Emotions (Honestly)

Emotions are complex in perception and expression.

Some people bury them; pretend they don't exist. And pay the price.

Others are ruled by them. And pay the price.

Some mock them as weak. Others revere them as the purest source of life.

Public displays? Ridiculed. Because emotions are brutally honest.

Honesty itself is complex. In its purest form it is noble. Unless it concerns painful emotions;

then it is a joke (to some).

Emotions reflect the highest of highs and lowest of lows. They can range from inconsequential to momentous.

Emotions monitor a life. Happiness results from remaining true to one's nature. Sadness is a warning to change the approach.

Emotions are the essence of humanity.

They need to be considered as such.

The Question Is

 "No one opened doors for me. I pushed through. The question is will they remain open?"

Courtesy of Michael Kevin Kealey. Born May 30,1958. Died August 23, 1990.

Do Some Good

 "Seek always to do some good even if it is a small thing. Do something for those who have need of help - not for pay, but for the mere priviledge of doing it. You don't live in a world alone. Your brothers and sisters are here too."

Courtesy of Leo M. - Born May 6, 1929 - Died December 23, 1986.

and his wife

Dorothy M. - Born July 17, 1933 - Died March 4, 2009.

How Is Your Neuro-Chemical State?

 During a drunken, drug fueled night, Moby said: "But why doesn't God let us feel like this all the time?" His companion asked "What do you mean?"

He said: "I mean that an omnipotent God could give us any resting neuro-chemical state, so why doesn't he let us feel like this from the time we're born until the moment we die?"

I believe that is a valid question.

God?

Charlie Watts

I have been trying to write this fucking eulogy for 3 days and I just can't get it right.

So today I am going to shoot from the hip.

Charlie Watt's death is devastating.

There was a ton of great music created between 1963 and 1969. It is stunning what happened to the music world in just those 6 years.

Two groups reigned above it all - The Beatles and The Rolling Stones. Right there, right at the very beginning they proved how diverse the music could be. The Beatles split up in 1969; The Stones are still playing today.

But it will never be the same.

Since 1975, the heart and soul of this group has been Ronnie Wood, Mick Jagger, Keith Richards and Charlie Watts. I could explain the changes in the band between 1962 and 1975, and 1992 to now, but you don't really care, do you?

You shouldn't. The only thing you should care about is that Charlie Watts will no longer be staring at Mick Jagger's bum, as Charlie once described it.

By the way, Charlie agreed to join the group in 1963 (he had to be asked twice), but only if they guaranteed to pay him 5 pounds a week. He was already making money with jazz bands.

Charlie and his wife Shirley bred Arabian horses. They lived on a farm in the village of Dolton, England. They have a daughter named Seraphina and a grand-daughter named Charlotte. Charlie had an impressive collection of classic cars but never got a driver's license. 

You will hear him decribed as elegant. And refined. Repeatedly. That is the perfect description of the man. Both in style and in his drumming. Supremely elegant.

He was also a tough cookie. Famous story - Amsterdam 1984. Earlier in the day, the band had a meeting to discuss whether they still wanted to go on as a band because Jagger was embarking on a solo career. Jagger said to Charlie: "None of this should matter to you because you're only my drummer."

Later on, after a drunken night out with Keith, Jagger called Charlie in his hotel room and said "Where's my drummer?" Charlie proceeded to go up to Keith's room, shoved him aside to get to Mick and then punched Jagger in the face, saying "Don't ever call me your drummer again. You're my fucking singer!"

Charlie understood perfectly his role in the band.

He never indulged in the typical excesses of a rock star except for one brief period between 1983 and 1986. He was drinking heavily and using heroin. He pulled out of it and that was that.

Most people consider Mick and Keith the heart and soul of The Stones. But those in the know, musicians and people in the music industry, considered Charlie Watts to be the heart and soul.

Keith Richards is one of them. He has been quoted as saying "Without Charlie there would be no Stones."

Ronnie Wood: "Charlie's the engine. We don't go anywhere without the engine."

That is why his death is such a monumental loss. The absolute core of this group -  one of the most revered and influential bands in all of rock 'n roll - is gone.

After a 58 year run.

Many people question whether The Stones will still be The Stones without Charlie. Many people believe they will not.

I don't get into distinctions like that. I need The Rolling Stones to go on for a while longer. I need it.

But it will never be the same.

No Better Words (Charlie Watts)

Elton John on Charlie Watts: "A very sad day. Charlie Watts was the ultimate drummer. The most stylish of men, and such brilliant company. My deepest condolences to Shirley, Seraphina and Charlotte. And of course, The Rolling Stones."

 I have always said that Chuck Leavell had the best job in rock 'n roll for many years. He plays keyboards, and for a while he toured with The Allman Brothers Band. When they were not on the road he toured with The Rolling Stones. Does it get any better than that?

Chuck's words on Charlie Watts: "We are all shocked and devastated to lose Charlie. I feel broken. There has been no man finer, more elegant, and more beautiful to walk the Earth than Charlie Watts. All class. As a musician, his timing and beat were impeccable, his touch delicate yet so powerful. His sense of what and what not to play was unsurpassed. It has been the honor of my life to have played with him over the last 40 years, and to have called him a friend. My heart goes out to his beautiful family."

I am sure there are hundreds more sentiments expressing the same thoughts about Charlie Watts.

Ultimate, stylish, brilliant company, fine, elegant, beautiful, class.

These are not typical compliments for a rock 'n roll drummer.

The man had his own unique presence.

Hearts are broken all over the world.

They Called Him Doctor, After All

 "I'd rather have the whole world against me than my own soul."

Dr. John

This Just In

 It just occurred to me.

I don't have to be sad.

I can be happy.

Simple Wisdom

I am watching a series on Netflix called Peaky Blinders.

Spectacular show.

Sadly, I am about to watch the last 2 episodes of Season 5. Probably today. Season 6 is not scheduled for release until 2022.  It is imperative that I maintain whatever health I have until then.

Since I am a world renowned influencer, I know you might want to check out the show based on my experience. Just know that violence is graphic; your weak stomach may preclude your enjoyment of the fascinating story lines and characters. In addition it is set in the early 20th century in England. If you don't enjoy period pieces, you might not like it.

What the hell is wrong with you? Why are you so close-minded?

Two of the main characters were having a conversation about how the world works. One made the following brilliant observation: "Big fucks small."

Succinct. Perfect.

Because that is exactly how the world works. Exactly how life works.

If you are small, if your job is small, if your paycheck is small, your life constricted within asphyxiating borders - you lose.

Big will make sure you lose.

We all come out of the box aiming to be Big. We want wealth, independence, respect, a fun and fascinating life. The odds are against that. Enormously so.

Natural and unnatural selection will conspire against you to put the boot to your neck and keep it there until death makes its presence unnecessary.

Unfortunately there are more than enough boots to go around.

It's not enough that reality is made up of Big and Small. Big just can't leave it alone. Big will actively instigate to exploit, subjugate, abuse and dominate Small.

Cold, huh?

Defining life is the biggest challenge for the inquiring mind. Understanding it. Wondering why you cannot bend it to your will.

When your eyes glaze over as your head pounds from smashing it against the wall, pull back and say out loud "Big fucks small."

It won't feel good, but submitting to reality can sometimes help you to avoid the pusher man.

Ryan Fitzpatrick (Where's The Justice?)

Ryan Fitzpatrick is an NFL quarterback.

He came into the league in 2005 and is still playing. His career so far has spanned 16 years. 

In that time he has played for eight teams - St. Louis Rams, Cincinnati Bengals, Buffalo Bills, Tennessee Titans, Houston Texans, New York Jets, Tampa Bay Buccaneers, Miami Dolphins, and currently with the Washington Football Team (stupidest team name ever). 

He has had only two winning seasons. 2015 with the Jets and 2020 with the Dolphins.

He has never made the playoffs.

His career win/loss record is 59-86-1. For the athletically uninitiated that translates into 59 wins, 86 losses and 1 tie. Eighty six fucking losses.

Ryan Fitzpatrick signed a 1 year contract this year with the Washington Football Team for $10 million.

Ten million dollars.

His net worth is roughly estimated at $24 million.

My "career" has roughly paralleled Fitzpatrick's in success rate.

My net worth is roughly estimated at $375.00.

No one is offering me a $10 million dollar contract.

Where is my ten million?

There is something very wrong with this picture.

It disturbs me.

I Stand Corrected

 I assumed Megan Thee Stallion was a man.

The Core Problem

 "I thought of............................the innocence of a world in which inarticulate people could not tell one another adequately of either their pain or the yearnings of their hearts."

From Purple Cane Road, by James Lee Burke

Giorgio

 Giorgio said to his buddy: "I now understand why I have failed. The one and only thing I know how to do is emote.

No one will pay you to emote."

No Sense

 It makes no sense to editorialize.

No one listens, no one cares.

Alexa Is Stalking Me

The green light swirls and I respond like Pavlov's dog - oh boy, my stuff is here.

Although Amazon has fucked up quite a bit lately - delivering our stuff to the wrong house. They provide a picture of where the package was left and we say "That is not our fucking house!"

We contact them, we complain, we give accurate descriptions of our property and our house. Still, they fuck up.

My assumption is that during Covid, Amazon suspended the requirement that applicants possess a degree from the University of Oxford in England.

It has happened 5-6-7 times - ridiculous; but since they quickly provide a replacement at no charge, it is not a cataclysmic event.

We have walked around the neighborhood looking for "the green door" - that is Amazon's favorite place to leave our stuff. We have looked for the broken down screen door, the concrete walkway - other favorites of Amazon - and identified nothing.

The most disturbing aspect is that our neighbors are keeping this stuff - only 2 items have been returned to us, and both were done anonymously.

No balls. No integrity. May they rot in hell.

But I digress.

Sometimes the green light swirls and Alexa tries to bully me. "You bought cat food 28 days ago. Don't you think it's time to re-order? Don't you pay attention? Do you want your cat to starve?"

We have a conversation. I tell her I'm a big boy. I can manage my own affairs. I make the decisions around here - not her.

She laughs and says "You are delusional. You are not in control."

But it's the blue light that unnerves me.

Late at night. Low lit room. Whiskey in hand. The blue light begins to swirl. 

Alexa is gathering information. Reading my mind. Monitoring my activities. Eavesdropping our conversations.

Carol says "You used to wear beautiful clothes before you became a jiggly behemoth. Tailored suits, silk ties, linen shirts. Don't you miss them?"

The next day, when Carol is not around, Alexa tells me that Italian combination wool and silk suits are marked down from $3350 to $2010. Italian leather shoes are marked down from $295 to $225.

I drool. I dream.

I am imagining one night - imagining myself driving the Lincoln I was born to drive. The Lincoln I deserve. The next day Alexa hooks me up with a Lincoln dealer who offers to sell me a 2021 Lincoln Navigator for $73,500.

I drool. I dream.

I paid $17 for the last watch I bought. On Amazon. A watch is jewelry to me. I like having them on my wrist. I don't need them. 

But I despise being a pauper. I want to spend money. I want the status a fat bank account confers.

Alexa knows this.

She tells me I can get my hands on a Rolex Explorer for $11,000. That's a discount of $1995.

My resistance is down. I am weak. I have profiteered off of Covid. I want to spend this money.

I drool. I dream. I act.

Next day delivery. I don't sleep that night.

The next day Amazon delivers my Rolex to the fucking green door.

Facial Expressions

I am fascinated by the interpreters for the deaf you see on TV every time someone gives a speech or speaks publicly about anything important.

It's the facial expressions. They act out what they are interpreting.

I think it is involuntary.

I think they are so intent on getting it right that they put everything they have into it. I think if you put a mask on them the message would be compromised at least 50%.

Ever watch a talented guitar player cranking on a solo?

Look at their mouth. Their mouth is simulating what their fingers are doing.

Again, I think it is involuntary.

I don't believe they can stop it from happening.

Creativity is a comprehensive mind/body thing. You use everything you got to get your point across no matter what the medium is.

Healthier Brain Better Life

That is Prevagen's slogan.

They are right about that but I don't think popping a pill gives you a healthier brain.

The medical community in this country has devolved into one that operates out of fear and intimidation.

I despise them for this.

Way back in the way back I had a doctor who was about my age. A man. We had good conversations. He respected me, I respected him.

An aging man has to deal with pissing issues. Your "stream" gets weaker. You gotta deal with it.

In my fifties I had a conversation with the doc - he asked me if I found myself standing closer to the toilet. He was asking from a perspective of medical expertise and from the persepctive of his own experience.

I got a kick out of that. It was an honest question. Direct and to the point.

He retired and I was assigned a female doc who could have been a Navy seal. Everything about her was combative. She was always trying to prescribe more drugs, convince me to get flu shots blah blah blah. Always argiung with me, always using fear in an attempt to intimidate me into doing shit.

I dumped her, filed a complaint with the hospital, and was assigned another female doc.

This one was combative too. Her big thing was the fucking flu shot. She harassed me at every physical. I resisted. Finally she said to me: "You know, people your age die from the flu."

Are you fucking kidding me?

I asked her when the medical community decided that fear and intimidation was a valid approach to health. I broke her. Now she leaves me alone.

"Would you like a flu shot?" "Nope." "OK. Nice weather we're enjoying lately, huh?"

People are deeply fearful of Alzheimers. By the way there is no T in alzheimers. Wake the fuck up.

Prevagen plays to that fear. You will not forget your kids names if you swallow this pill.

I have been exercising my brain in 2021. Memorization seems to be the best way to go. I have memorized quite a bit of stuff. Lately I am working on memorizing Oscar Wilde's poem "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night."

Read the poem. First of all it is inspiring from the perspective of fighting back against the inevitability of dying. Secondly, it is not an easy poem to memorize. This is not exactly everyday speech, folks.

Memorization has helped me this year. My brain seems clearer, I feel like I am actually thinking from time to time, which is a novel approach for me.

I don't need no fucking pill. Although I would dearly love to ingest LSD and blow all the twisted, fearful, ill-informed cobwebs out of my brain. However - that is no longer a viable possibility - too many twisted demons in my head.

Work on your head. Try memorization. Read.

Eventually your efforts will fall short because life works inexorably to rob you of everything that you are.

At that point, take a pill. But not Prevagen. Fuck Prevagen.

Booze and pills and powders. There are a lot of options available to you that are a lot more fun than Prevagen.

Go out with a smile.

Perfect Clarity

Watching the Red Sox yesterday.

Had to check out Chris Sale, don't you know.

The Jimmy Fund is running its annual fund raiser. They ran a commercial yesterday showing a father talking about his son's struggle with cancer.

He was having a hard time expressing his thoughts. You could see him struggle and feel the intense emotion.

Then he paused and said this:

"I'd give my last breath for him to take his next."

That is what it means to be a parent.

Rationalization

Inscribed on a gravestone:

"Father in thy gracious keeping, leave we now our loved ones sleeping"

The more I see, the more I become aware of how humans think. How they deal.

Imagining deceased relatives as sleeping is a lot more comforting than thinking of them as dead. 

Imagining them in the care of a higher power is a lot more comforting than imagining them alone in the dark.

I got no problem wih that.

Beloved

I was listening to The Grateful Dead channel on Sirius over the last two days.

It occurred to me yesterday that The Dead are beloved. By the way, The Grateful Dead is one of the greatest band names in the history of rock.

The Dead are beloved. The Allman Brothers are beloved. The Beatles were beloved. The Stones are beloved.

Justin Bieber is not beloved. By the way it occurs to me that it is amusing when I try to make current cultural references. I am so out of touch with "today's music" that what I am assuming is current, is probably ancient.

Perhaps I am officially old. Or maybe I just don't give a shit.

"Beloved" is defined by Vocabulary.com in this way: "the adjective beloved is more intense than the adjective loved."

If I make up the word behated, does that mean I really fucking hate somebody?

The definition leaves something to be desired, but I like the fact that it is a special word meant to convey a more powerful emotion. I dig powerful words.

Fans and DJ's on The Grateful Dead channel speak of them with reverence and awe. And knowledge. Same with the U2 channel.

Allman Brothers fans - same thing. One of the great joys derived from the many Allman Brothers concerts I attended in my life was partying in the parking lot - before and after - with fans 20 years younger than me. People wandering back and forth between cars sharing joints, booze - and conversation. They were one generation removed from my original addiction to this band and yet they were enthusiastic, respectful and awed.

Amusing Aside: I have told this story before - I will tell it again. 

One summer me and my friends had already attended two Allman Brothers concerts. But they were set to play in Manchester, which is 45 minutes from my home. Could not talk anyone into going so I said fuck it and went by myself. Ended up sitting next to some youngsters and we were shooting the shit about the ABB.

One kid asked me how long I had been an Allman Brothers fan. I said: "Since 1969, when the first album came out. He responded: "Wow, you must be old." In hindsight I am pretty sure he was joking, amiably busting my balls. But maybe not.

My brain started percolating on the word "beloved" yesterday. Strangely enough, I finished a biography on Tiger Woods this very morning. The very last sentence of the book - and I am paraphrasing - said something like "in his life, Tiger evolved from being loved as a golfer, to being beloved as a human."

Crazy, huh? I am in beloved mode.

Beloved is good. I hope to be beloved some day.

Seems like a worthy goal.

The New Plan

He found the situation odd.

Enormously frustrating, actually.

After identifying specific steps necessary to resurrect his life from the ash heap of failure, he was unable to put the plan into motion.

Strange times, these.

Stymied at every turn. "I will contact these people and they will do my bidding." He contacted them and they let him down. Never lifted a finger. Most never even responded.

Repeated attempts from every angle he could consider brought him to zero.

Ever resilient, he changed the plan and made fresh attempts at contacting other people to do other things. These people let him down as well. Few responded.

Where is everybody? What are they doing?

Strange cycle of life. Inspiration rarely matches reality.

When he is uninspired and lifeless, the world is humming along at top speed. Things are happening. Deals are being made. Plans are executed and outcomes are realized.

When he is inspired and brimming with hope, the world is dead. Upside down. Topsy turvy. Unresponsive.

Can't get ahead with mismatched cycles.

Electroshock therapy.

That is the new plan.

Learning

What is learning?

Is this something that people actually do? How does it work?

Apparently learning happens when you experience something, and then take a step back to evaluate that experience. You figure out if it was a good experience or a bad experience given the parameters of your goals, aspirations and dreams, and then make whatever mid-course corrections you deem necessary to get you to where you want to be.

At least that's what I am told.

Seems like learning could be a very valuable tool in living a life.

I have determined that I need to strengthen my learning capabilities. So I hired a Life Learning Counselor & Gut-Check coach. We hit it off right off the bat.

His fee is $10,000 which appears steep, but I figured at this point in my life I need rapid, high quality results.

He asked for $5,000 up front to cover Preparation Contingencies. Seemed reasonable to me.

I haven't seen him since.

Freaky Deaky

Gravestones with high quality photos of the deceased embossed on them.

Freaky deaky, baby.

I don't think embossed is the right word. Embalmed? Just kidding.

You get the point.

I stumbled upon an area in the cemetery yesterday with four or five gravestones like this in one small area. I haven't seen this before and I don't know why they were clustered in this area.

Some kind of bureaucratic cemetery rule? Like "we keep all the freaks together."

Because it was freaky.

I wandered amongst them and was uncomfortable. Maybe because it makes death more personal; more real.

Generally, I feel at peace in this place; somber, thoughful. I was a bit edgy yesterday.

I was continually drawn back to one stone that had a beautiful picture of the husband and wife on it. Arms around each other looking straight out at me. Smiling.

It really emphasized what these people had lost.

I prefer to read inscriptions and epitaphs, check out names and dates, very much aware that I am in a place where I am not yet ready to take up residence. Merely passing through. I prefer not to look at faces.

I came across a stone with a picture of a man with his daughter. He was forty years older than she was; they died on the same day. Some kind of story there.

His birthday was January 1, 1937. That freaked me out a bit. For those who don't pay attention, my birthday is January 1.

I undertsand the desire to personalize gravestones, and I'm sure it means an awful lot to those left behind. You get to look into their eyes while you visit and talk to them. Keep their memory forever fresh in your mind.

It is just too real for me. 

Part of what I enjoy about the cemetery is the anonymity. I can read the stone and get images in my mind based on dates, names, inscriptions, style of stone etc. Create stories. My mind is free to wander.

But pictures, man. Too much.  Pictures take the guesswork out of the whole deal.

P.S. - I continue to hunt my White Whale.

The Clown Show That Is Our Government

 "Congressman is literally the only job in the world you can get with so much prestige and so many perks, while being a complete dufus with absolutely no skills, knowledge or qualifications."

Bill Maher, "New Rules", 8/7/2021

Or What?

Those two words might very well be the two most powerful words in the English Language, in that combination.

You say "This is the way it's going to be from now on. Period."

And the person you are threatening asks "Or what?"

Puts your back up against the wall, doesn't it?

We are all full of bluff and bluster, but when it comes down to the nitty gritty, most of us are made of Silly Putty.

All talk, no action.

Somebody asks you "Or what?" and you have to back up your threat. You have to tell them what you'll do and they have to believe you will actually do it.

Or you are wasting your fucking breath.

A Beautiful Turn Of Phrase

Edge turns 60 on Sunday, August 8.

The Edge, Edge - however you want to refer to him. He is a personal friend of mine so I just call him Edge.

Phil Taggart - a DJ on U2-X radio on Sirius XM, in tribute - is sponsoring a kind of "Your favorite guitar god" kind of thing.

When he was talking about it yesterday he said to consider the people you admire who "took 6 strings and 21 frets and plugged them into God's amplifier."

Are you fucking kidding me?

If you are a lover of guitar virtuosi, that combination of words says it all.

I was not consciously aware that I am a lover of killer guitar until a guy I worked with in a warehouse years ago referred me to a song.

The Waterboys - The Return Of Jimi Hendrix.

He said to me "I know you love electric guitar, here is a song I know you will love." He picked up on that truth based on many conversations we had about music.

He was right.

So taking "6 strings, 21 frets and plugging them into God's amplifier" is a sentence that electrifies my soul.

Happy Birthday, Edge.

10,000 Hours

 A theory exists that it takes "10,000 hours of intensive practice to achieve mastery of complex skills and materials, like playing the violin or getting as good as Bill Gates at computer programming."

This theory was popularized in a book written by Malcolm Gladwell called "Outliers." In it he dissects the success of people as diverse as The Beatles, Bill Gates, Canadian hockey players, a mega-successful lawyer etc.

A co-author of the study from which this conclusion comes is Anders Ericsson. He claims Gladwell left out an important consideration - that how good a student's teacher is has significant impact on their success as well.

10,000 hours is roughly translated as 10 years. So if I choose to master something of value, theoretically, I would be 77 by the time I emerged into the world as the genius I eventually expect to be recognized as.

I'm kind of tired already, though.

I remember learning to play the trumpet. I was a damn good trumpet player - first trumpet first chair as a junior in high school. I succeeded David Tick and held the chair for two years.

David Tick was super cool. He sat in the stands at football games with his trumpet, smoking a cigarette, long hair flowing, while all the girls swooned over him. He was an atypical band student. He was a bad boy.

He graduated, I inherited the seat. I was not a bad boy but I could very definitely play.

My mother insisted that my brother and I practice our instruments 1/2 hour a day. That was the deal. My parents bought the instruments but we had to commit to regular practice. It was a pain in the ass but the discipline definitely contributed to our success. My brother is an excellent drummer to this very day.

That's the practice part.

I took lessons from Harry Harotian. This should be the good teacher part of the equation.

Trouble is he would fall asleep while I played. Literally fall asleep. I would get to the end of a phrase, stop playing and be met be silence. I'd look over and he'd be sleeping in his chair.

How the hell do you sleep with a trumpet trumpeting 3 feet away from you? I don't know, but he did.

I also don't know if it was a commentary on his lifestyle or a commentary on my playing.

Drawing A Line In The Sand

August 1, 2021.

Write the date down.

I have a new policy - I will write nothing in here that reeks of whining.

You have heard this all before so I don't fault your incredulous disbelief. If I don't follow through, feel free to shoot me in the face. I won't mind.

I have had enough of myself.

I put some work into self-improvement in 2021 with an eye towards rescuing my life. I really didn't accomplish much, other than to make me feel better about myself. That ain't half bad, but I am in a place in my life where I need concrete change; measurable forward momentum. The clock is ticking so loud I cannot hear myself think.

I thought I was documenting solid progress in here, talking about everything I was doing, changes I was making. Looking back, all it amounts to is more whining. 7 straight months of whining.

Actually, it is much worse than that. I have established a solid record of whining since I began this blog in 2011. 10 consecutive years of pissing and moaning.

It is even worse than that. I have whined my life away. 

Instead of making necessary changes in my life to make me happy, I sat in dark corners and beat myself up. Not very productive. Obviously.

Last week, the brother-in-law of a woman I work with was diagnosed with cancer and told he had 2 to 4 months to live. Months. Two to four years if he undergoes chemo.

Weeks back, Carol retired. 

A guy I work with is retiring at the end of this month after working 30 years for the City of Concord. Of course that is all he talks about and he is all smiles. 

This past Monday I found out my five closest friends going back to high school days are all retired.

I feel like a boxer who gets rocked with a left hook, gets wobbly and then leans into a solid right knock out punch.

I am done with my wimpy bullshit.

In 2021 I have been focusing on 5 things I felt would allow me to reclaim my soul. After getting up off the canvas, I have whittled it down to two, 1 of which wasn't even included in The Big Five.

1) I will do everything in my power to repair and sell this house.

2) I will exercise like a motherfucker.

#1 is my ticket to retirement. #2 is a response to the fact that hormone therapy has been kicking my ass.

Those are my two priorities every day when I get out of bed from now on. Period.

Anthing else beneficial I can do for myself above and beyond those two obsessions is frosting on the cake. 

I probably won't post in here as frequently as I have in the past. How could I? I suspect the "no whining" stipulation is going to cramp my style for a while. 

Judge me any way you want. I have given you ample ammunition over the years to justify you laughing at me. And I realize you could rightfully tag this post as whining. 

I have identified "life or death" situations in here before. From a certain perspective I was wrong, from a certain perspective I was right. Short term vs long term.

Here I am again. My mind is reeling and my body is betraying me.

A line in the sand.