!

 "We're all going to die, all of us, what a circus! That alone should make us love each other but it doesn't. We are terrorized and flattened by trivialities, we are eaten up by nothing."

Charles Bukowski

12/30/2022

 I am not freaking out.

I am experiencing a strange feeling of calm. And a general feeling of good.

I have orchestrated my birthday celebration perfectly. It is exactly what I want.

Craig & Amanda, Keith & Krista, Ed & Carolina - popping over for dinner.

Carol is preparing a magnificent feast - lasagna, baby! Garlic bread. A gigantic chocolate on chocolate birthday cake. Fresh chocolate chip cookies, which Carol is famous for.

We will chow. Then play some games. Then mow dessert.

I am very happy about the way this turned out. I wanted fun above all. When the games begin, laughter will dominate. My family's laughter feeds my soul and liberates my spirit.

Randomly, we have New Year's Eve plans. Jason & Karen invited us to their place. They are good people. I am actually looking forward to that. I am all about ramping up the fun in 2023.

We'll pop over, chow, have a couple of drinks, and laughs. But we're leaving early, not staying until midnight.

We want to be home for that. Just me, Carol, Emmy Lou, and Patsy. That's the way we like it.

I am not freaking out. Not by a long shot.

I feel peace. I feel love. I feel hope.

Hard Work At The Factory, Baby

I feel so bad for Emmy Lou and Patsy.

And yet I appreciate their effort. They work so hard. 

They spend every waking moment toiling in the dopamine factory, sweating over the assembly line, rarely taking breaks, wolfing down food and slurping water, focusing with laser-like intensity on the task at hand - keeping Carol and me happy. Deliriously so.

They are so good at it that we are grateful when they sleep (and they sleep deeply) because they make us so fucking happy that we actually need a break from time to time. Too much happiness unplugs the mind from "reality" and prevents us from paying bills and cleaning toilets.

But they are even tricky when they sleep - Emmy Lou in Carol's lap, Patsy in mine - are you fucking kidding me? They even produce dopamine while they slumber - maybe even more intensely.

They are godly scientists, working to reverse the aging process. Our bodies work furiously to disintegrate and rot, while Emmy Lou and Patsy work furiously to rejuvenate.

Thankfully, they are winning the war.

They are tireless and selfless.

They are Love.

A Vow

 I will no longer be invisible in 2023.

A Crucial Destination

Saturday, Sunday, Monday & Tuesday.

12/24, 12/25, 12/26, 12/27. Four days with Christmas sandwiched in the middle.

All play and no work.

12/28 - motherfucking hell. The job is the biggest thing I gotta deal with in 2023. By far. It overrides every other concern I have about my life - because it is fucking killing me.

In four days I cultivated peace and started the ball rolling in a positive direction. Turmoil subsided. I felt myself coming around. One half-day at work - 3 and 1/2 hours - and I was furious. Psychotically disposed.

Got home and poured myself some whiskey (which I don't do anymore) to jerk me back to reality. Survived about an hour and a half, then fell asleep for 2 and 1/2 hours. 

I am in a very strange place. I am so fucking exhausted that one drink puts me to sleep when I sit in the recliner. I fucking hate it. If people are around I can stay awake because I am stimulated. Alone in my recliner - I am Rip Van Fucking Winkle.

Editor's Note: I have an appointment in February with the sleep study arm of the Concord Hospital. Hopefully they can help me out. But if their answer is CPAP, they will have to kiss my ass. Man was not meant to sleep with a scold's bridle on his face.

This shitty little part-time job is a neon sign flashing in my eyes - eyelids surgically removed by Satan - screaming "Fucking Loser! Idiot! Fool!" I cannot handle sitting in that fucking chair, bored out of my mind - KILLING FUCKING TIME at the almost age of 69 - SIXTY NINE -  dealing with the occasional brainless customer asking stupid fucking questions. Working a third grader's job instead of enjoying retirement.

This rattrap of a house will not save me. I gotta do it myself. And fast. Every moment I spend in that office or, worse, working a show - is a lifetime of egregious torture. My death gets 10 hours closer for every hour I work.

Pain is a great motivator. Trouble is I've been killing pain since 1969. Now the pain is right in my face - no escape - and it demands resolution.

Oh my god Jesus Christ Holy Shit What the Fuck - How did my life come to this????????????????????

Doesn't matter.

I choose pleasure over pain in 2023. Just gotta get there.

Anybody got directions?

Spread The Word

 In 2023 I will expand the readership of my blog.

Fuck Ups

 Apparently Southwest Airline's bottom line was not top of mind.

Forbearance & Grit

In 2023 I need to cultivate the grace to forbear and the strength to persevere.

Forbear is defined as "Politely or patiently restrain an impulse to do something; refrain".

Or "Refrain from doing or using (something)".

I don't dig polite - it suggests subservience and wimpiness to me. So skip that. But I could use some patience - my raw emotions and creative nature result in impetuousness and lack of focus.

Strength to persevere - GRIT - I need this most of all.

Despite the sense of panic I exude, my brain has quieted down a bit. I am taking some positive steps this week.

I am feeling a tad confident about 2023. Throwing off the yoke of 2022 that broke my back; yeah, baby - that's the ticket. Gonna shake that motherfucker off like a flea and dance dance dance. In fact, all I wanna do is dance.

Got a lot on my mind about The Joe in 2023 - lots of ideas, plans, intentions. It's all coming together.

Here's the plan - here's how I make it work:

I'm gonna have Carol hose me down at 12:01 am on New Year's Day. I'll spend the night on the lawn - when Carol awakes I will be frozen solid.

After she enjoys her coffee and two episodes of Law & Order, I have commissioned her to take a sledghammer to me with every ounce of energy at her command.

I will shatter.

And then, using powers of my brain heretofore untapped, I will levitate broken pieces of Original Joe and reassemble myself in a new order, a new version, a stronger and more commanding variation of the old me.

I will walk forward into a new day breathing fire and flashing lightning from my eyes.

Prepare to burn.

How Big????????????

 In 2023 I will be bigger than The Beatles.

Resurrection

A New Year is five days away

I fall to my knees and I pray

I need lots of money

Some milk and some honey

Resurrection begins on that day

Consider The Possibilities

 I wake up with a smile every morning.

Did you hear what I just said? Me. The guy who has been crying in your coffee for 11 years.

WTF?

I fall out of bed, stand up, and look to the foot of the bed. To see Patsy and Emmy Lou curled up contentedly, looking back at me wondering what today will bring.

And I smile. Every single time.

That is an amazing thing. Outrageous. Exceptional.

Because I am slow moving and largely unaware, it never hit me with the force and the meaning it carried today.

I smiled at the fact that I was smiling. Holy shit, this is getting complicated.

Of course, given my dark nature, I am typically unable to use that smile as a weapon to fight back against the world as I once again skate away on the thin ice of a new day.

But I might master that trick. One never knows.

Consider the possibilities..........

Fuck You, Santa

 No Movado.

No fucking Lincoln.

What the hell is wrong with you?

I asked for them. I deserve them. Weren't you listening?

I have been a good boy. Exceptionally good. Christ, since October I have reduced whiskey consumption by 75%.  What more do you want?

Carol begins each day dancing a jig of gratitude. Bounces out of bed and starts hopping around the bedroom.

I deserve a Movado and a Lincoln for doubling her happiness.

Fuck you. I'll do it myself.

And on December 24, 2023 I will blow your fucking sleigh out of the sky with my Ar-15.

Christmas 2022

Rolled out of bed on Christmas morn at 6:45.

I was immediately struck by how quiet the house was. Except for the furious churning of the furnace.

The quiet carried more weight this year because I knew the house would remain quiet all day.

Keith was born in1980. We celebrated Christmas 1980, 1981 and 1982 as a new family. Craig was born in 1983. Since then we have celebrated every Christmas with our sons.

Until 2022. Keith was with Krista's family, Craig was with Amanda's family. A very strange feeling for Carol and me. But inevitable. Intellectually we have been expecting it and definitely did not have a problem with it. We want our kids to be happy. Period.

Emotionally it took some mind adjustment. I went back and forth, up and down, but eventually accepted it. Which is saying a lot because, as you know, I am one emotional motherfucker.

I am not an adult and probably never will be, but there are aspects of being a parent that force me to deal with adult situations. To manage emotions in an adult manner. This was one of those times.

We spent Christmas day with Eddie and Carolina at their house. Just the four of us. It was a quietly beautiful day. We talked, we laughed, had a great meal and a very comfortable visit.

They had the fireplace going, the table set beautifully, the lights turned down - the ambience was perfect.

It drove home the meaning of family for me.  It was a happy day because we were with my brother and sister-in-law.

My brother has been there for me my whole life, minus 13 months. He is 13 months younger than me. That means I had to deal with my parents for 13 months on my own. If he truly loved me, he would have been my twin.

I forgive him.

We broke the seal this Christmas. There will be more Christmasses and Thanksgivings in the future without our sons. That is the way it should be. Amanda's family deserves to spend time with Amanda & Craig, Krista's family deserves to spend time with Krista & Keith.

I am not saying we can just plug Eddie and Carolina into the equation to balance things out. I am saying we are lucky to have the family we have.

All in all it was a damn nice Christmas.

The only difference going forward is that we are no longer on speaking terms with Keith and Craig.

December 26 (Raise A Fucking Glass)

Kinda sucks, doesn't it?

Christmas is dead, baby. Gone. 

I always say that vacations don't "take". In other words, vacations are exceptional until the first second back on the job. Then your life picks right up where it left off - sucking. 

You should be able to bask in the glow of your 2 week trip to Ibiza, but it doesn't work that way. 

As soon as you walk in, the bossman says "Joe - I'll need you to clean the mens' room before you sit down - Jacob has a nasty case of explosive diarrhea - grab a mop and 4 rolls of paper towels. And I'll need you to work OT tonight - I need our quarterly financial statements completed and proofed before you leave. Priscilla was scheduled to get a head start on them before you got back, but she died. Welcome back!"

Holidays work that way too. Even more dramatically.

One day of sweet enjoyment, then Blam! - back to the grind.

I have today off from work and I suspect a lot of other people do too. Unfortunately, there are a hell of a lot of people who do not have the day off - these are the people packing six shooters and Bowie knives at work.

I work two days this week, Wednesday and Friday - a total of 7 hours. I should be able to handle that. No guarantees, though.

When I get out of work on Friday, it will be My Birthday Eve Eve. Saturday will be My Birthday Eve. Sunday is My Birthday.

Holy fucking shit, kids - it is coming. Bringing along with it another new year.

2023. What the fuck is that? The years are starting to look and feel strange to me. I mean, come on - I was born in 1954. Nineteen Fucking Fifty Four.

Humans were barely starting to walk erect in 1954.

I am going to be 69. 69. 69. 69. This is getting fucking ridiculous. I don't want to be 69 and I don't want to be dead.

I want to be 40. It tells you where I am in life when forty seems like such a youthful and attractive age.

Anyway, here it comes. Here we go. My birthday. My fucking birthday.

Gotta resolve a few issues between now and Sunday.

Raise a glass to me, won't you?

Not Sure What The Fuck To Think

We have lost our power four times in a week.

FOUR!

Last Thursday for 2 and 1/2 hours, last Friday for 2 hours, last Saturday for 7 hours, and yesterday for 4 hours.

When we first moved here we would lose power every time I sneezed. It was a royal pain in the ass, and as a city boy it had me thinking I made a big fucking mistake moving to the boonies.

Eventually it settled down, and we have gone a long time without dealing with frequent power outages. So this shit came out of the blue.

And has me worrying that this is the way this winter is going to be. If this is how it goes, I am going to lose my fucking mind. It's bad enough dealing with cold and snow on the outside, but when my house is ice cold on the inside, and we have to make judicious use of the toilet, New York City starts to look pretty fucking attractive.

In addition..................

A fucking tree came down in the front yard last night during that insane wind/rain storm. Not just a tree - a really big fucking tree. We have a bit of lawn in front of the house, and then woods. This tree was in the woods. It came down and stretched all the way across the lawn and landed with the top of the tree rubbing up against the house.

I am a city boy so I am not good with distances, but this thing had to cover 20 or 30 feet. The whole fucking tree came down.

I was at work but Carol was here. She heard the cracking sound, which apparently lasted 5 or 10 seconds, then the fucking tree came down, sounding like a major explosion.

It was dark so we could not see clearly - we thought a branch had come down from overhead and bounced off the roof.

Until I went outside this morning and saw this monster stretching across the yard.

If it was a foot taller it would have shattered the window that the top of it came to rest against. If it came down a few feet over it would have shattered our picture window. So we were lucky. I don't believe it did any damage to the house. Now we just have to figure out how to deal with the motherfucker.

Ominous: Giving the impression that something bad or unpleasant is going to happen.

Frequent lost power, and giant trees attacking my house fill me with fear of 2023. This cannot be a portent of how this new year is going to go. I don't need it.

I am trying to get this thing off on the right foot. I don't need evil gremlins sabotaging my Great Comeback.

LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE!

I am pretty good at sabotaging myself.

Hope? Or Chia Pet?

It's Christmas Eve.

Can you feel it? I can.

I ventured out in 10 degree weather to get me some drugs (at the pharmacy). Can't wait until I can venture out to buy marijuana in the backwards state of NH that I live in. A state that seemingly without irony sports the slogan "Live Free or Die."

As I was driving around, I was feeling Christmas Eve. The emotions are there; there is a sensitivity, a contemplative perspective, a sense that it is a different kind of day, a more meaningful kind of day.

Then I thought - "Well that is just you, Joe - there is nothing palpably different about 12/24 - it is just you being reflective."

But, you know, a lot of people are feeling it today. A lot of people are reflecting, feeling peaceful, feeling hopeful at the most hopeful time of year.

That collective emotion, the amplified hopefulness, has to have an affect on the atmosphere, the environment. The collective mood. It doesn't happen on any other day except for Christmas, and it will be there tomorrow. There is a seismic shift in the emotion that is being projected into the universe. And that shift is towards the good.

When you bleed out all the cynical jerk-offs to whom Christmas means nothing, and the materialistic and mindless fools to whom Christmas only means shopping, you are still left with a hell of a lot of people who understand that this is a time for reflection. And hope.

A tear in the fabric that allows you to get back in touch with your soul. To understand that your soul shares a great deal of similarity with every other soul in the world.

What I felt was real. It was not only in my mind.

Hopefully, that kind of magic exposes your mind to possibilities, giving you the juice to keep on trying.

If not, just go out and buy your wife a fucking Chia Pet.

'Cause You Gotta Have Gratitude

 I am thankful to have irrational hope carrying me into 2023.

Siddartha Gautama & Me

Siddartha Gautama (Buddha) arrived at the conclusion that suffering is caused by the behavior patterns of one's own mind.

He believed that no matter what the mind experiences, it always reacts with craving, and craving always involves dissatisfaction. In other words, when the mind experiences something nasty, it craves to be rid of it. When the mind experiences something pleasant, it craves that the pleasure will remain and intensify. Therefore, the mind is always dissatisfied and restless. If we feel pain, we are not content. If we feel happiness, we are not content.

This makes perfect sense to me. My mind is my enemy. It never leaves me alone. Most of the time I am sad, so the discontent is self-evident. But when I am happy I am really sad-happy, so my mind is never at peace.

It burns and burns and burns.

Buddha teaches that you can meditate yourself to a place where you experience reality as it is, without craving. If you feel sad, and your mind recognize sadness as something that just is without craving that the sadness go away, then there is no suffering. If you feel happy without craving that the happiness linger and intensify, there is no suffering.

Can I train my mind to think in this way? Talk about climbing Mt. Everest naked. Holy shit. 

I go to bed. My mind begins its torture. "Shit, I picked up bread, cold cuts and half and half, but I forgot to pick up fucking after shave. I gotta work tomorrow. Should I swing by the store on my way in or my way home? While I'm there, should I pick up an onion for my sandwiches, or should I leave that to Carol when she goes food shopping in four days?  If I do pick up an onion, should I get one or two? How can I make a million dollars in 2023?"

And it's four a.m.

I have dabbled in Buddhism off and on. Read about it, checked out the philosophy. I feel that if I can get comfortable with it, I will experience much less self-induced suffering. It feels like the perfect antidote to the eternal abuse my mind metes out 24/7. It fascinates me.

In 2023 I will learn more about Buddhism.

Don't Make Me Kill You, Santa

My Christmas spirit is sinkin'

I sit here alone and I'm thinkin'

Santa will die

If he doesn't supply

A Movado and my precious Lincoln

No Room For Fear

I am reading Sapiens - A Brief History of Humankind, by Yuval Noah Harari.

It covers a lot of ground. It is excellent.

A thought occurred to me as I read: the Big Bang Theory seems no more real to me than the concept that there is a God.

But I have to make a choice, right? I gotta believe in something.

Right now I'm hedging my bets as I tip toe towards the grave. I don't believe in God, I believe in science, but I'm hoping there is a God.

And therein lies the problem and the point of this blog post.

I am indecisive. I always try to take the middle road so I don't offend anybody. This gets me into trouble. It is ultimately the reason I am still fucking working at the age of 68 (damn near 69).

In 2023 I will be more decisive. I will speak my mind, I will speak my truth and deal with the consequences. 

No more room for fear.

This Is How I Get My Fucking Beef

In 2023 I will eat less meat.

 "Immediately after birth the calf is separated from its mother and locked inside a tiny cage not much bigger than the calf's own body. There the calf spends its entire life - about four months on average. It never leaves its cage, nor is it allowed to play with other calves or even walk - all so that its muscles will not grow strong. Soft muscles mean a soft and juicy steak. The first time the calf has a chance to walk, stretch its muscles and touch other calves is on its way to the slaughterhouse. In evolutionary terms, cattle represent one of the most successful animal species ever to exist. At the same time, they are some of the most miserable animals on the planet."

From Sapiens - A Brief History of Humankind, by Yuval Noah Harari, relative to the agricultural revolution phase of human development.

I love a soft and juicy steak. Every other week when Carol goes food shopping she picks up two Delmonico steaks, which we eventually enjoy as a special treat. We always look forward to it. Two beautiful steaks, two luscious baked potatos.

Every time I read about how animals are abused to provide me with those two steaks, my heart breaks. But not enough, apparently. I still eat them.

I have experimented with vegetarian recipes before and found some delicious ones.

I will do more of that in 2023.

To 2023

I don't want to be no bum

I don't want to be no crumb

I don't want to be no scum

I want to get along

I don't want to be no loser

I don't want to be no boozer

Spend Christmas in a po-lice cruiser

I want to sing a song

I don't want to get too old

I don't want to get too cold

I don't want to grow no mold

I want to have some fun

I don't want to be so poor

I don't want to close the door

I don't want to fail no more

I want to see the sun

I don't want to have no fear

I don't want pain so severe

I don't want a path unclear

I want a happy year

Peacock Resurrected

 In 2023 I will lose weight and buy elegant clothes.

I Continue To Think

I will randomly list things I gotta fix in myself in 2023 as they come to me.

I am but a lump of clay, waiting to be molded into a genuine Joe by the hands of a sculptor. The sculptor being me, of course.

Anyway, I gotta stop apologizing for my need to own books.

I have found myself doing that multiple times recently, strangely enough, and it twists my guts up into a Gordian knot as the words escape my lips.

I went through my books a while back, weeding out the fluff stuff - you know, the stuff I read purely for entertainment. There was quite a bit of it. The sag of the floor in my room eased up considerably once these books were removed.

I started downloading the fluff stuff to my tablet. This is a reasonable and defensible approach. One I can live with.

Ostensibly, what is left behind are the important books. The books I love. The books that open up a window to my soul. Why the fuck would I get rid of them?

A fucking house without bookcases is a house without a soul, without a center, without a personality. Burn the motherfucker down.

Everyone has their own obsessions. Mine is owning the books I love. I will no longer defend or apologize for that. My books are beautiful to me. I'd sooner cut off my fingers than get rid of them.

Lately I have accelerated my book buying. I don't know why, but I am bringing these spirits into the house at a faster clip, and it soothes my soul.

The problem is when you talk to people about acquiring books, not owning them sounds so logical. An unassailable truth. Who needs the clutter?

I do. "I have my books and my poetry to protect me." Paul Simon understands.

I am constantly apologizing for things that make perfect sense to me. Things that make me happy.

That is fucking ridiculous. And weak.

I am going to stop doing that. Into eternity. Until I am fucking dead.

I am going to stop aplogizing for who I am and just be who I am.

You will fucking love me for it.

Moi Aussi

 "Consciousness is simply the kind of work I can't make a continuous effort at - a disease causing giddiness, brain fever, unhappiness."

From Wolf, by Jim Harrison

A Cocoon of Warmth

 In order to survive a vicious New England winter, one must build a cocoon of warmth.

We keep our thermostat set to 70 degrees. It is not 70 degrees in this house. The thermostat registers 70 degrees. The thermostat sits directly above a fucking heating vent.

It is 29 degrees in my Recliner Zone.

I sit in the Royal Chair wearing two sweatshirts. Actually, one fleece - which is delightfully thick - and one sweatshirt.

Not enough.

I also cover myself with a blanket and one or two cats.

I cannot just throw the blanket over my ancient body; it must be strategically arranged.

Stretched down beyond my ankles and rising halfway up the instep of each foot. Tucked under my arms, wrapped securely around my chest. Pulled all the way up to my chin.

A perfectly situated cocoon of warmth.

Until I have to go to the bathroom.

My bladder screams in agony over my procrastination.

A Disappointing Beginning

Jo Jo's having a bad day.

Already.

Fuck Old Age

"Old age is a progressive disability with death as the end result."

Harsh words. True words. Painful words.

My body is failing me, my mind is failing me. It is indisputable.

I am only 68.

I believe I can get some of it back through exercise. Mind & Body. I know I can. Get moving and LOSE WEIGHT. The only way to fight old age is to exercise, to keep moving, and to keep the mind active and challenged. Obesity is terrible and self-destructive. But quarter pounders taste so fucking good.

I have become obsessed with buying breakfast as I tool around going to endless medical apppointments and self-improvement seminars. I just discovered the Breakfast Baconator at Wendy's. Fucking awesome. I am a dead man.

I have done nothing for my mind this year except to bathe it in poison & pus. Acrid smoke drifts from my ears as corrosive liquids deteriorate my brain. I inhale the smoke and the cyclical destruction cycles back around. Soon I will not even be able to spell the word "cat".

What is frightening is how quickly I went downhill in 2022. I coasted into the year on the wings of an eagle. Feeling pretty good.

Knee problems began in mid January and I was immediately fucked. Surgery happened, recovery was slow, and repercussions continue through to right now. I have been unable to exercise the way I normally do and I gained 440 pounds. And I walk like Joe Biden - my legs are so fucking stiff.

I feel old. I feel unhealthy.

I am going to sue my brother for mental cruelty because he is in magnificent shape and it kills me. I can't be around him because when I am I want to stuff eclairs down his throat until he gains 440 pounds. Then we can waddle around together as the Roly-Poly Twins, visiting donut shops and patisseries until we explode in technicolor all over some asshole on a racing bike.

I am experiencing this progressive disability intensely. It dominates my body and my mind from the minute I open my eyes in the morning. I will start fighting back. But not today.

I just ate a big, fat bologna sandwich with a thick slab of onion on it. And lots of mayo.

Not my fault.

Jesus made me do it.

As My Arteries Explode

Things are getting a little shaky around here.

A little hinky. I should say that I am getting a little shaky.

Sixteen days left in 2022. My mind is screaming in agony.

Anxiety is tangible as the clock ticks, and it increases day by day. I can feel it and it does not feel good.

I hate 2022 and I will not mourn its passing. But I gotta find hope in 2023, inspiration, and I need it now. Kind of like Liam Neeson in Love Actually - "We need Kate and we need Leo and we need them now!"

I need hope, I need a plan of attack, and I need it now! I cannot drift into 2023 as a lame continuation of 2022.

That would destroy me.

I have ideas, I know what I need on the most basic of levels, but I have not revved up the engine yet. 

I am so tired ("I can't stop my brain, you know it's three weeks, I'm going insane, you know I'd give you everything I got for a little peace of mind - I'm So Tired - The Beatles), my mind is choking on indecision and disappointment, I just can't fucking function. Tomorrow I will stick a finger in a light socket and rejuvenate as fire shoots out of my eyes. That's a promise.

So there's that.

Then there is work.

I am functioning at a low level; it is hard to be efficient when I want to kill every customer I talk to on the phone and every one that walks in the door.

Fucking gift cards at this time of year. Processing the online cards sucks and never fucking works. I fucked one up yesterday afternoon and completely lost it. My mind fucking shut down. I was white hot angry and unable to function.

I slammed the phone down, stared straight ahead for a minute or two, then stood up, walked away, grabbed my jacket and walked out of the building. To my car. Took a ride. Around 3 in the afternoon.

This is not considered to be exemplary behavior for a part time indentured servant.

Came back later, sat down like nothing happened and poured another bucket of shit over my head. Nobody said anything. Lucky I work in a permissive atmosphere or I would be contacting the unemployment office today.

I take about 19 blood pressure pills and my blood pressure is still 199/180.

Or something quite like it.

And Then There's This

As the house becomes my tomb.

The buyer made an original offer of $289,000. Inspector came by last Thursday, and a contractor came by on Friday to work up an estimate of repair costs for the buyer.

On Tuesday, our realtor informed us that the buyer decided she would go no higher than $200,000.

An $89,000 drop. Are you fucking kidding me? What an asshole.

If she dropped her offer by $19.99 I could respect her. I'd even go for $50. But $89K? Seriously, I expected her to drop her offer when the results came in on this rattrap, and I was willing to kick in 9 grand. Give me a fucking break. The woman flew in from California to fuck us. She must be really lonely.

Our realtor essentially told her to go fuck herself. So the deal is dead. And now we are waiting for spring to roll around. When the housing market will have collapsed and mortgage interest rates are at 23%.

I prayed to my father's corpse and begged him to bequeath me his handyman skills. You know, so I can work on the house, improve it superficially, enough to make it attractive to some unsuspecting rube.

Know what Dad said?

"Fuck you, loser. You couldn't handle a hammer when I was alive and you definitely cannot handle one now. You are a wimp, a wuss, a pantywaist and a Caspar Milquetoast. Just keep reading your poetry and whining in your blog until your fucking house falls down on your head and entombs you. It's what you deserve, you pointy-headed fuckwad."

I fear I left a bad impression on Dear Old Dad.

Fuck him.

And fuck the bad juju this fucking rattrap is killing me with.

Two Old Friends

I had a medical appointment this past Monday.

It was an annual follow-up related to the melanoma I was diagnosed with in 2016. Everything is fine.

Phil called me as I was driving there but I did not answer because I was 5 minutes from Dr. Feelgood's office.

After the appointment, as I was driving home, I called Phil back. We spoke for a minute or two, then he said "I can't talk for long - I'm driving to a medical appointment."

I told him where I was coming from and we laughed.

Two old friends getting older.

December 15, 1978

Out running around doing errands just now.

Listening to the Springsteen channel. They were playing a full concert from San Francisco from 12/15/78.

On 12/15/78, Carol and I had been married for 10 months and 3 days. We were 10 days away from our first Christmas together.

We were living in a small underground apartment in Dracut, MA. We had our first pet together - Bandit - a precious cat that we stole from people across the street from friends of ours. The people who owned Bandit left him outside all the time. We didn't feel that was right. So we rescued him.

We weren't parents yet and could not imagine that we would end up with two amazing sons.

It is an odd thing to think back like that. Forty four years later.

1978 was a romantic year in our life. 

We still have our moments.

Emmy Lou In The Morning

 I am sitting here reading with Emmy Lou in my lap.

She alternates poses - sometimes with one paw curled under her chin, sometimes with both legs stretched straight out and her head resting in between.

I keep stopping to look at her. My heart fills with love, so much so that some of it spills over the edges.

She is so precious and achingly innocent. The very definition of innocence. Pure. Unspoiled.

There are no innocent humans.

Scumbag Inc.

 If I was smart enough to be a scumbag when I was younger, I'd be a wealthy man now.

Jingle Bells (Revised)

Dashing through the snow

With whiskey in your hand

O'er the fields we go

Drunk to beat the band

Sucking on a roach

Making spirits bright

What fun it is to drink and smoke

And lose our minds tonight

Oh, jingle bells, jingle bells

Jingle all the way

Oh what fun it is to ride

FUBAR all the way

Jingle bells, jingle bells

We'll all end up in jail

Who gives a shit, your Daddy's rich

No problem making bail

More Brain Stuff

 "If the human brain were so simple that we could understand it, we would be so simple that we couldn't."

Emerson Pugh

Boom Boom Boom

Boom Boom Boom

Make some room

A brand new year will be here soon

It gives you hope? 

You silly dope

Don't you know that still you're doomed

There is no change

You're still deranged

A victim of your life so strange

Lick your wounds

And drink your booze

On New Year's Day, life wins you lose

Joe Namath

The man let me down.

I just read his autobiography, written in 2019, titled (unfortunately) All The Way - My Life in Four Quarters.

This is his second autobiography. He wrote one in 1969 at the height of his fame, titled I Can't Wait Until Tomorrow ...........'Cause I Get Better Looking Every Day. I read it. I recently tried to re-read it, but quit halfway through. It was terrible. Unbelievably bad. The whole point of it was to make him look as cool as the image he projected. 100% braggadocio, minimum substance.

Now dig - Joe Namath is on my list of people I look up to. You had to be alive at the time to understand the impact he had on football, the whole NFL vs the AFL thing, his cultural significance, his uniqueness - especially when set against the backdrop of professional football.

He had style. At a time when football players wore crew cuts, white shirts and dark ties, Joe had long hair, a mink coat, a Fu Manchu, and white shoes.

The man had balls. He did what he wanted to do. He said what he wanted to say. He didn't give a fuck what other people thought. He was the right man for the right times.

I wanted to be him. Not a football player, but a man who lived true to his convictions. Flamboyantly.

When I slid the 2019 book out of the envelope, there was a picture of Joe's smiling face looking up at me and.................. I smiled. Inadvertantly, naturally, immediately.

I hoped that fifty years later there would be a lot more substance to the book. It was fleshier, but nowhere near enough. It was written simplistically. Almost like a child. 

In fact there is something like a disclaimer on the very last page of the book: "Joe Namath has been a reluctant author since he was able to write. Choosing sports over schoolwork unless absolutely necessary..........................Despite all the years of practice, however, Namath still struggles with writing even the simplest thank-you note because of his insatiable urge to get outside and play."

I would be embarrassed if that was written on the last page of my autobiography. Of course the last page of my autobiography will say: "And Joe is still whining in his blog, 31 years after the whining began." 

I wanted horror stories about Joe's decades of alcoholism. I wanted to read that Suzy Kolber grabbed his balls off camera. I wanted dirty, inside stories about the Jets and the AFL and the NFL. Stories about the criminals and celebrities he consorted with.

What I got was pretty vanilla. 

And Joe comes across with that "aw shucks" attitude - please and thank you and sir and ma'am and heck. He told a story about his childhood when he heard - as he writes it - "the MF word" for the first time. Wow.

I wanted to put the book down. I didn't. It was Joe Namath. 

He had a major impact on me as a teenager, and that shit never goes away.

No matter how bad his autobiographies are, I will always love Joe Namath.

The Price You Pay

So here I am again, Bubbaloo.

Staring down the end of 2022, wondering what 2023 will bring.

2022 was a complete and total failure for me. And I limp towards the end of it fat, exhausted, disillusioned, and uninspired. Not a pretty picture.

Once again I need to put together a platform, a plan for approaching the new year. Like a politician. But, like a politician, I have zero credibility.

I am as credibile as Lindsey Fucking Graham.

There is nothing I can say that I haven't said before. There are no promises I can make that I haven't made before. I am The King of No Follow-Through. Eleven fucking years with this blog.

Eleven repetitive, whiny, embarrassing years. The same complaints over and over and over. False hope and good intentions that inevitably wind up with me whining some more about how I did not accomplish anything I set out to do. Failure writ large. Unfortunately I am talking about my life. My life, for Christ sake.

I was 57 years old when I fired up this blog. I am 68 years old today. I am standing in the same spot. I have accomplished nothing.

I am obese, I have much less energy than I had then, I am older - nudging up against 70. Jesus fucking Christ. I am sadder, more broken, and very close to giving up on the concept of hope, giving up on ever believing in myself.

And yet I am still alive.

So I have to keep trying. I have to find an approach. Because I feel like such a joke compared to my brother, such a joke compared to my friend Phil. 

I feel so weak around Carol - my own wife, for Christ sake - I am embarrassed in the presence of my own wife, because her life should have been so much more comfortable than it is, and the reason it is not is 100% my fault. She gave 150%, I gave 20%. 

I cannot live with myself like this.

I have not been a man.

I am sure you will hear more from me on this topic before 2022 comes crashing down. 

That is the price you pay for wasting your time reading my blog.

Frosty the Snowman - The Truth

Frosty the Snowman

Was a lowlife no good bum

With his prison tats and stupid hat

He really was no fun

Frosty the Snowman 

Has been reformed they try to say

Surprise surprise that is not true

He killed a man today

There must have been some magic 

In that corn cob pipe they found

He stabbed a man and took his ear

And left him on the ground

Oh, Frosty the Snowman

Was alive but there was dread

'Cause the kids who hung around with him

Would always end up dead

Frosty the Snowman

Was a lowlife no good bum

With his prison tats and stupid hat

He really was no fun

Judgmental Assholes On Parade

 "Part of the problem with a war on poverty today is that many Americans have decided that being poor is a character defect, not an economic condition."

Anna Quindlen

Don't Be An Idiot

Christmas is on the way.

It has skidded around turn four and is screaming down the home stretch.

Have you noticed? Today is December 10. Fifteen days to go.

What are you going to do? Ignore it? Blow it off? Pretend it doesn't matter?

Don't be an idiot. 

At its most basic level, Christmas is a break from the norm. That alone makes it worthwhile.

Your life is boring. Every fucking work-day is the same. Every fucking weekend is the same. Every morning is the same. Every night is the same. You say the same things, you do the same things, you see the same people, you wear the same clothes, you watch the same shows. You are bored to death.

You hate your fucking job, you hate your tiny bank account, you hate your goddamn life.

You hate the man in the mirror. Because he bores you.

Christmas assaults the senses. It is jarring. You can't get away from it. You're like "What the fuck?" There are strings of lights on the outsides of houses. What the hell is that? On trees in the yard. On nativity scenes on the lawn. On the Christmas trees inside of houses. Trees that smell so goddamn good.

There is Hustle and there is Bustle. People everywhere. Stores lit up. Music everywhere. Salvation Army bells ringing. You are lifted from your lethargy whether you want to be or not. 

Even all the Merry Christmases dripping off of peoples' lips - rarely heartfelt, automatic, spoken by rote - but still, better than "How do you like the cold?" At the very least it is different - and something you only experience once a year.

Sex is the only other thing you experience once a year, and you know how good that feels.

So dig on this Christmas shit. Pretend you have a life. What's the harm? Let's get that dopamine flowing, baby. 

You don't even have to do anything. You don't have to go Christmas shopping, you don't have to put up a tree, you don't have to mail Christmas cards. Just be. Christmas will come to you. It is unavoidable.

I hate the people who say Christmas is just another day. These are the same idiots who say "Retire? Why would I retire? What would I do? I would be bored." Fucking idiots. Like your life could possibly be any more boring that it already is. And like you don't secretly hunger to retire. Fucking hypocrites.

There are billions of people on this planet who can legitimately say that Christmas is just another day, and they say it with genuine sadness. They never say it. The people who do say it are fools who are trying to come across as tough. And revealing weakness as they do it.

I enjoy the oddness of Christmas. The otherness.

It does make me feel more alive. Even if most of it is done in ignorance, devoid of sensitive thought, "because this is what we do at Christmas", etc.

My environment is a different place at Christmas. I have a fucking tree in my living room, even if it is only two feet tall. And fake.

I have Christmas lights to meditate on.

Beats the shit out of the daily drudgery that sucks the marrow from my bones.

ALONE TIME

Carol just left to do a shitload of errands.

She'll probably be gone for three hours.

I am jubilant. Because human beings need alone time more than food, more than oxygen, more than fucking reality tv.

I never get alone time. That's right. Never.

Carol gets guaranteed alone time for 8 hours on Monday, 5 hours on Wednesdays, and 5 hours on Fridays. In addition, Fridays typically stretch out to 8 hours and I occasionally work on Saturdays - minimum 4 hours of alone time.

So at a minimum, Carol is guaranteed 18 hours of alone time every week. Eighteen. Guaranteed. And that can expand to 25 in the right circumstances.

If I had 18 hours of alone time every week I would amass a fortune greater than Bernard Arnault, who recently jumped ahead of that fucking idiot Musk as the richest man in the world.

The flip side of course is that Carol is retired. So whenever I am here, she is here.

I am frozen in indecision right now. What should I do?

Drink a bottle of whiskey, or exercise. Watch a movie or write. Read a book or research a lucrative career move. Drive a nail into my skull? (I'd rather hurl myself against a wall than feel nothing at all - Warren Zevon).

Smoke hashish? 

How do I maximize time efficiency to derive the most benefit for my beleagured brain?

Oh my god!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I am frozen in place.

Soon we will be living in a mobile home. 

Oh my god!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! How will we survive that? I may even be retired.

I'll let you know when we move.

So you can amuse yourself by keeping daily watch on the obituaries.

Cut This Pain From My Heart

"I've done my best to live the right way

I get up every morning and go to work each day

But your eyes go blind and your blood runs cold

Sometimes I feel so weak I just want to explode

Explode and tear this whole town apart

Take a knife and cut this pain from my heart

Find somebody itching for something to start"

From The Promised Land, by Bruce Springsteen

Chilled Monkey Brains

My brains leak out of my ears

Confirming the worst of my fears

I'm losing my mind

In world record time

Your sympathy feels insincere

Christmas (A Unique Take)

 "It is still a day that only amateurs can love. It is all well and good for children and acid freaks to still believe in Santa Claus - but it is still a profoundly morbid day for us working professionals. It is unsettling to know that one out of every twenty people you meet on Christmas will be dead this time next year.......Some people can accept this, and some can't. That is why God made whiskey, and also why Wild Turkey comes in $300 shaped canisters during most of the Christmas season."

Hunter S. Thompson

That's What I Have Been SAYING!!!!!!!!!!!!!

"It would seem in life when all is said and done that it is unwise to speak to anyone if it can be avoided."

From A Singular Man, by J.P. Donleavy

It's Not Just Lunch, For Christ Sake

Had lunch with my high school friends again yesterday.

We are trying to make this a thing.

Got together last summer at Jim's place, had lunch last month, had lunch yesterday.

When we get together it's like a before and after picture. We were close friends 50 years ago. 50 years later we haved lived lives, we have fought and lost, fought and won, had kids, jobs, careers, losses, gains, diseases, injuries.

We are the same people only well seasoned.

It is a fascinating take on life. And it fills a need.

A need in me that is enormous and meaningful. I am at peace with them. Comfortable. I love them.

Worries stop when I am with them. I am me when I am with them. How could I not be? They know me inside and out. If I was phony they would call me on it.

50 years provide a sharp perspective. Memories and true friendships mellow that out, getting at what is real in life, while still recognizing the vicious, heavyweight boxing match that life is.

These get togethers are helping me to survive my own fucking self-destructive, lying, delusional, bullshit.

Is This Farewell?

This morning as I was waiting for my coffee to brew, both cats were rubbing up against my legs.

Simultaneously.

This is an extremely rare occurrence.

I was smiling.

As I was smiling I thought "I am going to die today and they know it."

This is not an unreasonable reaction.

You Can't Understand

 His sadness was tangible.

It had weight, it was thick. Others could not see it; but they could feel it. Sense it.

He  carried it around because it was impossible not to.

It served a purpose.

It kept him warm.

Better than any blanket could.

My Mantra From Here On Out

"If you are going through Hell, keep going."

Winston Churchill

$

"One cannot get on well in the world without money. To be in want of it is to pass through life with little credit or pleasure; it is to live out of the world, or to be despised if you come into it;....it is to be scrutinized by strangers, and neglected by friends; it is to be a thrall to circumstances, an exile in one's own country."

William Hazlitt

A Movado & a Lincoln

I am asking Santa for a Movado and a Lincoln this Christmas.

If the fat, lazy motherfucker does not come through, I am setting a Movado and a Lincoln as my goals to be achieved in 2023.

I intend to be standing at the top of the heap on December 31, 2023 with a Movado on my wrist and a Lincoln in my driveway.

These are indeed exciting times.

December 8 - What Doth Thou Portend?

A day dripping with possibility.

Possibility of crushing defeat. Possibility of explosive life change.

An Official House Inspector type dude will be here on Thursday, December 8. Inspecting our house. 

Running his greedy, greasy little paws over every nook and cranny of our existence. Peering around corners, snooping under things, walking around things, armed with vials and sensors and measuring devices to determine if we are worthy.

December 8 is heavy with significance. 12/8 is Gregg Allman's birthday. Jim Morrison's birthday. These are good things. December 8 is the day John Lennon was killed. That's a bad thing. Yin and yang. Up and down. Good and bad. Defeat and victory.

Inspector Man might come in and say "Jesus Christ, this house might as well be made of popsicle sticks. Sale Request Denied."

This would crush all hope. It would transform our address from a house to a mausoleum. We will die here. Penniless. Embarrassed. Broken and defeated by Life.

Or he might say "Well, this joint ain't no fucking palace, but it is workable. Just lop $100,000 off the sale price. Sale Request Approved."

This would fire up Hope. And get us moving at 2,000 mph. 

Are you fucking kidding me? The tentative closing date is somewhere in the middle of January. If Inspector Man chooses to smile upon us rather than shit upon us, our life will be rocket boosted into orbit. We will be zigging and zagging and hustling and bustling like fucking whirling dervishes.

We have lived here for 36 years. 36 fucking years. Do you have any idea how much shit we have accumulated in this house? We have already dealt with 300 tons of shit, and what is left is still overwhelming.

It will be painful but ultimately worth it.

Then there is the tiny, little detail of finding another place to live.

Who will have us?

Mixed emotions: Neither of us wants to do this. If we won a million dollars today, we would pay off the mortgage and stay here, as ridiculous as that decision would be. Hopefully, once we are safely ensconced in the new joint, we will be beaming smiles bright enough to bounce off the walls and illuminate the living space without the need of electricity.

There is also the finality of the move to consider. We refuse to end up in a fucking Old Farts Home. So this is the Final Move. We will die wherever we end up.

We lived in an apartment for a year, we "owned" a home in Billerica, MA for 7 years, we have lived here for 36 years; now we are heading towards the Final Stop. That is fucking heavy to consider.

The implications of this move are dripping with death.

Fuck it. If a move is in the cards we will do it, settle in, and eat lots of lasagna and drink lots of wine.

It Has Been Decided

We cannot move.

It will be too stressful for Emmy Lou and Patsy.

HAPPY CHRISTMAS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (On The Way)

However..........................I truly am in the Christmas spirit.

In an emotional sense, not a sappy, meaningless sense.

It's getting to me this year, my emotions are raw and swimming at the surface, and I will make the most of it. Maybe we'll trot to downtown Concord to do Christmas shit (not shopping!!!!!!!!!!!!! Never fucking shopping).

I am even considering convincing Carol to attend a New Year's Eve event with me here in town. I really need a boost to get me over the hump of 2022 into the promise of 2023. No guarantees there though; it's a lot easier to lay around the house on New Year's Eve.

It's the music that does it for me. Here's my Christmas song list:

1) Christmas in Hollis - Run-DMC

2) Fairytale of New York - The Pogues

3) Christmas Wrapping - The Waitresses

4) The Winter Song - Angel

5) Merry Christmas, I Love You - Robert Finley

6) Happy Xmas (War Is Over) - John Lennon

7) Imagine - John Lennon - Not a Christmas song but it damn well has the Christmas spirit

And the specials that we watch. Like:

1) Love Actually: 

We already watched it! Day after Thanksgiving. It was Carol's idea to jump all over it and it was a brilliant idea. We dug it so much we decided we're going to  watch it at least 3 more times before fat Santa squeezes down the chimney.

2) A Christmas Carol with George C. Scott:           We LOVE this version. 

3) A Very Murray Christmas with Bill Murray:

This is a quirky motherfucker but we love it. I will watch this 10 times before fat Santa - no exaggeration. Once with Carol, 9 times on my own.

So there you go - Christmas is coming and I am going to fucking enjoy it.

Happy Christmas, John

Happy Christmas, Yoko

I Am a Trailblazer

I have created a new emotion.

I want to come up with a word for it, but I am struggling with that. It might have to be hyphenated. Like joyful-despair.

This emotion is prototypically me and is unsettling. I cannot experience happiness without that happiness being immediately destroyed by sadness.

Here's how it works. 

It always happens when I am alone, watching a movie or reading a book. Or just thinking. I am watching a movie and there is a scene where people experience happiness, which sparks a happy response in me. Or I am reading a book and happiness happens, which sparks a happy response in me. Or I think about someone's happiness, which sparks a happy response in me. This is a natural response, it is what humans do.

What happens next is not what humans do.

I feel happy, but the happiness immediately fades to sadness, sometimes to the point of resulting in tears. It is the strangest feeling, it is powerful and painful -  but it happens all the time. I don't like it. I don't like it at all.

The reason it happens is that my brain does not believe I will ever be happy. And apparently, my heart and my soul follow suit.

That thought actually crosses my mind every time, literally pops into my mind - I am feeling happy, I get instantaneously sad and I think "I will never be that happy."

The sadness happens before the thought; that is what disturbs me. The emotion outpaces the thought. Unhappiness is so ingrained in me that sadness is a natural response to happiness. I don't have to think about it, I cannot control it, it overwhelms me. Every fucking time.

Unhappiness runs so deep in me that it is me. I hate that my mind believes I will never truly be happy.

I have dug a deep hole for myself.

Money CAN Buy You Happiness

 "Americans, like human beings everywhere, believe many things that are obviously untrue....Their most destructive untruth is that it is very easy for any American to make money. They will not acknowledge how in fact hard money is to come by, and, therefore, those who have no money blame and blame and blame themselves. This inward blame has been a treasure for the rich and powerful, who have had to do less for their poor, publicly and privately, than any other ruling class since, say, Napoleonic times."

Kurt Vonnegut, Slaughterhouse-Five.

More Terrifying Words

 "I have no options."

All That Bile

Shit, man, we gobbled up 2022 didn't we?

Whoooosh, it fucking blew right by. It's fucking December 1 and what have you done?

The drum is beating, the clock is ticking.

Year after year after year rolling on by, your life is jetting past at faster miles an hour and you are fucking bewildered. I am 68 years old. Fucking ridiculous. 

Last year at this time I was strong in body and mind - I was fucking confident - positive - 2022 was going to be my year. I was going to show my true colors, get happy, lift us out of abject poverty and take my rightful place amongst the titans of the world. I exercised my brain and tricked myself into seeing visions of success.

I forgot to account for reality.

Here I am at the end of 2022 staring down 2023 and I am weak in body and mind. No confidence at all. 

Christ, I am so fat the neighborhood kids knock me down, climb on top of my bloated body and log roll me to the bottom of the hill. I have no energy - zero - I am tired all the time - I hate my fucking job so much it is more painful than an ice pick in my ear. And I shit all over customers - I absolutely cannot believe no one has filed a complaint. It's kinda fun to see how far I can push it.

Carol had a $1200 repair bill for her car yesterday. One more fucking reminder that we got nothing - our life could fall apart in a heart beat.

Looking ahead, there is no way - no fucking way - we will survive on social security and Carol's retirement money in the longterm. That is a pipe dream. So is the concept that selling this rattrap will buy my retirement. I am fooling myself because I have to fool myself. It might buy me a break, but not for long.

I have to make money - serious money - not the chump change I get now. I know this. I fucking know this in my soul without argument or contradiction. I fucking hate where I am in my life but it is my fucking fault. Period.

If I don't figure something out, our life will end in disaster. Guaranteed. It's all on me, baby.

One other guarantee - I will not end up depending on my sons to support us or to wipe my ass. Never. I guess you could call that motivation.

The only thing I really got going for me right now is a soul-deep fuck you attitude. I am talking major FUCK YOU vibes.

I am royally pissed off, and tired of my damn self. Tired of everything. Bone fucking tired. Tired of all the stupid, meaningless shit I have to deal with in my life. And the stupid, meaningless, selfish people.

I started cutting communication way back, but I gotta get real fucking serious about it. Talking to a co-worker about how Christmas is going to get a little weird this year. No response - zero - no empathy - zero. Instead this person went on to talk only about selfish shit that I absolutely do not care about.

From now on you get no information volunteered from me. Ask a question - you get one word answers. Fuck all y'all.

Wow - all that bile inspired by a date - December 1.

2022 is narrowing down to a pencil point.

A pencil point sharp enough to pierce your heart.

Terrifying Words

 "I have no solutions."

Another Great Night in the Bar

Holy shit, it was another great night in the bar.

Frankie was having a blast, always the life of the party.

Frankie who always made outrageous pronouncements.

Like tonight. 

He kept telling everybody that he was going to play Russian Roulette when he got home. That this might be the last time anybody sees him.

Then he would laugh, but the person he was talking to would laugh first.

"Frankie, for Christ sake, your aim is not that good. Even if you got the bullet instead of the empty chamber, you would fucking miss! You'd probably end up shooting your autographed picture of Elvis Costello instead."

More laughter, another shot of whiskey.

2:00 am. Closing time. Hugs all around.

Bob says "See you tomorrow, Frankie - same place, same time - I got the first round."

Frankie says "You never know, Bob - you might hear about me in the news tomorrow."

Bob says "Fuck you, Johnny!" With love and respect.

Frankie drives home and loads six bullets into his Smith & Wesson Model 29 .44 magnum.

The game didn't last long.

Bob hears about Frankie in the news the following day.

Johnny Rialto Ruiz

Johnny Rialto Ruiz experienced bucketloads of sadness.

He couldn't believe how much of it there was. He did not understand why it didn't go away.

Everywhere he went, every move he made, sadness stalked him. It was as if sadness became animated, that it had its own life, that it could think and move. That it could outwit him.

He tried to live in the moment, he tried to be grateful for the holes in his shoes. He did as he was told by the experts who knew exactly how to make the most out of life. Apparently their advice was not universally applicable. Maybe it was the experts who outwitted him.

He was nice. He was very nice. He was nice to other people. Everyone. So very nice. But they were not nice to him. The niceness that he put out there evaporated into the atmosphere. People sucked it in like oxygen and then moved on. Without appreciation.

This he did not understand either.

The people who stole his niceness were like people leaving a restaurant with a doggie bag in hand, who sudddenly come across a homeless man. People who reach into the bag, eat the leftovers in front of the homeless man and throw the bag at his feet.

Niceness never came back to him.

But the sadness was relentless. He woke up to it, walked through the day hand in hand with it, sat with it by his side at dinner and while watching TV, went to bed with it.

It exhausted him. It hollowed out his guts.

The harder he fought it the more tenacious it became. Until it overwhelmed him.

He was found dead in his recliner. 

No evidence of suicide, no evidence of foul play. No fuss, no muss.

Just death. 

Johnny Rialto Ruiz's soul hovered over his body as John Krakow and Edna Pufkin puzzled over his death. As they processed and eventually cleared the scene. Their conclusion? He just died. Died of natural causes apparently.

Johnny's soul tried so hard to bridge the gap. Tried to tell them that he died from sadness. A suffocating, all-encompassing sadness. Tried to tell them that sadness kills.

But they could not hear him. 

The deafening roar of their own sadness - Krakow's raging alcoholism, Pufkin's violent marriage - drowned out Johnny Rialto Ruiz's desperate attempt to communicate the harsh reality.

Sadness is the number one cause of death in the world.

Insanity 2023 (It's What's For Dinner)

I am a GIP.

Genuinely Insane Person.

I am at my most comfortable when I am being insane.

The last time I was truly over-the-top insane was 2014. Just in case you are challenged in the math department, that was eight years ago. Eight fucking years. Apparently my balls were cut off after that.

Allman Brothers, second to last concert ever, Beacon Theatre, NYC. Me & Phil. Fucking legendary.

Phil is the last of my close friends who will get crazy with me. Especially in New York City, especially with the Allman Brothers. We had a blast. We did that twice over the years and NYC has never been the same. Unfortunately he spends 6 months a year in Florida. Killer commute.

We used to hit at least one Allman Brothers concert every summer, many times two, every year for 10 to 15 years, with a rotating cast of characters. Sometimes four of us, sometimes 10 of us, sometimes more. That was insanity. Designated driver (usually a van), beer, whiskey, pot, cocaine. Dangerously insane deliciously fun. I sang, I danced, I laughed, I met other ABB fans, we talked, we laughed - I was alive. 2014 was not quite like that but we tried like hell - there was an ocean of alcohol, a lot of laughter, and a very late night in NYC. Tasty enough.

I don't need insanity at that level any more. What I do need is to get out to listen to live music while consuming more alcohol than my doctor would recommend. I hardly ever do that at this point in time. Why not? It is in my very nature to do that. This drought has to end.

Trouble is, it ain't easy. I can't find anyone to go with, and the concerts I go to are too loud for Carol because of her hearing issues. And I refuse to drive drunk. I can go alone and skip the booze, I have done that before, but it reduces the fun factor by 99.5%. Booze & Blues go together like living and breathing.

I bought a ticket to see Poppa Chubby and Albert Cummings - two blues giants on the same fucking bill - at the Flying Monkey on January 28. I have no idea how I am going to pull this off, but I am going to pull this off. Either no booze, or a hotel room. Trouble is Uber in fucking NH is almost invisible. Fucking backwards state. And the challenges accumulate.

Maybe I can sleep in the men's room or under a table. I am open to improvisation.

My point is, I am kicking off 2023 in style and I am administering CPR to my natural insanity. I am determined to make this happen.

I have felt dead for a looooooooong fucking time and a big part of that has to do with how tame I have become. I bore myself, for Christ sake.

I have a lot of shit I gotta rip open and turn around and change and revive and kill in 2023 - my "to-do" list for resuscitating Real Joe is frighteningly long. 

Insanity is right near the top of the list. If I get insanity back to where it is supposed to be, a lot of other shit will fall into place.

Hot damn, 2023 will be a fun year.

It's You and Me, Baby

 "Mr. Rollins liked to sit by the pool at night, smoke weed and watch losers fighting their way home on the 405, nothing but red to wherever work-a-day assholes lived......................

He watched the line of red lights trapped on the freeway, inching through hell toward nothing, each light a loser too stupid to know what he was."

From The Promise, by Robert Crais.

A Forensic Review of Thanksgiving 2022

Fucking awesome.

Still is. Carol and I are chillin' today. Doing absolutely nothing.

I should be working hard to save my life. We should be organizing the house so we can improve the odds of selling the fucking thing. But we're not. We are relaxing to the max. Because we fucking deserve it.

Thanksgiving day was supreme. Started off slow like they usually do. Sitting around the living room, watching football, shooting the shit.

But when we move to the table, piled high with the food Carol has worked so hard to prepare (she works her ass off on Thanksgiving and she loves it), the intensity picks up. Conversation, laughter, intimacy - this family rocks. This family is comfortable together, this family is love.

The day had a bit of a strange feel to it because if things go well (?) it might have been the last time we celebrate Thanksgiving in this house. After 36 years. Thirty six. Melancholy, but life moves relentlessly forward and forces change whether you want it or not.

Friday? Carol and I chilled to the max. Laid around the house like a couple of beached whales, only getting up to eat more turkey. Watched a thousand Law & Orders. Delightfully decadent day.

Saturday? Carol's birthday? Holy shit - what a day. Went out for breakfast with Craig & Amanda. Laid back, chowing, talking - intimate family stuff in a very relaxed atmosphere, a very relaxed way. Great start to the day. 

Came home for an hour (I took a semi-nap), jumped up and drove half an hour to meet up with Jeff and Becky (our nephew on Carol's side, and his wife), to watch their son Ryan play in a hockey tournament.

Ryan is our grand-nephew - how the fuck did we get so old?

Now dig - we hardly ever see them - we go years without seeing them. Ryan is 13 years old, last time we saw him he was 5. But we are close to them. Wanna know how that works? It works because there is love there. Carol and I both are in regular contact with Jeff - phone calls, texting etc. 

After the game Ryan shook my hand and hugged Carol, after being re-introduced to us. Very cool. AND, Ryan wished Carol a happy birthday, which was hilarious because Jeff and Becky forgot, even though I texted them a reminder before we hooked up. Got an "Oh shit I forgot" out of Jeff.

It was very cool to spend time with them and very meaningful.

Strange reaction on my part - I usually get quite depressed on the day after Thanksgiving; I hate that it's over, I hate the quiet in the house. Not this time - I felt happy. Maybe because I knew Saturday would be a good day. And maybe because my family filled my soul with a pride and a love and a happiness that gives me the strength to flip off reality. Maybe I'm learning. Here's hoping.

Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday. Great day, quiet day, great day, quiet day. A 50/50 mix. 

It has been spectacular.

Tomorrow Is Coming

Those words spark the same emotions in me as the characters in Game of Thrones felt when they heard the words "Winter is coming."

Tomorrow is coming.

On one level I guess I should be happy if I wake up alive. If I do, it means I have another shot at rescuing my life.

On another level if I wake up alive I will be fucking miserable. Because I have to work.

I have to break this cycle. It is causing me a great deal of misery.

That is a 2023 goal. Deal with this shit. Once and for all. I'm a big boy, I got a brain (this is your brain on drugs), the fucking world is my oyster. There is so much more to me than the world is aware of.

As long as I have to fucking work, I have to find a way to laugh it off. Because what I do is a fucking joke; it is menial, it is demeaning, so fuck it - don't take it so seriously. But ultimately I have to find a way to wriggle out of this responsibility, this fucking torture.

Selling the house could be the ticket. But even if it does bring me freedom, I still have to "do" something with my life. I need to validate my existence on this planet. I need to use my talents.

I need to achieve. I need to perform to the level of my natural ability.

I am tired of my life, I am tired of whining, I am tired of feeling so empty.

Tomorrow is coming.

Fuck tomorrow.

Celebrate tomorrow.

Thanksgiving. Carol's Birthday. Christmas. My Birthday.

The Golden Time of the year. A magical run.

This is when joy happens.

Thanksgiving kicks it all off. Today!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!. Cannot wait.

Thanksgiving is like a goddamn religious holiday in this house. We do it right. Got the right attitude about it. Our favorite day of the year. Keith and Craig feel that way too, which makes me and Carol happy.

Food, football, conversation and laughter. And underneath all that, I believe we all have a healthy sense of gratitude for how amazing this family is. That is what truly makes this day.

Carol's birthday. She will be 69. What can I say about this woman. This woman who treated our sons like the precious life forms that they are. Protected them, took care of them, laughed with them, taught them, and allowed them to be themselves.

This woman who has put up with my weaknesses and consistent underachievement for coming up on 45 years. I don't know why, but I am thankful that she has. I never would have survived without her love.

Christmas. Christmas is hit or miss with me. This year is hit. I am already emotionally invested in it, listening to Christmas songs, digging on the vibe. Because I myself am in a radically, emotionally vulnerable state of mind. Christmas will shine this year, baby.

My birthday. I will be 69. Big fucking deal every year. Because I am sensitive. Introspective. Because I am fully aware that my life is slipping away even though I do nothing to save it. I lean on Duane Allman's words every January 1 for inspiration. But I never truly take them to heart.

On January 1, 2023, once again, my intentions will be pure.

Four stepping stones to happiness. Each one a joy in and of itself. Hopefully, collectively building to a tidal wave of contentment to kick off a new year.

New Year. Magical words.

The perfect definition of hope.

I Always Wanted To Be Alone

When I was a kid I liked to play Little Army in my backyard.

I would set up my plastic army guys in the grass and go to war.

In the meantime my brother and the neighborhood kids would be gathering to play Birdie Ball - a sport we invented. Used a birdie instead of a wiffle ball and a tennis racket instead of a bat. We should have patented the fucking game - I would be retired now.

They wanted me to join them. I would say "If you carry me over to the driveway, I will play."

And they would. I don't know why. They should have just spit on me.

When I was a kid my favorite game in the world was a board football game. Pick a play - run or pass - roll the dice and see how many yards you get. Or if you fumble or get intercepted. You could punt and kick field goals too. Move a marker up and down to track field position.

I used to keep win/loss records. I played various teams, but for some reason the dominant teams were the Chargers and either the Raiders or the Chiefs. I think the Chiefs. Those were the teams I played the most, and the teams I was excited about. I don't know why.

I could play the game alone. Which I did. Endlessly. Did not need anybody else. Defintely logged hundreds of alone hours playing this game, maybe thousands. I played it a lot. I loved it.

I always wanted to be alone as a kid.

Other than my family, I should have stuck to my guns.

Still, I Was Embarrassed

At work yesterday, I was talking about today - Thanksgiving - to the new girl on the block.

Bex. She is the new assistant manager. Been around a couple of months. 24 years old. A good future ahead of her.

Just me and her in a quiet box office. Nobody buys fucking tickets on the day before Thanksgiving. Thank god. I did not have to deal with fucking customers, the bane of my existence (even as they are the lifeblood of the business - seems I'm always at odds with whatever form of commerce I am forced to support).

I was talking about how much I looked forward to seeing my sons. Tears trickled down my cheek, I got choked up a bit, had to compose myself before going on.

Thankfully she is an artsy liberal, drenched in empathy - she did not bash me in the face with a baseball bat.

Still, I was embarrassed.

Until I got home and thought about it.

I am proud of the intensity of my love for my sons, even after 39 and 42 years.

No Gettin' By

I am both a Banana Head and a Pumpkin Boy.

An exceedingly dangerous Fruit Faction.

I don't think I can survive it.

Oh My God!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Killer Ducks are marauding throughout the countryside!

Quick!

Grab the sweetcorn!

Me & Lon Chaney (A Lot In Common)

I have beat myself up pretty good in here this year.

My intent was to be raw and honest in order to embarrass myself to change.

It hasn't worked, so far. Over a lifetime, I have built up a solid repertoire of personas that auto-respond in any situation. The man of a thousand faces, like Lon Chaney.

I was a baby yesterday. Off the rails over unresponsive apps. This is a facet of my personality I have to obliterate. It is embarrassing and unproductive.

The problem is that I am so weak I cannot build a wall between an immediate infantile response and what an adult should do. A step back. A deep breath. A moment to go from apocalyptic to mature.

I have created a world where time off from work lasts 14 seconds, and time at work lasts eternity plus. So anything that goes wrong on off days is the fucking end of the world. And I am perennially exhausted, so the fuse is short.

These are not excuses. They are fucking bullshit. Adults deal with this stuff; I don't.

That's all I got to say.

Wake Up, Shithead

Thinking about heavy shit lately, and being emotionally affected by outside influences.

Two things to consider:

Last weekend I watched the entire first season of And Just Like That, with Carol. Sequel to Sex and the City.

Big dies in the first episode. He dies, for Christ sake. I liked Big. He was the cool rich guy I want to be. His death hangs over the entire first season.

It got to me. Here's why. I have been randomly having the thought recently that at some point one of us - Carol or me - are going to have to learn to live without the other. It's coming.

Oddsmakers advise you to bet heavily - everything you got - on Carol outliving me. It's a rational bet with little downside.

Except for the capriciousness of life. What if she goes first? It could happen. It would be the most unfair thing to happen ever in the entire recorded history of mankind but........................

Big's death hung over the entire first season like the heaviest of fogs. How Carrie dealt with it, how her friends dealt with it, the effects, the after-effects, the ripple-effects, the pain, the emptiness, the loss - it felt pretty real.

Carol can survive without me. I cannot survive without Carol. I am self-destructive. I would self-destruct.

1) Beyond that, being alone, after loving her for over 45 years, being alone without her laugh, her positive atttitude, her toughness, her fierce determination to be exactly who she is no matter what.............I would have a better chance of surviving without food than without Carol.

 Do not read the following if you plan to watch this movie:

2) We watched a movie yesterday - Don't Look Up - a quirky movie with some big names in it with a decidedly unhappy ending. It shits on the current political climate in this world, against a backdrop of a comet heading towards earth that will destroy this world. Which it does.

In the final scene, Leonardo DiCaprio is having dinner with family and friends, in full knowledge that the comet is about to hit. An emotional scene, a "one last chance at togetherness" scene that really hits home.

As the house is beginning to shake, as glasses and dishes rattle on the table, as the world begins to end, DiCaprio says : "We really did have everything, didn't we? I mean, when you think about it."

That comment, and the fact that Carol or I will have to learn to live alone - is crushing me.

Living alone, for obvious reasons.

DiCaprio's comment, because I continue to wallow in pettiness, and fucking waste the precious little time I have left with Carol when, in reality, I really do have everything, don't I?

I am fucking determined to wake up.

Not Something Born

 "I wait. I compose myself. My self is a thing I must now compose, as one composes a speech. What I must present is a made thing, not something born."

From The Handmaid's Tale, by Margaret Atwood

We All Still Remain (Always)

 "In the clearing stands a boxer, and a fighter by his trade, and he carries the reminders of every glove that laid him down, or cut him 'till he cried out in his anger and his shame, "I am leaving, I am leaving", but the fighter still remains.

From The Boxer, by Simon & Garfunkle

Dinosaur Rant (Until I Bleed)

Fucking technology fucking blows unless it works.

I hate it. I love it.

Got me a weekend. Decided we should start Thanksgiving early. Get us a quick and dirty breakfast.

Dialed up the Dunkin app on my phone. Hole fucking moly I got me 696 bonus points. Who knew? I don't keep track of that shit.

I use the app all the itme, order up my shit and walk into the store like a King - pluck it off the shelf while all the commoners stare at me in envy.

Walk out all cocky and shit.

Not today, motherfucker. Started messing around trying to apply bonus points to the order, it got all fucked up, stole the points, would not complete the order.

I am FURIOUS. I can't deal with this.

Fuck it, we'll go to McDonald's.

Except wifi is a bit dodgy, apparently. I tried to call McDonald's on my cell phone to see what time they stop serving breakfast - BECAUSE I WILL BUY BREAKFAST TODAY - and the fucking call would not go through.

THE FUCKING CALL WOULD NOT GO THROUGH.

We have this thing called a land line. I was way too fucking mad - over the top furious to use it. Ranting and fucking raving like Lunatic Lou.

All I want is some Peace - all I want is my Fucking Breakfast.

Right now Carol is driving to Dunkin to pick up breakfast the old fashioned way.

And I am beating my fucking head agaist the wall until I bleed.

The Leaf

Lying in bed this morning looking through the glass sliders at trees in the yard.

A lone, dead, leaf caught my eye because it was twisting in the wind on a branch. Looked like it was barely hanging on. There were four or five dead leaves closeby, but they were barely rustling in the wind, a gentle wind. But this guy was dancing.

For some reason this leaf was twisting like mad, like it really wanted to drop off that branch. Or hold on; I wasn't sure how to interpret it.

It would shimmy, shimmy shake for a bit, than get quiet. Until it began twisting again. Violently.

I was mesmerized. I really wanted to see this leaf float to the ground, but I don't know why. I don't know if I needed to see the ultimate confirmation of it's death, or celebrate it's escape from the tree and it's dead mates.

All I know is that I was really emotionally caught up in this drama. Kind of like Ricky Fitts with the floating plastic bag.

I hung for about 10 minutes. Then I moved to the bathroom, where I had an even better view. As I performed my morning ablutions, I kept an eye out. Brush my teeth, look out the window. Floss, look out the window.

When I completed my allotted tasks I stood by the window for 10 minutes and watched. Both cats were in the room with me saying "What the fuck are you waiting for?"

The leaf did not drop.

I popped into this room for a couple of minutes and got another angle.

Went downstairs to gobble pills, eat yogurt and make coffee (oh shit, here we go again, for Christ sake).

Made use of the downstairs bathroom, where I had yet another vantage point to monitor the leaf.

Nothing.

Gave up.

Just came back up here many hours later and the leaf is gone. It let go. It fell.

I so wanted to watch it float to the ground.

I have no explanation for why it got under my skin so much. But it did.

Sometimes something connects on an emotional level that has no rhyme, no reason.

It just is.

And that is reason enough.

No Better Description

 "She was obsessed with the president - his circus peanut-colored hair and dead lizard eyes, his intransigent stupidity and mean-girl fifth grader's vocabulary, the sheer nightly Groundhog Day shock  that millions had chosen this impulsive dunce to be the most powerful man in the world, and might again."

From Truly Like Lightning, by David Duchovny

So Alone in the Dark

Each and every morning as I lay awake in the dark of 3am, 4am, 5am, my brain quietly, but relentlessly and viciously, rips me a new asshole.

With extreme prejudice.

Never Get The Chance

I have today off from work.

I have the worst work schedule in the entire recorded history of working man. Every other fucking day. It's like Chinese water torture.

It has been a real grind lately.

Two weeks ago I worked three days in the box ofice and five shows at night. FIVE! I have never worked more than a couple of shows a week.

Full disclosure: My boss was sick as hell - non-functional, and two other people that we rely on to work shows were unavailable. I did it because it had to be done, and I didn't gripe about it (too much).

Besides, I will get a big, fat check. Enough to retire on. Or not.

But my nerves were shot at the end of that stretch. I was ready to kill. I worked two shows on a Friday night - TWO - one at 6:00 and one at 8:30. Bob Marley, the comedian. We had over a thousand people at each show. Which means I dealt with a wide swath of selfish, obnoxious fools.

I grabbed a slice of pizza around 6:45, in between shows, ran out to eat it in my car like an animal, and was back in by 7:15. I live a glamorous life.

This week I worked Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday. Two co-workers were unavailable.

But I have today off. Isn't that wonderful? Isn't it wonderful that I have today off?

I am so grateful. It is important to be grateful for tiny, little things.

Because odds are you'll never get the chance to be grateful for large things.

We Got One!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Somebody made an offer on the house.

A reasonable, bone fide offer in writing and everything. 

We accepted the offer.

Came out of fucking left field.

Our realtor called on Monday, he came by with another realtor on Tuesday representing a woman in California (who used to live around here), we got the offer Tuesday night, signed the paperwork on Wednesday and revved up the engine.

I never expected this to happen. Never. This house sways back and forth in 10 mph winds.

Naturally I remain realistic. 1,000 things can go wrong between now and the deadlines that have been set.

Ebenezer Scrooge - "Make sure that a check for the entire amount is deposited with my clerk. I don't ship until I have the cash in hand."

Me: "I will believe this is real on the second that we close and not one second before."

I have been banking on reeling in an unsuspecting rube. I don't know if this woman is an unsuspecting rube; I can only hope. Or.............maybe she has an emotional attachment to this area that will override logic.

This is the first step in a 20,000 mile trip.

But it is more real than I ever thought possible.

Which is a lot more than I can say about my life.

The Great Whiskey Crisis of 2022

I was sick as hell in October.

Upper respiratory infection. Kicked the hell out of me.

For a week to ten days I drank no whiskey at all. Had absolutely no urge to do so. When I got back to it, it did not taste right. It did not taste good.

What? Crown Royal? Did not taste right? I have been drinking Crown Royal since the second grade and have always loved the taste. LOVED it.

It still doesn't taste right. I bought a bottle of Jack Daniels, which was OK, but not spectacular. The other day I stooped low and bought a bottle of Seagram's 7. Seagram's fucking 7. I figured if I am not going to enjoy it I might as well save some money.

Editor's Note: Stop fucking judging me. Since I was sick I cut whiskey consumption by 75%. The last handle of Crown I bought lasted a month. I used to buy a handle a week. I go days without drinking any alcohol at all, and I have learned how to go to sleep without drinking whiskey. I am a man among men.

Used to be that drinking Seagram's 7 was like sucking on an overflow pipe from a septic tank. I only bought it when, after paying the fucking mortgage, the checking account balance was $8, of which I spent $7 on The 7. (This used to happen a lot).

I poured my first glass the other day, grimaced as I raised it to my lips, and................it didn't taste half bad. In fact it was kinda OK.

What the fuck is happening to me?

I am totally off balance.

I should drink only premium whiskey. I fucking deserve to drink only premium whiskey. Appropriate for my stage in life and my delusional self-image. Besides, goddamn it, I have done my homework. I sampled a lot of whiskey before landing on Crown Royal. A lot.

Maybe Jesus is sending me a message through my taste buds. Preparing me for poverty.

Poverty financially.

Poverty of the soul.

Jesus Fucking Christ - we already live 4 clicks below the poverty level.

How much worse can it get?

Fuck me.

I Bought a Horse

I want to gallop into 2023. Establish momentum.

Yesterday was a shitty, rainy, snowy, November day. So I brought the horse into the house.

Set him up in the living room, although it is hard to keep him contained. He is a large animal.

I try to keep him on the left side of the living room so he doesn't block the TV. We are americans. We cannot survive without TV. But he is antsy and mobile. He pretty much goes where he wants to go.

Which is OK with me because he is gentle, pretty, and graceful.

I named him Big Fella.

Emmy Lou and Patsy get along with him very well. After the initial "getting to know each other" phase (which was frightening, trying to keep his hooves from crushing them), they are now best friends.

Big Fella takes them for rides. Sometimes individually, sometimes together.

They have learned to jump up on his back and snuggle in to his mane. Then he saunters into the kitchen and back to the living room.

It is cute as hell.

Sensible Shoes

Sensible shoes.

The worst insult you can hurl at anyone. He wears sensible shoes. She wears sensible shoes.

Unfortunately, I wear sensible shoes. Rockport Men's Junction Lacetotoe Oxford.

Trouble with my back, trouble with my knees. I went through many pairs of shoes until I found these.

I have been wearing them for years. Pair after pair after pair. And they are fucking ugly.

But when I wear them, paired with Dr. Scholl's Heavy Duty Support Pain Relief Orthotics, Designed for Men over 200 Pounds, my knees don't ache, my back doesn't hurt. For the most part. Six+ decades in, there is always pain. All you can do is minimize it.

When my knees begin to ache, it's time to swap out a new pair of Dr. Scholls. When that doesn't work, it's time for a new pair of shoes. Useful omens.

I have become comfortable with the ugliness. Almost proud of it. Who gives a fuck, really.

I used to consider myself quite fashionable; now I don't care. I used to be a peacock; now I am walking my "look" backwards to basic. Not unfashionable, just basic in a stripped down way that still says something about me. I'm working on it, it's a work in progress.

Used to want the coolest shoes on the planet. I have owned a pair of two-tone shoes. I wore a pair of red "sneakers" just a few years ago. When I was tending bar at the Legion. You can imagine the response I got with those.

But here I am. Rock you like a hurricane. Christ, man - song lyrics - I just can't stay away from them.

2022. Rockport Men's Junction Lacetotoe Oxford. Dr. Scholl's Heavy Duty Support Pain Relief Orthotics, Designed for Men over 200 pounds.

When I was in college, I bought an orange crushed velevet suit (my father loved it).

My, my, I have come a long way, baby.

Who knew?

Who the fuck knew?

Official Countdown: 46 Days

Being Human

 "Yes, Mother...........I can see you are flawed. You have not hidden it. That is your greatest gift to me."

Alice Walker, Possessing the Secret of Joy

I Love You, You Vicious, Hurtful Bastard (My Savior)

How many more times am I going to talk about my fucking morning ritual?

100? 200?

Coffee, book, cat. Jesus Christ, I've been over it 333 times in here, but I keep fucking coming back to it.

Because every time, I think I am adding something to the perspective, saying it a little differently, adding more emotion. I gave you my painful knees and aching back this time, didn't I?

But the goddamn truth is, I am just saying the same thing over and over and over again.

And you are sick of it. I know you are. And I know you. You are a vicious, hurtful bastard. Violence cleanses your soul.

You own a crossbow. I have heard tell. And you're good with it. Accurate as a motherfucker.

Go get your crossbow. Load up a bolt. Cock the crossbow, and sight on the middle of my chest. 

Dead middle, where all my confusion and self-delusion lies.

Let it rip.

You'll be done with me and I'll be done with me. Peace all around.

No more morning ritual fucking bullshit.

Hallelujah!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Nothing To Defend Against

He loved Alone.

Lived for it.

Up early in the morning dark. Making his way downstairs on two stiff and painful kness, a sore back and various other physical insults.

Cold water for the cats. They love their cold water. Food in their food bowls. Cats first. 

And then prescriptions, stretches, yogurt. And coffee. Dark and strong, which he was not.

Settling into the recliner in a silent house, a mostly dark house, but the light was coming. Unappreciated. Dark of morning, dark of night; that was the cover under which he was most comfortable.

Book, coffee and cat. That's the morning equation.

He was alone.

Yes, he had his cat, and the presence of his beautiful wife upstairs in bed fast asleep and peaceful (he envied her that), a strong, undeniable presence for which he was grateful.

But, for now, for all intents and purposes, he was alone.

Nothing to defend against except his own thoughts, which not even a good book could beat back.

His weak spot, his vulnerability. Thoughts.

Thoughts that robbed him of a perfect moment, every morning.

Not Even Antacids.................

 "Don't hate. Hate is like a poison you make for your enemy that you end up swallowing yourself."

Fuckatology

A scientific discipline that studies mankind's obsession with self-sabotage.

We live our lives as if we are immortal. Wasting day after day after day, trading off five days for two every week, and then pissing those two days away as well.

Hurting ourselves. You don't need a knife to self-mutilate.

Hurting others. It's almost a sport.

Being petty. No fucking perspective.

Chasing security instead of happiness, even though each fucking breath could be your last. Security? Are you fucking kidding me?

I was feeling unstable and unnerved. Barely functioning. I went to consult with a specialist.

I laid out my life history for him, six decades plus. And asked "Why am I so unhappy, doc? Why do I have nothing to show? Where is all my money?"

He replied "Fuckatology, son. You are fucking yourself. You've been doing it for so long that you got it down to a science. Don't even have to think about it. You will always make the worst decision. Or no decision at all."

I said "Jesus Christ, what can I do about this? What should I do?"

He said "Nothing. Forget about it, son. You are a fuckup. Soon you will be dead. Just die and get it over with. And your suffering and embarrassment will end. Another wasted human life. One of billions. There are solutions, but you are too stupid to figure it out."

I said "Jesus Christ, that's pretty fucking harsh, isn't it?"

He said "Fuckatology. It's harsh, baby, because it's the truth."

!?!?!?!?!?!?!?...................................Boom Boom Boom

I am a Psycho Hose Beast!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I will not be denied.

Aaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhh

What? A New Asshole? Will That Really Help?

I have been ripping myself a new asshole all year long.

It has been wonderful.

I have come to yet another conclusion - from now on I am giving my vocal cords a rest. I am cutting communication short. I am curtailing the details I am willing to reveal about my life. I am giving the shortest answer possible in every situation. I will be curt.

And I will explain nothing, and say nothing about what I intend to do.

I give out too much information. And nobody gives an everloving fuck.

If somebody asks how I'm doing I might say "I'm tired, I have not been sleeping very well, I feel lightheaded all the time." The light goes out of their eyes. Because they don't give a rat's ass about me - they only want to talk about themselves.

From now on all I will say is "I'm tired." Period. If they ask a follow-up question (highly unlikely), I will brush it aside.

The companion piece to this approach is that I will no longer show any interest in what other people say. I have wasted my entire life listening to other people with empathy. I have given them a gift that has never been returned.

Fuck them. From now on, all they get is a nod and a "really?"

The genesis for this epiphany, this new economical approach, is that I feel quite strongly that I am not connecting with people lately. And I don't fucking care.

I am sick of people. Always have been. But as 2023 approaches and I am given (improbably) another shot at making a life, I am breathing fire and spitting acid.

Laying waste, baby - laying waste.

I hope to burn the flesh off quite a few peoples' faces as I make my way into one more New Fucking Year.

Absolutely Unmatched!

I am committed to a weekend - TWO WHOLE DAYS OFF!!!!!!!!!!!!!! - of Health & Weight Loss.

The intensity of my dedication is undoubtedly unmatched in the annals of the entire history - recorded and unrecorded - of humankind.

Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Chilling

I am the month of October.

Facing winter forever.

Bizarre Fate

I crept out of my house on the way to my menial day/night job.

I was met by a massive crowd of people in the driveway chanting "Hey Joe - whaddya know? Hey Joe - whaddya know?"

I was elected President of these United States in 2023.

Inaugurated on January 20, 2024.

I was assassinated on January 21, 2024 by someone who did not dig the Blues.

Snakes In My Skull

I have been putting off therapy sessions.

When I speak to her next week it will have been a month between sessions.

I am not convinced she is professionally qualified to deal with the snakes in my skull.

John, At 102 Years Old

I met John a couple of weeks ago.

He is 102 years old. He came in to the theatre to scope out the seating, because he would be attending a live broadcast of an opera the following week. He needed to figure out where he could be comfortable and where he could plug in his oxygen apparatus.

He was using a walker that day and he had a companion with him, helping him out.

We broadcast 8 or 10 operas a year. The average age of the audience is 93. They are probably the toughest audience I deal with.

Impatient, grumpy, demanding, and opinionated.

John was great. Such a nice guy. I was with him for about 20 minutes showing him around. He was alert, we talked a lot, he thanked me 76 times for helping him. We even laughed a bit.

Turns out I worked that show unexpectedly. I did not see John coming in; I was too busy beating up old folk with a fucking baseball bat.

About two hours into the 4 hour show I walked down the hall and ran into John and his companion. They had just come down in the elevator. John was in a wheelchair this time.

He was slumped over a bit and listless. I asked his companion what was going on.

She said he just could not get comfortable watching the show in his wheelchair and he wanted to go home. I spoke to John but it took him a minute to perk up and eventually recognize me.

He broke my heart. 

Originally he was so excited to see the performance. He made a 60 minute round trip just to check out the seating. He was animated. He made another 60 minute round trip on the day of the show.

He looked so uncomfortable. There was a sadness and vulnerability about him. Still, he thanked me again for my help. He fucking thanked me again.

The first time I met him gave me an unexpected joy. Purity of emotion.

The next time I saw him shattered my heart. Harsh reality.

I am so tired of this rollercoaster.

Imagine how John feels.