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.