2022 Is On The Way. Are You Aware?

Nothing really planned today so I'll just ramble.

As I sit here and look around, I see the 2022 calendar I already have hanging. I see the 2022 Monthly Planner waiting for its first entry.

Wow, man - that ain't me. Except, it is. Now.

The wall calendar was a fluke, a simple twist of fate - came in the mail or in a package of something we bought unbidded. But it is sponsored by the Humane Society - animals, baby - animals. All humans should be summarily executed, all animals should be exalted.

I am looking at January 2022 (staring me in the face, challenging me) - got a picture of a beautiful bird perched on a snow-dusted branch. Gives me peace, gives me pause.

I got into the monthly planner game in 2021 for real. Tried it before but was not committed. I am not into being pinned down.

It was helpful in 2021. I use it to track performance and progress. It is inspiring to see my efforts at self-improvement laid out in black and white day after day after day. Bam, bam, bam - just like that.

It's the blank days that haunt.

I began the year shot out of a cannon, sagged in the middle of the year, re-fired my mojo in October.

I am human. I can accept that.

In line with James Clear's philosophy of making small improvements on a consistent basis (a philosophy I embrace with both arms), my goal for 2022 is to do better than I did in 2021. Reduce the sag.

If I do that I will know that I continue to move forward.

The yin and yang of it is that I feel pressure for explosive change, even as I see and feel the benefits of incremental change. Wait, what is that horrific sound? So loud, so overwhelming? Like someone banging on a castle door with a sledgehammer.

Oh, I get it. It's the clock in my head reminding me - ceaselessly, relentlessly - that I am not immortal.

Deus ex machina - my favorite expression, my favorite dream. Definition: An unexpected power or event saving a seemingly hopeless situation, especially as a contrived plot device in a play or novel.

I am in love with this idea because I don't want to do the work. I would rather have The Great Speckled Bird swoop down and save me from myself.

It's a nice fantasy but it ain't gonna happen. So, coming full circle - I will continue to do the work and reap the benefits of incremental self-improvement.

Anyway, I got me a 2022 Wall Calendar, got me a 2022 Monthly Planner - I am set up to take on another new year.

But I will focus on rounding out 2021 in style.

I'll keep you posted.

From Left Field: I was in the mood for horror last night, it being Halloween Eve and all, so we went to Turner Classic Movies and struck gold. We watched Frankenstein - 1931 - starring Bela Lugosi, then followed that up immediately with Young Frankenstein - 1974 - Gene Wilder, Marty Feldman.

I cannot take credit for this genius - that's how TCM had it programmed. Frankenstein at 8, Young Frankenstein at 9:30.

A potentially dangerous experiment, but it turned out spectacularly well. Watching Frankenstein first made Young Frankenstein even funnier.

Damn good night.

America Is A Vicious and Backwards Country

As clown-like deliberations continue over Biden's big bill, things get cut.

Like family leave, vision and dental benefits in Medicare (which ridiculously don't exist right now), and price protections on prescription drugs.

This fucking country is the most backward of all civilized countries in the world. Embarassing. Yet we still pump our chests up and brag like other countries should envy us. Give me a break.

The United States ranks last on a list of 41 countries who offer paid parental leave. The other 40 offer as much as 86 weeks, down to somewhere around 8. This country offers 0. Fucking zero.

And I am talking maternity leave - it is fucking cruel to force a mother to choose between work and taking care of her newborn. A lot of mothers do not have that choice. It's called paying the bills.

I realize a lot of companies offer maternity leave and that is great, but it should not be up to the company's discretion - it should be the law of the land.

34 of these 41 countries offer paternity leave. What a novel concept. I am pretty sure fathers love their kids too, and would cherish an opportunity to get to know them, and for the kid to get familiar with the dad. 

Dig some of the countries on the list - Estonia (86 weeks), Bulgaria, Slovakia, Slovenia, Korea, Malta, Cyprus. You get the point. I am not belittling these countries, just making the point that most americans would assume we are the trend setters. Not even close. 

Carol and I haven't had a dental or optometrist appointment since we went on Medicare. Seems to me this type of stuff becomes more critical as you get older, which Carol and I appear to be doing, much against our better judgement. Who is the fucking genius who came up with this plan?

Prescription drug costs. This is the soft underbelly of the greed and callousness pharmaceutical companies show towards sick americans. Are you fucking kidding me? They prioritize profits, to the point of gouging their customers, while playing Russian roulette with their health. Can't pay? Tough shit.

In 2018, a study was done on per capita spending on drugs in Denmark, UK, Sweden, Greece, Ireland, Austria, France, Germany, Switzerland, and the U.S. Denmark was lowest, at $339. Switzerland was in 9th place, at $894. The United States was last, at $1,200.

If you have the guts, do some research on infant mortality rates, life expectency, medical costs, medical malpractice, and more. You will be disgusted by the indifference this country shows towards the health and well-being of its citizens. Other countries care; this country does not.

In the U.S, if you can make extravagant profits - even at the expense of the lives of the people you are profiting off of - you do it. You know damn well that ain't hyperbole - how many companies in the U.S. have been exposed as evaluating the potential cost of lawsuits resulting from deaths their product may cause, versus the enormous proits they will make?

If it was even just 1 company it should make you sick to your stomach. It has been many more than that.

Did you know the country of Bhutan has a Gross National Happiness Index, which is used as one measurement tool for evaluating the country?

The only way you would see a Gross National Happiness Index in the U.S would be if some asshole could make money off it.

What Am I Risking?

Native Americans once believed that a photograph could steal your soul.

This is why I am nervous.

I have been taking pictures of gravestones, storing them in my phone - I feel like I am playing with fire.

I keep a small notebook and pens in my car. At first I was writing down inscriptions that meant something to me. Then I shook the dinosaur off me and realized it's a lot easier to take a picture.

Some of the stories they tell are heartbreaking.

Like the Brown family. Leonard (1827-1894) and his wife, Eunice (1835-1905). Beneath their names are listed what I have to assume are their kids. 

Alfred (1856-1900) - 44 years old. Linda (1857-1890) - 33 years old. Willie (1863-1863). Marybell (1864-1868). Nellie G. (1873-1875).

I am sure this was not uncommon in the 1800's but it doesn't make it any less tragic.

Alfred was 44, Linda was 33, Wille was less than 1 year old, Marybell was 4, Nellie G. was 2. Leonard was alive to witness the deaths of four of their children; Eunice witnessed all five.

In addition, this family bore witness to the Civil War. Can you imagine what that was like? That might have played a part in all this sadness.

Then you have the De Greenia family, who manages to find beauty in death. Their gravestone is gorgeous and peaceful. It is an etching of a spring scene. A flowing river, surrounded by trees, leaves, grass, a large buck standing by the river. Off in the grass, the doe and their fawn are lying together. The detail is specacular - looks more like a picture than an etching.

It is so comforting that I never walked around the stone to get the full names of the people buried there. The back of the stone just has this amazing etching and the name De Greenia written above it.

There are the Kirby's. Another beautiful stone. An etching of 3 doves sitting on a branch with a rose next to them. Jessica L. - March 1,1984 - November 20, 2005.  Father - Kevin R. - July 25, 1958 - ; Mother Robin F. - August 13, 1960 - . This is so sad to me. Jessica died at the age of 21; she awaits the arrival of Mom and Dad. The thought of losing a daughter so young, the thought of names on a gravestone waiting to fill in the right side of the hyphen. Too much, man - too sad.

Then there is Pasquale Alosa and his wife Jennie Sanzone. I photographed their headstone just because there are so few Italians buried in this cemetery.

Pasquale was born (Nata) in Cartone, Italy on April12, 1889 and died (Morta) July 5, 1962. Jennie - Nata on July 10, 1909 in Crotone, Italy; Morta April 16, 1960.

Somehow I get the feeling that Pasquale's birth place is mis-spelled. I find Crotone in Google Earth but not Cartone. Some pig of an American with no respect for Italian culture never bothered to make sure he got the info correct before erroneously capturing it for posterity.

I bet Pasquale was a brick layer. If he built a wall for that pig you better believe it would have been perfect.

Elena Bianco is also listed on the stone. Nata March 2, 1901, Catanzaro, Italy; Morta January 10, 1932. No idea who she is.

I have those pictures and more in my phone. I truly hope I am not showing these people any disrespect. I do it out of respect and awe. But you never know with the dead; they don't communicate verbally but they have their ways, they have their powers.

It makes me uncomfortable, but I don't delete them because I am drawn to the macabre.

Fraudulent Information

All my life I have been telling people my favorite color is black.

I believed it too, up until recently.

I mean, it made sense. 

Black symbolizes my point of view, my temperament, and my reality.

I'm a dark guy with a dark soul and a dark mind.

My favorite color is brown. I love brown.

I apologize for the confusion.

Wednesdays In The Shroud

Wednesdays are so painful.

I have not won this battle yet. The worst day was the first day back after extended vacation/Nashville.

A Thursday. Bad enough on the face of it. But, in addition, I went to bed at midnight on Wednesday night betting that I would sleep through to the 5:15 alarm.

I did not.

I woke up at 2:30. Sleep was spotty - off and on - until 5:15. I was furious. And tired.

So I did not handle that day well. I was a bit testy. 

Today. Today was fucking hell. I have too much time to think on Wednesdays after 4 days of actually semi-living. Up at 7:15 today, left the house like the Walking Dead at 11:00.

Head down, spirits down, hopes down, soul suffocated. A wonderful way to start the day.

I was a bit testy. And my mind, my mind screamed at me non-stop "What the fuck are you doing, you stupid motherfucker? Working this menial job that is so beneath you it is like a toilet."

Oh my fucking god, this is the wrong place for me to be at the end of my life. Sucking every bit of pride out of me, every bit of self-respect, killing any chance I have of rescuing me from a meaningless grave.

Razor blades nicking my skin, hemlock in my coffee, yes sir no sir can I have another sir!!!!!!!!!!!!

NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! This   cannot   be   my   reality   at   this   stage   in   my   life!

What the fuck did I do to deserve this?

Psychological pain is 100 times more intense than an icepick in the eye.

My Ticket Out

The fucking guy didn't show.

He didn't fucking show.

He was supposed to be here last Monday but he called and said he was dealing with a disaster in somebody else's house and could we re-schedule. OK, no problem. Life is full of interruptions and complications (stole that line from Love Actually).

He was supposed to be here yesterday at 2:00. I called him at 2:15, he returned the call at 2:30 to tell me that five people called in and he was swamped. Five. If he said two I might have believed him; five? - a bald-faced lie. I blew the asshole off; told him to forget about the whole thing.

I'm gonna be rich. My ship has come in. The world is filled with worry and anxiety; an endless supply. 100% of it is wasted.

Are you kidding me? 100%? I sense opportunity.

I am already assembling a mechanism for converting worry and anxiety into energy. 

I connected a bunch of sprockets and flywheels to an electromagnetic induction device and a brainwave converter and created a Wasted Energy Conversion Device.

Move over Jeff Bezos, Warren Buffet and Richard Branson - there's a new billionaire in town.

All you gotta do is implant a miniature portal into the side of your head, and another on your shoulder, and you are ready to roll. When anxiety cripples you, just connect your head to your shoulder with the special Conversion Cord and wait for the juice to begin. You will feel energy coursing into your body as anxiety abates. Two for the price of one, baby.

Suddenly you will feel like SuperMan. Your life will improve, your lovelife will improve, you'll put money in the bank and self-esteem in your head. 

Yesterday, I wasted 1.21 gigawatts of energy on unrequited anxiety. By the time I realized the jerk was not going to show, I was exhausted. Had to take a 4 hour nap. When I awoke, inspiration struck.

Tomorrow I will give notice at my shitty, little job. By the end of the year I will be the world's newest billionaire.

Success will not change me. Even after I receive the Presidential Medal of Freedom.

If you genuflect before me I'll toss a $100 bill your way.

I remain always, a man of the people.

My World

I want to live in a world of mutual empathy.

A world where I never have to be on the defensive.

Or on the attack.

I want to look into peoples' eyes - everyone I meet - and see concern

and understanding.

I want the acting to stop - I want to know who you really are.

A place where respect is the ideal; not contempt.

I want to trust you and allow you to trust me.

Where happiness is not a zero sum game.

I want dignity for all human beings.

A world where people recognize the commonality of existence and emotion and dreams

and hurt and hope, and act accordingly.

I want to live in a world where my dreams become reality, and harsh reality becomes a memory.

Reality Is Unforgiving

 "She cried for herself, she cried because she was afraid that she herself might die in the night, because she was alone in the world, because her desperate and empty life was not an overture but an ending, and through it all she could see was the rough, brutal, shape of a coffin."

John Cheever, from The Sutton Place Story

Oikodomophobia

I have this disease.

Not a disease, really - a phobia.

Oikodomophobia is defined at its most basic level as a fear of tradesmen. The term was coined in 2006 and was specifically targeted for me.

An article published in the Daily Express in 2011 claimed that nearly 5 million men in Britain suffer from oikodomophobia. "Symptoms include nervousness, sweaty palms, difficulty breathing, and sweating, which according to the article is brought about by their lack of knowledge when dealing with builders, electricians and plumbers."

That's me! That's exactly who I am.

Caveat: Apparently the Daily Express is a conservative, right wing publication in England, and the only references I can find refer specifically to British men but, come on, I need this. I need this fear defined as an official phobia - so I accept its authenticity.

I despise dealing with tradespeople, mainly because they ask questions and I don't know shit. My favorite line, used 100 million times in my life, is that if you put a tool in my hands I sweat blood.

I know nothing about tools, building, repairs, materials, approach, measurement - it is an alien world to me that I do not ever wish to visit, or even come close to.

I got to thinking about it today because I got a guy coming to the house this afternnon to look at problems we have in the basement and in the attic - problems that have to be addressed before we sell the house to some poor, unsuspecting rube - hopefully for 100K more than the house is worth.

This guy is going to ask me questions that I have no answer to. (220, 221 - fans of Mr. Mom will understand).

His visit is all I can think about. I have the day off from work, I read pleasantly on a dark, rainy, quiet morning, enjoyed delightful coffee - but evey time my mind swam back up to reality, there it was - the visit from the trades guy. I am obsessing about it and I will until 2 o'clock when he shows up. After he leaves I will obsess about every question I could not answer, and my ego will be deflated. Probably until around 4 o'clock.

I might have to break something to revive my sense of self-worth.

I'm in for a tough stretch while we wrestle this house back to a livable condition. I have already had a few phone conversations that stressed me to the max, after which I had to sit down until the trembling stopped and the sweat ceased to drip off my brow.

There is a local hardware store here in town that I refuse to go into. It's a typical family run operation that has been in town for thousands of years. Everybody knows the owners and employees, and they know all the residents and tradespeople. Everybody goes there. Except me.

I tried. I used to go in there looking for something and they would ask questions. I would freeze up, shake and quake and drool, and walk out utterly defeated. It got to the point that when I walked into the store the first employee that noticed me would point and loudly exclaim "Hey, there's that wimp that doesn't know shit about construction - let's humiliate him until he shits his pants." I was uncomfortable wearing diapers so I stopped going in.

I have avoided it like the plague for decades. If we need something, Carol gets it.

It's a guy thing. If you are a guy - a man - it is automatically assumed that you can talk carpentry. It does no good to say "Well I don't understand what you are asking, but I can write poetry."

I am a creative soul right down to my, well - my soul. That's all I know, that's all I understand, it's all I can do. I hunger to live a life where I only interact with other creative souls, drink premium coffee and top-shelf whiskey, where I never have to be practical - where I only have to be creative and discuss creative pursuits.

No tradesmen, no hardware stores, no tools, no fixing leaky faucets - no answering Mr. Fixit questions.

I am indeed a stranger in a strange land. At least I now have a word for it. My new favorite word, although it sounds more like a word mocking the phobia, than an offical medical term. I am a bit suspicious.

Oikodomophobia.

I'll take what I can get.

The Right Take On Religion

 "There are many reasons I'm quite sure there is no such thing as an anthropomorphic white guy with a beard up in the sky looking down personally on all eight billion of us, especially football players that score a touchdown, but the main one is kids with cancer.....................

If it makes these kids feel 1 per cent better, it's worth it. All it takes is our will. Not that of God, who is busy making sure Rappers win Grammy's."

Stevie Van Zandt, from Unrequited Infatuations

A little background - SVZ is well known for always wearing bandannas. He hooked up with the Ronald McDonald House, and a couple of major fashion designers - John Varvatos and Tommy Hilfiger - to create and donate bandannas (stylish and colorful) to child cancer patients to make them feel better about what they are going through.

Pretty fucking cool, don't you think?

Mojo

I got my Mojo back after Nashville/Extended Vacation.

My brain is on fire; flames are shooting out of my ears.

As a result I can't stop thinking, comparing, evaluating and noticing.

Went out to dinner Friday night with two other couples. The guys were Jason and Gregg. "If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain or bitter, for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself" - Desiderata.) Despite the wisdom in these words I did that night, and do it always.

What are you gonna do?

Jason is in his mid forties and is financially set. A few years ago we had a conversation - just me and him in his car - that revealed the basis of his success. He told me that at a young age he noticed that most people get to old age and have nothing - they struggle to survive, ending their lives with no dignity.

He decided that would never happen to him. He started working at the company he is still employed by as a youngster - sweeping up, cleaning up - doing menial labor. He is now one of the top executives, makes excellent money, owns a home and a cottage, lots of toys and has no worries.

I went to a concert with Gregg a few years back and he told me the story of his life. He was a raging alcoholic. At times he was homeless, sleeping on people's couches, destroying every relationship he ever had, losing job after job. He turned his life around. Stopped drinking, found jobs, worked his way up, and recently landed a good paying job that he enjoys. He is also married and content. And still sober. For many years.

I thought about how strong and committed these guys are. It takes a lot to take charge of your life; it is a miracle to turn your life around.

I am in these situations too frequently. Where the people I am around outshine me in the "life lived" category. Typically it depresses me. And truthfully, it did bum me out Friday night.

I have been thinking about that dinner all weekend, but through the new and improved clarity of my revived Mojo.

I am nervous, a little afraid - 67 years old is not a good place to be if you see your life as a failure. The weight of regret and the fear of the future are crushing.

But I am thinking there is a solution out there in the hinterlands of my mind. 

Selling the house is the easy way out, but we don't really want to do that. We like it here, and from my point of view that is a passive solution representing one more compromise. I really don't want to end up in a mobile home; it would feel like officially being judged as a loser by Life.

This is always a dangerous conversation for me to have because I have been here 1,600 times before and you are saying "For Christ sake, Joe - shit or get off the pot. What the fuck is wrong with you?"

I don't blame you.

I will begin seeing a therapist soon. I am looking to gain some strength from that. Work will begin on the house soon. This will alleviate some of the embarassment I feel, even when my own family pops in. Make me feel a little better about myself. I am making other stuff happen in my head and physically to improve my mood.

All I am saying is, give peace a chance. Sorry - a lyrical slip.

All I am saying is, there are pieces in place to give me a fighting chance. I am moving in the right direction. 

Hopefully I won't get hit by a bus.

Valid Point

 If I am headed towards any level of success at all, I am definitely taking the long way.

Contemplate (and Evolve)

 "We are shaped by our thoughts; we become what we think. When the mind is pure, joy follows like a shadow that never leaves."

Buddha

Probably the most meaningful words I could ever contemplate.

Dress Code

A new jazz and blues club just opened up in Portsmouth, NH.

Called Jimmy's Jazz and Blues Club. Just opened weeks ago. I am very excited.

This place is no dive. It is classy, clean and beautiful. And the people they are booking are the cream of the crop. I will check this joint out before the end of 2021.

Don't get me wrong - I have nothing against dive bars. I love dive bars. I am very comfortable standing in what I always hope is water when I am in the men's room of a dive bar.

I like scarred bars, uneven tables, mismatched chairs - I love it all. 

I used to love smoke, back in the day when people could smoke in bars. It was a big part of the ambience for me.

But I also love class. Love it. I may have gotten this from my parents. They used to take me and my brother to fine restaurants. Nice places. Refined experiences. I didn't appreciate it then, but it laid the groundwork for the adult Joe who took great pride in his appearance. Especially when wearing fine clothes.

I miss that. I miss people dressed well in an upscale atmosphere. I miss me being well-dressed in an upscale atmosphere.

Jimmy's has a dress code. Business casual. I love that!

That means I will not be dealing with drooling neanderthals in dirty t-shirts and ripped jeans. It means I will get to dress up a little, which is something I have forsaken in the latter part of my adult life.

Once a year my Aunt Dina used to take me and Eddie to a men's clothing store in Winthrop. She would buy each of us a suit. A fucking suit! We loved it.

I always enjoyed wearing nice clothes. I don't do it anymore because I have been countrified, I'm fat and repulsive, and very, very few places require it and we don't go to those places. The only plus to being an accountant was that I got to wear nice clothes every day.

I am navigating my way back to me. 2021 has been solely dedicated to that pursuit. I am picking up pieces of the real me along the way and trying to put the puzzle back together.

Jimmy's could very well be an important contribution to the Resurrection of The Real Joe.

There are two hotels within walking distance. I already checked it out. Very important because Portsmouth is a looooooong drive and I won't allow anything to dampen my enjoyment of the experience.

I will not be going there every weekend because of the distance and expense. I envision Jimmy's as being an oasis of class that I can call upon from time to time to keep that part of me alive.

I imagine my first visit will be like the trip to Nashville. I will be looking pretty, digging the beauty of the place, enjoying the cuisine, listening to top notch musicians, I will have an epiphany and think to myself "Welcome back, Classy Joe."

My favorite bar in the world was The Rynborn. A blues bar 20 minutes from my house where only the most talented musicians played. If I was jonesing for blues on a Tuesday night I would just go. Never checked to see who was playing because I knew they would rock. And they always did.

Jimmy's has the same vibe. It won't matter who is playing when I go, I know they will blow me away. Just a question of what mood I'm in - Jazz or Blues? I love them both. Not much of a dilemma, eh?

The puzzle pieces are coming together, folks. 2022 will be a dangerous year.

Destiny has wrapped her arms around me. I feel safe and inspired.

A Firm Opinion

 I would rather die expectedly than unexpectedly

Competing Points of View

 "Now, with a rush of old memories, how clearly it stood up before him, in the darkness! Shabby indeed, and small and poorly furnished, and yet his, the home he had made for himself, the home he had been so happy to get back to after his day's work. And the home had been happy with him, too, evidently, and was missing him, and wanted him back, and was telling him so, through his nose, sorrowfully, reproachfully, but with no bitterness or anger; only with plaintive reminder that it was there, and wanted him."

From The Wind in the Willows, by Kenneth Grahame

"Our houses are such unwieldy property that we are often imprisoned rather than housed in them."

Henry David Thoreau

Impressions

Point One:

I was in the cemetery last Friday on a true fall day.

A little on the cool side, gray - no sun - a slight breeze, leaves falling. This is the perfect weather for a cemetery visit.

I have been there on brilliantly sunny days - there is something incongruous about that.

I have been there on rainy days - you cannot see anything with the raindrops running down the windshield. Perspective is compromised.

On a fall day, dead leaves are falling on the graves. No need for me to hammer home the significance of that. 

The breeze rustles the leaves remaining in the trees, and moves the lighter branches around. There is a sound not unlike an unearthly whisper (as I imagine it to be).

As far as visitors go, gray skies are in harmony with the twisted emotions of those surviving the death of a loved one. 

A true fall day perfectly complements the atmosphere that a cemetery exudes.

Point Two:

When I was there on Friday I witnessed yet another broken person tending to the grave of a loved one. From afar - I never get close, out of respect.

It hit me hard on two levels - the nature of relationships, and the finality of death.

This guy tended to the gravesite so tenderly, and with focus. Cleaning out debris around the headstone, cleaning the headstone itself, planting new flowers.

You spend a lifetime building a relationship and you share everything. Little things, big things, triumphs, failures, every emotion connected with every meaningful moment of your life together.

Everything you share is another element permanently woven into this life you are making. Everything you experience changes you in some way and adds to the depth of your love. These things strengthen your bond and make you more one than two.

And then this person is gone. Forever. The person dies, the love does not. There is no longer any tangible, satisfying way to express your love. No kiss on the cheek, no hugs, no simple conversation, no sharing a meal, a movie or just tv. No presence.

Just absence. An aching absence that numbs, and is deafening in its silence.

Your mind cannot grasp the fact that the person you love is just gone. The finality of it. It is rendered beyond the scope of understanding by virtue of the very fact that you love this person.

So you tend to the grave. Lovingly. Or hold pictures in your hand. A piece of clothing. Watch family videos. Make a connection in any way that you can that is meaningful to you.

But it will never be enough.

I'm Only Human, You Know

TSA employees are fucking rude.

They were rude in Boston, they were rude in Nashville. Didn't have to deal with them in Newark because it was a connecting flight.

At Phil's suggestion I pre-registered with TSA so I could avoid all the take-off-your-belt&shoes-empty-your-pockets bullshit at the airport. Cost $85 for 5 years clearance.

You still have to walk through a metal detector though, which typically is not a problem. But when I walked through, the fucking detector went off. So I had to take-off-my-belt&shoes-and-empty-my pockets. 

Detector went off again.

Turns out I had an asthma inhaler in my pocket that I did not think could possibly set off the detector - it did. Apparently had some metal on it.

Fucking TSA guy was rude the first time I went through before I even set the detector off. Barked at me to walk through. Of course after setting it off twice he became a royal fucking asshole. And I was pissed because I was in my stocking feet, holding up my pants and worrying about my wallet in the fucking bin.

It was not a pretty situation. Especially after spending $85 for nothing. And, coming back from Nashville the TSA pre-clearance thing was not reflected on my airline ticket - so I had to do the whole belt-shoes-pockets thing again.

The next time I fly - if ever - I will spend lots of extra bucks to make sure everything goes smoothly. Then I can sneer at the TSA people as I walk by them as if I was Richard Branson and they were bugs.

Fuck them.

Regional Politeness - what the fuck is that all about?

People in Nashville were super nice - even in the airport, except for the TSA people of course. People generally bent over backwards to help you, they engaged in friendly conversation and showed respect.

Boston and Newark? No fucking way. Especially Newark.

Cold fucking people, disrespectful, rude, unhelpful, unless you beat them over the head with a baseball bat, which I wish I could have done.

You know the type - you ask a question, they give you a look and a curt answer. Which of course does not answer your question fully. Forcing you to ask for more info, to which they react as if you were poking their eyeballs out with an ice pick, which I wish I could have done.

Is it a population thing? Like the bigger and more crowded the population, the more rude the human? I think that's the answer.

If you are crowded, you are always fighting for space and time and dignity, so you take your frustrations out on people you see as lesser than yourself - people that need guidance.

Observation - that is a bullshit, fucking excuse. 

Show some respect, no matter who you are, no matter what your situation is. Especially if you are employed in customer service.

Do you have any idea how often I want to scream at the people I deal with every day? Instead I slap a smile on my face, joke around with them and give them what they need.

Of course, as I'm getting up from behind my desk, I often say "Fuck You" under my breath, or flip them off with my right hand as my left hand covers it up, as if I am rubbing my hand.

I'm only human, you know.

A Valid Point (and point of reference)

 "The death of the 1920s was the death of a hedonistic society that could not have gone on forever without violating the philosophy that life is supposed to suck, which I believe was spray-painted on the side of the Mayflower."

From Unrequited Infatuations, autobiography of  Stevie Van Zandt.

A HUGE Mistake

I threw all my albums out.

Are you fucking kidding me?

I got caught up in the frenzy of cleaning this house out to get it off our backs. 

I looked at the albums sitting on the bottom shelf of a bookcase - a bookcase my father made out of my crib - I might as well have thrown the fucking bookcase out too - I got stupid.

The spines of most of the albums were in tough shape - The Cats used them for scratching posts over the years. But still................a thinking man would have at least separated out the truly meaningful albums to keep.

I have settled on a non-sentimental approach to cleaning house - throw shit out - don't think about it - don't get lost in the details.

The albums were the wrong objects for that approach.

It has bothered me off and on since then but not in a crippling sense.

Until now. I am reading Stevie Van Zandt's autobiography. He is perfectly plugged into the meaning of music - the spirituality, the history, the bliss - the effect it has on your life. Now my emotions are roaring.

I threw out a piece of my life I can never get back. 

Music means everything to me. When I was a kid I used to take the train into Boston to visit the record department of Jordan Marsh - a department store, believe it or not. But they had a fantastic record department. Fanfuckingtastic. The trip in was my thing - I went alone to a place that was church to me.

I knew what day a Beatle album would be released - I would be in Jordan Marsh on that day. But even though I knew exactly what I was going to buy, I would spend a lot of time browsing the bins - picking up the albums, digging the cover art, reading the liner notes - dreaming about the day I would come back to buy these albums.

That is what sat on the bottom shelf of my crib that my father turned into a bookcase.

Some of those albums were close to 60 years old. I could hold them in my hands and touch my youth, my inspiration, my joy - my reason for living. Connect Old Joe to Young Joe.

Of course I never did that.

Fortunately I do have a few albums that got saved. 

Clapton put out an album with Delaney and Bonnie - Delaney & Bonnie & Friends - On Tour - with Eric Clapton - that had a picture of a Rolls Royce parked in a desert with a pair of booted feet sticking out the window. I always loved that cover - and the album - and I have it in a frame.

I have The Allman Brothers Band's first album framed - thank god.

I have McCartney's first solo album, which blew my mind because he played every instrument on it and sang every vocal on it. Love it.

And I have Let It Bleed by the Rolling Stones, which has these infamous words printed on the inner sleeve - THIS RECORD SHOULD BE PLAYED LOUD - all caps. I just took the album out of the sleeve and held it in my hands. What a mind blowing tactile memory.

I touched only the edges of my albums, and I had a cylindrical duster kind of thingy to wipe my albums down - which I did religiously. I handled my albums in the reverent way they deserved.

So here's where I come down on this.

I blew it - but not 100%. And the albums I still have were huge in my life. I have not completely severed the connection from Old Joe to Young Joe.

I suspect from now on these albums will hold a mystical, magical aura for me. For the rest of my life.

As they should - they represent the birth in me of a love of music that has saved my life over and over again since I was 9 or 10 years old.

That is significant, amazing and meaningful.

And beautiful.

Recipe For Success

 "Whiskey, champagne, beer and twisted tea, mixing up inside of me, I've gotta set my demons free"

From the song Partied Out, by Kurt Baker.

This Is Beautiful

 Stevie Van Zandt on his approach to making music:

"But what you want deep down in your soul is to do something great. We may not always achieve greatness, but we should always be reaching for it. Isn't that our best way to show our gratitude for life itself?"

This Could Be Dangerous

Look out world!

I am hooking up with a therapist. This could be dangerous.

I had two things primarily on my mind at the beginning of this supreme vacation. I kept them to myself until I could actually say I accomplished them.

One was lining things up with a therapist.

I am looking for happy. I am looking for resolution. I finally realized (admitted) that these things cannot happen until I fix my brain. So I am taking the plunge.

Turns out I found one right here in my home town. Doesn't really matter though because all therapy these days is remote. I was somewhat surprised at the number (around 90% or more) of therapists who are not taking new patients, and the number (100% ?) who are doing it remotely. Covid has truly fucked up the world.

I would prefer face to face. Then I can use all my charm, intelligence and wit to lie to them and prove what a great guy I am. (For the uninitiated - that was a fucking joke).

I really would prefer face to face but I will settle for ZoomPsych.

Got a good vibe from this woman through emails - I really laid it on thick in my initial email, probably came across as a drooling catatonic. She responded that we could work together, I responded that I was glad my email did not send her screaming into the hills. She responded "I've been at this for over 20 years so it takes A LOT to scare me." I like it.

Unraveling the poisoned tendrils of my brain is roughly akin to solving the mystery of the Gordian Knot. She has her work cut out for her. But I am psyched and ready.

"To boldly go where no man has gone before................"

The second initiative during this supreme vacation was to get shit rolling - I mean really moving - on getting this house off our backs.

 I have two compnaies lined up to give us estimates for the real dirty work that needs to be done. Our basement is a mess. A royal, fucking mess. Mold, insulation hanging down from the ceiling - you get the picture. We also have insulation hanging in shreds in the attic from when we had a squirrel infestation.

The biggest news is that we finally found a "guy" to deal with all the handyman stuff - and he's our next door neighbor. This was a gift from Jesus and totally random.

Carol was out getting the mail and had a conversation with the woman across the street. Somewhere during the conversation the Handyman Shortage came up and this woman told Carol she uses this guy for all her handyman stuff and he does a great job.

Are you fucking kidding me? Jesus was a carpenter - he obviously sympathized with our plight.

Carol called the guy, he came over yesterday and told us he can do everything we want him to do. We have certain things we want done by Thanksgiving because we want to impress Keith and Krista and Craig and Amanda. We want them to walk in, fall to their knees in shock, get up and think: "Holy shit - Mom and Dad finally got off their asses and made this house liveable again. They are true geniuses and deserving of all respect and glory."

He thinks he can get that stuff done by Thanksgiving.

So there you have it.

I wanted to come out of this vacation with a strong sense of accomplishment. Forward movement. Confidence.

I have succeeded.

I renewed efforts to work on my brain on my own. I landed a therapist. The house will really start rolling soon.

The only other thing we need is to win $200,000 in the lottery so we can pay off our mortgage and bank some bucks. We really do not want to move. I really want to retire.

But if that doesn't happen and everything else falls into place, we will be in great shape.

If a tree falls in the forest...........................

If my brain gets fixed, will I still be compelled to write in this Blog?

That remains to be seen.

Brian Williams to Susan Page on The 11th Hour - MSNBC

 "Susan Page, I'm tempted to say that our elected representatives govern like drunks except I don't want to offend or insult any drunks who may be watching."

Even if you are not into news or MSNBC or politics you should check Brian out from time to time.

He is hilarious in a deadpan, understated kind of way.

Here I Go, Turn The Page

When the going gets tough........................

Here I go. Turned a corner. Today is Monday. Thursday looms.

I have been battling back negative thoughts, fighting hard, because I refuse to ruin these last 3 days of vacation.

What an amazing run this has been. Peace, quiet, reading, Carol, Emmy Lou, Patsy, Nashville. A specacular break no matter how you look at it.

On the most basic level I have decided to return to the grind with a swagger. 

The Big Boss Man tries to manage through intimidation. A career military guy, this is all he knows. Ridiculous volume when he speaks, cutting people off in mid-sentence, always pretending that he knows everything.

I have tried various approaches to deal with this up to now. I don't respond well to his approach, so shortly before I went on vacation my response degenerated to contempt. Open contempt. There was a palpable tension between me and Big Boss Man. Not an intelligent recipe for survival.

Beginning on Thursday I will fall back on self-confidence born of self-knowledge. Period. No attitude.

I know in my heart that I have done the best job I possibly can with this job. Quite possibly for the first time in my life.

I recognized on Day One that I better know what I am doing because I am on the front lines - phones, walk-in business - I am the first contact in every situation. There are a LOT of situations.

So I dug in and learned the job. My efforts were openly recognized after being furloughed for 4 months. When I was home, I continuously reviewed my notes. Stayed current. When I returned to work I was told "Wow, it's like you never left."

I know I have done the best I can do. 

Two things I will not tolerate - condescension and intimidation. But I will not respond with antagonism - I will respond confidently and professionally.

I have got it into my head that when I get back Big Boss Man is going to try to break me into the submissive ass-licker that he prefers. Not sure why I feel this way but the thought lingers.

If for any reason he tries to make my life unbearable, I will leave. We have money in the bank and can survive for a while.

I hope Carol does not read this.

This is where I sit. This is what I am thinking.

I have had 16 days to think about this with 3 more to go. 19 days to allow wounds to heal. 19 days to rearrange my thought process. 19 days of peace. Rest. Exercise. Perspective re-adjustment.

I feel pretty good. I feel different.

Thursday looms. As a test. As hard as calculus.

Until then I will stockpile more peace and determination.

Arrows in the quiver.

Killing Hopeless

 The basement was essentially dark. Illuminated by one candle, the flame standing straight and tall in the windowless, almost airless room.

This was all he needed.

This and his music. Blues. Communicating truth through emotion. That's what music was to him. Emotion. Not sound translated into emotion - pure emotion, straight from one heart to his. That's how it worked.

He sat back in the oh so comfortable recliner and took a reverential sip of whiskey. The recliner comfortable from wear, comfortable from knowledge of his body. He sank into it like one wishes - eternally wishes - to sink into the arms of a lover. An honest lover - no hesitations, no resentments, no judgement - pure love that nourishes a soul.

The kind of love that can never exist between humans.

He didn't drink whiskey, he sipped it. Gave it its due respect. As elixir. Slowly spreading throughout his body, warming it, keeping his fears at bay and releasing the truths necessary for self evaluation.

He admired his handiwork. A scarecrow kind of figure, stuffed with foam, no facial features - with the word HOPELESS written on a piece of cardboard and superglued to the chest.

Hopeless had ruined his life. Stopped him in his tracks. Thwarted every positive intention and replaced it with inertia.

Until it was almost too late. Almost.

He was staring down the barrel of his own personal end times, having allowed too many decades to slip by as reality tortured his hopes into submission.

But reality - looming as inevitable death - inspired him to this room at this moment for the ritualistic murder of his most consistent nemesis.

Why not? What did he have to lose? No one really understands how the mind works. No one knows what will save you and what will kill you.

He had nothing to lose. Literally nothing.

He sipped the whiskey, stared at that word - HOPELESS - and his rage grew. Slowly building in intensity until it consumed his mind to the exclusion of any other thought or emotion.

He reached over to the end table next to the recliner and wrapped his hand around the beautifully crafted handle of the Italian stiletto knife he purchased specifically for this occasion.

Tilted the recliner forward, stood and walked towards his nemesis.

His arm swung up and down mechanically, mightily - as he plunged the knife repeatedly into the chest of the scarecrow. Stabbing, tearing, shredding with a viciousness that only long decades of frustration can fuel. Obliterating HOPELESS into unrecognizability.

When he stepped back he was breathing like an asthmatic, wheezing and gasping, sweat dripping off his face.

Yet he felt a lightness to his existence. This is what catharsis felt like. He liked the feeling.

Tomorrow he would begin his new life.

For now he sipped the whiskey.

And smiled.

Excuses

 "Most of the excuses I made...........

-not enough time

-not enough money

-not enough knowledge

-not the right connections

...were just ways to avoid the real bottleneck: Not enough courage.

There was always a small step I could have taken-if I had the guts to take it."

James Clear

Fly The Condescending Skies

The last time I flew was over 20 years ago.

I formed impressions from that trip, and from flights we took on our honeymoon - way back in ancient times - 1978.

My impressions were confirmed, all these years later.

Airline employees look down on travelers as sheep. Unless, of course, you are flying first class. Then they pamper you and kiss your ass (so I have heard).

The people in airports are rude, and quick to answer questions with not enough information. They board you like sheep - in groups of descending importance. The last to board have to fight for overhead bin availability.

On one of our flights, in the terminal, they badgered and bribed people to switch from carry-on bags to checking them through because "the flight was full and there would not be enough overhead bins."

Are you fucking kidding me? They can't figure this shit out in advance?

At first they offered people a $900 voucher to do so; they eventually upped it to $1,000. And they actually got on the mic one last time and said - in aggravation - we need one more person to check their carry-on bag. We will not begin the boarding process until someone steps up.

Fuck you.

Phil made the travel arrangements - he is a traveler, I am not. 

The trip down was bearable because he purchased some kind of upgraded tickets. These allowed us to board with the first group and to leave the plane with the first group. Plenty of overhead bin availability, and only two seats side by side. Critical for bathroom trips and elbow room.

Plus a complimentary drink. I had a mini-bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. How sophisticated (they had no whiskey).

The service during the flight cracks me up. Along with the wine I got to enjoy a tiny, little bag of Cheez-Its. How exotic.

Flight attendants must feel like idiots. They are nothing but glorified waitstaff. Given the privilege of handing out tiny, little bags of Cheez-Its and other demeaning snacks to people who accept them like children.

They try to exude pleasantness but condescension drips through, having done this 50,000 times previously.

When you leave the plane, even the "thank you for traveling with us" bullshit comes across as quite jaded. They have a bored and sarcastic look in their eyes.

Then there is the cult of "The Pilot." A flight attendant announces: "Today you will be flying with Captain Willard Mosely, and his Senior First Officer John Jenkins." Spoken with muted respect.

Eventually the captain comes on "from the flight deck" (very impressive) to tell us we have reached cruising altitude of 30,000 feet, we are traveling at 500 mph, we will land 15 minutes early and the weather is..............., so sit back and enjoy the flight."

What's to enjoy? It is cramped and uncomfortable. My ass hurt, both ways. And he doesn't tell you anything you can't get off your phone or the video screen on the back of the seat in front of you.

The video screen is an improvement over olden days. Showtime, Netflix, News, movies, TV shows - take your pick. I have wanted to check out a show called "Billions" so I watched an episode. Loved it; now I am watching it at home.

The return flight sucked.

We traveled like commoners - no special tickets, seats three across. I got the dreaded middle seat. We boarded last, got off the plane last. Uncomfortable, cramped and boring. It truly sucked.

We talked about doing Austin next year. I will not fly like a commoner. I will pay whatever I have to, to get special consideration. Whatever it takes to sand the rough edges off the boredom, discomfort and disrespect of travel.

Maybe we'll room with Matthew McConaughey. I imagine that would be fun.

Time to Go

 "Haunting her was the idea that we each summon our own death. Some in moments of greatest suffering. Some summon death in their moments of greatest joy and love, out of the awareness that such a moment is a pinnacle never again to be reached."

From The Invention of Sound, by Chuck Palahniuk

Success

 "For me, success is not a public thing. It's a private thing. It's when you have fewer and fewer regrets."

Toni Morrison

When My Time Comes

 A few days before leaving for Nashville I started reading a book titled: "When My Time Comes - Conversations About Whether Those Who Are Dying Should Have the Right to Determine When Life Should End."

An odd choice perhaps; maybe not. 

It is a sobering read. I was part way throught the book when I left for Nashville; I finished it on Wednesday after my return.

So I was immersed in a conversation about the right to die with dignity, then I flew headlong into the ultimate high that is Nashville, then I came home and wrapped up the right to die book.

The book made me uncomfortable, Nashville cleansed my soul, the book made me uncomfortable.

This fits the routine I have established for this vacation. I am changing my routines (especially this week, now that The End Is Near). Without taking a nuclear approach, I am changing routines, re-establishing habits that previously made me feel good about myself, and addressing head-on "things that need to be done."

The book is educational - it addressed the topic from all sides. Pros and cons, supporters and dissenters, religious, medical, academic etc. It also forced me to think about things I don't want to think about.

Although I have been thinking hard lately about the fact that I am 67, that I have prostate cancer and that I am unhappy with my life. To be more specific - I am going to die, and it would be stupid to die in bitter regret.

Nashville provided perfect perspective for all this. I was so happy, had so much fun, immersed myself in a history that means something to me, and escaped my life for 4 days. It was like pressure washing the poison from my soul.

Now that I am home I am working to think happy. I love being here, love being with Carol and the cats, but I typically ruin my free time with worry and regret - which is stupid and a waste of my very precious time.

When my thoughts get dark I think "Knock it off, idiot - you are on vacation." Sometimes I win, sometimes I lose. But I am aware; I am trying. I refuse to fall back on hopelessness.

The most important thing is that when I go back to work next Thursday I am not suicidal. There has to be a change in me and some hope to fuel that change.

Even if it is only a change in thought process.

That alone will be a pretty big step forward considering the tendrils of poison that currently thread through my brain.

Broken Vows

Phil and I vowed not to drink during the day while in Nashville.

In an attempt to be mature; in an attempt to survive.

We quickly broke that vow.

We were relaxing in the room on Saturday afternoon when housekeeping showed up to freshen up the room. It was 3 o'clock.

In unison we said "Time to check out the rooftop bar." Where the hell did you think we would go? The Nashville Public Library?

The hotel had a rooftop bar, and a bar just off the lobby, to provide easy access to alcohol. Which is critical.

The bartender in the rooftop bar was a goddess. Not for her physical attributes, but for her generous pours. I tried to behave somewhat and drink beer, but I'm not much of a fan of beer these days.

I drank only premium whiskey, and oh my god was she generous with the servings. Delightful.

So we ended up in the bar at 3 o'clock on a Saturday afternoon.

Not our fault.

Again on Sunday we were forced to break our vow. Because of THE PATS game. We decided to watch the game in the relative quiet of the first floor hotel bar. Since the game was at 7:20 (Nashville time) we were forced to take one last run at Broadway - at 4 o'clock.

We hit four bars before heading back for the game. We were primed and ready.

Our decision proved to be prescient. The hotel bar was quiet. We got great seats at the bar right in front of the TV. Ate good food, drank good booze (although I started with an ice water, which was quite necessary after the Final Tour of Broadway) and became the bartenders best friend. His name was Josh.

I bought my ticket to heaven in that bar for 20 bucks.

Josh told us he worked two full time jobs to pay for his kids schooling, but he was super psyched because after that night he was taking two weeks off. It was a slow night for him, not many people - until he started to close the bar at 10 o'clock. Then of course a bunch of people walked in.

I recognized the anguish on his face because I have been there before. It is a weird deal, because you have had a slow night, didn't make much money and at the very end of the night you get a chance to make a few bucks.

But you are human - you just want to go home - especially if you are staring down a 2 week vacation.

He was a pro. He waited on everybody politely, absorbed the blows when they asked for a second round and he explained that the bar was closed. Then he flew through his closing routine, which included lugging bottles of booze in plastic tubs to a closet, where they were locked up.

I stopped him on the way back from one trip to the closet and handed him $20. This was on top of the tip we already included in our check. Thanked him for his service, explained my empathy having been there before, and wished him a peaceful and enjoyable vacation. He thanked me sincerely.

And Jesus smiled.

Anyway, we started drinking at 4 o'clock on Sunday afternoon. We only had two days to "not drink in the afternoon" and we drank early on both days.

Again. Not our fault.

The Golden Age of Serial Killers

Can you believe there was such a thing?

And that somebody would actually call it that? Shouldn't it be The Dark Underbelly of America? Or Psychosis Unfettered? Or The Best and the Brightest at Multiple Murders?

The golden age ran from 1970 to 2000. The top dogs were Ted Bundy, John Wayne Gacy, Jefffrey Dahmer, Dennis Rader, and Gary Ridgway. Please bear in mind that if you don't restrict the list to 1970-2000, the list of names is staggeringly long. Quite bizarre.

Their accomplishments: Ted Bundy - 28 dead; John Wayne Gacy - 33 dead; Jeffrey Dahmer - 17 dead; Dennis Rader - 10 dead; Gary Ridgway - 49 dead.

I guess that makes Ridgway the MVP.

These guys were competitive - they followed press coverage of each other and felt insulted if someone was getting more attention. 

Dennis Rader once left a note for the police asking: "How many do I have to Kill before I get a name in the paper or some national attention?" He even suggested nicknames for himself. He eventually became known as B.T.K. (bind, torture, kill), which is one of the nicknames he suggested.

I am fascinated by serial killers.

So often the story from relatives, friends and co-workers is that you would never guess the depravity in these men from day to day contact.

How can that be? They run around killing multiple innocent victims, they hide the bodies, conduct their bizarre rituals and there is a never a hint of something being a bit off? Amazing.

Then again, you and I go to work with hatred in our hearts - for the job, the people we work with. Our bank balance disgusts us. We are jealous of those who are more successful than us. We feel slighted by the treatment of other people and harbor a general hatred of the unworthy who are seen as more valuable than us.

But nobody knows it. We smile, we laugh heartily at non-jokes, we do the boss's bidding despite the malice in our hearts, we tell everyone we are fine when we are anything but. We are robots acting out a part that kills us inside, while outwardly we project calm, contentment and good behavior.

I am not drawing a direct line from your average working stiff to serial killers. I do not condone the horrible things they do and the suffering they cause.

Ted Bundy was executed in 1989. Jeffrey Dahmer was murdered by an inmate. John Wayne Gacy was executed in 1994. Dennis Rader is serving life in prison. Gary Ridgway is serving life in prison.

Well done. Although the argument can be made they have not suffered enough for the lives they took and the pain they caused family members of the victims.

Serial killers are the most extreme example of the end result of a society that makes false promises to it's members; a society that misleads, sabotages, and throws up road blocks at every opportunity in the lives of human beings who only want peace of mind, love and happiness.

Serial killing has dropped off drastically since 2000.

I hope this is a good sign, but I am not convinced.

Brilliant

Last time I was at work was September 24.

I report for duty once again on October 14.

Including today, I still have 8 days off. And I sandwiched in a trip to Nashville.

I am brilliant.

Tight Rope

When I was out on the town in Nashville I was in my element.

Supremely happy.

When I was killing time in the hotel room all I could think about was getting home to Carol and the cats.

Phil and I quickly settled into a rhythm after our arrival - party at night, sleep late, grab a big breakfast, go back to the hotel to chill for a while, go back out. (We actually took naps, in an honest nod to our advanced age).

We did no touristy stuff.

My intention was to at least visit the Country Music Hall of Fame, but it didn't happen and I don't regret it.

I am not a touristy guy. Could have been cool to see so and so's car, so and so's guitar, autographed this and that but really, I'd rather come face to face with Willie Nelson than to look at a statue of him in a museum. 

Tootsie's and Nudie's were my museums.

There are at least two me's and the contrast is extreme.

I am never more comfortable than when I am sitting in a bar, sipping whiskey, listening to good music.

I am never more comfortable than when I am sitting in my recliner with a cat in my lap and Carol by my side.

My emotions bounced up and down in Nashville like a red rubber ball. Still, the trip was medicine for me at the exact moment when my soul needed tending to.

Fun Fact: We quickly realized that we were almost always the oldest people in every bar we went in to. The funniest situation was in Nudie's Honky Tonk. They have a roof top bar. We had not checked out any roof top bars yet so we decided to give it a shot.

Walked up four flights, walked outside, took one look around at the children who were partying up there, looked at each other and said "No fucking way". Walked back down the stairs to something closer to reality.

We did laugh about it.

Sobering Fact: Every night in every bar was a super-spreader event for Covid. Jammed in, elbow to elbow, no masks on any face. Including ours.

We felt somewhat confident because both of us got booster shots before the trip, but still................the jury is still out on this horrific disease. Then again, at some point, in some way, you gotta get back to living your life. There are millions of morons in this country who are quite content to jeopardize other peoples' health. This shit is going to go on forever because of their selfish stupidity.

Anyway, I did not expect the homebody in me to make such a strong showing. Christ, man - I was in Nashville. To wash away all my sins and commit new ones; to forget about the job; to forget about the responsibilities at home; to create a new, temporary reality where I could flourish; to revel in insane fun and cathartic escape.

I wanted Nashville to re-wire my brain to the point where my real life could not exist.

The pull is too strong. My family means everything to me and is a source of spiritual and emotional nourishment.

All in all, it was not a bad thing, though. I quickly learned to walk the tightrope between joyful abandonment and longing for my home.

"I'm up on the tight wire, one side's ice and one is fire" - Tight Rope, by Leon Russell.

Nashville On My Mind

How you doin'?

Sensory overload, baby. Nashville was like a recurring bolt of lightening to the brain.

Zap, zap, zap.

And the yin and yang of NH to Nashville and Nashville to NH is a bit disorienting. One extreme to the other.

Got home last night at 7:30. To Carol. To Emmy Lou. To Patsy. The sweet comfort of home. I mean that sincerely.

I am shooting from the hip here. I have not planned my remarks. In an odd sense I feel high. Because I still have Nashville in my blood and because of that, I refuse to return to "normal". There are certain things about my life at home that gotta go - annoying, no mind things that waste my time and poison my karma.

If I am in this house I gotta be happy. 'Nuff said.

Nashville impressions: The area around our hotel - The Westin (no Motel 6 for us) - was like any boring, predictable city. High rises, businesses, sterility - typical American blandness.

However - a 10 minute walk, a right hand turn and Oh My God - Nashville! Broadway, baby.

Bars up and down both sides of the street. Neon signs, talented bands playing in every bar, music pouring out into the street. Roof top bars - lots of them - with bands. People!!!!!!!!!!! Happy, forget the facade, people!

Old school country music does it for me. 

So Dierks Bentley's Whiskey Row, Jason Aldean's Kitchen and Rooftop bar, Kid Rock's Big Ass Honky Tonk and Rock 'N Roll Steakhouse - and others - don't do shit for me. Doesn't mean we didn't check them out - I think for two old guys in three nights we made a pretty good showing up and down Broadway. But my point is they were just bars to me.

However two joints melted my heart; they were the reason I was in Nashville.

Tootsie's Orchid Lounge. Church. I was in church. Absolute awe.

Opened in 1960. Some people who drank there and played there and wrote songs there - Willie Nelson, Kris Kristofferson, Waylon Jennings, George Jones, Merle Haggard, Emmy Lou Harris, Patsy Cline - recognize any of those names?

Brief aside - Carol caught an interview with Willie Nelson while I was away, during which he casually mentioned that he wrote Crazy in Tootsie's. Carol was blown away because she knew I was excited to see the place. Me drinking whiskey in Tootsie's - talk about carrying on a tradition.

The place is four stories high, but I am so glad they preserved that dive bar feel. No glitz and glitter.

Autographed 8x10's plastered on the walls - every available space, four stories high. I tried to find the people I love but there were 8 million pictures to choose from. So I just let the atmosphere wash over me, as I dug the bands (we were there more than once) that played there.

However, on Saturday night we caught a couple of seats at a table across from the bar on the first floor. Sitting there sipping whiskey, I looked to my right above the bar and noticed a large, framed picture of Kris Kristofferson - inscribed - Tootsie's, With Love, Kris Kristofferson.

I was saved.

I bought t-shirts for me and Carol from one place and one place only. That place was Tootsie's.

Do you know who Nudie Cohn is? You know those crazy over-the-top rhinestone suits a lot of country singers wore? Nudie was THE go-to guy for those suits. They were called "Nudie Suits."

He made suits for Hank Williams, Gene Autry, Johnny Cash, John Lennon, Bob Dylan, Roy Rogers, Elton John and Elvis and..........................

He has a bar - Nudie's Honky Tonk - that was another church for me. He's been gone since 1984 but his bar brings the funk in a big way. Hanging on the wall in glass cases are suits worn by these amazing people, with a plaque telling you who wore the suits. 

Very funky place, all kinds of funk going on, but the eyestopper is one of Nudie's Cadillac El Dorados - hanging on the wall. He was big on customizing cars -  called them Nudie Mobiles - silver-dollar studded dashboards, pistol doorhandles, longhorn steer hood ornaments etc. 

The man was eccentric - what's not to love?

I was in Nashville for the history and the music. And every band we heard was talented. I was immersed in great music from old country to new country to classic rock and newer stuff, fiddle music and on and on and on.

Got tired of one song though, that apparently every Nashville bar band is required to play. Of course it's a drinking song. "Whiskey Glasses" by Morgan Wallen. Everybody knew the lyrics. Repetitive but what the hell - drunken communal singing is therapeutic.

Christ - I got caught up singing "Friends In Low PLaces" in one bar. Belted it out with pride, along with every other person in the bar. And somehow, because we were in Nashville - it did not feel cliched.

I was also in Nashville for insanity. Got plenty of that.

More to come.