On The Cover of the Rolling Stone

I let my Rolling Stone subscription lapse.

This is significant.

Rolling Stone has been in my life for the vast majority of my adult years. I'm sure there have been lapses, probably during periods when my selfish kids felt it was more important for them to eat than for me to read about rock 'n roll, but, in general, this magazine has been a fact of life for me.

Something I relied on. Something I enjoyed.

You can never ignore the fact that you are aging. You can try to, but life will remind you and laugh at your folly.

I probably should have cancelled Rolling Stone at least five years ago - whenever I reached the point where I consistently thought - who the hell is this person on the cover?

The cover used to be a quiet indulgence for me - Keith Richards, Leonard Cohen, Allman Brothers, Beatles, Stones, writers, poets, actors........................ I enjoyed the pictures - they were creative and often captured the spirit of whoever it was. People who meant something to me. People who meant everything to me.

I got to the point where only 50% or less of the articles in the magazine interested me. But I tried, man - I tried. I read the articles about these strangers, my thought process being  - I don't want to become a grumpy old man - judgemental, dismissive. Maybe I could learn something about these people and spark a new interest in my battered brain.

Nope.

Pretty much found out I don't give a fuck about these people or their music.

I am spolied. I experienced a Birth. The Beatles. There was Sinatra, there was Elvis, there was The Beatles. There will never again be another group or person to explode on the scene like they did.

I experienced Rock 'N Roll from 1963 to 1969. Stunning. The explosion of groups and styles of music in that short period cracked my skull open and let the light shine in.

The only thing I have seen like that since was the explosion of hip hop. It came out of nowhere and morphed and evolved into an amazing variety of styles and artists.

But you cannot compare Dr. Dre and Snoop Dogg to McCartney and Lennon.

So rock exploded onto the scene at the precise moment I was ready to receive it, and Rolling Stone covered it.

Rolling Stone kept me informed, went behind the scenes, captured incisive interviews, gave me an education about the music industry - it fed my jones, man - it fed my jones.

But like everything else in my life, now, it bores me. I still got the jones - so many things I am into - but the bona fide mechanisms to feed my interests have dwindled.

The people I love are dying off. There were six original members of The Allman Brothers Band. Four of them are dead. John Lennon is dead. George Harrison is dead. Leonard Cohen is dead.

I have to pay to get the music I love because the airwaves are filled with crap.

And now Rolling Stone is dead to me.

It feels like life is trying to erase my life.

They're Baaaaack!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Fans.

Fenway had a lot of people in the stands yesterday. A lot! Not as many as there could have been because the weather sucked. Still, it was cool.

But The Garden! Holy shit, man - SOLD OUT last night for the Bruins. It felt so good. 18,000 people without masks side by side and elbow to elbow doing what they love to do with complete abandon. It felt like and was a PARTY! People were fucking happy/relieved/ecstatic/free/human - having a good time the way good times were meant to be had.

Every time they showed the fans in the stands I drank it in. It's that whole perspective thing that is going to inform my opinions and reactions for a long time to come. I looked at that crowd with such excitement and appreciation and emotion. I was happy for them. I was happy for the Bruins. I was happy for me.

Absolutely spectacular.

Game 1, Round 2 of the Stanley Cup playoffs and the Bruins delivered. The Garden was rocking!!!!!!! It was LOUD. People were losing their minds.

A perfect moment.

And fucking Pastrnak! I fucking love that guy despite his goofy Dunkin commercials. Or maybe because of them. During Round 1 all we kept hearing about was how many shots he took without scoring. Then, towards the end he came alive. And last night he exploded. A hat trick. And there were fans there to throw hats onto the ice. Lots of hats on the ice!

That game last night was a statement. A commentary on where we have been and we are at. It was jubilant in every way possible. From start to finsih.

Perfect way to kick off however life will be defined moving forward. Whatever it will be, it will be exponentially better than it has been for well over a year. Light years ahead of where we were.

Boston Garden (I am old school - I refuse to call it TD garden - the name has no soul) was Ground Zero for The New Happiness. A profound happiness that people will feel like thunder in their minds and hearts and souls from here on out.

Bring it on, baby. I am so ready.

We are all so ready.

Quiet Desperation Indeed

"The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation."

Henry David Thoreau

This is an essential truth. How very sad. That is not really life, right? It is some form of bizarre survival test, waiting out the clock while painting a clown's smile on your face.

Socrates said "The unexamined life is not worth living." Again, true. Life should be a consistent exercise of self evaluation and course correction, with the ultimate goal being happiness.

But for the vast majority of us, the "mass of men", examining your life is meaningless torture. You take a look and realize that your life is a cruel joke with no possibility  for change or dignity or happiness or redemption.

Better to be numb and pretend you are living.

From Wikipedia: "Theatre of the Absurd is a designation for particular plays of absurdist fiction written by a number of primarily European playwrights in the late 1950's. The plays..................express what happens when human existence lacks meaning or purpose and communication breaks down....................Logical construction and argument give way to irrational and illogical speech and to the ultimate conclusion - silence."

I say that is a pretty accurate description of an average life. It explains a lot.

Irrational behavior is a given in human beings. That is because we live in a fever dream of existence that makes so little sense to us that we are permanently dizzy. So everybody else becomes the enemy, and our tiny individual worlds represent a warped reality that we have to accept as real. Or perish.

Between 1955 and 1994, state hospitals were closed in large numbers all over the country. Somewhere in the neighborhood of half a million mentally ill patients were discharged, most to fend for themselves.

Isn't that bizarre?

Our lives are no different. We are born against our will (I was yanked out with forceps, for Christ sake) into bizarro world, ill equipped to cope with an LSD existence that short circuits the brain. Unless you take LSD, of course.

So we all spout self-serving cliches and find little happinesses to placate us into believeing we are doing all right.

I get it. If you're gonna be alive you might as well eat pizza. But somehow I don't think that is as satisfying as living a meaningful life, a life that is in tune with your soul, a life that is a perfect reflection of who you really are, what you really believe - a life that is an exact blueprint for how you feel your life should be lived.

And I am talking about the real you. The quietly desperate you deep down inside. Not the you that you have created as a survival mechanism, the one you use to convince everybody else that you are just fine.

I need to go on record as saying that my life is sure as hell not a blueprint for truth and beauty. I am not holding myself up as any example of how it's done. I wander around aimlessly wondering where the hell I am headed.

And by the way, on my way home from work on Thursday night, in gleeful anticipation of six days of sweet release and peaceful happiness - I picked up some pizza to celebrate.

Day One

Today is Day One of SIX days away from HELL.

Feels pretty good.

Opened my eyes at 7:35 this morning and the first thought that entered my brain was that on a "normal" Friday I would have already been sitting at my desk for 5 minutes.

Here is how I feel today, and I quote:

"I am as light as a feather, I am as happy as an angel, I am as merry as a schoolboy. I am as giddy as a drunken man."

Ebenezer Scrooge and Joe Testa

Sacred Deer

I was furious and suffocating on the way to work yesterday morning.

Wednesday had been a supremely shitty day and here I was voluntarily returning to the scene of the crime.

And the definition of insanity is.........................

On the road at 6:30 a.m. in a complete stupor.

Route 202 is essentially a solid wall of trees. Very pretty. It is broken up in places by small clearings in the woods.

I saw a small clearing coming up on my left and thought to myself "I would love to glance over there and see a deer."

I was desperate for any type of inspiration or positive sign or harbinger of hope. Something to blast me out of my funk and into a place of possibility. That's all I want. Give me some fucking possibility.

When I got up to the clearing I glanced to my left and saw a deer standing there in pure serenity. Looking sideways directly at the road.

I was ecstatic.

Do I believe that an Interventionist Deer Deity arranged for an acolyte to be standing in that precise spot in that precise moment for the sole purpose of reviving my soul?

No.

But the odds are greatly against my wish colliding with reality so perfectly.

And that was good enough for me.

I said "Holy shit" out loud, I laughed, and I felt better. Feeling better is huge when death seems preferable to corporate servitude.

Desire

U2 X-Radio presents a show, called "Desire", hosted by fans who talk about the five U2 songs they "desire" most. 

If you live in a cave, "Desire" is a U2 song. That is the connection.

It is just regular people talking about the five U2 songs that are most meaningful to them. They talk about a song and what it meant in their life, they get to play it, then they move on to the next song. Amateur DJ's. Super cool.

Many of the stories begin with "When my father died........when I got divorced............ when I lost my job......when I lost a child."

That is what music is all about.

If music is purely entertainment to you, you are missing the boat. 

Some music is pure entertainment. I happily sing along to Margaritaville every single time I hear it. Especially when I get to the lines "but there's booze in the blender, and soon it will render, that frozen concoction that helps me hang on."

But I need The Allman Brothers Band. I need The Blues. I need U2. I need Leonard Cohen. I need Bob Dylan.

Many times, as these people talk about their five top U2 songs, their emotion is evident. And they will often say that this song got me through this and that song got me through that. 

If you don't get the got me through thing, you have no soul. And you probably shouldn't be listening to music.

I have relied on different songs and different artists hundreds of times in my life. Because, "gee my life's a funny thing", to quote Bowie, and I often need help.

Music relates to me in every situation no matter what. Despair, sadness, worry, happiness, ecstasy, hopefulness. I cry to it, laugh to it, sing along with it, am struck incredulous by a lyric that suddenly takes on new meaning, I dance to it (yes, alone in the house), I am inspired by it, depressed by it, and worshipful of it.

So when I listen to these U2 fans talk about their songs, I am often blown away. The honesty, the raw emotion, the salvation. The relationship between a band and a fan runs deep - it is such a hopeful, beautiful thing.

And, it doesn't matter what the songwriter was expressing when they wrote the song. What matters is what the lyrics mean to you. And the meaning can change over time depending on where you are at in your life.

Again, one of the magical, mystical things about music.

Music, emotion, salvation - these are not superfluous things.

They get to the very core of what it means to be alive.

Bought Myself Some time

The Memorial Day weekend is rolling up on us here in 2021.

It's a big deal.

Memorial Day, July 4th, Labor Day - all good stuff. They provide a sense of relief to us wee humans; allow us to recapture a slice of our dignity. Three whole days off, away from the menial and meaningless job, and no fucking boss.

But Memorial Day is special. The granddaddy of them all. Suddenly it feels like summer. Boom. Just like that. And summer is the season of abandon. Especially in 2021 after the unimaginable torture and heartache most of us have endured for over a year now.

I took this coming Friday off. A truly gratuitous move. I would have had 5 days off, now I have six. Don't go back to HELL until next Thursday. Suffer through 4 hours tomorrow, 8 hours on Thursday and then................I am free, baby - free to be me, free to dance, sing and emote.

What's the difference between 5 days off and 6? Not a helluva lot. It is more of a statement.

I am not approaching this break apocalyptically like I normally do. You know - 6 days to totally change my life and all that. I am looking for mellow.

I think that is because I already effected a shift in my brain - I just need to nudge it along. Although the past month and a half has been a major setback for me - I drifted off course, got lost and floundered.

Bad stuff.

I will get back on course over those 6 days, and also try to nail down some other shit I've been thinking about.

Gotta get rid of this fucking job. My liver is screaming for a break. Gotta take a step in the right direction - monetize my creative instincts.

It will drive me crazy when Carol retires on June 30, and I am already way out over the edge. There will be much wailing and gnashing of teeth.

Life is fixing to punish me and hurt me real bad. I gotta fight back with both fists and both feet and maybe an elbow or two (perhaps some concealed weapons) or I am going down, baby. If I don't fight back, I risk winding up like Randall P. McMurphy at the end of One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest.

And Carol will be gleefully standing over me, pillow in hand.

Delightful Irish Toast

 "If you're going to lie, lie for a friend. If you're going to steal, steal a heart. If you're going to cheat, cheat death. And if you're going to drink, drink with me."

The Next One

His anger and frustration and resentment grew and expanded, fueled by the heat of his emotions - pushing outwards against the natural boundaries of his body like helium challenges the limits of a balloon.

But he knew with absolute clarity that he would not be the one that would be destroyed.

This did not bode well for the next person who crossed him.

Tiny Lives

It is important to live as small a life as you possibly can.

That way you have a much shorter distance to fall.

Play by the rules, pay your taxes, behave yourself, never complain, do as your told - boring, yes, but nobody promised you that life would be exciting. Be punctual!

Grind it out, baby.

Life is not meant to be exciting. At least not for the common folk. Be grateful. That is what's drummed into your head. If you are grateful you will be happy.

Of course, that is propaganda passed down from on high and by those who have money, or make money by selling you self-help/self-improvement books.

U2 have a song called "Numb". A sample of the lyrics:

"Don't move, don't talk out of time, don't think, don't worry, everything's just fine......................don't grab, don't clutch, don't hope for too much, don't breathe, don't achieve.........................don't check, just balance on the fence, don't answer, don't ask, don't try and make sense....................."

You get the point. If not, google the word irony.

Living a small life is a sin against humanity. A crime against nature. It is deliberate murder of your soul.

A small life is safe. That's the problem. The mindless chant "Live life to the fullest." But they do the opposite. They live life to the emptiest.

You recognize that hollow feeling you experience every morning when you get up?

That is your soul being dead.

Sprummer

That is the season we are in.

Not spring. Not summer. Sprummer.

Spring no longer exists. And it definitely did not begin on March 20.

I can barely contain my disgust when the mindless run around on the faux first day of spring, enthusiastically greeting the arrival of a new season.

A season in which we will get more snow, many very cold days, sleet, ice, downed trees and power outages - all the crap winter has to offer.

How the hell is that spring?

The mindless support all cliches. These are the people who say "We need the rain" every single time it rains. Every fucking time. If it rained 9 days in a row, dumping a foot and a half of water on us, was sunny for two days and then began raining again - the mindless would robotically say "We need the rain."

I could give you 150 other examples but I am seeking calm today.

So it's Sprummer.

March should be excised off the calendar. It is a vicious little month. Delete it.

April is a month tailor made for the Marquis de Sade. 33 degrees one day, 75 degrees another - April tortures you with possibility but never delivers. You get a taste of good weather, you allow hope to take root, but the next thing you know your teeth are chattering because you left the house with a light jacket and the temperature dropped 20 degrees.

Here's how this works. Winter lasts forever and eventually bleeds into May. Mid-May your senses come alive as, suddenly, you get a solid week of mid-seventies. You are blown away.

Like Nosferatu, you step out of your coffin and rejoice at this strange and fleeting feeling of being alive.

July and August are true summer. But summer now extends well into September and often into October.

And then..............................Winter. The words "winter is coming" have never been more ominous. Not even on Game of Thrones.

Hate to sound like a crotchety old man, but I do believe seasons were predictable when I was a kid - clearly delineated. I think seasons were more predictable when we moved up here to the North Pole 35 years ago.

But times have changed. Spring is dead.

I wonder what could have caused this?

I am happy now. It is mid-May.

But I can no longer lay a blanket on my lap in the recliner. Too damn hot.

Maka does not like this. It is inconvenient.

I had no idea life could be so damn hard.

It's Just a Hunk of Stone

As I wandered through the cemetery on Friday I was thinking about what life is, how it works.

I was surrounded by thousands of people whose lives were over. They did what they did, lived as they lived and the only thing to commemorate them is a hunk of stone with some words and dates on them.

There are so many gravestones that say nothing at all - just the dates and the names. Sad. There are even gravestones with nothing but a last name on them. No dates, no comments. Sadder. Those typically are very small, easy to stumble over if you are not paying attention.

Which is easy to do. Sometimes I am focusing on individual gravestones, sometimes I am looking up and around absorbing the silence and finality of it all.

Even the graveyard is a commentary on wealth and the lack of it. How fucking petty. How fucking human. 

There are massive stones with fancy carvings that just blow your mind. Entire families - generations of them - buried in family plots. I came across a huge gravestone surrounded by ten small gravestones - five on each side of the main one. The main one was the parents, the ten smaller ones were children and grandchildren. That felt odd to me. Close even in death. Talk about controlling parents.

And then there are the tiny stones with only a last name on them.

Personally I don't believe the rich assholes got any more of a leg up on death than the poor folk.

I wonder how many of these people died happy. I am willing to bet it is a very small percentage. 

There are plenty of people who will lie to you and tell you they are happy, but most of them are cowards, afraid to admit to the truth. These are the "suck-it-up" people who go home at night and drink alone and cry.

Most of us get trapped by life and its evil lies and hollow promises. Most of us end up living the same empty lives.

The Godfathers have a song titled "Birth-School-Work-Death." Pretty well sums it up.

Such a sad commentary on what it means to be human.

I am fighting hard to change that narrative. Frankly, birth-school-work pretty well sums up my life so far. I am holding off on the death thing for now. I have a lot of mistakes and wasted time to make up for and not a lot of time to do it in.

But it does feel like I can make some kind of dent in this life thing, some kind of progress that would provide meaningful words for my gravestone.

Then again I could just be full of shit.

An Unexpected Gift

I just read The Trial, by Franz Kafka, and For Whom The Bell Tolls, by Hemingway - back to back.

It is a dangerous thing to feed the mind nutritious sustenance in that quantity. Somehow I survived.

Crawled out of bed this morning unsure of which book I would choose next. I have somewhere in the neighborhood of 13 books in my queue on the bottom shelf of the end table next to my recliner. A rich store of beauty ranging from fiction to non-fiction to "literature" (see above) covering every topic known to man.

I chose River Dogs, a collection of short stories by Robert Olmstead, a NH native.

I forgot that I even had this book. A few weeks ago I got together for lunch with my co-workers at The Capitol Center, a theater I used to work at until May of 2020 when the pandemic layed me off.

These people are real human beings. Kind, considerate and sensitive. As opposed to the cold-hearted killers I work with at the city job. I am convinced that proximity to the arts is the explanation - if you are into the arts you are by nature a sensitive and caring person.

Many of us are fully vaccinated - we hugged - they asked about Carol, I asked about their families - it felt like therapy to me. I am so starved for sensitivity, for contact with healthy souls. It felt so good.

After lunch I had an hour and a half "to kill" (I hate that expression) before absorbing more radiation. I wandered over to the book store across the street and browsed. Heaven.

I bought three books, River Dogs being one of them. Honestly, the book was in the used section, it cost $3 and it sounded vaguely interesting. It was kind of a one-off.

This morning it super-charged my soul.

My time spent reading in a silent house is perfect time. Nothing can beat it. But the intensity of it varies depending on what I am reading.

This book is a collection of short stories about small lives. People who have little or nothing, people who are struggling, people who are hurting - people for whom living means just surviving.

That kind of stuff just plugs right into my essense because it is so real. I love this book.

Most of us wander through life bewildered, wide-eyed and stunned - "What is that beautiful house? Where does that highway go to? Am I right? Am I wrong? My God! What have I done?"

A writer who can capture that emotion, the overwhelming sensation of a broken spirit - captures my attention.

And gratitude.

From Cody's Story - "Men changed, he knew that. He'd seen it before. He himself had felt it, the feeling of something creeping up on you. The woods were full of men who'd sat down and died, men with a full larder and an income. The more willful hadn't waited for death. They took it to her."

I am not even sure what to take away from those words but I do know that they touched me.

A good feeling on a Sunday morning. Especially as an unexpected gift.

Sarah - Bold & Uninhibited

Enjoyed lunch with my dead friends yesterday.

Found this wish on the gravestone of Sarah Woodworth Gallagher, January 25, 1922 - July 29, 2013:

"Hoping for a forgiving and merciful God. A life hereafter with those she loved most while here."

What I love about the first line is they are not the words of a devout believer. She was not sure about this whole God thing; she was hoping he's a cool guy but not really sure what to expect.

I am not sure if she was unsure that God even exists, or only unsure what kind of God he is.

Either way, that's a pretty bold and honest way to enter into death. I respect her for that.

Lots of people "find" God when the end is near and inevitable. Of course, if there is a God, he knows they are full of shit. At that point it's up to him to decide whether or not they deserve his mercy. Not sure how he goes about making that decision but I'm pretty sure there is no way of arguing your way out of it once it is decided.

Sarah lived to be 91 years old. That's a pretty good run.

My gut tells me she was a straight shooter. Probably spoke her mind with no fear and lived her life in accordance with who she really was.

It was nice to meet her .

The Beautiful Hands of a Priest

These words are on a monolith kind of thing standing next to a gravestone in Calvary Cemetery:

"We need them in life's early morning,

we need them again at its close,

we feel their warm clasp of true friendship,

we seek them while tasting life's woes.

When we come to this world we are sinful,

the greatest as well as the least,

and the hands that makes us pure as angels,

are the beautiful hands of a priest.

At the altar each day we behold them,

and the hands of a king on his throne,

are not equal to them in their greatness,

their dignity stands alone.

For there in the stillness of morning,

ere the sun has emerged from the east,

there God rests between the pure fingers,

of the beautiful hands of a priest.

When we are tempted and wander,

to pathways of shame and sin,

'tis the hand of a priest that will absolve us,

not once but again and again.

And when we are taking life's partner,

other hands may prepare us a feast,

but the hands that will bless and unite us,

are the beautiful hands of a priest.

God bless them and keep them all holy,

for the Host which their fingers caress,

what can a poor sinner do better,

but to praise thee who chose thee to bless.

When the death dews on our eyes are falling.

may our courage and strength be increased,

to see, raised above us in blessing,

the beautiful hands of a priest."

Roadkill

I drive around lots of dead animals on my commutes to and from Hell.

Squirrels, raccoons, porcupines - I don't enjoy their bloody demise but I can deal with it. I feel bad, though - before we ripped up their homes and built roads and cars they lived peacefully. Now they play Russian roulette, having to decide when it is safe to run across the road. 

The unfair part is they don't have complete knowledge - they can't judge speed, or numbers of cars, they cannot hesitate once they begin the sprint. But fear spawns fatal hesitation.

Mankind causes even more misery than we give ourselves credit for.

But it is the birds that kill me. There is something about seeing a dead bird in the road that causes my mind to recoil.

Birds can fly. Humans pretend to fly, we tell ourselves we can fly - that is how we get through life with our lies - but birds can really fly.

They do it gracefully, lazily - soaring up above us in exquisite freedom. They taunt me on my commute towards Hell - me speeding in a direction I do not wish to be moving, they exulting in their superiority over humans.

Until one of them makes a mistake and gets killed by someone who is more worried about getting to Starbucks on time then they are about the bird they just killed.

Roadkill is a metaphor for life.

If you are not paying attention, if you are not making the right plans, accepting the right compromises, swallowing the right amount of pride - you get run over.

Mercilessly.

Life speeds by, laughing, as you rot in the middle of the road.

The Sun Also Sets

Oh my fucking God no!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

It's Tuesday night.

The Twilight Zone (On More Than One Level)

 "There is a fifth dimension beyond that which is known to man. It is a dimension as vast as space and as timeless as infinity. It is the middle ground between light and shadow, between science and superstition, and it lies between the pit of man's fears, and the summit of his knowledge. This is the dimension of imagination. It is an area which we call.........The Twilight Zone."

An unmistakable intro that brings back instantaneous memories. Sort of.

The Twilight Zone ran from 1959 to 1964 and was spectacular. Lately I have been watching it on Netflix. Anytime I have a spare half hour available, The Twilight Zone is one of my go to's. Love it.

But I am trying to figure out where my exposure to the show comes from. I was 5 years old in 1959, 10 years old in 1964. The first three seasons aired on Friday nights at 10:00. The fourth season aired on Thursday nights at 9:00. The final season aired on Friday nights at 9:30.

It had to be a show that my father watched. It was definitely something he would be into. No way I watched the first three seasons - I was just a wee lad. But maybe Season 4 and Season 5 but still, it's hard to imagine me being up that late at that age. My parents were pretty strict. And my mom would probably not have approved of me watching The Twilight Zone.

I have no memory of watching it with my Dad.

I have these cloudy "sort of" memories that are thinly connected with my Dad that I just don't understand. 

Like Jim Brown and the NFL. It is unmistakable that I fell in love with the man and football, but he played from 1957 to 1965. Ages 3 to 11 for me.

I am sure my Dad had football on and I am sure I started watching it with him at some point, obviously. I have dim memories of watching football together. But I don't remember it being a "rah rah I'm watching football with my Dad" kind of thing. It just feels like I developed a love of the game on my own.

These cloudy memories disturb me. I don't really know what kind of relationship I had with my Dad when I was really young. Seems to me if our times together were exciting and fun and love-filled they would burn bright in my memory banks.

But they don't.

Anyway, someway, somehow I got into The Twilight Zone. It's a gas watching it now. The stories are always good, although the settings are occasionally hilarious. Like when they tried to imagine and depict what the future would look like - especially involving computers and space ships.

I watch it now, I still dig it now, but sometimes I drift off and wonder what it was like watching it with my Dad.

I wish I could remember.

Julian Edelman

I seek toughness.

Toughness of mind, toughness of spirit, toughness of soul, toughness of body.

I want to be able to knock you out with one punch.

I am going about cultivating this in various ways, ranging from creative sensitivity to semi-tough love. Which reminds me of the movie Semi-Tough. It's got Kris Kristofferson and Burt Reynolds in it. How can you go wrong? You should watch it. It's funny and it's about football. Tasty. The book is damn good too.

James Clear is on the tough love side in that he challenges me to be better and gives sound advice on how to do that in a realistic way. I have adopted Matthew McConaughey on a more consistent basis. I read his book, now I listen to his 13 Truths video quite a bit.

Why not add Julian Edelman to the mix?

When I heard that Julian retired I was kind of bummed.

Julian Edelman was a real football player.

Tough, insane, talented. He was only 5'10" and weighed 198 pounds. He played 12 seasons with THE PATS.

He was a quarterback in college, got drafted as the 27th pick in the seventh round, 232nd overall, in the 2009 NFL draft. Let me put that in perspective for you - I got drafted 27th in the seventh round of this year's draft. I turned down the offer because I already enjoy a lucrative job with the city of Concord.

When he got to the NFL he switched to being a punt returner and wide receiver and went on to dominate like a man twice his size.

The man exuded toughness and insanity on and off the field. It is just in his DNA. Just look into his eyes and all you see is One Flew Over The Cuckoos Nest. 

He was constantly cutting across the middle to make a play, which is the toughest place for a receiver to work. It's like deliberately running into the path of a freight train. And he did it with aplomb.

I loved to watch him play.

He didn't take shit from anybody. He was always bouncing up from a crushing hit to talk shit - facemask to facemask - with the guy who hit him. Or after a great catch or run or block or punt return - always talking trash - always.

Because he was supremely confident.

NFL films should put together a collection of the things he said on the field and make a feature length film out of it. I wouldn't just watch it I would buy it so I could watch it forever. And be endlessly inspired.

I just became aware that he wrote a memoir in 2018 titled Relentless. I just ordered the book. It can do nothing but help me on my quest.

Bill Belichick: "What Julian has done from the time he entered the league is nothing short of remarkable. He is the epitome of competiveness, toughness, and the great things that are possible when someone is determined to achieve their goals."

I take the man at his word.

I am supremely set up to enjoy football like a psycho fan this year. Last year I watched it in a coma because of all this covid shit. Shit, there were Mondays and Thursdays when I completely forgot THE PATS were even playing.

That is not like me.

But I feel the need bubbling and gurgling deep down inside me in 2021. I need football this year. I am going to go crazy on it. If you get between me and football this year you will be decapitated.

But I will miss Julian Edelman. Severely.

It will not be the same without him playing psycho-football and talking trash.

I have loved football for 57 years and there have been a lot of guys I loved, guys who got under my skin, gave me great pleasure then disappeared from my life.

Julian is definitely on my list.

Thanks for the memories, baby.

Fucking Taxes

Our taxes are not done.

I fucking HATE dealing with this shit. HATE IT.

Online tax prep services are designed to torture - they pretend to be user friendly then they thwart you at every turn, every request, every phone call, every online attempt to communicate.

They fucking suck.

Earlier this year I confidently told Carol the taxes would be done by the end of February. I feel it's important to present a rosy demeanor.

At some point I started dealing with a tax prep service. I had questions. I tried to call. The calls never went through. I tried to prompt informative emails from them to me through their automated system. "Please say your name" - "Joe Testa" - is that J-o-e C-h-r-e-s-t-a?" No. No it is not. You are not even fucking close.

My timeline gets skewed because of the 3/4 insanity of my existence. 4 days to function as a human, 3 days functioning as a Dead Man Walking.

Time goes by. Time goes by. Time goes by.

And now it's May 8 and the fucking taxes are not done.

So this morning I trolled two other tax prep servcies to get a feel. I eventually felt like vomiting.

I have wasted so much time - many, many hours - fucking around with taxes that if I died today and Jesus was reviewing my life, he would look at this time period and ask "What the hell were you thinking? You were that close to death and you spent it banging your head against the wall fucking around with taxes?"

I AM NOT AN ACCOUNTANT, so don't lay this shit at my feet. I despise this kind of shit. I don't want to deal with it. I want to write poetry.

Decision point - I am going to do the goddamn taxes manually. Just like the old days. I just downloaded the forms, I can input the info on my laptop, print the goddamn things out and put them in the fucking mail.

By the time I am done I will have spent 103,456 hours on this stupidity and I will probably OWE the IRS money.

I am not in a happy place right now.

Break out your machete and hack me to pieces.

Rainy Day # 12 & 35

Melancholia.

Good word. Like the sound of it.

Definition: Subtype of depression. Feelings of extreme despair and guilt. Struggling to feel any happiness, even when good things happen.

Isn't it exciting to know there are subtypes of depression? 

I am a bit down today. Can't really put my finger on it. Usually if I cannot define it, it means a number of worries have converged upon my mind simultaneously to weigh me down.

What I am feeling is not melancholia - that's a bit extreme. Like I said, I just like the word. But in a comparative way it feels like melancholia because I have been able to construct a positive framework within which to exist and, since that is typically foreign to me, when it slips - my spirit is dragged through the mud.

I am making large to extra-large changes in my life. Change causes stress. 

I am exercising my brain and body, I am dieting, I am trying to wrestle my relationships with my family around to where I think they should be - how they should function. Still dealing with this Covid shit and something called Prostate Cancer. Trying to figure out what my next job move should be because I cannot deal with the job I have much longer without becoming Charles Whitman. Ultimately gotta sell the house to achieve true freedom, which I richly deserve.

Simply put - I am in uncharted waters no matter which direction I face.

I am 67 - shouldn't my life be fragrant, rooftop to the basement? Shouldn't I have nothing but time and smiles?

Yes. It should and I should. I fucked up. Not gonna get into that right now because you have heard it all before.

I am fascinated that I can have a day like this in the midst of all the good stuff I am engineering for myself. It's not just the results that are satisfying, but the conscious effort I am putting into it all.

I am relentless. 

I thought I had built up enough of a beefy positive wall of defense to guard against a reversal like this.

Apparently not.

A lifetime of self-destructive thought and action creates a formidable foe.

Besides, it's a rainy day.

Thank GOD For Blazing Saddles

 "And the Writers Guild of America award for Best Comedy Written Directly for the Screenplay in 1974 is...................

Blazing Saddles."

Classic fucking movie. Laugh your ass off kind of movie. Probably couldn't even be made in 2021 with all this oversensitive don't want to hurt anybody's feelings bullshit.

Pertinent quote from The Waco Kid:

"Then one day I hear 'Reach for it, Mister." I spun around and there I was standing face to face with a six year old kid. Well, I just laid down my guns and walked away. Little bastard shot me in the ass. So I limped to the nearest saloon, crawled inside a whiskey bottle, and I've been there ever since."

I am that in microcosm. Wednesday, Thursday, Friday I crawl inside a whiskey bottle to marinate for however many hours it takes to quiet my brain.

Saturday, Sunday, Monday and Tuesday I float through time like an angel.

One of my goals in life is to hammer this point home to you over and over again in as many different ways as possible. Until one of us keels over and dies from the boredom of repetition.

In truth, this situation presents the ultimate opportunity for me to use all of my newly cultivated brain power to blow past the self-destructive behavior and stagger towards a healthier and more intelligent solution.

How's that for a twist on the perspective of this soul-sucking reality?

Just trying to keep you interested.

P.S. - I have no doubt that a majority of the cold-hearted people I work with would delight in shooting me in the ass.

The Book Swap

Keith and Craig and I swap books.

Books are precious to me. Keith and Craig are precious to me. Swapping books is sacred.

"Dad I am reading.............you will love it, I'll give it to you when I am done."

Those words make me feel good. It means they are thinking about me. The simple thought process that evolves from the pleasure they get from reading a book to the realization that it is probably something I would enjoy is fuel for my soul.

Sometimes it's a text - "I just heard about this book, I think you might like it."

They know I love to read so they know how appreciative I am to be turned on to something new. Something different.

You are saying "For Christ sake, Joe - it's just a book, you are their father, it ain't much more than that - it happens every day."

It's not that simple for me.

I have never taken being a father for granted. Never. It is akin to a religious experience for me.

They could be running around saying "My father's an asshole and the less I see of him the more enriched my life becomes."

Instead they turn me on to music, TV shows, movies and................

Books.

If I think about my job it pollutes my life a bit, dilutes it from a perfect place. If I focus solely on my family, my life is like the most flawless diamond anyone could hold.

Right now I have 10 books in my "to be read pile", including one from Craig and one from Keith.

I will treasure those two books above all the others.

One - A Concept

 "We are already one. But we imagine that we are not. And what we have to recover is our original unity. What we have to be is what we are."

Thomas Merton

Enforced Reflection

Caught a mimi-interview with Nathan Lane.

He was talking about the weird world under a pandemic and the concept of enforced reflection. The idea that many people have been using this time to look at themselves, their lives, the world and, hopefully, recognize changes that need to be made and start moving in that direction. To get a bigger slice of happiness. Or to get any happiness at all.

At first I did not like the idea of enforced, because to me it wasn't. As soon as I was furloughed last year I voluntarily set about improving myself. I blew it on the first go around, but in 2021 I put together an approach that has reaped many benefits.

But I suppose for many people it was enforced. Like, what the hell am I going to do with all this time? Of course, you had to have the luxury of being able to say that. For millions of people it was more like how am I going to pay my fucking rent this month and where am I going to get food tomorrow?

I know I am lucky to have gotten through this evilness as easily as I have, and I appreciate it greatly.

I am proud, given my privileged position, to have put the time to good use. I could have sat around drinking whiskey and watching soap operas. Instead I committed to the heavy lift of transforming my brain from a self-flagellation command center to a fiercely determined agent of change.

It is a work in progress and a very positive pursuit.

I would like to think that millions of people committed to enforced reflection and that we will come out of this bullshit as a more empathetic, considerate population.

I know that that will never happen.

The only result of all this suffering is that more people will party harder.

A sad commentary on the mindlessness of Americans. 

To Interpret Any Way You Like

 "But an intelligent man is sometimes forced to be drunk to spend his time with fools."

From For Whom the Bell Tolls,  Ernest Hemingway

Z-Man

I have kept true to my promise.

I am giving the Radiation Squad a full dose of Joe.

There is a team of people who monitor the dropping of my drawers. Not the same every day, they rotate - usually three people at a session. It takes a village to kill cancer.

Their names are:

Roxanne, 2 Tammys and 1 Tami, Dana, Scot, Amy, and Zorren. I decided to memorize their names to make this situation more personal. I greet them personally every time. They respond like friends. We laugh. We talk.

It helps.

Zorren is a college student who spends time on the job and time at school. We get along perfectly; he makes me laugh, I make him laugh. We got comfortable with each other right quick.

I call him Z-Man.

Found out yesterday that he is heading back to school - yesterday was his last day at the hospital for a while. Fortunately he was at my zapping session.

I wished him luck; told him it was a pleasure to meet him. As I was leaving he stopped me, looked me right in the eye and said with empathy - "I hope this all goes well for you."

He meant it.

I was deeply moved.

Another piece of my soul was restored.

Ain't It Just Like Life To Sneak Up On You

 "The light in the bar was soft sepia, and under its glow she felt as if she were a witness to her own history - not to a specific event but rather to the quiet decisions that compounded on themselves, the sacrifices and compromises and hard-won realizations that had eventually accumulated into a life. Her life."

From The Children Are Fragile, by Jen Silverman in the April issue of The Sun magazine.

I Have Been I

 "To me the honor is sufficient of belonging to the universe - such a great universe, so grand a scheme of things. Not even Death can rob me of that honor. For nothing can alter the fact that I have lived, I have been I, if for ever so short a time."

W.N.P. Barbellion