these scenarios. Some I'm sure the doc did not adequately explain but I am also willing to bet he explained some and I just did not hear it.

I called the hospital for clarification today. Had to return 2 calls and make my "I need to know" call. I got through once. And not the "I need to know" call, of course.

This is the medical world today. Frustrating and bureaucratically inefficient. Fuck them. No call back yet either.

I am not happy today.

Discount What???????

Carol and I watch NH Chronicle.

It is a goofy little home town show the likes of which I would never ever watch in the past. This is further proof that I am lightening up. It doesn't always have to be about serial killers and drug abusers.

Early on in the pandemic, as the world closed down, Carol started keeping a notebook. I thought it was a great idea. 

The show regularly highlights NH businesses, restaurants, craft places, fun spots etc. Many that appealed to us; many we thought might appeal to Keith and Craig. Our thought process was when this shit lightens up we are going to make the effort to hit the places that seem cool to us and, more importantly, hit the places with Keith and Craig that look like fun family stuff (I am not talking Chuck E. Cheese here).

We were constantly saying "I think Keith and Krista would love this. I think Craig and Amanda would love that. I think all of us would have a blast here.................."

On a deeper level the thought process was we are going to start doing things instead of just talking about them. In reaction to the frightening unpredictability of 2020.

You know, "Wouldn't it be cool if we.........."  In the meantime another year, five years, ten years go by as we get older, slower and fatter. And lonelier. I am speaking about myself when it comes to fatter; Carol has actually lost weight due to the wonderful side effects from undergoing three major surgeries.

So Carol has a list of locations, addresses, websites, phone numbers.

Unfortunately the list has grown to immense proportions. We thought we'd be out and about in the summer. Now we are talking about mid 2021, if we are fucking lucky.

This depresses the shit out of me. The notebook started out as this hopeful thing with an eye towards making a change in our lives. Now it has an inch of dust on it. We haven't added anything to it in a while.

Seems more appropriate to do research on discount funeral homes right now.

Odious

I find Christmas commercials odious this year.

They turn my stomach. In 2020 they are the perfect commentary on how insensitive the business interests of this country have become.

I have always hated Christmas commercials. When they started showing up in October I considered suicide.

They are replayed endlessly between October and Christmas. You can watch a 2 hour show and see the same commercials 5 times, maybe more. Between October and Christmas you see the same commercials hundreds of times. Approaching thousands, mayhaps.

I hate the phony cheer. Happy families doing happy things and smiling endlessly as they make their way through their perfect lives and their perfect Christmas.

Or the romantic stuff. The jewelry, the lovey dovey by the fireplace here's a $1,500 necklace honey shit.

Or the cars. The fucking cars. As far as I know I only have one friend who could afford to surprise his wife with a car for Christmas, and even he has never done that.

In 2020 millions of people have lost their jobs with no prospect of getting them back. Unemployment benefits have been limited. People can't pay their rent, can't make their mortgage payment, are facing foreclosure and eviction, and lining up at food banks.

More than 235,000 Americans have died from Covid-19. Which means 235,000 families are in mourning.

People are afraid.

I don't think a 50% off sale at Kay Jewelers is going to compensate for that.

You want to make people feel better? Give some of this stuff away. And make it useful. Food and clothing, gift cards to buy heating oil and gas, gift cards to grocery stores, free computers for kids.

Get creative, for Christ sake - do I have to continue to spell it out for you?

If you are going to hawk your wares, be sensitive about it. Be honest. Recognize the despair in this country. Don't beat people over the head with midnight madness sales and "300% off if you buy by" sales. Let people know your products are out there if they are interested. Do it gently; do it tastefully. 

Maybe Covid/economy victims do want Christmas. Maybe it will make them feel better. I don't know. Just do them the service of showing respect for their pain.

I can hear the corporate conversations. "Sir, 235,000 people have died. We should give stuff away to make their families' lives a little easier." "We can't do that - we have to make up for the sales we lost while they were dying."

I despise these commericals. I look away when they come on.

When I am home alone and watching TV, I mute the sound every time a commerical comes on. Every time. Because I hate commercials in general. But when Carol is here I don't do that because it gets awkward. Besides she might see something nice she wants to buy me.

So I suffer through these fucking Christmas commericals, even though they turn my stomach. I am serious about this. They infuriate me.

It is wrong. It is a greedy, self centered, insensitive thing to do. To pretend we will have Christmas as usual.

We won't.

Sensitive people will make it all about family and forget about the fucking presents. Be grateful that nobody in your family has died. Be grateful that nobody has contracted Covid-19. Be grateful you still have a job, if you do. That's all you need to enjoy the holiday. Perspective.

The kind of persepctive that corporate america is incapable of ever since unchecked greed killed customer service.

Why I Read

 Inventor and writer Lin Yutang on the magic of reading:

"Compare the difference between the life of a man who does no reading and that of a man who does. The man who has not the habit of reading is imprisoned in his immediate world, in respect to time and space. His life falls into a set routine; he is limited to contact and conversation with a few friends and acquaintances, and he sees only what happens in his immediate neighborhood. From this prison there is no escape.

But the moment he takes up a book, he immediately enters a different world, and if it is a good book, he is immediately put in touch with one of the best talkers in the world. This talker leads him on and carries him into a different country or a different age, or unburdens to him some of his personal regrets, or discusses with him some special line or aspect of life that the reader knows nothing about. An ancient author puts him in communion with a dead spirit of long ago, and as he reads along, he begins to imagine what that ancient author looked like and what type of person he was...

Now to be able to live two hours out of twelve in a different world and take one's thoughts off the claims of the immediate present is, of course, a privilege to be envied by people shut up in their bodily prison."

The Prostate Has Been Invaded

Endured the "procedure" yesterday.

Medical euphemisms. Gotta love them.

Got up at 5:00, Carol at 5:30, left the house at 6:45 for the privilege of being reminded of my mortality.

What asshole invented the johnny? I don't believe it was designed for maximum utility. I believe it was designed in part to humiliate patients.

I walk around wearing it proudly now, don't try to hide anything. If they make my ass accessible then they are going to have to look at it. Like Jack Nicholson in "Something's Gotta Give." 

And what about those fucking "slippers" they make you wear? Why can't I just wear my goddamn socks? Had on a perfectly good pair of Dickies socks yesterday. Brand new. Comfortable. Stylish. No holes.

Nope. Gotta wear these ridiculous plastic booties that don't even stay on your feet.

Carol babysat me through the ordeal. As I have babysat her through her ordeals.

It is a comforting thing to have a lifelong partner by your side when you navigate the impersonal atmosphere of a hospital.

I am a terrible patient. I hate feeling vulnerable. I hate doctors. I hate hospitals. I arrive in a bad mood. I am impatient.

I am not rude to people; they are just doing their jobs. I am just not my typical jovial, positive self. 

Carol takes the edge off. She is my ally. She anchors me.

We have been married for 42 years. Been together 44 or 45. 

She has hated me, I have hated her. She has hurt me, I have hurt her. We have experienced very big highs and very low lows. We have also loved each other deeply. That is the nature of a long term relationship. But we have come out the other end of the tunnel reasonably intact.

And it is comforting. She took good care of me. At the hospital and at home.

Anesthesia is the best part of surgery. Shit, man - I love the high I am on when I wake up. It is very subtle. But it feels so good. And it lasts for hours.

I don't smoke much pot anymore because if you get too high you are stuck with it for a while. Nothing you can do about it. I prefer whiskey because you can nurse it along until you are at the perfect level to kill whatever pain you are experiencing. If you feel yourself approaching the edge, you can back off; slow down; manage the high.

Took me a long time to master that approach. I used to swill whiskey until I was too far gone. The only option at that point was to grab a bible, smack Carol across the side of the head with it and then read a few verses aloud.

Things moved quickly yesterday, which is good. I had the same exact procedure done last year and I waited a long fucking time before they wheeled me into surgery. I was quite angry.

Got there yesterday at 7:30. I was in surgery before 8:30. Perfect.

So Dr. Feelgood snipped pieces of my prostate using his roadmap as a guide and then booted me the hell out of there. Kind of. 

I got a cup of coffee and two slices of toast. which was heavenly since I had been fasting since around 10:00 the night before. It was like eating Kobe Beef at a Five Star restaurant.

Nurses made sure everything was OK, then I got booted out.

Got home and have experienced none of the possible evil side effects they describe in the post surgery handout.

I meet with Dr. Feelgood on Monday to review the results.

Ah, the indignities of aging.

They tell me it's better than the alternative.

Fall

Fall is a fascinating time of year in New England.

Everybody says they love fall; "fall is my favorite time of year" and all that shit. I don't believe anything everybody says. 

Most people speak without thinking. They say what they feel other people want to hear; what other people will respond to without challenging them. You are supposed to say you love fall when you live in New England. New Englanders feel like they own fall. 

Every time it rains, and I emphasize every fucking time it rains, some asshole says "Good. We need the rain." This is the perfect example of a mindless comment. A learned response.

I used to hear people say that when I was in my mama's womb and I would kick violently, causing her great discomfort. Got to the point where she would not leave the house on rainy days when she was pregnant.

Some people do love fall. Legitimately. And why not? It is beautiful. And it is not bone crushingly cold yet. Suffering has not yet entered the picture.

I have been enjoying it. Now that I have lightened up and don't view the end of summer as a death sentence. 

It's not that I have evolved. I have just given up. There is no sense in sticking needles into my eyes 10 months out of the year. I am stuck here. I will never escape. "I was born here, and I'll die here against my will" (Bob Dylan, Not Dark Yet). I am 66. I grope desperately for ways to not despair.

I particularly love it when there is a strong wind and leaves are flying off the trees like raindrops. A deluge of leaves, if you will. It stirs something in me.

Gorgeous colors. There is something to be said about stepping out of your house and enjoying the privilege of your surroundings as if they were painted by a master. Diverts your attention. You walk with head down in defeat; suddenly you notice the beauty and your soul soars. You drink it all in and for that moment you have no troubles.

Priceless.

I like the way New Englanders look in the fall. Lots of denim jackets. Boots. Cool hats. Seems like the perfect season to express yourself.

As opposed to summer when fucking Hawaiian shirts are de rigueur. 

I own 3 or 4 Hawaiian shirts. I don't wear them anymore. I used to be a peacock. Up until very recently. Always searching for the most colorful and outrgeous shirts I could find. Now I am a rugged individualist.

I have no idea why. I don't know what that says about me. I don't know what sparked the change.

Am I expressing myself more honestly or..................have I given up on another aspect of my personality?

I have one of my father's hats. A Fedora. It has 3 inches of dust on it. I love this hat. My father died in 1999. 21 fucking years ago. I still have the hat.

My plan is to clean it up, somehow make it fit me (it is too large for my diminutive skull) and wear the damn thing in the winter. I have not had the courage up until now. A Fedora is not exactly inconspicuous.

I think I would look spectacular wearing that hat. 

Winter is coming. Fans of Game of Thrones understand the ominous implications of that phrase.

I don't care. Bring it on. Doesn't kill me anymore. Although one thing that will never change about me (unless it does) - you will never hear me say, as I look upon the aftermath of a snowstorm is - "isn't that beautiful."

I look out the window, I get angry and feel trapped, and say - "This fucking sucks."

Random thoughts on a random day.

I go back to work tomorrow after 7 days off.

Fuck that.

Alex Trebek

I was sitting here reaching for something meaningful to write about when Carol yelled up to me that Alex Trebek died.

My emotional reaction made the decision for me.

He was 80 years old.

I love Jeopardy. In large part because it is a game show that I can watch and participate in without feeling like a game show watching loser.

I am very much a snob. I consider myself an intelligent guy who doesn't watch reality tv or mindless game shows that make fools out of the participants and viewers. I look down (in silence) on people who do waste their time on idiotic fare like that.

I watch Jeopardy because it makes me feel smart. And stupid.

But I am here to talk about Alex Trebek. Not the show.

He announced that he had been diagnosed with Stage 4 pancreatic cancer (the worst of the worst) in March of 2019. Right from the start he exuded a positive attitude and a fighting spirit.

People like that force me to look at myself. Of course - everything is about me. 

I don't have that fighting spirit. I feel broken by life.

I am amazed by people who do fight like hell against all odds.  I have to put my wife Carol in that category - she has been through fucking hell for over 3 years now and has maintained a positive attitude and fought like a warrior throughout.

I have questioned myself many times as I watch her go through this. I think if I went into life threatening surgery my mindset would be if I die, I die. Dying under anesthesia ain't a bad way to go. Like dying in your sleep.

But that is a self defeating attitude. I firmly believe that Carol survived 7 and 1/2 hours of brain surgery with two surgeons in her skull, and over 20 collective hours of facial surgery because she is a fighter in her soul. She goes under the knife with the firm conviction that she will be all right.

That conviction is the intangible in the equation. You got your general health and the seriousness of your affliction to consider, but I think a fighting spirit can put you over the top.

Alex Trebek kept hosting Jeopardy through chemotherapy treatments. Are you fucking serious? His last day taping in the studio was October 29. That was 10 days ago.

I would listen to him talk about what he was going through - no self-pity, no giving up - and wonder if I could do the same.

Of course nothing I have faced has been life threatening. Stage 1 Melanoma; slow moving and so far not too serious prostate cancer. Baby stuff compared to what Alex Trebek dealt with; compared to what Carol has dealt with.

If I was facing death would I wake the fuck up? Or give up. I don't know.

Alex made a comment a while back that blew me away, though. He admitted that he suffered through "massive attacks of great depression that made me wonder if it was really worth fighting on". But he kept on fighting because "he realized giving up on life would be a betrayal to his wife, God and other cancer patients".

There it is right there. The god stuff does not resonate with me, but Carol, Keith and Craig sure as hell do.

I am a husband. I am a father. I don't know what the truth of their love for me is, and ultimately I will never know that. But I do know that they love me.

When my father died, by the time I got to the funeral home they already had his body in storage. I asked to see him and the funeral director said that was not possible because he had not been embalmed yet. I said that was precisely why I wanted to see him. The discussion got heated but I would not back down.

Finally they brought me out back, unzipped the body bag and stepped back. I am pretty sure I said something to him but I don't remember what it was. I do remember leaning over and kissing his cheek. He hadn't shaved in a couple of days; I remember the roughness of the kiss.

I was never super close to my Dad. Why was that kiss so important to me?

Because he was my Dad.

Alex Trebek has resurrected and reinterpreted that memory for me. He has implanted that thought process into my brain. That I shouldn't give up. Or at the very least, he is forcing me to doubt my attitude as it is.

The only thing I know for sure is that I do admire people with the fighting spirit; people who never give up.

Like Carol.

Like Alex Trebek.

I will miss you, Alex. The first show I see with a new host will bring tears to my eyes.

Food For Thought

 "Gant, faced with the loss of sensuous delight, knowing the time had come when all his Rabelaisian excess in eating, drinking and loving must come under the halter, knew of no gain that could compensate him for the loss of libertinism; he felt too the sharp ache of regret, feeling that he had possessed powers, had wasted chances, such as his partnership with Will Pentland, that might have given him position and wealth. He knew that the century had gone in which the best part of his life had passed; he felt more than ever, the strangeness and loneliness of our little adventure upon the earth: he thought of his childhood on the Dutch farm, the Baltimore days, the aimless drift down the continent, the appalling fixation of his whole life on a series of accidents. The enormous tragedy of accident hung like a gray cloud over his life. He saw more clearly than ever that he was a stranger in a strange land among people who would always be alien to him. Strangest of all, he thought, was this union, by which he had begotten children, created a life dependent on him, with a woman so remote from all he understood."

From Look Homeward, Angel by Thomas Wolfe.

I will make my usual commentary about great writing. This book is a classic. The author is famous. The book was published in 1929. I just started reading this recently. I take enormous comfort from reading stuff like this. It soothes my brain, my soul and my psyche. I always know when I am reading great writing because of the way my mind and body respond. An amazing sense of peace.

Heard this song on Outlaw Country the other day on SiriusXM.

I don't agree with everything in it but I do love the attitude.

Same Kind of Crazy As Me, by Cody Jinks

I don't go to church on Sunday

I don't go to work on Monday

I sleep until I wake up

To whiskey in my coffee cup

And I take what the good Lord gave

That's the shovel that digs my grave

I never really had a plan

But everybody knows where I stand

And in all my friends I see

The same kind of crazy as me

There's more colors than red and blue

To paint the elephant in the room

You piss and moan about that and this

There's always another ass to kiss, but

I believe that freedom rings

And I believe in the songs we sing

I have a funny way you see

What the world might someday be

Why can't they just let it be?

The same kind of crazy as me

There ain't a single thing we own

We'll take with us when we're gone

So I'll just walk the earth awhile

Lend a hand and leave a smile

And who knows how the whole thing ends?

You can't tell me where or when

So I'll just pray that when I'm done

Meet the Father and the Son

And if I'm right they'll be

The same kind of crazy as me

Broken People

I love movies about broken people.

I always have to decompress after being swallowed up by the medical community. Voluntarily wandered in to the clutches of medical america today. Pre fucking surgery.

Such an impersonal place. An abundance of phony optimism.

I hate being the victim. The patient. Issued a fucking bracelet with my name and stats on it. Like a corpse with a fucking toe tag.  

Subject to personal questions rendered impersonal by sheer repetition on the part of medical personnel. Like a fucking factory. I walk out of the room, some other victim wanders in, the same questions are asked.

No inflection, no empathy, no emotion.

Had to get tested for Covid. Had my blood pressure taken. EKG. Blood sample taken. Temperature.

100 questions by a medical technician. 100 questions by an anathesiologist type expert. Sign this. Sign that.

Spit out of a faceless, nameless, impersonal building into the light of a beautiful day by 11 am.

So I came home and watched Fargo.

Jesus, what a movie. Perfect blend of insanity, despair, tenderness, violence, naive love, dark humor, and the very fragile nature of what it is to be human. Fragile. Fragile. Fragile.

DESPERATION. Shit, man - we are all desperate. Every human wakes up to a morning in their life when they realize they are desperate. Holy fucking Christ - this is my fucking life? I hate this fucking life. How did this happen? What do I do now?

And the suicidal answer is - Nothing. There is nothing I can do. It is too late. The mountain is too big. The weight of failure is fucking crushing me. No choice but to keep crawling forward on my hands and knees until I die.

"And you may ask yourself - Where is that large automobile? This is not my beautiful house. This is not my beautiful wife. What is that beautiful house? Where does that highway go to? Am I right? Am I wrong? My God! What have I done?"

Once In A Lifetime. Talking Heads. I love that song. It is every person's reality. And nightmare.

Affliction. One of my most favorite movies. Nick Nolte. Jesus Christ, man - you want to watch a man meltdown under the burden of life? Slowly, step by step, burdened with his upbringing, burdened with his reality, burdened by his warped and broken perception?

He keeps falling and crumbling and breaking and hurting himself and hurting those he loves until he is completely undone.

Devastating. Fucking devastating. Grow some balls. Watch the movie. It depicts life the way it really is.

The Assassination of Richard Nixon. Sean Penn. Falling Down. Michael Douglas. Watch these movies. Watch spines broken under the weight of just living a life. I fucking love these movies.

Because they are real.

Many years ago my personal physician was a man around my age. We used to talk. Really talk. Human to human. No condescension. He understood me. He understood the indignities of getting older. We related.

He retired. And the medical community changed. Now they operate out of fear and intimidation. Recently when I said no to a flu shot the doctor said to me "People your age die from the flu."

Are you fucking kidding me? This is what passes for medical advice?

They are always pushing for new prescriptions. As if the doc gets a commission. Which would not surprise me.

I have changed doctors because I was disgusted with the way they treated me.

Is this a fucking used car lot?

So, yeah - I watched Fargo today after being chewed up and spit out by the cold-hearted medical community.

And it felt just right. A story about a broken man desperate to save his life, to change his life, and who ultimately destroys his life. In a very big way.

Can't wait for next week. Can't wait to wear a "johnny". It makes me feel so dignified. Can't wait to endure all the impossibly positive chatter that will be directed at me until I finally succumb to anesthesia.

I wish I could undergo anesthesia every fucking day of my life.

Thank God For Covid and Cancer

I am moving forward with this prostate shit.

It's been hanging over my head for, I don't know, a year and a half? Two years?

Technically I have prostate cancer. Seven cancerous spots that they have identified. But they are at a level 6. Level 6 is relatively harmless. Level 7 is when you go into Defcon1 mode.

It started with a consistently elevated PSA level at the regular checkups.  Eventually I had a biopsy done in the doc's office. I was awake for that. That was a lot of fun. That was when he discovered 3 cancerous spots.

Next I had a big deal biopsy done in the hospital under anesthesia. He discovered 4 more spots.

Both of those biopsies are random things. The doc goes in there and hops around the prostate taking randon samples. No road map.

Next step was an MRI. That gave Dr. Feelgood loads of information. He was very excited. Now he had a road map. That happened around January or Feb of this year.

All this stuff was happening at 3 to 6 month intervals. At every step he gave me the level 6 versus level 7 talk and said I didn't have to do anything if I didn't want to, although I got the impression that he felt I should do something. I procrastinated.

Had another checkup a couple of weeks ago and I decided to deal with it. It's going to get worse anyway and I am probably better off dealing with it at the age of 66 versus the age of 73.

On November 10 he will be doing a Fusion Biopsy, under anesthesia in the hospital. He will be using the MRI results as a roadmap to target very specific areas that look funky so he can accurately determine the risk level.

See why he was so excited?

Afterwards we will decide on a course of action.

Here's the really good stuff. Remember now, I only work on Wednesdays (half day), Thursdays and Fridays.

In The Age of Covid I have to get tested. On November 5th. Then I have to self-quarantine until 11/10. That means I cannot go to work on 11/05 or 11/06. 11/11 is Veterans Day - no work.

In summation, I got out of work last Friday, 10/30. Between that day and 11/11 I will only have to work 1/2 day. That day is this coming Wednesday. And I still get paid for my regular hours. Isn't America a blessed paradise?

Obviously it is a damning commentary when a surgical procedure and the threat of Covid are reasons to celebrate.

But life gets twisted and distorted, baby - at a certain stage cynical happiness feels like a winning lottery ticket.

Miserable Fucking Day

Carol had another follow-up appointment at Mass Eye and Ear in Boston yesterday.

We both hate that fucking trip. I have become the typical NH hermit - I don't ever want to drive to Boston under any circumstance and for any reason. Period.

In fact I don't ever want to drive to any overly populated area. I don't want to deal with traffic and streets and directions and getting lost, and rude, brainless fucking drivers.

NH generally is easy to negotiate as long as you stay far enough north. That's the way I like it.

It snowed yesterday. First fucking snow of the season. Two hour drive to Boston, two hour drive home. We left the house at 9:00 am, got home at 3:30 pm. Felt like a goddamn month.

It was still snowing when we left Boston. When we got far enough north in NH we were actually greeted by blue skies. A perfect metaphor.

The drive down was really tough. The road sucked - all the way down. Traffic moving at 25 mph at times. Saw three cars that slid off the road. I get quietly furious in siutations like that. I believe I am above dealing with bullshit situations like that. Apparently I am not.

My problem is I see myself as a privileged rich guy. Truth is I am a lower middle class grunt just squeaking by in life and having to make all the humbling sacrifices a low level existence demands.

A stressful dichotomy.

Carol had two appointments. There was a lot of waiting around. I slept like shit the night before. So I used the waiting time to nap. 

I was starving when I got home. Made myself a massive and delicious turkey and provolone sandwich, poured myself a generous whiskey, and listened to a Marc Maron podcast.

How else are you gonna deal with a situation like that? It was perfect.

I'm a pretty smart guy.

The Truth About...................

I watched a documentary this afternoon called "The Truth About Alcohol" while sipping on a glass of whiskey.

That felt rebellious to me.

Then I took a nap.

I have been doing David vs Goliath battle now for over two weeks of my life. Me vs Hyundai. Me vs Grappone (the car dealership). Countless fucking hours writing emails, talking on the phone and filing complaints with the BBB, Hyundai Corporate, and Grappone. I have achieved modest results.

Remember I told you I was going to make their lives a living fucking hell? I have done just that.

All this shit started on October 10 when my car started misbehaving. Today is October 27. I am still reaching into my quiver and launching arrows.

Fuck these corporate jerkoffs. They believe they can shit on the little man and enjoy no repercussions.

Fun fact: After I got my car back with a new transmission, one of my key fobs died. A six month old fucking key fob died. And it wasn't just a battery. This happened last Wednesday.

So today, Grappone had to bring my car into the dealership and reprogram the car and both key fobs.

I am on the warpath and enjoying warrior status so they drove out to my home, left a loaner car, drove the car to Concord, reprogrammed it, and drove it back to me.

Let me bring you up to date.

You know the beginning of the story so I won't repeat. After being disrespected on 10/13, the day I brought the car in, I waited. No word by Friday.

I called on Monday, 10/19 and was told the guy I had been dealing with was not available. I cruised into Concord in the loaner car for a medical appointment and checked my phone afterwards - 2 hours after my original call. No fucking calll back.

I called again. "Your car is ready". I was 10 minutes away so I cruised on over wagging my tail like the happiest puppy.

Got into my car - there was less than 1 gallon of gas in it. I had 16 miles to go before empty. I was fucking furious.

On top of that, the paperwork I signed indicated the car had been ready since 3:00 o'clock on Friday, October 23. I was not notified on Friday, I was not notified on Saturday, I was not notified on Monday.

Went on the warpath the next day. Filed a complaint with the BBB, with Hyundai Corporate, with Grappone (the dealership) and personally with the guy I had been dealing with at Grappone. That was on Tuesday, October 20.

I woke up the next morning to two emails from Grappone and a phone message.

I won't bore you with the details. But when the guy returned my car today he had filled the gas tank and gave me a $25 gas card. Hyundai Corporate right now has agreed to forgive one car loan payment (I asked for six) and give me $150 in gas cards. I made a final plea by email today to forgive three payments. The guy wasn't in. He'll be in tomorrow. We'll see how it goes.

I cannot tell you how many hours I have spent on this in the last two weeks. I am fucking sick of it. It has sucked even the posiibility of joy (I rarely experience joy) out of my days off.

So fuck your life. Fuck my life. Fuck life in general. Fuck the world. Fuck the illusion of happiness and good things.