Paying Your Dues

A much romanticized concept.

The central theme of so many blues songs.

Tell me - have you paid your dues if you have spent a lifetime in psychological warfare with your own mind? Does that count?

Or do you have to become a drug addict who loses control, loses everything including family, friends, job, home, self-respect - living on the street getting your ass kicked by wandering scumbags every day? Is that what it takes?

Who gets to define what pain is?

Who gets to decide when a person is broken?

Do you really need to see blood, broken bones and crawling in filth?

Or are hopeless eyes enough?

Flea

Craig's girlfriend Amanda loaned me Flea's autobiography.

If you don't know, Flea is a founding member and bass player for the Red Hot Chili Peppers. His real name, which I didn't know, is Michael Peter Balzary.

I started reading it this morning. I came at it with curiosity because biographies and autobiographies are wildly unpredictable. I have read a ton of them and will continue to do so during the next 40 years of my life.

The ones that read like a novel are the best. The ones that you can't wait to get up and read in the morning.

There is a Neil Young biography that I loved. Bruce Springsteen. Stevie Van Zandt. Warren Zevon. Dean Martin. Jackie Gleason. Katherine Hepburn. Dozens more.

But you never know. Pete Townshend's autobiography sucked. I couldn't believe it. John Cleese's autobiography was boring. Can you believe that? And yet, Eric Idle's autobiography was hilarious, as you would expect. 

Anyway............I picked up the book this morning and my heart and soul got zapped. Flea is a deeply emotional and sensitive man, and a fucking poet. The way he writes bipasses the brain and communicates directly to the soul.

This I was not prepared for; for this I am grateful. I am now guaranteed many enjoyable mornings.

Flea made a trip to Ethiopia in 2010. He listened to three elderly women sing in a church and described it this way, in part: "But those resounding voices reminded me of who I was, for what purpose I existed, and the beauty of it leveled me. Tears are not a sad or happy thing, they mean you care (my italics). I'm a wimp who cries too, so be it."

Describing himself: "I've often felt separate from other human beings....................My earliest memories are rooted in an underlying sense that something's wrong with me, that everyone else is clued into a group consciousness from which I'm excluded. Like something in me is broken. As time passes I become more comfortable with this strange sense of being apart, but it never leaves, and on occasion, I go through phases of intense and debilitating anxiety."

Flea's father left the family when Flea was very young. His mother took up with a bona fide hippy jazz musician junkie and alcoholic. The man played upright bass in a band. 

Flea: "He was just too much of a mess. I'd soon learn he was a drug addict and a drunk who'd never have it together enough to live his dreams, build his bridges, or connect his dots....................But he showed me what it was to turn pain into beauty..............True alchemy, letting go and letting anger articulate a divine vibration. If only he knew how to apply that energy to his everyday life...................He never processed what damaged him so he could get to the other side of it."

Enough quotes. Quoting is dangerous - they might not hit you the way they hit me.

My real point today is the joy I get when a book unexpectedly nourishes my soul. Boom. I pick up the book and right off the bat I know Flea's words, his story, will resonate with me deeply; they will make me feel, they will inspire empathy - they will make me feel alive.

Rescued from the grave once again.

Get It?

Part of my brain is saying: "Don't do anything stupid."

Another part of my brain is saying: "Man, you are genetically predisposed to doing stupid things."

Do you see why I drink?

Come On, Man - You're Killing Me

 "Do I doubt or do I trust, will I burn out or will I rust, should I run or should I rest, hard to tell which is best, all I want to do is the next right thing, the next right thing, all I need from you, love and understanding.

I got to move, no time to lose, gonna hurt somebody no matter what I do, do I please them, do I please you, can't please 'em all but I'm always trying to, am I lucky or am I good, feel like I'm lost in my own neighborhood, am I cursed or am I blessed, is this the worst it ever gets or the best.

All I want to do, the next right thing, the next right thing, all I need from you, love and understanding, love and understanding"

The Next Right Thing, by Tommy Castro

Are you kidding me? I heard this song the other day and my head exploded. This is exactly where I am at in my life. Right fucking now.

I have had moments in my life - big moments - when I had the opportunity to change. Crossroads that opened up when something ended and choice was right in front of me.

I blew every single one of them.

I am on the verge of making a big decision - a big change. Something I absolutely have to do if I want to continue living. Because of where we are in life the potential side effects are massive.

I gotta do the next right thing, make the next right move - and its gotta be right for me and right for Carol.

I am nervous. But it cannot wait. If I drift into 2022 with things as they are, fate will take a sledgehammer to the side of my head and it will all be over.

I cannot talk about it yet because spies are everywhere. You will know when it happens.

But I am using this weekend as the springboard. By the time Monday morning rolls around I will have a plan in place.

Let's consider the lyrics to this song.

"All I need from you, love and understanding" - I have that, thank god. Without it I would be lost. A lot of women would have kicked me out decades ago, saying "You did not deliver as advertised, motherfucker - bait and switch. Get the fuck out."

Not Carol. At some point she had to realize that I was never going to be the successful biz-i-ness man who would provide for her a secure retirement. Beyond that she had to have realized that I am a lost soul with no clue how to negotiate life. How that did not scare her away is beyond me.

She has hung in there for 43 years waiting for this flower to bloom. It is time for me to make a right decision.

"Will I burn out or will I rust" - I feel like I have been rusting for the past 45 years and it leaves me uncomfortable, to say the least. Neil Young put this thought into my head in 1979 - "It's better to burn out than fade away" - and its been gnawing at me ever since. Thanks, Neil.

"I got to move, no time to lose" - Self-explantory

"Is this the worst it ever gets or the best" - You cannot help but ask yourself this at the stage of life I am in. And I do. Which prompts consideration of the cliche "Your best years are behind you" - I hate the expression but it is true more often than not.

My only hope in that regard comes from a perverse perspective. I have spent a lifetime underachieving. I have a short way to fall but a long way to rise. One never knows.................

I am acutely aware of the magnitude of the decision I have to make. I know for a fact it is one of those decisions. Crossroads time, baby. Again.

Have I learned anything?

A Melancholy Day (It Better Go Away)

Not really. I just have a compulsion to rhyme.

The day after..........................

Thanksgiving and Christmas I sit back and reflect. Spending the holidays with our family is so powerful for me and Carol that the day after presents a dramatic contrast.

So quiet. Just us.

Yesterday the house was filled with laughter. Conversation. Intimacy. Lunacy. Food, booze and camaraderie.

Today it is eerily quiet. But that's OK. For one thing we have the memories of yesterday. Every time we get together we create memories. And good feelings, and powerful, grateful vibes.

The holidays reinforce the love and pride we have for our sons and their women. We feel good about these human beings that are not just a part of our life - they are our life.

I tend to have doubts about myself (have you noticed?), but being with my sons validates my existence.

When I'm down and feeling selfish I think if my only accomplishment in life is being a father to Keith and Craig, well, I could have accomplished so much more than that for me personally.

When I am lucid I realize that being a father to Keith and Craig is the best contribution I could ever have made to this world.

The Ultimate Connection

We got Patsy and Emmy Lou on September 13.

Today is November 26. Today is the first day since September 13 that I had a cat sleeping in my lap as I read.

It was Patsy.

I literally felt the connection between my heart and my soul become complete.

Tomorrow

 I don't have to take their shit.

Right?

I can fight back. I have to fight back.

You're doing a great job (let's fuck him up the ass).

Tomorrow will be confrontational.

Spinning The Wheel

 "Fuck 33. Too soon. No, dying in your thirties is "tragic." As is forties. Sympathy dissipates from there. Fifties is "such a shame." Sixties is "too soon." Seventies "a good run." And eighties is "a life well lived." Nineties "that's a fuckin hell of a ride."

From Billions, Season 3 Episode 4

Shaky Is An Understatement

I am a bit shaky today.

Right off the bat, right out of bed.

On days like this, sometimes - I end up hiding under the bed. It's a safe place.

It's not as easy as it used to be. Now I got Emmy Lou and Patsy - endlessly curious - poking their heads under there, hell, crawling all the way under there asking "What the hell are you doing here? Aren't you suppposed to be sitting in your recliner, getting older, slower and fatter? This is our territory. Get out."

Of course the whole time they are lecturing me they are nudging my hand, looking for love and attention. Which I give them.

I get flushed out of there and suddenly I am a stranger in my own home. Forced to walk around aimlessly while trying to look industrious to Carol.

I go up and down the stairs, rub my hand on my chin a lot looking pensive - open up and shut down my laptop pretending to be doing research: I make fake phone calls to non-existent contractors in an attempt to look manly and in-charge. I snap my fingers and say "Oh, yeah - I forgot something" and then walk up the stairs. When I get there I snap my fingers and say "Oh, yeah - I forgot something" and then walk down the stairs.

It is exhausting, but it is a requirement if I am to maintain the facade of appearing industrious in today's fast-paced society.

Thanksgiving is coming. I could clean the bathroom. Yeah, that's it - I will clean the bathroom. That's the perfect cover - I'll close the door and lie down on the bathmat and take a nap.

Until Emmy Lou and Patsy scratch on the door, trying to get to the kitty litter box, forcing me to open the door and blow my cover.

And I will still have no answer for them when they ask "What the hell are you doing here? Shouldn't you be sitting in your recliner getting older, slower and fatter? This is our territory. Get out."

Of course on the way by I kiss them each on the head.

Have You Chosen?

 "There's two roads in life. One is you're winning or learning. And the other is that you're losing all the way to the fucking grave. Boy, you'd better choose quickly or life's gonna choose it for you."

From Yellowstone, Season 4 Episode 4

A Spectacular Run

Today, Carol and I are going to Craig and Amanda's house for dinner - and to meet Amanda's parents.

I will have to be on my best behavior. Maybe even bathe before the visit.

We are excited to meet Amanda's parents because they are exceptional people. 

Amanda had a rough childhood. Her biological parents were addicts/ alcoholics. She spent time in foster homes. Eventually the couple we are to meet today adopted her. And loved her. And took great care of her.

I know this because Amanda is a sweetheart. And a very strong person. And successful. She manages a golf course and restaurant - she is the top dog. Impressive.

Amanda has the date her parents adopted her tattooed on her arm. Because, as she explains it - that was the day she found her forever family. That is so meaningful that words cannot do it justice.

Fun fact: Amanda and Craig tell us her parents are fun people. This should be a great visit on many levels. 

So that's today. Super psyched about this.

Next Thursday is a holiday we like to call Thanksgiving. Our favorite day of the year. 

A day that was murdered by covid last year - Carol and I spent it alone, except for a morning visit from Craig and Amanda, when we sat out on the screened-in porch wrapped in blankets. Drank coffee, ate Dunkin food, sipped a little whiskey.

It was a sad and difficult afternoon but, as usual, Carol kept up her spirits, which helped me a lot.

This year Keith will be here, Krista will not. She will be with her family, which we completely understand. She will be missed, but we are happy for her that she gets to spend this special day with the people who have loved her for all of her life.

Craig and Amanda will be here. Our friends Jason and Karen will be here. Our cats Emmy Lou and Patsy will be here to provide entertainment and sweet innocence

The house will be full. There will be much laughter and a lot of love.

My brother Ed and his wife Carolina will not be here. This disappoints me, but you gotta roll with the punches. That's all I'm gonna say.

We will be celebrating Carol's birthday on Thanksgiving; another thing we got cheated out of last year.

Having the family gathered around her, in love and happiness, for her birthday, is what she deserves. She will be beaming, as she always does when our family is together. She is the matriarch of this family. A source of strength, an inspiration for toughness, a straight shooter who is exactly who she is no matter who she is with or what situation she is in.

An amazing woman who I had the good fortune to marry, and who tolerates my flaky, creatively-driven personality with a smile. She actually loves me. I am grateful for that.

Two big days that are all about family. Carol and I worship our family. Our love for them exceeds most people's capacity to love. That's a bold statement, to quote John Travolta in Pulp Fiction.

Love is a natural thing within most families. It is powerful. I know that. All I am saying is that it is impossible to love a family more than Carol and I do ours.

Two big days, man. Two days that will fill me and Carol up to the point where we will be walking on air for weeks.

That is compelling stuff, baby.

Counting Crows

The Counting Crows album - August and Everything After - taps directly into my emotions, my baser emotions, my emotions laid bare, in a way that no other music does.

Especially Round Here. And Mr. Jones. And Perfect Blue Buildings. And Sullivan Street.

The mood of that album blows the top of my fucking head off, rips my emotional ocean to shreds, tears my soul open and exposes my essence to acid.

It destroys me every single time.

And I keep coming back for more.

For Carol

 "We may not have a cent to pay the rent, but we're gonna make it, I know we will

We may have to eat beans every day, but we're gonna make it, I know we will

and if a job is hard to find, and we have to stand in the welfare line

I've got your love and you know you got mine - so we're gonna make it, I know we will

We may not have a home to call our own, but we're gonna make it, I know we will

We may have to fight hardships alone, but we're gonna make it, I know we will

'cause togetherness brings peace of mind, we can't stay down all the time,

I've got your love and you know you got mine, so we're gonna make it, I know we will

Our car may be old, our two rooms cold, but we're gonna make it, I know we will

We may not can spare a roach a crumb, but we're gonna make it, I know we will

and if I have to carry around a sign saying Help the deaf, the dumb and the blind

I got your love and you know you got mine, so we're gonna make it, I know we will

We're gonna make it, we're gonnna make it, baby

It might seem hard sometime, but don't worry, darlin' baby

We're gonna keep on tryin' "

We're Gonna Make It, by Little Milton

A Small Life

Here's the plan.

Gonna buy me a place in Pickle Pride, Louisiana. Nothing fancy. Small place right on the Atchafalaya River.

Two bedrooms, just in case friends and relatives feel the need to check up on me. Small kitchen; I won't need much because I will be eating out or ordering out frequently. A den. Dark paneling, low lighting except the light behind my recliner. Reading is my salvation and I need it to come easy.

Two bathrooms. Again, for those friends and relatives, who may never show up. But you never know.

Gonna wear silk shirts with floral prints. Linen pants. Italian leather shoes for Friday night, or any other night I care to indulge my needs - booze and blues. I suspect my weeks will consist of multiple Friday nights.

Gonna hire me a cleaning lady. Older woman, worldly and wise. Someone who understands life's real truths - the truths that lie just below the surface. 

We will have an honest relationship. No bullshit. No artifice. We'll sit at my kitchen table when she's done cleaning and enjoy meaningful conversations; we will never once talk about the fucking weather. We will sip premium booze. I will tip her extravagantly, much to her chagrin.

Gonna find me a hole-in-the-wall restaurant that will become my place. The waitresses and bartenders will greet me warmly; the warmth will be reciprocated. We'll talk about each other's lives. And bust each other's balls. Laugh together, and cry when it's appropriate.

The food will be superb, the drinks heavy-handed, and the atmosphere welcoming.

Gonna find me a bar. A real bar, with character. Dark but not sinister. The bar itself will be scratched and dinged but not to the point of disrepair. It will have a brass footrail. 

It will hold within it all the tears and laughter and lies and love and triumphs and tragedies of every customer who had the guts to reveal honest emotion there. But it will not beat you over the head with these memories. Their essence will exist there subtly, gentle reminders of the complexities of life.

The bar will have live music seven nights a week. And no stiffs; only accomplished musicians who communicate with fierce, creative honesty through their instruments. Words are never adequate.

They will get to know me, I will get to know them. We will talk, buy each other drinks. Laugh a lot. We'll talk about music and how it doesn't just express life, it is life. Our souls will connect through the music, and we will be better for it.

Yeah, going down to Pickle Pride, Louisiana to live me a small life. A life informed by my soul in all its purity and intensity, and nothing else. No dishonesty, no lies, no distractions. No playacting.

Gonna live me a small life but a powerful one.

For The Better

Mid-course correction - Previously I said that John Cheever doesn't beat you over the head from start to finish of a story.

That is unless he is describing the typical lives of the american middle class, which he skewers with precise derision. And rightfully so. The pointlessness of it, the hollowness, the predictability, the soul-smothering level of boredom. Phoniness, playacting. Pointless materialism. Infidelity. Cruelty.

I started reading his book Bullet Park today. It is twisting me into knots because he is describing large chunks of my life. Bullet Park is a suburban neighborhood filled with everything I described above. Not perfectly dead-on because I live in the boonies, not suburbia - but a lot of it still applies. Painful.

But that is not why I am here today.

One character in the book is having a difficult relationship with his son. Every time I read something like this I question myself.

Here's where I come down on this at this moment in time. I was The Greatest Father in The History of the The World when Keith and Craig were young. I am still a good father but the example I set since they became men is questionable. It is this period of their lives that I worry about. And I am talking about a good many years.

I have always been self-absorbed; wrapped up in my own misery - real or imagined - since the day after I was born. Obsessed with it. I am selfish that way. I look at everything through a me-versus-the-world lens.

I distort reality with my neuroses and psychoses; I don't see things clearly because I don't see me clearly.

I perceive reality as if I were looking through a camera lens with vaseline smeared on it. 

That being the case, I believe there had to be times when I hurt or neglected Keith and Craig emotionally. Not purposefully, but inadvertently because I didn't listen to what they were saying, or didn't pick up on signals they were sending or just didn't have the drive to do for them what I should have done.

Self-absorption is exhausting.

There is nothing I can do about that now. I regret it - deeply - but I can't change it.

The most important thing I can do now is learn how to be myself. They deserve that. The father they have dealt with over the last 20 years or so has slipped in and out of reality - mostly out of it - so they were not dealing with the real me.

I have spent this entire year working on myself - The Ultimate Goal is to just be myself, effortlessly and without conscious effort.

I see the upcoming holiday season as a chance to do this. If I get it right my sons will notice a change. 

I think for the better.

I'm Still Your Dad

Bobby Axelrod from Billlions, just before he gets arrested, explaining things to his two young sons:

"I'm going to be arrested today. For now, here's all you need to know. The government is going to say that I did something wrong. But the government is a bunch of fucking liars, guys. Listen. Look, that's not true. Sometimes they lie. Sometimes they tell the truth, just like everyone...like me. Most folks, they find this out about their dads much later, but everyone finds it out. I'm a flawed man. And I'm not perfect. I'm not always right. I don't always win. I fucked up. I did do something wrong. If that makes me a bad person, well, you'll have to decide that for yourselves, not just once, but many times more as you grow older and you learn more. But know this. I'm still your Dad."

Adele Is My Twin

 "Oh, what have I done yet again? Have I not learned anything? I don't want to live in chaos, it's like a ride that I want to get off, it's hard to hold onto who I am, when I'm stumbling in the dark for a hand, I am so tired of battling with myself, with no chance to win.

I swear to God I am such a mess, the harder that I try, I regress, I'm my own worst enemy, right now I truly hate being me, every day feels like the road I'm on might just open up and swallow me whole, how do I feel so mighty small, when I'm struggling to feel at all?

Sometimes loneliness is the only rest we get, and the emptiness actually lets us forget, sometimes forgiveness is easiest in secret.

Hold on, let time be patient, you are still strong, let pain be gracious, love will soon come, just hold on."

Hold On, from Adele's new album, 30.

Autumn

 "I like spring, but it is too young.  I like summer, but it is too proud. So I like best of all autumn, because its leaves are a little yellow, its tone mellower, its colours richer, and it is tinged a little with sorrow and a premonition of death. Its golden richness speaks not of the innocence of spring, nor of the power of summer, but of the mellowness and kindly wisdom of approaching age. It knows the limitations of life and is content. From a knowledge of those limitations and its richness of experience emerges a symphony of colours, richer than all, its green speaking of life and strength, its orange speaking of golden content and its purple of resignation and death."

Lin Yutang, quoted from James Clear's weekly email

Gratitude

I enjoyed my first moment of gratitude this morning.

I was reading, Carol was asleep, the cats had quieted down, I was sipping delicious coffee - this scenario is my version of heaven.

I looked up from the book and was overwhelmed at how peaceful and content I felt. Overwhelmed. This has happened to me many times before. However, this time I consciously thought to myself that I was grateful for that moment. It felt so good to consciously acknowledge that.

I believe that these moments extend my life. I work so hard to beat myself up and live in almost permanent anxiety; it is important to focus on the peaceful moments. Important to be grateful.

And to bask in the soul nourishing peace of gratitude.

The Next Day

Everything is about covid these days.

Anything goes wrong it's covid's fault. Supply chain problems, gas prices, whatever - covid did it.

I think it's a bit overdone, but there is a fair amount of truth in that logic.

Like therapists.

Goddamn it, man - I missed the mark. Temporarily, I hope.

I pumped myself up to seek therapy, I spent a fair amount of time on line checking shit out and got - repeatedly - "So and so is not accepting new patients at this time." And "so and so is only doing online therapy, no face to face - and not accepting new patients at this time." 

I wanted face to face. If it was good enough for Tony Soprano it is good enough for me.

But I did finally land someone who promptly put me on her list. For teletherapy. She has a list of people seeking therapy and as people cancel out she schedules new ones in.

I have been waiting...........................

She contacted me about a slot that opened up, but it was on a day and time when I am at that hideous motherfucking job. 

But last week I got an email telling me about a slot that works for me. Trouble is I got the email on Monday, didn't see it until Wednesday. I jumped all over it with great excitement and gleeful anticipation.

Got her response: "Sorry. I only hold slots open for 24 hours. I gave it to someone else."

I did not fucking know that. Now I do.

Used to check email periodically. Now I am obsessed.

I don't bathe, brush my teeth or slap on deoderant. I don't eat, sleep, or exercise. I don't change my underwear. I quit my job. I closed my amazon account. 

I hover over my laptop opened to gmail - I refresh it every 15 seconds until I pass out from exhaustion. When I recover I lift my skull off the keyboard and hit refresh.

She will not sneak one past me again.

I am going to shop around some more. I gotta get this done. I want to do this so badly that it is driving me fucking crazy. Every moment I waste provides inspiration to the asylum director who has already fitted me for a custom made straight jacket.

I was quite disappointed to miss that opportunity. I really want to fix my brain.

Before it turns on me and convinces me that the man in the mirror is trying to kill me and must be exterminated.

And the next day I get an email................................

Random Melancholy

The desk I sit at up here has pictures under plastic.

The way I positioned my laptop this morning left a picture exposed that I love.

Sarge, me and Kevin. My brother-in-law and my nephew. I am sandwiched in between.

Sarge died from cancer, Kevin committed suicide.

Why am I here and they are not?

A question like that can never be answered.

For some reason the picture is getting to me as I continue to look at it. Bumming me out a bit. Even though I look at it frequently. A lot of times I just smile. Today I feel heavy.

I was thinking about drinking recently. I have a lifelong and well documented relationship with alcohol, for which I do not apologize.

I like to party.

I had many drunken moments with Sarge and with Kevin, individually and together. Always a blast. I also had many quiet conversations with each of them - thoughtful, reflective, personal.

That's what makes the difference. 

If all you do is get drunk and you have no substance, you are wasting your time. Don't get me wrong - I have wasted many a night with people like that and laughed a lot doing it. But there was always a sense of hollowness, of emptiness.

Sarge and Kevin were fully formed human beings, with hearts and minds and souls. Both insane and sensitive. That is a combination I cannot resist. It is a combination I worship.

I loved them both and miss them deeply.

October

October is a gentle and considerate month.

It eases the transition from summer to winter in a delicate and beautiful way, especially in New England.

Temperatures drop into the fifties and sixties, which are cool, comfortable and invigorating. They make you feel alive. And they seem to accentuate the clear blue skies and the gorgeous colors of the leaves.

There is a clarity to the month of October that seems to blow all the sludge out of your brain.

I never thought I'd say all that. I used to worship hot&humid, and die as winter approached. I no longer feel that way.

I spent the last month admiring the beauty all around us. We live in spectacular surroundings which I no longer take for granted. Powerful beauty that can even soften my commute to and from HELL on Wednesdays, Thursdays & Fridays.

I look around me as I drive, and my soul opens up to the possibility that one day happiness may become a natural emotional state for me.

Then I get to work and spit poison and breathe fire. What are you gonna do?

It's getting colder now and snow is coming. Snow is the final frontier for me. The one challenge I will probably never overcome.

I have learned to accept cold. I don't like it but I can deal with it. 9 layers is the answer, baby.

Snow fucking sucks. It is inconvenient and, at times, dangerous. I totaled one car in my life and it was on a treacherous, icy road.

So cold is coming, snow is coming, but I am feeling calm.

Thanks to the gentle beauty and soft consideration of the month of October.

An Addiction to Cheever

 Even though I said it was too much work to quote John Cheeever's words, my soul will not rest until I do.

"He lighted a cigarette and looked at the stranger's face - pasty and round and worn it seemed, with such anxieties as cooking, catching trains and buying useful presents at Christmas."

"There was no kindliness in her face. She gave him that appalling look of bitterness that we exchange when we are too tired, or too exacerbated by our own ill luck, to care whether our neighbors live or die."

"His reality seemed assailed or contested; his gifts for hopefulness seemed damaged or destroyed. There is a parochialism to some kinds of misery - a geographical remoteness like the life led by a grade-crossing tender - a point where life is lived or endured at the minimum of energy and perception and where most of the world appears to pass swiftly by like passengers on the gorgeous trains of the Santa Fe. Such a life has its compensations - solitaire and star-wishing - but it is a life stripped of friendship, association, love and even the practicable hope of escape."

From The Wapshot Chronicle, by John Cheever

I love this stuff. He drops these bombs of informed opinion into every story - on people and life - words that knock me over every time.

There - don't you feel better now?

Listen, Jesus

Strange week.

I worked the Death Shift yesterday - 7:30 - 4:00. Got today off for Veterans Day. Working the Death Shift tomorrow.

A roller coaster ride sure as shit.

But I am here today. Feeling peaceable.

Thinking about cleansing my soul and offering it up to Jesus. Kind of like a trial run.

"What do you think about that, Big Guy?"

"Joe - you got a lot more work to do before you can even think about joining the pure souls who surround me. If I let you in here now you'd have these sanctified spirits drinking whiskey and shooting craps within an hour."

Story of my life.

I eat broccoli, limit whiskey consumption to 8 ounces a day, do a couple of pushups, stop cursing and what do I get? Rebuffed.

I should take up smoking. What do I have to lose? I am 67 - how long does it take to get lung cancer? I would look cool. Learn how to blow smoke rings, light a wooden match off my beard. People would gravitate to me and offer me money. I'd get rich. And retire.

Sounds like a plan.

'Cept for Carol. She would not let me smoke in the house. My face pressed to the glass of our pretty French doors on January 8 in -13 degree weather. Undignified.

In fact if I took up smoking she'd probably just kill me. She would put up a fierce fight, that's for goddamn sure.

That and guns. She always tells me she will not allow me to own a gun.

Allow me?

If I want a gun I will buy a gun. It has been in the back of my mind for years now. The ultimate escape hatch. If I get to the point where my sons have to wipe my ass, a bullet to the brain is the perfect panacea.

Quick Aside: I loved Hunter S. Thompson, but I despised the circumstances in which he killed himself. I have no problem with him committing suicide - sometimes it just makes sense. But he shot himself in his own home with his son, daughter-in-law, and grandson in the house. And he was on the phone with his wife when he cocked the gun.

Are you fucking kidding me? That is just fucking mean and cold-hearted in a calculated way.

His son discovered the body. Hunter shot himself in the head so I imagine the death scene was not pretty.

I would never do it at home. It would be in the woods somewhere pretty and private. In my Hyundai. I would not mind spraying blood all over my Hyundai because I should be driving a Lincoln anyway.

I have no suicidal thoughts. I am merely fascinated by the subject as morbid entertainment.

It appears I have veered off track here. Way off track.

Listen Jesus, just cut me some fucking slack. I have done some stupid and dangerous things in my life; pissed a lot of opportunities away, and generally not exactly been a saint.

But I'm a good guy and fun to be with. You would enjoy having a beer with me.

Consider that in the final moments when you calculate my pluses and minuses.

And remember - I was an accountant.

Just in case you need any help calculating the final reckoning.

An Unlikely Couple

I am reading the complete collected novels of John Cheever.

He wrote five novels and I have them all together in one book. Pretty slick, eh?

He wrote a ton of short stories, and I have a big, fat book of his short stories. I don't know if the book contains all of his short stories, but there are a helluva lot of them in there. I read that years ago. 

I love John Cheever.

Because...................he describes life honestly, in my humble opinion. But he does it in an intelligent, literary, biting kind of way. In other words his stories are not disturbingly dark from start to finish, he doesn't bang you over the head with "pessimism", but as he tells the story, reality slips in, in the way he describes a character, or in something a character says, or in something that happens to a character or between characters.

And when that happens you shake your head and cringe at the cruelness of life and humanity, and you despair at the parallels in your own life.

The recurring theme that I detect is that life is boring, life is less than we all want it to be, people are predictable and not in a good way, dreams die and bad things happen, and happiness is quite elusive.

This is my interpretation and it is colored by the lens of my perspective. But, as The Eagles sang in Victim of Love - "I could be wrong but I'm not, no I'm not".

Typically when I come across words that connect with me as I read, I share them with you. I am into the second novel in this collection and have given up on writing down page numbers. There are so many things that Cheever writes that indict the human race for cruelty/stupidity/callousness/selfishness/greed and more, that I cannot keep up.

Suffice it to say I love his writing style, I dig the stories, and I treasure his joyful skewering of the human race.

Bizarre Segue: This is also why I love Marc Maron. You can call him dark if you want to, call him a pessimist - I think he speaks the truth. His opinions resonate with me. And his sense of humor makes me laugh. That is a bonus, baby - if you can be honest about life in your opinions, and turn around and make comedy out of what you see, you are a gifted human deserving of appreciation.

My theme here is that there is nothing wrong with describing life as it truly is. We all know but most will not openly admit, that life can be drudgery, it can be boring, it can be disappointing. It can be painful. 

Blasphemy, you say. Suck it up - pretend that everything is cool. Lie about your feelings, no one gives a damn anyway. Project faux happiness, even though everybody can see through your feeble act.

I would much prefer someone to tell me they hate their fucking job, need to make a lot more money and their marriage is a sham. That is called communication. Truth. Faux happiness is an act. A lie.

Marc Maron, talking to Lindsey Buckingham in Maron's podcast, was discussing the lyrics to a song Lindsey had written about rocky relationships.  Marc described them as "comforting but not hopeful', which Lindsey agreed with.

I love that. What a great description. Comforting but not hopeful. It is a nakedly honest assessment. That is about all you can expect from a lot of things in life. 

He was in no way being negative - he said it as a statement of fact. He was also not implying that the song was disappointing because of that, or that the song was depressing. He said it as if the lyrics were an accurate reflection of life.

I have nothing against people trying to achieve happiness. I am against dishonesty. If you are not happy, don't pretend to be, but don't give up. Work at it.

I can sense faux happiness at 300 yards, so don't waste my fucking time. But there are a lot of you out there prancing around the stage of your life imagining yourselves to be Shakespearean actors.

You are not. You are transparent.

You are the reason I crave John Cheever and Marc Maron.

And..............................

No Small Feat

Watched an interview with Carlos Santana yesterday.

He is a fascinating guy. Deeply spiritual. Amazingly positive vibe. The way he describes the music that he makes, makes it clear that the relationship between the music and who he is, is almost seamless.

His reverence for the music, and all that came before to make what he does possible, is how every serious musician should feel.

The interviewer asked about some of the tough stuff in Santana's life. Within his response he said "There's a lot more to celebrate than to mourn."

I was still basking in the glow of the words I posted yesterday about living my life. When stuff like that occurs to me it disturbs my balance; I keep returning to the concept, think it over, wonder if I was being truthful, wonder if those thoughts will impact my life. Wonder if I understand and truly believe what I said.

"There's a lot more to celebrate than to mourn." Those words resonated with me because that describes my life, and does it in a much more poetic way than my attempt to do so.

Then Carlos dropped the gratitude bomb. The interviewer asked how he maintains his passion for the music after so many decades. He said it starts with gratitiude. When he needs inspiration he starts with that.

As he put it, gratitude, gratitude, gratitude. Like a mantra. He focuses on that and thinks about all the things he is grateful for. Little things as well as big. Like being grateful for his success, and being grateful for the excellent meal he just ate. 

I love the idea of being grateful for little things. It seems to me it narrows the focus of your life down to a manageable level that can dramatically increase your daily happiness. No small feat.

When Warren Zevon was suffering with terminal lung cancer, David Letterman (a friend) very gently asked him if he had any words of advice. Warren said "Enjoy every sandwich."

Boom. Same thing. I loved his answer.

I avoid gratitude. Always seemed like a wimpy thing to me. It always felt like a disingenuous piece of the whole phony happiness puzzle that people use to fool themselves into thinking they are happy.

Like "I was just diagnosed with Stage 4 pancreatic cancer and given 6 months to live. Well, at least I'll get to see the end of the football season."

Give me a break.

However, as I thought about it, if I am going to accept that I am actually living my life, I might as well throw gratitude into the mix. It makes sense. I covered some of that yesterday when I talked about Carol, Keith & Craig (I moved you guys ahead of the cats), The Cats etc.

But I wasn't thinking about it in terms of gratitude.

Now I am. I need to be more open about my definition of strength and weakness.

I need to think about the good things in my life in terms of gratitude. I need to feel gratitude. Gratitude as a solid concept. One that I can use as inspiration towards happiness.

I read a ton of biographies and autobiographies. These are obviously people I respect. Beyond being fascinated by their lives and their accomplishments, I am always looking for nuggets of wisdom that resonate with me.

The people with true wisdom always come through.

Carlos Santana is a beautiful human being. And he graciously shares that beauty with us through his music.

He got me serious about gratitude.

No small feat.

Crime Against Humanity

Watching a movie recently.

A character was reflecting upon his life and arrived at the conclusion that despite wrong turns and bad decisions it was possible that he was "exactly where he was supposed to be."

This is not a novel idea, but for some reason that night those words knocked me to the floor.

What if that philosophy applies to me?

I put a great deal of effort into bemoaning my existence; I let it depress me, fill me with anxiety, waste my days and nights and decades - because I believe I can be a lot more than I am. I feel like I blew it. I believe I am living someone else's life.

Maybe I am actually living my life and just don't know it.

If that is true I have wasted a great deal of time.

It would be much healthier for me if I just accept my life as it is on a day to day basis. This does not mean giving up on improving my life and maybe lifting it up a notch or two. But in a relative way my life is not a septic tank.

My home is a comfortable place to come home to. Carol is an extraordinarily special person who loves me and really looks out for me. Our new cats are spectacular. They make us laugh, they makes us love them.

Keith and Craig. I could not ask for better sons. We are friends, we have great conversations, our mutual love is strong and they make me so, so proud.

On the material side of things I bought a brand new car last year. I haven't had a new car since 1810. Bought me a cushy new recliner last month. My mother could not hold me more lovingly than this chair does. Last night we bought an office chair for me, which I am sitting in right now quite comfortably (the previous chair was a piece of shit and killed my back). Recently bought a couple of new bookcases to house my precious books.

My point? I have it a lot better than a lot of people. That's an important point. You gotta realize what you have.

I have spent the better part of 2021 searching for a way to think about and live my life in a way that makes me happy. A way that elevates joy over regret.

There are some parts of my life that rip me apart. But the good stuff can easily outweigh the bad stuff if I put the emphasis in the right place.

So yeah, maybe I am living my life. I need to be aware of that instead of wasting it. That is an exponential shift in perspective that can result in an exponential shift in happiness.

I am way too old to spend time in regret, worry and anxiety when it is not necessary or productive. How many days do I have left? Not many, relatively.

Every day I waste being unhappy is a crime against humanity.

They Can't Do That! Can They?

There is a scene in A Christmas Carol where Bob Cratchit comes home with Tiny Tim on his shoulders on Christmas day.

Bob says to his wife something like "I believe he is getting better, he seems to be getting stronger every day."

A completely delusional comment and Bob knows it; you can see the truth in his eyes.

That is how democrat congressmen sound. Fucking delusional.

They are going to get Biden's big bill done and it will lift this country up like never before. They will hold onto their majority in the house and the senate in 2022, they will win the White House in 2024. They will hold insurrectionists accountable for January 6, they will root out republican congressmen who aided and abetted the insurrectionists and punish them.

They will protect Roe v. Wade, they will beat back the voter suppression movement.

Bullshit.

republicans suck, but they have balls, and no conscience or moral compass. democrats sit around ringing their hands saying "Hey, they can't do that."

Yes they can.

republicans will regain the majority in 2022, they will win the White House in 2024.

I see 2024 as the ultimate crisis point in my life. I will be 70 years old. If I don't have my life under control by then, meaning financial independence, I will be vulnerable. republicans love vulnerable.

I don't trust those greasy motherfuckers not to destroy my life.

The ghosts of Christmas past, present and future are not going to save the democrats. They need to wake the fuck up on their own.

Unfortunatly I have zero confidence that they will.

Goodbye to my security.

Goodbye to democracy.

Everybody Procrastinates

When I walked into the room my friend Miguel was pacing, obviously agitated.

He didn't notice me at first.

Sweat dripped off his forehead; he was mumbling to himself.

He was almost past me when he looked up in surprise - his eyes were wide, his skin was pale.

"Joe - what are you doing here?" His voice was louder than it needed to be.

I told him I had called, was up for a beer or two together, but he didn't answer. So I took a little risk and drove over, gambling that he might be home.

The shades in the room were drawn. It was late afternoon so it wasn't really dark; I would describe the effect as murky.

I said "I though we could pop out for a beer and see what's what. I was bored."

Miguel never stopped moving. Diagonally, from one corner of the room to another. Horizontally, from wall to wall. Moving slowly,  kind of shuffling, with a blank look on his face like no human should ever wear.

It was odd.

He said "Maybe later, I gotta get some shit done."

This knocked me back a bit - Miguel was no go-getter. He was as laid back as they come.

I asked "What do you need to do that can't wait for tomorrow?"

He became visibly more agitated.

He shouted "That's the fucking problem with the world today - everybody procrastinates. Nothing gets done. Lives get wasted. What's the fucking point?"

It was suddenly apparent to me that I needed to be delicate.

I said, gently, "OK, listen, we don't have to go out. We can just chill, just talk. Let's dial it back a bit."

He said "Fuck that. And fuck you."

And in one smooth motion, he reached for the gun in the ankle holster hidden by his pants leg, pulled it out, jammed the barrel of the gun under his chin and blew his brains out.

Blues Lyrics

Blues lyrics can be about anything.

That's one of the things I love about the blues.

Here's one song for starters, called Born Yesterday, by Little Milton. I heard it yesterday morning on my way into Hell.

"I hear you been telling your friends across town, that I'm in the dark about your running around, and how your Fool in the house don't know nothin' 'bout your woman on the side, (she said) I might have been born yesterday but I stayed up late last night."

I love the simplicity of that statement - "I might have been born yesterday, but I stayed up late last night."

If you need closure, when she found out he was cheating she took some revenge. While he was cheating on her, she was cheating on him. And in the song he says he was hurt when she told him that. Fucking men, man. We don't understand shit.

Here's some darker stuff - Your Funeral and My Trial, by Sonny Boy Williamson. "Please come home to your daddy, and explain yourself to me, because I and you are man and wife tryin' to start a family, I'm beggin' you baby, cut out that off the wall jive, if you can't treat me no better, it gotta be your funeral and my trial."

Can you tell this is old school? Holy shit, man - that is pretty direct. You probably couldn't even get a song like that published today.

Here's the opposite end of the spectrum. Fresh Out, by Christone Kingfish Ingram.. No coffee for my breakfast, no butter on my roll, ain't got a drop of milk for the cornflakes in my bowl,.................no jelly in the jar, no flour in the sack........

Obviously he gets to the point that his woman is gone and his life has gone to shit, but I love the minor, everyday things he chooses to make that point.

I thought this was a brilliant perspective on my part, insightful analyisis and all that. But I ran out of things to say.

Still, take some time, think about what I was getting at, ponder my words.

The effort will enrich your life.

I Have A Weakness

I am currently watching Succession. Currently watching Billions.

Two shows about billionaires.

Why? Because they are about money and power. Two things I want. Two things I do not have.

Call it a personal indulgence. My secret vice. I watch them alone. Carol is excluded. I love these shows. I study them like entomologists study bugs.

Of course I do not admit this in public lest people think I am some kind of  soap opera freak. But these are not soap operas, they are an updated version of Dallas, another show about rich people that I loved. Fucking J.R. Ewing thrilled me. The way he shit on people, the way he squashed them like bugs, the way he did anything and everything he could to make more money.

I am fascinated with the concept of having so much money that you got nothing to worry about.

Yeah, yeah, yeah - money does not buy you happiness. I get that. But money buys you peace of mind. Peace of mind extends your life expectency.

I worry about our fucking future every goddamn day. I worry about every fucking dollar that comes and goes, I worry about scumbag republicans stripping away social security and medicare, which would cripple us and reduce us to living in my car which would force us to live in Arizona which would force Keith and Craig to never see us again.

If I was a billionaire I would not worry. I would have peace of mind.

The ruthless, hard-nosed characters are the best, of which there are many in these shows.

I study them, I listen to what they say, I focus on the way they think - hoping to become ruthless through osmosis.

Is this a good plan? What do you think?

Dig this quote from Bobby Axelrod in Billions - "Hate is nature's most perfect energy source. It's endlessly renewable."

Shit, man - that is dead on. I have enough hate to fuel every power source in the world for 250 years. I just haven't learned to channel it yet.

It's important that I focus. If I can turn my hate into an energy source, I will be a billionaire by November 5, 2021. 

Which is an important date. Just ask John Lennon. From his solo song Remember - "Remember, remember, the Fifth of November." Referencing Guy Fawkes Night, and all that. Look it up, for Christ sake - do I have to do all the work for you every time?

Sorry - I got off track, as I often do.

So I am digging these shows. I recently started watching Billions. I am late to the game. I am into Season 2, they just started Season 6.

I am pretty current on Succession. I watched Seasons 1 & 2. Season 3 just started. I am behind a couple of epsidoes unless they dumped the whole season at once. Who the fuck knows. I can't keep up with this shit.

I try to watch an episode a day, currently focused on Billions. The truly joyful days are Wednesday through Friday. I get home from my minimum wage job at 4:30, shake off my shame, brush the coal dust off my pants, sit down before my All Powerful laptop and become transfixed by the evil fucking hearts of billionaire opportunists.

Mark my words. I am learning a lot. Soon, I will become a Corporate Killer.

My money will be bathed in blood but it will not disturb me.

Because my bank account will soon be swollen to the point that no bank can contain it.

Trumpet

Herb Alpert & The Tijuana Brass.

Ever hear of them?

I used to love them. Herb is a trumpet player.  I had a Tijuana Brass songbook, I played their songs on my trumpet.

I owned most of their albums.

Trumpet really stuck with me. I played bass guitar and acoustic guitar in my lifetime, but brass always gets me going. It connects with my soul.

Funny how that works. My parents encouraged us to play instruments, I chose the trumpet. I don't remember any conscious though process on my part, but maybe I instinctively knew a trumpet would resonate with my soul.

It did and I was damn good at it.

Years ago Keith and Craig and Carol bought me a trumpet. A Doc Severinsen model. A very thoughtful gift, considering my history with the instrument. I have picked it up and played it off and on. Feels so good in my hands. My intent is to make it a regular part of my arsenal one of these days because it frees up an essential part of me that is currently being denied (to my detriment).

Brief aside: You want to hear some pretty trumpet playing? Dial up Chet Baker on YouTube. Beautiful, beautiful stuff.

So, where is all this coming from? Carol was recently watching a movie, I was up here in my lair. Door closed, but unfortunately the room is not soundproofed. Someday, when I am a billionaire..............

The movie credits rolled to the song "This Guy's In Love With You", by Herb Alpert & The Tijuana Brass.

An electric shock ran through my body when I heard it. One of "those" moments when I was instantaneously transported back to my youth, back to a joyful part of my life, back to something that meant something to me, something I took great pride in.

Emotion washed over me like a tidal wave.

It is a simple song, a quiet song and a pretty song. I loved playing it on my trumpet.

Hearing it again made me happy.

Jerry Remy

I wanted to be upbeat today.

I can't. Jerry Remy, for Christ sake. It's not like we couldn't see this coming; what it is, is another celebrity death that feels like the death of a family member.

The emptiness, the hurt. But the guy fought like a son of a bitch against evil cancer. It took 7 boughts with this vicious disease to lay him down. That is how you deal with terminal illness - with a bold and defiant Fuck You.

The man was an absolute joy in the Red Sox broadcast booth, the pinnacle of which was his relationship with Don Orsillo. They made us laugh so often and so hard. Most of today's broadcasters are stuffy and one dimensional - they put me to sleep with their obsession with statistics and the monotone in which they speak.

There were times during Red Sox games that both Jerry and Don would lose it laughing - just fucking crack up - and there would be on-air silence. Neither one of them could pull it together enough to offer any commentary of the game. Don would try to say something and his voice would crack and he would be half laughing and half talking. That was fantastic. That was real. That was two men being human. Two men enjoying themselves. Carol and I always loved those moments, and we laughed right along with them. A lot.

Now all you get is robots, except for Eck of course.

He was also a joy because he was an Everyman. You could identify with him; he was a straight shooter, humble and down to earth. He was self-deprecating to a fault and often made fun of his own career. He was proud of his fielding and base stealing and bunting expertise, and his career batting average was .275, which is pretty damn good. But he only hit seven home runs and he would joke about that all the time.

He was a stay at home guy. He talked about that a lot. He didn't like to go out. Loved to sit in his recliner and watch sports. After a game at Fenway he would get out of the park and home as fast as he possibly could. When the Sox were on the road he would get up early, sit in the lobby of the hotel and people watch.

He was not into glamor or attention; he could have been but chose not to.

He was old school; I am sure he did not like the rule protecting second basemen from base stealers, the rule barring catchers from blocking the plate, the use of "the shift", the fact that starting pitchers routinely pitch only 6 or 7 innings, followed by set-up men and closers.

I guarantee you he fucking hated all the ridiculous stats and measurement tools that are used in baseball now; you could hear the contempt in his voice when he had to comment on them.

He played second base for the Red sox from 1978 to 1985; he retired in 1986. I was not focused on Jerry Remy at the time. For me it was Dwight Evans (loved Dewey), Carl Yastrzemski, Jim Rice, Carlton Fisk etc...... I was not focused on Jerry but I am sure there were many times when I cheered him on.

In 1988 he joined NESN as the color commentator for the Red Sox. 1988-2021 - that is one hell of a run, baby. That is when we all got to know the real Jerry Remy. Keith put it in perspective for me with this comment about Jerry's death: "It does hurt. He was so much a part of the Red Sox experience for my entire adult life."

As far as color commentators go I remember Johnny Pesky, Mel Parnell, Ken Harrelson, Bob Montgomery - Keith remembers Jerry Remy. Because of his longevity and his impact. What he brought to the booth will never be matched. You cannot think about Red Sox broadcasts without thinking about Jerry Remy. That booth is going to be and to sound so empty next year.

Jerry was diagnosed with lung cancer in 2008. He has been fighting this fucking disease for 13 years. Thirteen. And every time he was hospitalized, Red Sox fans worried. He blamed the disease on years of smoking and spoke out regularly to warn people off cigarettes.

He never whined about it, never complained - he kept a remarkably positive attitude, and I'm sure inspired a lot of cancer patients to never give up.

A very strong man and an amazing example.

He threw out the first pitch on October 5th at Fenway before the Red Sox/Yankees wild card game. His last public appearance. The fans went wild. He had an oxygen hook-up to his nose and he was moving carefully but he was still smiling and laughing. That is how tough this man was.

25 days later he died.

I have tried to do the man some justice here but I fell short. He was an icon on many levels.

As a player, especially as a broadcaster, as a man who fought back as hard against cancer as a human being can. He made us laugh. He was honest, no bullshit. He was humble. He was knowlegable. His color commentary was spot on. He was kind. He was considerate.

He made his fans feel good. I don't think there is any higher compliment. He made people feel good and people loved him.

This is a huge loss for Red Sox fans and his family. This was a man to be respected and emulated.

Love you, Jerry.