I get emails twice a week from James Clear.
At the end he asks a question designed to motivate you, to make you think, to wake you up, to inspire you.
Here's a beauty:
"People will tell stories about you at your funeral. What chapter are you writing today?"
Chew on that for a while.
Can you honestly use that phrase to describe a moment in your life in an honest and meaningful way?
I am not talking about the time you switched from Jimmy Chen's Pizza Joint to Alberto Calamari's Pizza Experience. Which, of course, was undoubtedly the right thing to do.
Unless of course that was the best thing you ever did. If so, your life is small and your imminent exit from this planet will not leave a void.
I am fascinated by phrases. And how we over use them and trivialize them.
"Just like that." A nuclear phrase, to my mind. I am obsessed with those words. He changed his life just like that. He decided to stop drinking just like that. He dramatically changed his personality just like that.
Can you do that? Is it real?
Could you put the breaks on like Fred Flinstone in his prehistoric car and just change direction?
Imagine sitting in your recliner on a Tuesday night, deciding you hate your fucking life, deciding to drastically change it - just like that - and following through on Wednesday. With intensity and focus.
Holy shit. That would taste better than Hostess Cupcakes.
The best thing I ever did. That should be something momentous. Life changing. Life improving. An epiphany followed up by action.
People do it. "A life unexamined.........." People do examine their lives. They do make changes. Trying to stop the negative momentum that has carried you to the gates of hell is the hard part.
Inertia, baby.
You keep coming home to the spouse you want to kill. You get up every day and go to the job that strips you of your dignity. You drive the cheap car you can afford and dream about the nice cars other people drive. You vacation in a cheap motel two towns over while others fly to Cannes.
Your underwear is stretched out, frayed, and faded and you don't even care. It's not like you'll be in any interesting situation where stylish underwear will earn you any brownie points.
Incremental change. It is a good philosophy. It's doable. Keep banging away, taking bite-sized chunks, relentlessly moving forward until the water slide dumps you smack dab into the middle of your miraculous destiny.
But what about the best thing I ever did? Just like that?
Boom. That's the kind of change that is required to supercharge your brain and inspire you to "make the most of your life."
Can you do that? Is it real?
"Having hope means that one will not give in to overwhelming anxiety, a defeatist attitude, or depression in the face of difficult challenges or setbacks. Hope is more than the sunny view that everything will turn out all right; it is believing you have the will and the way to accomplish your goals."
Daniel Goleman
From Merriam-Webster:
"According to Greek mythology, Procrustes was a robber who killed his victims in a most cruel and unusual way. He made them lie on an iron bed and would force them to fit the bed by cutting off the parts that hung off the ends or by stretching those people who were too short."
Shemekia Copeland has a song titled "I Always Get My Man."
She sings: "Gonna frisk you, baby - see if you're packing heat, take you to my courtroom down the street, accuse you of love in the first degree, and won't turn you loose until your prints are all on me."
The chorus says: "Get you with my hugging and my kisses too, there won't be no escaping when I get my hands on you, when I finally get you I ain't gonna stop, I'll keep right on loving until the neighbors call the cops."
I believe her.
There is a classic blues song titled "I'm Ready", written by Wiile Dixon and first recorded by Muddy Waters. Here's a taste of the lyrics.
First the macho buildup: "I got an axe handle pistol on a graveyard frame, that shoot tombstone bullets, wearin' balls and chain, I'm drinkin' TNT, I'm smoking dynamite, I hope some screwball start a fight, 'cause I'm ready, ready as anybody can be, I'm ready for you, I hope you're ready for me."
Holy shit, man - is that over the top or what?
Now the romantic stuff:
"All you pretty little chicks with your pretty little hair, I know you feels like I ain't nowhere, but stop what you're doin' baby - come over here, I'll prove to you baby that I ain't no square, because I'm ready, ready as anybody can be, now I'm ready for you, I hope you're ready for me."
I don't believe him.
Because men are all about bluff & bluster. The Testosterone Wars. Always trying to one-up the next guy, often in blatant defiance of common logic.
Women are mystical, magical creatures. They are not even of the same species. Women are their own species, existing in a world that men cannot understand.
Men pretend to be tough.
Women are tough.
Go get him, Shemekia.
I received a Certificate of Merit & Appreciation when I finished radiation therapy.
It says, in part: "Joseph Testa has completed the prescribed course of radiation therapy with the highest degree of courage, determination and good nature."
When the Wizard of Oz gave the Cowardly Lion his courage he said, in part: "For meritorius conduct, extraordinary valor, and conspicuous bravery against wicked witches, I award you the Triple Cross. You are now a member of the Legion of Courage."
I am proud to be in the company of the Cowardly Lion in the Legion of Courage.
Carol and I watched a show on Showtime over the last couple of years, called "City on a Hill."
3 seasons. Fabulous show. Starring Kevin Bacon. Watch it.
Bacon played a real hard nosed, slimeball of an FBI agent named Jackie Rohr. He broke all the rules, killed people, snorted coke while he was driving with a flask of whiskey in his lap - on a regular basis - pissed everybody off etc.
In one episode he uttered the greatest line ever spoken on a TV show. He was bragging about how smooth he is. It is so perfect on so many levels that your head will explode.
Turn away if you are delicate.
"I could sell a dick brownie to a dyke on a diet."
I am much bolder in here than I am in the outside world.
Have you noticed?
Sadly, it makes me think of the social media cretins who air their hate-filled words with abandon, then sit demurely in the church pew on Sunday and inquire with feigned sincerity as to the health of Old Lady Smithfield.
There is a difference, though. My words are creative. Invigorating. Entertaining. Thought provoking. Humorous. Inspiring.
You see the difference, right?
Two possible solutions:
1) Invoke a blog exorcist to swap the personalities of Blog Joe with Real World Joe. So RW Joe becomes bold and influential, and Blog Joe becomes kindler and gentler.
2) Invoke a blog exorcist to inspire the qualities of Blog Joe in Real World Joe, while maintaining the same qualities in Blog Joe.
That's A Bold Statement: - The Joe you get in here is the real me. What? You already knew that? For Christ sake, you're always one step ahead of me.
OK, that's enough. One epiphany a day is enough to wear any man out.
(The reader thinks - You call that a fucking epiphany? If hyperbole were currency, you would be a rich man, Joe).
"When the Gods wish to punish us, they answer our prayers."
Oscar Wilde
If you want to spend meaningful time with me you must:
Love The Allman Brothers Band. Or at least know who the hell they were. And appreciate their history.
Years ago, as assistant manager of the Peterboro liquor store, I was having a late shift conversation (translation - pontificating - about The Rollong Stones. Specifically about Keith Richards) with an underling. She was 19 years old.
At some point I noticed a glazed look in her eyes. I said "You don't know who Keith Richards is, do you?" She said "No."
I have had conversations with children who could not name all four Beatles. Right of passage - you must be able to name the 1st President of the United States. You must be able to name all four Beatles. First and last names.
Love The Blues.
Have an interest in serial killers.
Love The Beatles and live in awe at the shortness of their existence.
Love The Rolling Stones and live in awe at the durability of their career - and the consistent quality of what they turn out. And the passion with which they perform the oldies.
Love poetry and have an understanding about what an exquisite form of expression it is.
Love shows like Black Monday. Currently playing on Showtime. 3 seasons. Starring Don Cheadle. You have to love insanity to love this show. If you don't love insanity don't waste your breath talking to me.
Fucking Don Cheadle, man - if you don't appreciate him you are a fool and you are missing out on some serious artistic purity. Dial up the movie Miles Ahead - a biographical drama about Miles Davis, which Cheadle co-wrote, directed and starred in. Spectacular. And just for fun, check out Bulworth. Starring Cheadle and Warren Beatty.
Love Al Pacino, Robert De Niro, Dustin Hoffman, Harry Dean Stanton, Jack Nicholson, Harvey Keitel, Tim Roth, Michael Madsen.
Love Hunter S. Thompson, Charles Bukowski, Lawrence Sanders, James Lee Burke, F. Scott Fitzgerald, William Faulkner, Edward Bunker, Cormac McCarthy, Hubert Selby Jr., Edgar Alan Poe, Oscar Wilde, Jack Ketchum.
Hate Stephen King.
Appreciate Keith Richards for his authenticity. Recognize the respect he commands within the rock 'n roll community and understand the origins of that respect.
Love the song Mother by John Lennon. Allow the raw, painful, honesty to rip the flesh from your face.
Understand that Henry James and William James were brothers - and two distinctly different people.
Have an interest in Soren Kierkegaard.
Love the movie True Romance, starring Christian Slater.
Love Christopher Walken.
Love the movie Trees Lounge, written and directed by and starring Steve Buscemi. And appreciate the line "And now, now, I got it embezzled in my head."
Love Buddy Rich, Maynard Ferguson, Chet Baker, Wynton Marsalis, Harry James, Doc Severinsen.
Despise corporate america - corporate anything - with a murderous rage.
Love creativity in its most radical form, love creativity in its most subtle form.
Love Van Gogh's story. And his art.
Love watching, reading, hearing, experiencing anything artistic that turns your stomach but does not provoke projectile vomitimg. Be challenged.
Love football. Love hockey.
Love birds.
Love sunshine. Love the dark.
Love candles.
Love Bobby Keys and Chuck Leavell, and understand the amazingly unique and magical roles they played in rock 'n roll.
This is a partial list. But it should inspire you to critically review and evaluate your resume before you send it to me.
And please.
Please don't waste my time.
I continue to see things from a different angle in 2021.
As I keep saying, the 1-2 punch of Covid & Cancer has really impacted my brain. Which is a welcome miracle. Considering the fact that I have more dead brain cells than existing brain cells, it is good to know there is still some elasticity in there.
When Keith and Craig were young, I was pretty convinced that I was the Greatest Father in the History of Fatherhood. I took enormous joy from just being around them.
They saved me. During the day I was Unhappy Joe; when I got home from work I was Ecstatic Joe. We played in the yard, we talked, we played games at the kitchen table, I read to them at night, we watched TV, we had a PATS football ritual, we took awesome vacations at a place we rented up north for 10 years or so.
I never took any of this for granted. My relationship with my sons was sacred - I looked at them through eyes of wonder. They were miracles.
When they got older, left the house, started to successfully live their own lives, I began to see myself as not much of a Dad. Because I was unhappy with my life, I was vocal about it (relentlessly) - I felt I did not set much of an example for them.
I see things differently now. What I was doing was being human. That does not make me less of a Dad.
Struggling with life, struggling with myself, fighting my inner demons, trying to connect with the beauty of my inner uniqueness.
The one indisputable thing that Keith & Craig know without a shadow of a doubt is that I love them with everything that I got. My relationship with my sons is still sacred.
Tomorrow we are all going out to eat to celebrate Mothers Day & Fathers Day. And to celebrate this family. Carol and I are so excited.
We saw them a bit here and there during the pandemic - all of us defintely made the effort, and thank god for those get togethers. But tomorrow - tomorrow, man - we are all going to sit down together in a fine restaurant and eat and talk and laugh - fucking reconnect as humans, happy and comfortable in the knowledge that we are a very special family.
I will sit at that table as The Dad, so proud of my family.
And proud of the kind of Dad that I am.
I sat in the cemetery yesterday eating my sandwich while watching four guys fill in a grave.
It must have been shortly after the burial ceremony.
There was a backhoe there that had already dealt with most of the soil. The fours guys were shoveling, raking, tamping down - making the grave presentable.
They were talking and laughing as they did this, which I have no problem with. They were doing their jobs - no disrespect was meant. And maybe to a certain extent that is the best way to deal with a job that regularly puts you in the company of the dead.
I have often said, and I mean this seriously - if I could get a job as a gravedigger I would do it. I would prefer it to be old school - start to finish- but those days are gone. If I could be one of those guys, tending to fresh graves, and my only other responsibilities were to take care of the cemetery grounds - I would be content.
But, again - those days are gone. These guys deal with public parks etc - places where there are actual living people. How very hideous.
In the past few months I have driven past burial ceremonies in progress, families and friends gathered around the coffin. I have seen people tending to gravesites and gravestones. I have heard people talking to those who are buried.
I have come to realize there is a large number of people who walk through the cemetery on their lunch breaks. Many who jog through the place. There are many older people who walk through, using their canes for support, setting a leisurely and contemplative pace.
This pleases me. It is a peaceful place.
I got out of my car yesterday and walked around a bit, as I often do, admiring gravestones and looking for my White Whale - the elusive Testa headstone. Haven't found it yet, but there are a hell of a lot left to investigate.
As I approached my car a guy jogged towards me and said "Beautiful day. Wish I could move my desk outdoors." A normal remark takes on a deeper meaning in a cemetery. I am happy to talk to people there.
When the fours guys were done with the grave, one of them spread grass seed. That was such a hopeful thing to me, to do in that setting. To stimulate growth - life - over a final resting spot felt like fighting back against death a little bit.
The last thing he did was pick up the wreaths and flowers from the funeral ceremony and gently lay them on top of the grave. It was obvious to me that he did it with respect.
I left reluctantly to return to the land of the living.
Frankly, in this situation - I get more from the truly dead than I do from the walking dead.
Happy Birthday, Paul McCartney.
79 today. Fucking 79. Please stop. Not as in dying, more like flash freezing.
The guy drives me crazy. He has written so many beautiful songs, classic songs that everybody around the world recognizes. And the man can rock - he has written many, many seriously rocking songs.
He also has a pretty solid repertoire of sappy songs. Embarassing songs. Simple songs. I don't know why.
He is an enormous talent.
I have been hard on him over the years but the more time goes by the more I soften up.
I don't want to lose him. He's a Beatle.
Had to drive Carol to a follow up appointment for the cataract thing yesterday. The Beatles channel on Sirius XM is a good compromise for our radically different musical preferences. I chose it for the ride, which was delicious because I haven't listened to it in quite a while.
But the bonus was this morning. At 6 fucking 30. The channel was still set, so there it was when I fired up the radio. It was insider radio, you know - a guy who was close to the Beatles, knows everything about them and can give you an insider's perspective. He tells stories, spins a song or two, tells more stories.
I love stuff like that. I was mesmerized. Unfortunately I don't remember his name. I thought I would but I am too fucking tired to recall. It's Friday night, you know. Stunning, no? I never write on Friday nights. Usually pour myself a whiskey straight away and wait for the blood to stop dripping off of my skull.
But I am feeling raw and emotional tonight. I have to write. My emotions have been up and down and all around all day like they were strapped in to the world's biggest, baddest rollercoaster. Which, in a sense, they were.
I was hostile when I left the house this morning.The Beatles thing soothed and caressed my nerves. I got slammed at work with a mountain of work, endless interruptions and excessively stupid questions.
Then I listened to the Beatles channel on the way home - they were celebrating Paul's birthday. Insider stuff again. Chiselled off the sharp edges. Shit, man - they played a live song from 1962 when the Beatles were in Hamburg, Germany. I have never heard that stuff before.
Sir Paul. I used to hate that. I am even beginning to accept it and respect it. For Christ sake, who deserves to be knighted more than a Beatle?
Quick sidebar: Maybe I'm Amazed, and My Love are two of my all time favorite love songs. They make me think of Carol every time. Often with tears in my eyes.
As I pulled into the driveway they were teeing up the last song of Paul's birthday celebration. Let It Be.
Let It Be is a very emotional song for me. It goes straight to my heart. I love it. Lyrics, music, mood - love it all.
In 2008 Billy Joel played a concert at Shea Stadium. Paul McCartney was a guest artist. It was to be the last concert ever performed at Shea Stadium. The kicker is that on August 15, 1965 The Beatles played at Shea Stadium. It was the first-ever open-air stadium rock concert.
For the last song of the night in 2008 - the last song that would ever be performed at Shea Stadium - Billy Joel graciously stepped aside and handed the spotlight over to Paul. Closing the loop in a very big way.
He sang Let It Be. The audience sang right along with him. I love it when that happens. There is no bigger tribute to an artist.
I sat in my car, tipped my head back and drank it all in. What a perfect ending to my bizarre fucking day.
When it was over and the audience was wildly applauding, Billy Joel said "Sir Paul McCartney". And I didn't mind. It sounded right to me.
The Beatles have meant so many things to me over the years. Liberation, when I was young. They blew my mind and convinced me that my life could be my own. That I could shape it and mold it and make it something unique and personal and exciting.
Regret, as I got older. As my life became the horrible stereotype I had hoped to avoid.
Now The Beatles represent a thing of wonder for me. They broke big in 1963. They broke up in 1969. No other group ever grew and experimented and changed and improved in such a short time. 6 years in human life. 1 million years in musical life. Listen to their music in 1963 and their music in 1969 and your mind cannot even comprehend the difference. Absolutely fucking stunning.
I celebrated Paul's birthday with him today. Jesus Christ it kept me alive. Stopped me from swerving into the path of an oncoming 18 wheeler.
I was moved, inspired, and informed. I sang a lot. My emotions were right where I need them to be to fully realize and enjoy who I am.
Happy Birthday, Paul McCartney.
I love you, man. I love your music. I am awed by your talent.
You and George Harrison and Ringo Starr and John Lennon formed a large part of my character. My personality. My perspective.
That is a hell of a gift.
Thank you.
Thank you.
Thank you.
Rugby player Jonny Wilkinson on maintaining a mindset of flexibility:
"If I need things to be a certain way, I'm held hostage by them."
"The way someone else perceives what you do is a result of their own experiences (which you can't control), their own preferences (which you can't predict), and their own expectations (which you don't set).
If your choices don't match their expectations that is their concern, not yours."
James Clear
I have been honest lately.
It hasn't gone over well.
Carol retires on June 30. I do not.
I am the one who convinced her that - since we both can't retire - she should be the one. And I meant it. Still do.
She deserves it. She has been through hell since 2017. Fucking HELL. It makes sense. I only work 2 and 1/2 days a week. Kind of like a mini-retirement (not really).
And to take a bit of a deep dive, she deserves to be happy - I do not. Not yet, anyway. She has given everything to the life she has lived. I have shirked off a bit.
I want her to be happy. I want her to experience true peace.
But I am a human being, all evidence to the contrary. It will be hard for me to go down into the coal mine 3 days a week, especially on Thursday and Friday - knowing that Carol will spend her days eating bon bons and sipping aperitifs.
There is no bitterness in these words. I am merely stating a fact. If the roles were reversed it would be hard for Carol. In fact, when I "semi-retired" in 2016 she occasionally slipped up and allowed bitter words to escape her lips.
We are only human.
I have tried to mask my feelings in humor, telling people I am not sure I'm mature enough to handle the situation as an adult. If the past is precursor to the future..........................
Again, I am making light.
However I have gotten backlash from some when I utter any doubt about our future roles. My future role to be precise. As if I am attacking Carol or I am not happy for her.
Absolute fucking bullshit.
"I will be the best man I possibly can." Duane Allman. These are the words I try to live by, the words that haunt me.
This will be a marvelous test of my resolve, beginning on July 1. A 5:30 a.m. day to boot. The perfect set up.
I'll do my best.
I guess the lesson learned is that there are some situations in life when honesty is not the best policy. I am a little raw lately given the magnitude of recent events. I think I have been more honest than usual, although that's a tough measurement to take because I am so good at fooling myself.
Or am I?
This is one of those life situations. A rock solid test. Can I rise to the occasion? Be a better man? Substitute Carol's happiness for my own?
I actually think I can. And if I succeed I will have flexed another muscle in my arsenal.
If I fail I will take down all the mirrors in the house and open up a bitter dialogue with the Devil.
Abraham Lincoln, when President, was asked to intervene in the scheduled execution of a Union soldier - William Scott - who had fallen asleep at his post when on watch. Lincoln opposed the execution. In a discussion of the situation, he said in part:
"Scott's life is as valuable to him as that of any person in the land. You remember the remark of a Scotchman about the head of a nobleman who was decapitated. It was a small matter of a head, but it was valuable to him, poor fellow, for it was the only one he had."
I am experiencing true tranquility today.
Last Monday was the final radiation session. I had Tuesday off from work. I revelled in the sheer beauty and slow moving pace of the day. The shape of it. The feel. No obligations. No place I had to be. No deadlines. No commitments.
I was immediately plunged into chaos on Wednesday. I had to drive Carol to Bedford for cataract surgery. On Thursday I had to drive her to Manchester for follow-up on the surgery. I worked Thursday afternoon and all day Friday.
None of this was relaxing.
Wednesday was a bizarre step backwards in time - all the way back to March of 2020. The automatic doors at the entrance to the building were disabled. We had to wait until someone came out, checked our bona fides and allowed entrance. They then checked our temperatures. Masks were required.
I was not allowed to sit in the waiting room. No one is. I was not allowed to stay in the building. Which meant I had 2 hours to kill.
We were aware of this upfront, so I brought a big fat book with me. The day was gorgeous. I sat in my car and read, windows down, sunroof open.
1 and 1/2 hours later they called to tell me to park outside the entrance in 15 minutes. Around 30 minutes later Carol strolled out of the building.
It was a strange experience.
Carol is doing OK but not as OK as she would like. EVERYONE told her the surgery was a piece of cake and her eyesight would be excellent almost immediately. This is 5 days later and the vision in that eye is a bit blurry still. Carol is not happy. She will be calling Dr. Feelgood today to see what the hell is up.
OK. Back to my selfish story.
We had a peaceful weekend and now I have today and tomorrow. True peace. Sweet tranquility.
I just exercised and showered and I am feeling powerful. My perspective has been sharpened once again..
The 44 day intrusion of radiation sucked the life out of my days. But now that it is over, it makes me appreciate a little more what a fucking gift 4 days off from work every week is.
Truthfully I have never become jaded about the 4 day break - I savor it. But not having radiation to deal with makes the time even a little sweeter.
That's my story.
Hope you are well.
Heard the song on my way home last night.
For the 10,000th time. A blues classic indeed, covered by everybody from John Lee Hooker to George Thorogood and everybody in between.
Got me reminiscing about back in the day, when bars were my home and home was a place to sleep.
The song captures a moment in time when the Alcohol Police weren't constantly looking over your shoulder. Admittedly, it was a long moment in time and I'm glad I caught the tailend of it.
I can't pinpoint the moment when the Temperance Movement rose to power, but I'm pretty sure I snuck in around 20 good years of insanity. Priceless. And worth it.
Back then you could order a shot and a beer. What? How very decadent. Morally reprehensible. Try it now and you will be shunned by society. Blacklisted. Tarred and feathered and run out of town.
A shot and a beer go together like PB&J, man. It's indisputable. I don't drink a lot of beer these days, because it fills me up and my bladder has very little patience, but when I do drink beer I invariably pour myself a shot. It's just the way god wants it.
My father and I were actually shut off in a Pizza Hut once. A fucking Pizza Hut. We drank a pitcher of beer - and I'm talking about what passes for a pitcher in Pizza Hut - more like a thimble. We ordered another one and were told they would not serve us. And we were not naked and singing Sympathy For The Devil while standing on the table.
Christ, man.
American society is so hypocritical. People demonize alcohol for show, and then commit to pouring as much of it down their throats as possible. As often as possible.
When I worked at the liquor store, I often wondered what percentage of people were going home to get drunk, and what percentage were going home for a civilized drink.
I would bet my house the drunk percentage is much higher than you think.
This is why I prefer the company of derelicts. They just do their thing - without guilt - have fun, get insane, laugh a lot. And when the morning light comes streaming in, they get up and do it again, amen.
Alcohol is magic. It's self-regulating. You can consume just enough to take the edge off. Or you can hit it hard and erase your life for a while. Your call. They even sell it in itty bitty bottles that you can slip into your pocket and sneak into work for those times when your boss decides to flex his "asshole" muscle.
The deranged portion of my brain is calling out to me. Maybe I'll pour myself one bourbon, one scotch and one beer just for spite. Just to do it. Settle into my recliner and watch The Sox. Although I'd much rather be watching The Bruins. Shit, man - I'm missing them badly. Severely. Sucks they got eliminated.
One bourbon, one scotch and one beer will surely make baseball more palatable.
This is a blues song by Curtis Selgado.
Dig some of the lyrics.
"................I know that every new sunrise, the more it dawns on me, I may be gettin' old, but I sure ain't done yet
'cause the longer that I live, the older I want to get
My body's just flesh and bone wrapped around a soul, when it's time to leave this earth, I hope I'm the last to know, when I go I'll be screaming 'I ain't finished yet'
'cause the longer that I live, the older I want to get"
This is where my head's at now. There were long stretches of my life, even recently, when I didn't give a shit whether I lived or died. Of course I say that, but if GodDude stood in front of me and said "You got 5 minutes to live" - would I panic, or would I do a shot with him and go peacefully?
Don't know.
Covid & Cancer sittin' in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g. Shit fucked with my head - now I'm thinking I'd like to stick around a while.
My eyes have truly been opened. It's a goddamn cliche, but I'm seeing things differently. I just had to run out to buy a bag of kitty litter. As I was driving home I was looking around me, appreciating the natural beauty we are surrounded by. Drinking it in and responding emotionally. On a road I have driven thousands of times.
I could give you 100 more examples but I don't want you to laugh. Or fall asleep.
Curtis got it right, man. The longer that I live, the older I want to get.
Mr. Selgado is relatively new to me. Another song of his that I love is titled "I Want My Dog To Live Longer (The Greatest Wish)". A taste:
"Wish I was the king of rock and roll, wish I was cool and in the know, and I wish I'd wrote Blowin In The Wind, I'd like to see my late mother again, I'd like to stop poverty, save this world from hunger, but the greatest wish, oh, I want to come true - I want my dog to live longer."
Curtis gets it, man. I like his outlook on life. And he's a bluesman, baby - so he's automatically got my respect.
Me & Maka, baby - we are gonna ride this thing out a while longer - hopefully a Long while longer.
Oh yeah - and Carol too.
Radiation is done.
I do not have to leave my house today at 3:15. I do not have to drop my drawers in front of strangers, employing casual conversation as I do so. I do not have to stare at an external beam radiation machine making two rotations around my aged body as I lie on a table like a cadaver about to be autopsied. I do not have to say, with forced cheerfulness - "See you tomorrow."
I am done. Fucking done.
I lost all discipline over the last two months. Apparently, this shit weighed heavy on my mind.
But today is R&R day. Vacation, baby. Vacation from the spectre of cancer. Gonna read, write, watch a movie, listen to music, listen to a podcast - do whatever the hell I feel like doing that nourishes my soul.
Already, I feel like Jesus when he ascended into heaven. And my father is dead so I don't have to wonder why he has forsaken me.
Shit, man - I feel good.
I also feel challenged.
Dealing with this cancer shit left a mark. In my heart, on my soul, in my mind. Fortunately I already began the good work of the Joe Testa Reclamation Project. Been banging away from the very beginning of 2021.
So I got momentum on my side.
But I gotta take it further. Gotta kick it up a notch. I accomplished a lot, which hipped me to the fact that my potential is unlimited. My true essence has been lying dormant within myself since January 1, 1954, when fucking Dr. Feelgood ripped me out of the womb with forceps. Fucking forceps.
What part of "I don't want to be born" did he not understand?
But here I am. 67 years later. My wife has been through cancer and surgery hell. I have dealt with and am dealing with cancer. So many members of my family have died, many of them prematurely. I feel like god is more of a Mafia boss with a vendetta against the Testa Family - one of the five prominent NH mafioso families.
I would be a fool to leave things as they are. I can do more. I can rescue my life from the dustbin of obscurity. I dealt with this radiation shit, I can deal with the wreakage of my life.
The Pogues - "Fairy Tale of New York" - Call: "I could have been someone." Response: "Well so could anyone."
Take your pick. I could have been someone - personal regret. Well so could anyone - exposing personal regret as excuse.
Either one applies to me.
I am going to do something about it.
I am reading "Team of Rivals - The Political Genius of Abraham Lincoln", by Doris Kearns Goodwin.
It is an epic tome (754 pages, hardcover - my favorite kind of book) about Abraham Lincoln and his runup to the presidency. Spectacular read.
There is historical speculation about whether Lincoln was clinically depressed or just a naturally melancholy man. Goodwin comes down on the side of melancholy, tied to the fact that Lincoln was uncommonly tenderhearted. From the book: "He possessed extraordinary empathy. .............In a world environed by cruelty and injustice, Lincoln's remarkable empathy was inevitably a source of pain. His sensibilities were not only acute, they were raw."
That's me. I am The King of Empathy. So much so that it tends to shrink me down and build others up. It is a source of pain. It is raw.
It is also the reason people love me.
I feel other peoples' pain. I listen intently when they talk and they know this. They sense it. They appreciate it.
Generally, I don't get the same consideration in return, but - come on - I am 67 years old. I've been around, baby. I understand that people are selfish, tone deaf and insensitive.
I also believe that people just want to be heard. They want to be recognized as alive.
Life beats them about the head mercilessly, until dizziness feels like stability. So when someone acknowledges them as human - even by doing something as simple as just listening to them - they melt, they open up, they exist.
And the feeling is foreign. Intoxicating.
Human beings deserve this experience.
Precious few people know I have prostate cancer. Because when someone says to me "What a beautiful day" I don't respond with "I have prostate cancer." Plenty of people would. And do. Because the only thing that matters is what's happening to them.
This is the opposite of empathy.
I am not bragging. I am pointing out that genuine human interaction is more important to me than playing directly to the sympathy game. And please note: Sympathy is a much different animal than empathy.
Sympathy is something that people manufacture. Empathy comes from the heart.
Important point: There is nowhere close to enough empathy in the world. Empathy is what counts.
Empathy is precious.
So me & Abe - we got something in common. We care about other people. Intensely.
We have empathy.
This is a character trait that is being bled out of the human race.
I am happy today.
I feel it intensely. I am light hearted and moving freely.
In anticipation.
The final zapping today. Somewhere around 4:15 I will be done with radiation.
This situation has been weighing more heavily on my inner self than I realized.
I reached a state of semi-equilibrium sometime during the process. A place where I recognized the seriousness of it all but countered that with an awareness of statistics that are overwhelmingly in my favor.
The easy going relationship I established with the Radiation Warriors smoothed things out too.
But I rolled out of bed this morning and bounced down the stairs like a red rubber ball. I was caught off guard at just how good I felt.
So, obviously, Inner Joe has been hunkered down under the weight of it all, keeping a low profile, allowing Outer Joe to get through the process in relative calm.
Today, Inner Joe is back and he is laughing.
Tonight Carol and I are going out to dinner to celebrate. And tomorrow................................
tomorrow will be my first day off from work since April 6 when I DO NOT have to drive into Concord to get zapped. Tomorrow will be a day of uninterrupted peace. It will be slow moving and soul-nourishing.
I..................cannot.....................wait.
Came across a gravestone of a fiercely Italian husband and wife yesterday.
A beautifully Italian name that only Italians and people who care could pronounce. I should have written it down so I could honor them properly.
Editor's note: People who turn soft C's into hard C's when attempting to pronounce Italian names, piss me off. Make some fucking effort. And that is only one small example of how the exquisitely beautiful Italian language is butchered by ignorant Americans.
What caught my eye was these words at the bottom of the gravestone: Oggi Domani Sempre. This of course caught my attention and I had to know.
I have checked out a number of translations and the concensus is "today, tomorrow, and forever." I read up a little more and I believe it is safe to infer the intended sentiment as "our love today, tomorrow and forever".
Beautiful.
Italians are emotional and sentimental, which is why I am proud of my heritage. Italians are naturally alive - just watch their hands as they talk.
Other Cemetery notes:
1) I watched a man get out of his car yesterday with a bucket and a plant in his hands. He walked to a gravestone and poured water over it from the bucket and then washed it down thoroughly and lovingly with a cloth. He dug a hole in the earth and placed the plant firmly into it. I was close enough to hear him talking as he did this.
I was really moved. It got me thinking that burial is more intimate than cremation. You can care for this person that you love when they are in the ground. Tend to the plot, take care of the gravestone - talk to them. It is a real, physical connection.
As opposed to ashes on the mantlepiece. The only care involved there is to make sure your senile Uncle Ralph doesn't flick the ashes from his cigar into the urn.
2) I visit the graveyard on my lunch break, which means I am forced to check my watch. As I did that yesterday two things occurred to me:
A) Checking your watch in a graveyard seems a bit ironic.
B) Checking your watch in a graveyard is a bit prophetic. And a touch ominous.
I just want to get this shit over with, for Christ sake.
Monday, June 7, is the final radiation session. Four more to go including today.
Humans are strange beasts. At least I am.
You would think that "almost over" would fuel positive thoughts. Instead, the last two weeks have been driving me nuts. I am so close to the end, have put up with this whole routine since the beginning of April, and my patience is thin.
Tired of the routine, which never became routine. Whatever I'm doing, working or enjoying a day off - at around 3:45 I step into an alternate reality. I settle into the waiting area - which is usually devoid of humans - for what is typically a five or ten minute wait. They are very good and very punctual.
Although there are four words that strike terror into my heart - "we are running behind." This has happened a couple of times to me. The terror comes from the fact that I have to guzzle 16 ounces of water shortly before radiation rain. This fills the bladder and gives the radiation machine a better shot at the prostate.
I am 67 years old. When I drink 16 ounces of water I am merely a conduit - it doesn't hang around long. I have had a couple of uncomfortable moments but no catastrophes.
Anyway I settle into the waiting area and pretend to be unconcerned. But I am sitting in the waiting area of the Radiation Oncology unit - it is unnatural and assaults my brain with a compromised reality. It is freaky. It is not fun.
Besides which, as I turn into the winding driveway of the hospital and bend left towards the top of the incline, I come face to face with this sign: "Payson Center for Cancer Care." There are other places I would rather be.
There is no way to accept this as routine. It is a pain in my ass and a pain in my reality.
I will gut out The Final Four, and on Tuesday, June 8 - I will have my life back.
To a certain extent.
Still gotta deal with hormone therapy into 2023. No small deal.
On March 16 I boldly announed I had lost 10 pounds. I am still there. Still fucking there. My intention was to shortly brag about having lost 15 pounds. Instead I have been up a couple, down a couple - just marking time. It has been a royal pain in the ass. A pain in the ass I will be dealing with into 2023.
But I kicked everything up a notch over the last 6 days. I am pushing hard and harder. I will get what I want.
That is long term. Short term is June 7. The final zapping.
I will float out of that building on that day and drift back down to what, for now, passes as normal life for me.
Coming to an end.
I was very practical. Did a lot of work on the room upstairs - my lair - cleaned it out and up. It was a major fucking project and took about 4 hours over two days. But I made it functional.
I exercised hard.
Read a lot. Watched movies. Relaxed. Escaped from regret and worry as much as my mind would allow.
Did not work on my brain as much as I wanted to. I am experiencing a feeling of unease as tomorrow approaches. Still have no concrete plan for ending my own private hell.
That is a mistake.
The fucking alarm will screech at 5:30 am and I will immediately sink into despair. Vacations never take.
I was able to pinpoint two areas of focus for me to concentrate on. Kind of came up on me randomly, as my mind was freed up to contemplate, but they are true and they are accurate.
Mental toughness. Critical thinking.
I continue to push.
I know poison will consume me tomorrow. Probably start tonight. Eat away at me, melt my flesh and corrode my bones.
But I am more of a moving target thatn I used to be.
