Jump! Jump! Jump!

This morning I finished reading You Can't Go Home Again by Thomas Wolfe.

It left me with a lot to ponder.

In one chapter the story revolves around the suicide of a guy who jumps from a twelfth story window. Wolfe sets it against the backdrop that the vast majority of people in the world live boring, meaningless lives.

Sheep who trudge through life with head down, experiencing little pleasure, sacrificng their dreams for small money and insulting jobs, going nowhere but directly to the grave. Suffocating in pettiness and envy along the way.

A crowd gathers around the body on the sidewalk, skull broken open, brain splattered all over the place.

At first they are shocked. 

It doesn't take long for the perspective to come around to the fact that the guy who jumped was selfish. That he could have landed on and killed somebody else. That someone is going to have to clean up the mess. That he should have killed himself in private instead of creating a spectacle. 

Wolfe makes the point that the real reason these people are outraged is because the guy who committed suicide disturbed the flow of the predictable and boring lives of the crowd. They can't just go on with their day as they normally would - they have been confronted with reality. He interrupted their self-imposed comas. Now they have to make the effort to shake it off and get back to "normal."

They are insulted.

Before he jumped, the guy was just like everybody else. Staggering blindly through life. But suicide separated him from the crowd. In a weird way it brought him back to life.

It's a disturbing point of view that Wolfe presents. That the jumper was dead in his life, and only came alive when he killed himself. 

This is really what the crowd is so disturbed about. His decision to jump highlights their spineless refusal to live their own lives. They don't want to see it, they don't want to know about it. Because if they are forced to think about it, suicide becomes the logical solution to the lives they lead.

They just want to shuffle through another day, and go home to numb themselves with whatever poison suits them.

This is an extreme argument, but it does drive home the point that wasting a life is a heinous crime against humanity, punishable by death.

The sooner the better.

Or you could just buy yourself a new hat.

SUDDEN DEATH

I watched a football game last Sunday night that changed my opinion of sudden death instantaneously.

Just like that.

In the NFL, if the game is tied at the end of regulation you play sudden death overtime. There is a coin toss to determine who gets the ball first. If that team drives down the field and scores a touchdown, the game is over. So it's possible that the opposing team can lose the game without ever touching the ball in OT.

I have always loved that. It's a big boy sport, it is a brutal sport - it is a harsh and unforgiving sport.

The playoffs are tough. You lose one game, you go home. After all the work you put into the season, after all the injuries and bruises and pain - you make it to the playoffs - you lose - you're done.

I have always liked that as well. Baseball, hockey, basketball - in general - you lose once, you get at least three more chances. Of course that best of seven format is impossible with football, so it is what it is.

The Bills and the Chiefs played an epic game last Sunday night. The entire game was fantastic. Back and forth and up and down - the competition was spectacular. The last two minutes of regulation were mind blowing - they scored so many points in two minutes that the scoreboard was smoking.

One of the best football games I have ever seen in 58 years of watching football.

They were tied at the end of regulation. The Chiefs won the coin toss and marched down the field and scored a touchdown in OT. Boom - the Bills were done.

The camera panned over to Josh Allen's face, the Bill's quarterback, as he sat on the bench in stunned silence. I will never forget "that look" - his face was blank. Not just emotion-less, it was if the Devil stole his soul, ripped all life and hope away from him - suddenly and without prior notice -  and left a lifeless husk behind.

It was awful.

He played his heart out. He played with total confidence, no fear - he displayed every bit of skill and knowledge he had accumulated in a lifetime of playing football - and he lost a Division Playoff Game in overtime without ever having the ball in his hands.

The Bills deserved the chance to defend themselves - to get out on the field one more time and deal to the Chiefs whatever miracle was still left within the Bill's grasp and imagination.

It didn't happen. They didn't get the chance.

This Sunday the Chiefs play for the chance to go to Super Bowl LVI. The Bills will be home watching the game.

This is wrong. It's fucking evil.

The NFL needs to change the OT rules. Especially for playoff games. You cannot lose the game without ever touching the ball.

Josh Allen is 25 years old. He will get another shot at making it to the Super Bowl. Maybe.

As I said, this is a harsh sport. The odds against making it to a Super Bowl are overwhelming. Many tremendous athletes never got a chance to play in a Super Bowl.

Think about that. From the moment you handle a football and make a conscious decision that playing in the NFL is your life's goal - winning the Super Bowl is the ultimate prize. It is the reason you work so hard, and sacrifice your body and your health and any shot at a normal family life.

To have a chance of achieving that goal ripped out of your hands because of arbitrary overtime rules is heinous.

I am confident Josh Allen will make it to the Super Bowl one day.

But if he doesn't, last Sunday night's game will play over and over again in his worst nightmare like the movie reel from hell.

Cooper

My son Keith had to put down his dog Cooper last night.

This is the end none of us pet lovers consider when we first bring an animal into our life.

It is enormously painful.

Cooper was 14 years old, and had a difficult life. 

He had an accident many years ago on a winter night that damaged his spine and required immediate surgery. Since then he has had a great deal of difficulty getting around. He needed therapy and lots of special attention from Keith. This went on up until last night, so it has been a long, challenging situation.

But Keith loved Cooper. He did everything it took to help him at the cost of a lot of money and a lot of time and sacrifice.

Keith's relationship with Cooper was the ultimate testimony for the intensity of love between a human and a pet. A perfect example of what that love should look like. I am convinced that many people would have given up on Cooper many years ago just because of the sheer amount of effort it took to care for him. 

Cooper recently got to the point that he was practically immobile and Keith knew the end was near - that he would have to make a difficult call. But Cooper had two seizures last night and that forced the decision.

Cooper had a difficult personality. I could never get close to him. He would bark and snarl and keep me at a distance. This bothered me forever because I loved him and I consider myself a friend to all animals and all children.

But it was never about me. Why should it be? My relationship with Cooper was irrelevant; what mattered was that Cooper had Keith. And thank god for that.

Keith was his protector. Pure and simple. Cooper knew that despite his physical handicaps Keith would always be there to help him, get him around, make him as comfortable as possible and give him the love he needed. I know they had many happy moments together no matter what was going on - moments when Keith could laugh and Cooper could feel happiness.

Every animal deserves that. Not all of them get it.

Love and sensitivity are the qualities that define a human being. I don't give a damn what else you have going on in your life - if you cannot offer love, you got nothing.

I respect Keith for many, many reasons. The love and caring that he showed Cooper under difficult circumstances and over a long period of time tells me a lot about the kind of man that he is. He never gave up. Never.

I was aware over the years of most of what was involved in caring for Cooper. Trips to the vet, endless trips to rehab, adapting to more challenges as Cooper got older and his needs increased. Keith stepped up every time.

Because he loved Cooper.

It is as simple as that. This is a story of pure love. Period. Love drove every decision, love defined the relationship.

This is what animals crave. They need to trust the human who takes care of them, they need to feel comfortable and protected. But what they need above all else is love. They need to be hugged and held and patted and kissed. They seek it out. Animals are instinctual, and there is nothing more instinctual and powerful and life-nurturing than wanting to be loved.

My heart is broken today because Keith's heart is broken. I am thankful that he has Krista - she will take care of him; I am thankful that he has Jack (his cat). He won't be alone.

But he will be alone with his memories of Cooper.

Keith loved Cooper. Cooper loved Keith.

That's all that matters.

A Strange Brain

My brain is strange.

Apparently when I came face to face with the shocking 194 pounds truth on 12/31, willpower deserted me.

Today is January 22. If I have exercised more than five times this month it is a fucking miracle. As I continue to hear myself getting fatter.

Some of that inconsistency is attributable to the new job. It has turned my schedule upside down. The odd thing about this job is that it is completely unpredictable. It's one thing to know I am working Monday, Wednesday and Friday. The wild card is that I find myself going in on days off, or going in earlier than I was scheduled to. Of course this is nothing but excuses. I realize that all I have to do is change my personal schedule to fit exercise back into my life.

To be clear - the schedule changes are completely up to me. My boss will ask me if I can make these changes and he makes it clear that this is not a command. I have a choice. It's one of the things I love about him. I can say no and there is no ill will.

I don't mind doing it because it helps everybody out. We all help each other out. It's pretty cool.

The point I am making is that precisely at the point in time where I have lots of confidence and determination in the new year, I fall apart on the exercise thing. Like a fucking jellyfish.

So today is Day One. Again.

I am going to attack my body like the alien thing it has become. Consistent, relentless exercise. I am going to radically change my diet. I can't be beat, I won't be beat.

What I need is grit. Never had it before, but I do now. Grit is defined as the perseverance and passion to achieve long-term goals. Aka mental toughness. 

I have read a lot about this characteristic, through James Clear and others. It is generally agreed that grit can outperform intelligence and natural talent.

I believe this.

Grit requires confidence as fuel. You gotta believe in yourself. Believe in what you are doing.

I was confident on January 1, 1954. By January 2, doubt crept in. It has been a long slog since. But I am feeling cocky right now. I got the happiness thing going on, gratitude, pride, determination and.......grit.

"Perseverance and passion to achieve long-term goals." Weight loss has obviously become a long-term goal. That became evident in December when I lost zero pounds despite maximum effort.

All of 2022 is dedicated to losing weight. I believe I can do it, regardless of the doom and gloom Doctors Feelgood send my way. Their negativity fuels me.

I get weighed every three months when I get another hormone shot. They monitor weight gain closely because it is the evil devil in this process. I got three more shots to go in 2022 and then I am done.

At some point this year I will step on that fucking adversary of a scale and Dr. Feelgood will say "Holy shit, Joe - you have lost X pounds. You are a fucking God. You should write a book."

And I will respond "All it takes is grit, Doc. And for $250/month, you can enroll in the Joe Testa All It Takes Is Grit online seminar, and you too can remake your life."

In closing I would just like to say: "Fuck prostate cancer, fuck hormone therapy, and fuck my bloated body."

I will triumph in 2022.

Down Where The Worm Keeps Vigil

 "What lies there stir-less in the earth tonight, down where the worm keeps vigil? 

The blind man smiles his ghostly smile. In his eternal vigil, the worm stirs, but many men are rotting in their graves tonight, and sixty-four have bullet fractures in their skull. Ten thousand more are lying in their beds tonight, living as shells live. They, too, are dead, though yet unburied. They have been dead so long they can't remember how it was to live. And many weary nights must pass before they can join the buried dead, down where the worm keeps vigil."

From You Can't Go Home Again, by Thomas Wolfe.

As an avid reader I have read this type of observation hundreds of times. Authors, poets - creative people who mock the pointless life of the everyday person. Their criticism is valid - most of us lead these meandering, unfulfilling lives that leave us empty and take us nowhere. We don't know who we are or what we want, so we waste this precious thing called Time. Called Life. 

It fascinates me that as a person who is obsessed with death, I have never lived as if I might die tomorrow. I am trying to do that in 2022.

To do that, you have to define specifically what it is that will fill up your soul. The advantage to doing that so late in my life is that a lot of meaningless stuff has been revealed as such, leaving me the luxury of coming up with a short list. 

A list I can focus on ferociously.

Death Is Capricious

PART 1:

Betty White died on December 31, 2021 at the age of 99.

It was New Year's Eve for Christ sake. Her 100th birthday would have been on January 17th of 2022.

Death couldn't leave well enough alone.

Let her ring in the new year, let her see her 100th. Death snickers as it kills.

PART 2:

A special called "All Madden" aired on December 25th, 2021. Christmas Day. It was a celebration of the legendary life of legendary football personality John Madden. I was excited to watch it because he was such a unique and likeable human. I had been waiting to see this special since the hype began a month before.

I didn't catch it on Christmas Day because my family distracted me with love, laughter and fun.

And then.......John Madden up and died on December 28th at the age of 85.

Death snickers again.

Thankfully Madden got to see, comment on and enjoy the finished product. But, come on, fans were basking in the glow of this man's life, making their lives a little better and then BOOM! he was gone.

I didn't watch it until after his death and it was definitely melancholy.

MORE:

I have feared for a long time that I will die the day after I figure my life out. So I'm a little nervous. Luckily I am fortified with positivity in 2022 so I am not thinking so darkly.

I had to shovel snow yesterday. Snow that weighed 2 tons per shovelful. It was brutal.

The guy that shovels us out is on vacation and out of the country.

It took me over 2 hours. 2 hours of sweating, heavy breathing and eventually - exhaustion. I try to keep Carol in the house but - trooper that she is - she came out to help me in the end.

The husband (Butch) of Carol's closest friend died many years ago after a winter storm. He was roof raking snow off his roof and just keeled over backwards, dead in the snow of a heart attack. He was in his fifties.

Since then, every time I have to shovel snow I think of him. That was a part of the decision a few years ago to get someone to shovel for us. It has been a sweet luxury.

But yesterday circumstances conspired against me and forced me out of the house.

I am enormously fat. Three or four shovelfuls, stop to catch my breath. Repeat.

I survived, but I kept coming back to Betty White, John Madden and......Butch.

And my friend Tom Brigham. Death has risen to the top of the list of motivators for me in 2022.

Death is a sneaky, malicious bastard and would not hesitate to cut me down right in the middle of the happiest moment of my life.

So I am wary. And getting much better at appreciating the moment. Carol is the main target and the perfect teacher - so positive, always laughing and digging on small moments. Every single day now my soul is warmed in little, life-giving ways, thanks to her.

Christmas and my belated birthday celebration last weekend gave me the opportunity to dig on Craig & Amanda and Keith & Krista. They feed my soul exactly as Carol does. I look at them in wonder and nourish my soul through their intelligence and sense of humor, their unique perspectives and the distinctive aspects that makes each of them who they are.

Gratitude, baby - gratitude. I delight in my family as an epicurean delights in a fine meal.

Death is there - it is lurking and has staked out a permanenet position in a dark corner of my mind.

But until it triumphs, I will drink in all the goodness of my life like humanity's most thirsty soul.

Tom Brigham

Tom Brigham died yesterday.

This is my first harsh lesson in 2022.

Tom was a friend of mine. I met him through Sarge - my amazing brother-in-law.

Tom and I connected. Tom connected with a lot of people. But he and I came from different backgrounds, we grew up differently, we lived different lives - but there was something there, something between us.

He was a troubled guy; he had problems with alcohol. His daughter Darby said it truthfully on facebook - "He succumbed to a lifelong battle that eventually took a toll on his body and his mind................He is a reminder to us all of what the disease of addiction can do, even to the most good-hearted and intelligent of people."

Good-hearted and intelligent he was. I believe that addiction is not just a disease of the body, it is a disease of the vulnerable - the sensitive, the compassionate, the empathetic - people who are not built to deal with the nastiness of life.

When Sarge died, I spoke at the celebration of his life. Tom and Sarge were close friends. When I sat down, Tom came up behind me, tilted my head back and kissed me on the forehead. He was eating cheese and crackers at the time and I had to wipe crumbs off my forehead.

I didn't mind. Because I knew that kiss was his way of appreciating what I said. And because I loved him.

Tom and I connected over Richard Brautigan and Tom Waits. Richard Brautigan was a novelist, poet and short story writer. Tom Waits is Tom Waits.

These are two very specific connections, but they are indicative of a common point of view, a mindset, a shared sensitivity that was really behind our friendship.

Tom contacted me on September 6, 2021 when his ex-wife died unexpectedly. He did not have my phone number, so he posted this message on facebook: "Joe, call me when you can please, now or when you can. It's important." He listed his number. I think it was around 9 o'clock. Carol saw the message almost immediately, I called him right away.

He was shook up. He wasn't sure how to deal with his three daughters and his ex-wife's current husband. He was close with them all; he told me they all spent time together. He was worried about how involved he should get in the aftermath - he did not want to offend the husband or hurt his daughters by diving in with both feet.

That's how sensitive he was - he was hurt by his ex-wife's death, but he worried more about her husband and his daughters than he did about himself.

He posted this on facebook after we spoke - "Thanks my valued friend. You know Joe, I was never lucky in love and that's perfectly fine with me because I've certainly been lucky enough to have good friends. Friends that when you haven't seen or spoken with for long periods of time and you reach out for them late at night, call you within minutes. You and Carol are the Finest-kind. My brain was scrambled and I needed sound advice. You came through like I knew you would. Thank you my brother."

He called me about a month later. He has a daughter who lives in China; he was worried about her because she was not handling her mother's death very well. She was hostile and angry; when she communicated with Tom or her sisters she was full of fuck you's and fuck life; Tom could not break through her anger. He did not know what to do.

We talked a while, I did the best I could. That's the last conversation we had.

Here is what's killing me today - after both calls I made a mental note to give Tom a call to see how he was doing. I never did. Now I will never get the chance. Now I will never get the chance.

The heart always knows what is the right thing to do. But sometimes laziness or selfishness or thoughtlessness gets in the way and the moment is lost. Sometimes forever.

The "Thank You" message he posted on facebook after the first call made me feel good at the time. Not so much now.

The lesson I learned from all this is burning inside me right now. Like everything else personal to me in 2022, I think it is here to stay.

Tom - Thanks, man. We had some fun. We had a lot of fun. A measure of insanity. And sensitivity - Brautigan, Waits, and all that implies. I am grateful that you were a part of my life.

I miss you. I love you.

Tom's daughter Darby's final words on facebook - "May he find the peace and freedom that was always just out of reach."

That is my deepest wish as well.

Old Number Six Book Depot

I buy 99.9% of all my books through Amazon. 

This is a major mistake.

There is a bookstore here in town called The Old Number Six Book Depot. Used books.

This building used to be church for me. I visited regularly. The owner knew me, the people who worked there knew me. It is a spectacularly magical place for a book lover.

Creaky wooden floors. I think there was only one wood burning stove, although I can't be sure. It was chilly in the winter time.

Shelf after shelf overflowing with books. Books piled on the floor, on chairs - the place had so much personality.

When I arrived and when I left I would always have satisfying conversations with whoever was working that day. It was a joy.

It brought me such peace to spend long stretches of time browsing. I never left without a book. 

Heaven.

I got lazy. I got frugal. Most of the books I buy on Amazon are used and on the cheap. Delivered to my door.

Here's what sparked this introspection. I am reading "You Can't Go Home Again" by Thomas Wolfe. The book came from the Nevada County Library. It has a sticker on it. I like the history of these used books. I like knowing where they came from. I like the inscriptions I sometimes find inside.

The Blues book I just read is autographed by Walter Trout to "Frank."

It is all cool, but it is not worth the absence of The Old Number Six Book Depot from my life.

I am all about peace and happiness now, especially now that they have suddenly become real to me. I am also about tradition. Old school.

One more thing I have to re-establish in my life in 2022 is the Book Depot ritual. I need it.

I will never buy all my books from the Book Depot; I am too voracious a reader, and often nurture very specific tastes.

But semi-regular trips there will spread peace-balm on my soul, a soul that has begun to regenerate, a soul that welcomes inspiration and health.

I am making a trip to the center of me, digging down to my essence. The Old Number Six Book Depot is there; its vibe is in my soul, my heart and my mind. I just have to revive it.

I will be visiting soon.

Like coming home.

Silence

 "Sometimes I feel that every word spoken and every gesture made merely serve to exacerbate misunderstandings. Then what I would really like is to escape into a great silence and impose that silence on everyone else."

Etty Hillesum

Recovery Step #4 - Talking The Blues

Recently read a book titled The Blues - Why It Still Hurts So Good, by Marie Trout.

Chunks of it are based on answers to questionnaires she sent out to blues fans

Lots of quotes in there that burned a hole into my brain.

Like "...................and I've often said that being a blues fan says more about you than just your taste in music."

I agree. I am admittedly a music snob. I believe my taste in music is exceptional - especially The Blues - and my tastes say a lot about who I am.

I believe blues lovers are musically educated. Beyond that - and more importantly to me - I believe they are naturally empathetic. Music is all about emotion, and blues especially so. Blues music channels directly into your soul, and arouses the fierce emotion we try to hide. It opens you up and allows your emotions to mix with the music, and in that state you make meaningful connections with other blues lovers. Humans. Human beings.

When I was undergoing radiation for prostate cancer, there was a youngish guy on the radiation team that I got along with. One day he asked what kind of music I like. When I said "the blues" he lit up. We talked, he recommended a group from Iceland called KALEO. Fucking Iceland. I never would have discovered these guys if it hadn't been for my radiation buddy.

Check their videos out on YouTube. Many are set outside amidst stunning beauty.

When I was having melanoma hacked off the back of my left shoulder in 2016, Dr. Feelgood asked what kind of music I liked. He immediately had the music in the room changed to blues and we talked blues throughout the operation. He was a very cool guy who, coincidentally, performed Carol's mastectomy as well.

Disclaimer: Not all of my blues connections center around cancer.

Through this book I learned that "the typical blues fan today is white (well over 90%)." How did I not notice this? I have been to a million blues concerts. As soon as I read those words I realized it is absolutely true.

Why is this? Blues originates deeply from the black culture. Makes no sense. Until you read this book.

What Marie Trout discovered through conversation, questionnaires, and connections (her husband is Walter Trout - renowned blues guitarist) is that black people in the 1960's abandoned the blues for funk and soul music. Because this was a generation of revolution, and they felt blues lyrics were too "careful."

Which is true. The original blues musicians could not say what they really meant because they'd get beaten and killed for it. So they made sly references to the vicious assholes who hated them.

Every time I assume I'm an expert I learn something new.

The typical blues fan today is "older (eight out of ten are between 45 and 70 years old)."

This I know. This is why I get excited when I meet a young blues fan - this music must carry on.

I also learned that a lot of today's blues fans discovered the music through musicians who covered original songs. The fans then went back in time to learn about the originator.

That's how I got started. There was one song on The Allman Brothers debut album that was not written by them. It's called "Trouble No More". It was written by Sleepy John Estes and made famous by Muddy Waters.

It caught my ear, I did my homework, and became addicted to The Blues. Amazing.

Hope you are excited. I decided to talk about The Blues today, for a change.

Ciao, baby.

Cracks In My Brain

 "When nothing seems to help, I go and look at a stonecutter hammering away at his rock, perhaps a hundred times without as much as a crack showing in it. Yet at the hundred and first blow it will split in two, and I know it was not that last blow that did it - but all that had gone before."

James Clear

Editor's note: I don't have access to a stonecutter, but I like the image.

Why do I like this quote?

Because I have been hammering away at the rock - aka my brain - for a long, long, long time. It has not split yet, but recently cracks have appeared. These cracks allow pus to ooze out and poisonous gas to escape. There is a general cleansing going on which encourages original and positive thought.

I am getting real good with a chisel, baby.

Obnoxiously Happy

I woke up happy today.

I have woken up happy almost every day for over a week now (maybe more - I lost track).

You say: "So what? Lots of people wake up happy."

True dat. 

I had to use that phrase. I am not qualified to use that phrase. It would sound disingenuous coming out of my mouth. But it popped into my head and I used it. Live with it.

Many people wake up happy and I have always envied them. I am willing to bet that more people wake up unhappy than happy. I was one of them.

We were on vacation up at Old Orchard Beach many years ago. Carol and I were standing side by side on the balcony outside our room in the morning, looking down on people gathered on the beach. These people were sitting on blankets, drinking coffee and laughing.

I said: "I wish I could be happy as easily as that." Carol asked: "Why can't you?" A reasonable question, but one that someone like me could never explain to someone like her.

The sad truth is that feeling happy is such a foreign feeling to me that it blindsides me. 

I have had periods of "happiness" before, but this one feels different. This one does not feel temporary.

There has been a fundamental shift in my essence that bodes well for me. And others.

I may become a dangerous individual in 2022. Because along with feeling happy, I am feeling confident.

I am not familiar with either one of those feelings individually, never mind simultaneously.

Happy & Confident? You have to be kidding me.

Anyway, I rolled out of bed and downstairs this morning and sunshine was firing out of my ears. I felt so good, I feel so good.

I feel my internal organs regenerating after decades of horrific abuse. Even my liver.

Prostate cancer is thinking "Holy shit - I sense positivity. We can't beat this guy. Time to retreat and go kill somebody else."

My chest is swelling with pride. Pride in myself. I feel good about who I am and where I am.

How bizarre, how bizarre.

Predictably, I will be obnoxious about this until I get it all under control; until it seeps into my soul and becomes a natural part of who I am. Until then you will suffer perpetually. But there are less meaningful things to celebrate than happiness. No?

Right now it feels like 1969 - the year I got drunk and high for the first time, and had sex for the first time. A banner year indeed.

I have put a lot of work into this. I know why I am here. I will not analyze this to death. I will roll with it. I will feed it and appreciate it and eat heartily of the fruit it produces.

Life is a strange and unpredictable thing.

You take what you can control and mix it up with what you can't.

If you come out on the plus side, you win.

Feels like I am winning.

Yesterday (and the Day Before)

Today is Saturday.

Yesterday was Friday. Day before - Thursday.

I did not have to get up at 5:30 am on Thursday and Friday, and never will again.

This makes a HUGE difference in my life.

I HATED those days. I am not a morning person. Plus, I am 68 years old and should be retired. If I have to fucking work, I do not want to drag my ass out of bed before the sun rises.

The schedule of my life has completely flipped. The earliest I ever have to be in to work is 11:30 am. When I work shows, I typically have to show up at 7:00 pm, and finish up at 9:30 pm.

I am a night person. I love nights because they are devious. Evil happens at night. Darkness implies abandon. If you drink during the day, you are branded as a week-willed misfit. Drinking at night is condoned. Drink at night - you are welcomed with open arms into the innermost circles of impolite society.

I feel safer at night.

During the day I feel compelled to at least feign responsibility. To pretend that I am a functioning member of society who actively seeks out the lowest possible mortgage rate.

At night it's all hookers and cocaine.

The new job was the right move for many, many reasons.

Not the least of which is the opportunity to sleep late seven days a week.

Yeah, baby.

(Editor's note: With apologies to Cori - my awesome sister-in-law - who has to get up at 4 am. Then again, she is a whole lot tougher than I will ever be. Love you, Cori.)

What's In A Name

Football players tend to have majestic and beautiful names.

D'Brickashaw Ferguson. JuJu Smith-Schuster. Equanimeous St. Brown.

These names make Joe Testa feel like an afterthought. Shit, he survived? I guess we gotta name him.

A bit of poetic license there. I am proud of my name. I am named after my grandfather - Giuseppe Testa, who was born in Isernia, Italy in 1890. I have enormous respect for what he overcame and what he accomplished after he emigrated to America. What I loved best about him was his sense of humor.

Such an amazing thing that he could move to this country alone - learn a new language - become established - send for his wife and two kids to join him - and ultimately raise a family of four kids and succeed financially - and still maintain a sense of humor.

He was hilarious.

But I digress.

My new favorite football name is Divine Deablo. Are you kidding me? Of course it would be much better if his last name was spelled Diablo, but, still - his parents knew what they were doing.

Divine Deablo is a linebacker for the Las Vegas Raiders. 6'3", 226 pounds.

If I was a running back and I saw Divine Deablo coming at me full-speed, I wouldn't know what the hell to do. 

Who would I pray to?

Isn't It A Pity

 "Isn't it a pity, now isn't it a shame, how we break each other's hearts, and cause each other pain, how we take each other's love without thinking anymore, forgetting to give back, isn't it a pity.

Some things take so long, but how do I explain, when not too many people can see we're all the same, and because of all their tears, their eyes can't hope to see, the beauty that surrounds them, isn't it a pity."

Lyrics from Isn't It A Pity, by George Harrison.

"when not too many people can see we're all the same, and because of their tears, their eyes can't hope to see, the beauty that surrounds them." He may as well have written that song in 2022.

We are so fucking petty. Clawing at each other's throats, spitting venom at each other and forgetting that we are all in the same fucking boat. We are all trying to make a living, and find some meaningful way to be happy, no matter how small that happiness might be.

I spit venom with the best of them. I actually enjoy it. Feels like self-defense to me - if I project love, my eyes will be clawed out. Of course the other guy might be thinking the same thing.

"Birth, School, Work, Death" by The Godfathers. That's all there is, baby - you'd think we'd be smart enough to find a way through it with empathy. We have never shown an ability to do so.

John Lennon and Paul McCartney were dictators. They would limit the number of George's songs allowed on each album. The justification was that John and Paul were considered better writers. I don't know about that, but I do know that:

The Beatles officially broke up in April of 1970. In November of 1970, George released All Things Must Pass - a triple album. A beautiful album.

Songs included: My Sweet Lord, What Is Life, If Not For You, All Things Must Pass, Beware of Darkness and...................... Isn't It A Pity.

George Harrison was a beautiful man.

Man of the Year Award

I want to give myself the Man of the Year Award on 12/31/2022.

I want to push and excel and succeed and change in recognizable ways. I am primed to do this - I have laid the groundwork. My eyes are wide open and my will is strong.

"I will be the best man I possibly can" - Duane Allman. A very simple statement but very hard to live up to. Because progress is made up of many little moments and opportunities. You gotta rack up consistent small victories until "being the best man I possibly can" becomes a way of life.

This is right in line with James Clear's philosophy of becoming successful in life. I believe in this philosophy. Small, consistent victories.

I already blew an opportunity in 2022. On the night of January 5 - five days into the fucking new year, for Christ sake. You don't need the details, but I had the opportunity to be a bigger man and I did not come through. The good things is I immediately recognized my failure - I felt it. I immediately regretted it.

That means my brain is actually working - it is doing this thing called thinking. I am moving along a continuum of change. More slowly than I'd like, experiencing more setbacks than progress, but I am exerting force of will. Breaking down barriers to change that I have erected over 6 decades.

A formidable challenge, but not insurmountable.

The Walter Payton NFL Man of the Year Award is considered the league's most prestigious honor. It recognizes players who have "exhibited excellence on the field, and whose passion to impact lives extends beyond the game."

That perfectly sums up what I am shooting for.

I want to be the best employee the Capitol Center for the Arts has ever seen. I want to excel at my job. I also want to impact the lives of Carol and Keith and Craig by changing myself and my own life. The changes I make will change how we interact with each other, which can change their lives.

I really think I can pull this off this year.

It's a really big goal, but I have a serious leg up by virtue of the fact that I am happy. I have shed 2 tons of anger and hatred and frustration. I am thinking more clearly.

I am nimble.

And inspired.

Never Give In

 "You cannot tell from appearances how things will go. Sometimes imagination makes things out far worse than they are; yet without imagination not much can be done. Those people who are imaginative see many more dangers than perhaps exist; certainly many more than will happen; but then they must also pray to be given that extra courage to carry this far-reaching imagination. But for everyone, surely, what we have gone through in this period  ...........surely from this period of ten months this is the lesson: never give in, never give in, never, never, never, never - in nothing, great or small, large or petty - never give in except to convictions of honour and good sense. Never yield to force; never yield to the apparently overwhelming might of the enemy..............

Britain, other nations thought, had drawn a sponge across her slate. But instead our country stood in the gap. There was no flinching and no thought of giving in; and by what seemed almost a miracle to those outside these islands, though we ourselves never doubted it, we now find ourselves in a position where I say that we can be sure that we have only to persevere to conquer."

Winston Churchill, 2 years into WWII

Better Times?

I just finished reading a history of the Town of Henniker that spanned the years 1880-1979.

It was dry reading at various points, but it was cool to folllow the development of the town. Interesting perspectives, like when electricity was introduced; telephones - and later when they got away from switchboards; impressions of when cars first showed up on the scene.

The car thing was hilarious - no one was prepared for that, so it was like the wild west. No traffic signs or lights, no speed limits - apparently you took your life in your hands if you walked downtown.

Also amusing were the things people argued about. Some were against electricity. How bizarre. Not a lot of oppositon to telephones, though - people love to gossip.

I am glad I read it. Obviously in many ways there is a huge difference between life in 1880 and life in 2022. However, there is not a lot of difference in people. We evolve but we don't.

The last page of the book blew me away because the authors suddenly waxed philosophical. Dig:

"The past is a marvelous fantasy toy. We are able to revel in the thought of a sleigh ride or a husking bee - and forget the number of children who never saw their first birthday because of diseases we can now control. We sit in toasty warm homes waxing nostalgic for the old days - when plants sometimes froze in the kitchen. Most of us love happiness and dislike unpleasantness. Thus it is natural to dream of the good ol' days, but the ledger had its debits and credits as it does now."

I guess the lesson is to look back in time with eyes wide open. Although the past six years make it impossible to believe that these are better times.

A Confluence of Events - Big & Small

I continue to feel supreme.

It has been building for months and has culminated in something typically recognized as HOPE.

During the summer of 2021 I reconnected with my five closest friends from high school. Bobby, Jimmy, Ed, Barry and Dave. We met (minus Dave) at Jimmy's new home, which just happens to be 30 minutes from my own.

My heart was wide open, and I appreciated that get together with a laser focus for exactly what it meant. We talked, laughed, reminisced - and agreed to get together again soon.

On my birthday, every single one of them texted me. Dave and Jim called me. It meant so much to me.

In September, Carol and I brought Emmy Lou and Patsy into our home. These cats have stolen our hearts. And made us laugh and smile and hug them and kiss them. They are the sweetest, craziest, most loving cats in the history of the feline world.

Every night Patsy curls up in my lap, Emmy Lou in Carol's. Our nights could not be more comforting.

Christmas day was spectacular. We got the whole family together for the first time since this covid bullshit began. We came close  during the summer - we met at my brother's house but Amanda - Craig's fiance - could not make it. She was working. She works her ass off. She's a sweetheart.

But on Christmas day we pulled it off. At Craig & Amanda's brand new home. They entertained the family for the first time and did an amazing job.

Carol and I kept looking around, taking it all in. We were like a man who has crawled 185 miles through the desert, collapsed from exhaustion ready to die - only to find his face planted in a magical spring of cool, clear water.

A small thing - I got new lenses in my eyeglasses on 12/30. As a result of my first eye checkup in seven years. I'm old. My body is deteriorating. My eyesight was worse than I realized.

The first day I sat down with a book in my lap was hilarious. I put the book where I would normally place it in my lap - and things were a bit fuzzy. I was pissed - they fucked up. Then I moved the book closer and it was crystal clear. Feels like we got a new TV. It's so goddamn clear I feel like I am looking through it straight to reality.

I went for the full boat. Transitions sunglass shit, ant-glare for night driving. Night driving has been weird for a while - headlight glare really throws me off. Not any more. As I was driving home I was staring right into oncoming headlights and I was fine.

Again, seems like a small thing, but I am seeing everything with crystal clear clarity. Seems like a metaphor.

I got a new job. Started yesterday. Hugs all around. I have reconnected with people I took for granted last time around. My kind of people. Sensitive, artsy types. Empathy all around. So many of them told me they had missed me and were truly happy to have me back.

I am happy. A new beginning in a new year. It doesn't get any better than that.

A revelation - my high school friends, Christmas day, the new job - these very human things have re-wired my brain. I am beginning to think I have more to offer than I have ever given myself credit for.

Overall, I feel so good that I am astonished. Holy Shit - what have I been missing? Are humans allowed to feel this way? Is this the way it is supposed to be?

You bet your ass it is.

Two Failures

I carry two failures with me into 2022.

1) An inability to lose weight. 

This one really pisses me off. I am all-in in this fight. I will do whatever it fucking takes. I have put maximum effort into it and failed. And failed. And failed.

I dropped from 195 to 185 early-on in 2021. Then I ballooned up to 194 and here I sit. Fat, uncomfortable, and furious.

But I refuse to give up. Gotta get me another hormone shot on Tuesday. I am going to ask Dr. Feelgood for advice. If she cannot help I will do some research. Obviously my approach is not working. I refuse to believe that I "cannot lose weight during hormone therapy". Fuck that.

Hormone therapy ends at the end of 2022. I am not going to weigh 700 pounds when that happens. I want to dance out of the urology department after my last shot and buy myself a beautifully tailored Italian made suit.

You know - for all the formal functions I normally attend.

2) I did not line up a therapist.

I am beginning to think the word is out in therapist circles. "Don't take this guy on - he's a fucking lunatic. He has so many neuroses and psychoses he can't even brush his teeth without crying."

Fucking Covid, man - everybody is fucked up. Everybody has their skull under examination. So therapists are "not accepting new patients at this time."

Again, I refuse to give up.

I will launch an all-out assault on the profession until I bully a therapist into taking a chance on me.

Christ, you'd think they'd relish the challenge. They could write papers about me. They could write a book and get richer.

"How I Successfully Negotiated The Dark Labyrinths of One Man's Twisted Psyche and Survived."

I will not allow these two failures to sabotage my 2022 enthusiasm. Ain't gonna happen.

I will keep moving forward.

Stay out of my fucking way.

January 1, 2022

 "This year I will be more thoughtful of my fellow man, exert more effort in each of my endeavors, professionally as well as personally. Take love wherever I find it, and offer it to everyone who will take it. In this coming year I will seek knowledge from those wiser than me and try to teach those who wish to learn from me. I love being alive and I will be the best man I possibly can."

Duane Allman's diary, January 1, 1969

I will be the best man I possibly can. That remains my overall goal - in every way, in every avenue of my life.

I took a solid whack at it in 2021, but I have a long way to go. A long way to go. It is a daunting task, requiring constant vigilance.

But well worth the effort.

Almost Forgot

I weighed myself yesterday.

I weigh 194 pounds.

Let me interpret that for you.

I weighed 194 pounds on December 4. Since then I have eaten much healthier and exercised my ass off.

And accomplished nothing. Absolutely nothing.

I did not expect much - 26 days is not a lot of time to lose weight. But if I even lost 1 pound it would have been momentum; a reward for hard work and sacrifice.

Instead - fucking nothing.

This disturbs me because Dr. Feelgood warned me that any weight I gain during hormone therapy will be very hard to lose. I didn't believe him. Diet and exercise defeats resistance. 

But maybe not during hormone therapy. 

I gotta deal with this for another year. I refuse to become Blimpo The Elephant. So I am going to keep on keeping on. I will report back in 3 months. But I gotta admit I am a little down.

What the fuck is it gonna take? Can I actually lose weight at all?

I told you I would keep you posted. I still weigh 194 pounds.

Fuck it.

When I'm Sixty-Eight (For Carol)

I took the liberty of editing the lyrics to"When I'm Sixty-Four" for my own purposes. I know, blasphemy - but, then again - I am incorrigible. I was going to highlight the changes, but decided that if you don't know the original lyrics by heart - you should be executed.

When I get older, losing my hair, many years from now, will you still be sending me a Valentine, birthday greetings bottle of wine.

If I'd been out 'till quarter to three, would you feel some hate,

Will you still need me and will you still feed me, when I'm sixty-eight.

You'll be older too, and if you say the word, I could stay with you.

I could be handy, mending a fuse, when your lights have gone, you can knit a sweater by the fireside, Sunday mornings go for a ride.

Doing the garden, digging the weeds, I can hardly wait

Will you still need me and will you still feed me,

When I'm sixty-eight

Every summer we can rent a cottage on Lake Sunapee, if it's not too dear.

We shall scrimp and worry, 

grand-pets around our feet,

Cooper, Jack and Murray.

Send me a postcard, drop me a line, stating point of view.

Indicate precisely what you mean to say, yours sincerely wasting away.

Give me your answer, fill in a form,

I need to know my fate,

Will you still need me and will you still feed me,

When I'm sixty-eight.