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.