Too Far Gone

He carried sadness with him like an anchor.

Along with an acute awareness that he would 

never do anything about it.

He was too far gone. 

There was not enough time and not enough energy

left to make amends.

Life judged and life punished.

He never understood the rules, felt they were arbitrary

and harsh.

Always off balance in his mind, in a crowd,

there was never any peace.

When you throw away a life, when you trash this precious gift,

you have to pay the price, you don't deserve to live.

He hated himself and loathed all others.

The unavoidable by-product was a bonfire of rage.

Anger that seethed below the surface, skewing all perspectives,

robbing him of any chance at redemption.

Courageous from a distance, cowardly up close.

Solutions existed in his mind, but were never acted upon, 

creating frustration that crushed as relentlessly as sadness.

Recognizing no options, no magic bullets, his mind

became empty.

Devoid of hope, devoid of will.

With no one there to save him, he laid down and he died.

When you throw away a life, when you trash this precious gift,

you have to pay the price, you don't deserve to live.

P.J.

 "The C student starts a restaurant. The A student writes restaurant reviews."

The Verdict Is In

Torn meniscus, baby.

Got the news yesterday.

The MRI on my right knee revealed a torn meniscus. It also revealed a piece of the meniscus that has broken off and is floating around my knee.

I thought a meniscus was some sort of tendon. It is not; the meniscus is cartilage.

Surgery looms. They slice a couple of openings around the knee, shove a camera in there to see exactly what is going on, remove the floating cartilage, repair the damaged cartilage.

Apparently I will be on crutches for a short while, so it is best to wait until spring for the surgery.

I have been unable to exercise since mid-January because of the pain and discomfort. If you remember, I said in December that the two biggest failures I carried into 2022 were not finding a therapist and not losing weight. Imagine my despair at not being able to exercise. I have been in a black mood for a while now.

If I have surgery in April I will have gone 2 and 1/2 months without exercising.

Not exercising while dealing with hormone therapy is a disastrous combination. I am so fat now that if I had a medical emergency at home, they would have to cut a hole in the roof and lift me out with a crane.

I am uncomfortably fat. It is a disgusting feeling.  I     fucking     hate     it.

I have to do something between now and the surgery. Take action. Dietary action. Like Christian Bales preparing for his role in "The Machinist". He lost 56 pounds in four months by living on a diet of black coffee, one apple, and one tin of tuna a day. Less than 200 calories a day.

According to health experts "an extreme diet like this will play havoc with your metabolism and cause a lot of stress on the body."

Well trust me, becoming a fat fuck causes a lot of stress on the body - and the mind - too. The irony of the whole thing is that being fat puts more stress on my knees and causes more pain. A vicious circle. No exercise, more fat, more damage to the knee. Jesus fucking Christ.

I am psycho enough that I could do the Bales diet. Except for the threat to my health. Bales has said he would never do something like that again because it is so damaging to the body.

But I am going to have to do something. Another month of weight gain and I will become completely immobile. 

I love peas. I could eat a small can of peas for lunch and another for supper. Small bowl of grapenuts for breakfast. I am just riffing here but whatever I do will have to be drastic and healthy. I'll figure something out.

There has always been a direct connection for me between exercise and state of mind. When I start the day with exercise, I feel good about myself and I am more productive and in a better mood. When I don't exercise I get depressed. The whole day feels like a loss.

I have been feeling dark for 90% of 2022. Not exactly what I had in mind as I barreled into the new year.

I have been hanging on by a thread in my head. This non-exercise/fat guy thing affects everything; I feel empty, unhealthy, unhappy, unmotivated, undisciplined, embarrassed. I just don't give a fuck.

I require magic in March.

I have talked about grit in here. If ever there was a time for grit it is now.

I thought I had 2022 sussed. Thought I was perched on the precipice of success.

Now this.

What's a guy gotta do to catch a break?

P.S. - I haven't found a therapist yet either. Fuck me.

P.J.

 "There is only one basic human right, the right to do as you damn well please. And with it comes the only basic human duty, the duty to take the consequences."

P.J. O'Rourke

The Meditation Shtick

You gotta be careful about the whole meditation shtick.

I bopped around the Insight Timer website looking for meditations on confidence. Found one I like. Kind of. I am going to test it out for a while, see if I start exuding confidence like a used car salesman trying to steamroll you into buying a fucking deathtrap.

The meditation is a cross between hypnosis and meditation. I don't think hypnosis will work on me because my mind is already numb from the horror of the life I live.

But you never know.

It's a 20 minute deal, the guy talks in a soothing voice. The goal is to get you into a trancelike state so that the words and statements he repeats can eventually become a part of your psyche.

I accept the premise because I believe the mind has unlimited potential, especially when it has not been challenged in decades.

Some of the things this guy says taste pretty good - "you can do anything you set your mind to; you deserve to be happy; positive thoughts are like rocket fuel (I'm paraphrasing); you already have everything you need inside of you." Especially the last one - I know that to be true. 

If I could directly access my essence I would rule the world. But getting to my essence is problematic; it is buried under layers of sludge.

He also says "you are perfect; the universe is perfect; life supports you in every possible way; you are one with the universe and the universe is everything."

This is why brainless conservatives hate liberals - we give them so much ammunition. These words make me cringe.

I am not perfect - this is why I seek the comfort of meditation. Life does not support you - it fucks you every time you take your eye off the ball. I won't even get into the "one with the universe" bullshit.

What I need from meditation is inspiration, words I can work with, concepts that change the way I think. 

What I don't need is platitudes. Especially of the milquetoast variety.

As I write these words it occurs to me that this meditation will not take root in my brain. There is too much mamby pamby stuff for me to deal with; it will overwhelm the helpful words. I'll get into a trancelike state and feel peace, then all of a sudden "one with the universe" will pop up and shatter my calm.

But that is the beauty of meditation - there are 650 million reflections to choose from.

I'll keep trying.

P.J.

 "There are a number of mechanical devices which increase sexual arousal, particularly in women. Chief among these is the Mercedes-Benz 380SL convertible."

P.J. O' Rourke

A Piece of Meat

When you engage with the medical community here in the United States you get swallowed up in a cold world of indifference.

I had an MRI this morning on my right knee.

I have been having problems this year that I avoided talking about so far lest you respond: "Jesus Christ, Joe - you said you would not whine anymore."

In that spirit I will only divulge certain facts - all will be revealed when I know exactly what the fuck I am dealing with.

Mid-January the knee became problematic - I could not ride the exercise bike, going up and down stairs (especially down) was a major issue - pain-wise and mobility-wise.

I saw the orthopaedic dude a couple of weeks ago - he did what he always does - (I have had pain in that knee for many years). X-rays, cortisone shot.

I told him things are different this time - my knee feels like it is swollen even though it is not - but it is preventing me from doing everyday fucking things. "I'll give you the shot - if it doesn't help I'll schedule an MRI."

So, here I am.

There are certain things you do for health reasons that the medical community deems patient-uncomfortable, so they take a General Patton approach, assuming that if they bark commands at you it will overcome your trepidations.

MRI's are a prime example.

Had to take off my belt, empty my pockets, take off my shoes, take off my glasses, take off my knee wrap, take off my sweatshirt. She barked all these commands at me like I was a fucking piece of meat. No empathy at all.

The MRI lasted 20 minutes.

Afterwards, as I put myself back together, the two attendants talked with each other like I wasn't even there. Totally fucking ignored me. Even though they were 3 feet away.

I had to do errands when I left. Of course. You can never leave the house without doing fucking errands. Buying bottled water, boneless pork spareribs, cold cuts, Corona Light.

Driving to the errands, doing the errands, driving home - I noticed I felt like I was in a dreamworld. There but not really there.

The aftershock of a mind that traveled from reality to the bogus medical world and back to reality again.

It is a stange thing to walk out of "reality" into a situation where you are treated like hanging meat in Rocky I, guided to and situated on an MRI table, inserted into a bizarro MRI machine that makes a lot more noise than it should, left alone with your mind, putting yourself back together, then walking into Market Basket.

The mind can only take so much.

The earliest I will have a read on what's going on is tomorrow. That's because Dr. Feelgood is only in the office on Wednesdays and Fridays. Lazy, shiftless, fuck.

In a related story: I had bloodwork done in January before my last hormone shot. That's the drill. I was waiting outside the lab for the 374 people ahead of me to get their blood sucked when I heard click.......click......click. I knew what it was, but knowing made it no less foreboding.

Eventually a guy came into view and beyond, leaning on his walker. Every time he moved it forward and it hit the ground, it clicked. He was traveling about .000007 miles per hour.

Every time I go to the hospital I get these warning signs signalling what is ahead in my life-deterioration.

I fucking hate it.

P.J.

 "Always read something that will make you look good if you die in the middle of it."

P.J. O'Rourke

Mushy But Cunning

Here's the thing about Buddhism.

I believe in the words. But to get to where the words can take you requires enormous discipline.

Because we are weak. We are distracted. We are buried to our necks in the muck that is life in the 21st century.

Especially in this country, the things we aspire to are superficial. 

The greatest goal you can achieve is to be yourself always. To not be affected by the opinions of others, the approval or disapproval of others, the influence of others.

Stay calm, be you naturally. Much harder than it sounds.

I want to adopt Buddhist discipline. I believe it would allow me to get where I want to go, to be who I am. To get comfortable in my own skin and let everything else flow around me.

"To enjoy good health, to bring true happiness to one's family, to bring peace to all, one first must discipline and control one's own mind. If a man can control his mind he can find the way to Enlightenment, and all wisdom and virtue will naturally come to him." Gautama Buddha.

My mind is oatmeal mush. When I shake my head, I feel it sloshing around in there. I have not been able to develop the discipline to control my mind. So I bounce from one thing to another like a pinball. And I lose.

I have tried and I continue to try. I have made progress, but the progress I have made only highlights how much further I have to go. Tick, tick, tick..............

Discipline includes not listening to the ticking of the clock - every positive change is an achievement unto itself. Immediately to be recognized and built upon. But incremental change is tough to swallow at the age of 68.

See what I did there? I admit that positive change is good, and then I shoot it down with Joe's Theory of Incremental Change (Relative to Age.)

Here's what sparked all this. I watched a documentary on Garry Shandling over the last few nights. Universally recognized as a comedian's comedian. A very funny guy. An exceptionally funny guy and a groundbreaker in comedy on TV.

He was into Buddhism. For his entire adult life. He kept diaries - lots of them - many quotes from his diaries were featured in the documentary. He worked at it, he tried and tried and tried - he made great progress - he was never really happy.

Therein lies the conundrum. You work on yourself, you make progress, but there's always progress to be made. Buddhism should bring you peace, but getting there brings you angst.

Of course, the fact that adopting the disciplines of Buddhism causes stress, suggests a flaw in the mind that is contrary to what Buddhism is all about.

I have spent a lot of time recently memorizing things. Reading challenging philosophies. Meditating.

These are exercises that are good for the brain and that have made me sharper. But the mind, the mind man - it is mystical and magical. It really does have its own agenda. If you pay attention to the thoughts running through your mind it feels like a lifeforce separate from your body.

Trying to take control of it is like breaking a bucking bronc. I jump on with a new approach and holy shit - I am making progress - I feel good about myself. Next instant I am lying flat on my back on the ground.

Thinking meaningless thoughts.

My mind is particularly recalcitrant. Its got all kinds of tricks and negativities and darkness and contempt built into it to be used as weapons to defeat my best of intentions.

"Whatever the hateful do to the hateful, or an enemy to an enemy, worse is the harm of a misguided mind directed at oneself." Gautama Buddha

I'm trying, man - I'm trying.

P.J.

 "The Democrats are the party that says the government will make you smarter, taller, richer, and remove the crabgrass on your lawn. The Republicans are the party that says government doesn't work and then they get elected and prove it."

P.J. O'Rourke

Billions and Billions of Dollars (Still Not Enough)

Fucking billionaires, man - I'm a big fan.

Or, more specifically - a big fan of shows about billionaires. My secret vice.

Billions has been around for 6 seasons. I was aware of it and interested, but never got around to checking it out.

Until I flew to Nashville last October. I didn't want to be like Puddy during the flight, so I dialed up a random episode of Billions to occupy me. Loved it.

Since then I have devoted 64 hours of my life to this show. Five seasons of 12 episodes per, at an hour a whack, plus 4 more episodes from season 6. 

Alarming? I used to think so, but I have changed my position on that. I enjoy the show. It provides escape for me from the crushing burdens of Joe-ness. It is intelligent. It is witty.

It makes me happy.

I also watch Succession. 3 seasons, 29 episodes in total. I just watched episode 4 of season 3, so I have devoted 24 hours of my life to this show.

Love it. It has more of a satirical bent to it, but it is also intelligent and witty. I enjoy it. It allows me to escape what passes for "reality".

Here's where my sickness comes in. I sit here and think "why can't my life be like this?" Understand, I don't need to commute by helicopter or buy myself $2,500 bottles of whiskey. What I fantasize about is the freedom.

Imagine a life with no financial pressures. This is the ultimate goal of every living creature. No fucking worries.

Do you think I am ecstatic to own a 2020 Hyundai Elantra? I am happy, yes - I drive a reliable car with all of today's typical bells and whistles. But I really want to drive a brand new Lincoln. I was born to drive a brand new Lincoln.

I lied. Actually I would like to commute by helicopter. 

When Phil and I traveled to Nashville he had special arrangements for the flight down. We boarded with the first group. Had first access to the overhead bins. Sat in a section with only two seats across as opposed to three in the rest of the plane. We each got a free drink. We were the first to leave the plane.

The return trip sucked. No special arrangements. We were in the last group to board. Had to fight for convenient overhead bin space. Three seats wide, which sucks - too goddamn tight. No free booze. Last to leave the plane.

I haven't flown in many decades. I got a little special treatment on one flight and suddenly I am a fucking diva.

Yeah, man - I want a 30 room mansion. Infinity pool. Limos and drivers. Helicopters. Embarassing quantities of top shelf booze at any price. Servants. Private planes. Easy access to exclusive restaurants, with no reservations. Front row seats everywhere to everything.

I want to see a look of awe in the eyes of commoners who come across me in public.

I do want all this.

I better get my ass in gear.

Two From P.J.

 "Anyway, no drug, not even alcohol, causes the fundamental ills of society. If we're looking for the source of our troubles, we shouldn't test people for drugs, we should test them for stupidity, ignorance, greed and love of power."

"Giving money and power to government is like giving whiskey and car keys to teenage boys."

P.J. O'Rourke

Get Used To It

"Everything everywhere is always moving forever. Get used to it."

Logan Roy explaining to his daughter on Succession, telling her that there is no such thing as a line in the sand.

Here's how that hit me.

Life keeps on moving. It's a fucking steamroller. 

I can roll out of bed inspired and spend my entire day pursuing positive things that make my life better.

I can roll out of bed and walk through my day like a fucking robot being obedient and doing things that bore the fucking shit out of me but satisfy my obligations.

It doesn't fucking matter.

Life keeps on moving. It will carry me to the grave whether I make myself happy, or whether I do as society commands, impervious to the impact that has on my psyche.

The key is to break free from the crushing burden of responsibility.

Impossible 99.9% of the time.

The question becomes: Where do I focus my energy? Or do I bother at all?

Floating through life on a cloud of blissful ignorance might be the way to go. No effort. The majority of humans on this planet do that.

Fortified by empty cliches: "It could be worse. I don't have it so bad. One day at a time. Thoughts and prayers." Rationalizations that make a tiny, boring life more palatable (supposedly).

Self actualization is a road made treacherous by land mines. Give it a shot, but beware of setbacks, wrong turns, disappointments and self-delusion.

Everything everywhere is always moving forever. You gotta adapt as you go. Or get rich enough in advance that you can weather any change.

Age compromises adaptability.

You better bank some bucks early on or you will fucking drown in toothless rationalizations.

P.J. O'Rourke

P.J. O'Rourke died on Tuesday.

He was 74. He died from lung cancer.

We were watching World News Tonight with David Muir. I hate that fucking program. I try to avoid it. And I hate David Muir, with his oversized hands and his nasal problem. And his over-the-top dramatics.

They serve up tiny bits of news, and follow each bit with torturously long commercial breaks. And they tease. They fucking tease, which I hate. That night Muir said "Next, we remember a writer and humorist" - then cut to commercial.

When they came back, P.J. O'Rourke's face flashed on the screen and I blurted out "Oh no!!" No conscious thought, just an immediate gut reaction over which I had no control. I was surprised at the intensity of it.

He was a writer. A political satirist. Ultra conservative. Intelligent. He had a wicked sense of humor. He sometimes appeared on Bill Maher's show.

I met him when I was assistant manager of the Peterborough liquor store. He lived close by, he used to stop in. He always bought two handles of Chivas. Don't judge - he only came in once in a while, it's not like he was guzzling the stuff.

The first time he walked in I was blown away. Nobody even knew who he was. He came to my register and I said "You're P.J. O'Rourke", for which he had an amusing response. We talked a bit. Humor and wit oozed out of him.

In 1978 he wrote an article titled "How to Drive Fast on Drugs While Getting Your Wing-Wang Squeezed and Not Spill Your Drink." Read it and you will get a feel for his sense of humor from one angle. But that is just one taste - he wrote 16 books - check them out. You won't be disappointed.

After that first visit, every time he came in we talked a bit. I once asked him how he felt about appearing on Bill Maher's show, assuming he would say it was rough because he and Bill have radically different opinions. Instead he told me he enjoyed it for the intelligent discussions/debates they had.

I have read a few of his books. After his first appearance in the store I kept one of them - The Baby Boom - in the store, waiting for the courage to ask for his autograph. A few visits later I asked and he effortlessly agreed. He asked how I wanted him to sign it - I said "Stop underachieving", which he got a kick out of. The autograph reads: "To Joe, Stop underachieving! P.J. O'Rourke, Peterborough NH 6/8/14."

The book is sitting to the left of my laptop right now. I took it off the bookshelf to touch it, to relive it.

Maybe he appreciated my low key approach - I never told anyone who he was, and he kept walking around anonymously. At times I wanted to scream "Do you fucking people know who this is?" I also talked to him respectfully, not like a brainless, gushing fan. We had short conversations.

I am telling you all this as a way of trying to understand my emotional reaction to his death. I am still shaky today.

I did not know P.J. O'Rourke. I just talked to him. Of course he was a writer, so that gave him free access to my soul. Which, in a way, he took advantage of - in a good way. He never made me feel like I was a pain in the ass - we actually had conversations, sometimes laughing together.

It was magic for me.

I guess that's where my sorrow comes from. He was in my life, just a little bit. He was a person I could respect and enjoy, and a person I envied for making a living doing what I should be doing.

Very smart, wickedly funny, famous and successful - but down to earth. A combination you rarely experience in another human being. It was a privilege to talk to him. He made my day every time I saw him.

Thanks, man - you made my life better. A rare and precious gift.

Requiescat in pace,

P.J. O'Rourke

The Wall

I am an emotional man.

I live in my emotions, emotion consumes me.

Emotion rolls off of me like sweat and leaves a trail wherever I go.

I like it that way. It is who I am to the core.

What I don't like is the wall I have to put up whenever I encounter other humans. The wall that creates the illusion that I am tough, I am in control, I am not subject to the whims and the power of my emotions.

It is like committing suicide. Every single day.

I have perfected the wall over almost 7 decades. It is made of titanium. Thin. It glides into place soundlessly. It is a miracle of modern construction. It protects me almost as well as my books and my poetry.

But it is uncomfortable. Not physically - psychologically.

It is a barrier between who I really am, and the human others perceive me to be.

I don't like to leave the house. One of the reasons I crave retirement is the freedom it will allow me to avoid other human beings. (Of course the biggest reason is my all consuming quest for dignity.)

The less I need the titanium, the more I can be myself and the longer I will live. That is a compelling argument for retirement. 

Extending my life is a pretty high priority. I want to stretch out what is left like silly putty, and piss off all those who loudly cheer on my imminent demise.

My goal is to achieve freedom in my life so I can embrace my emotions openly, instead of turning them on and off. I want to live in my emotions, live with my emotions. My assumption is that if given free reign, my emotions will fuel me like nuclear power. I will glow. 

Once the spigot is permanently turned on - no longer choked off for hours at a time -  the relationship between me and my emotions will become pure, tempered with white hot flame. I will become one with myself.

Heady stuff.

I am feeling deeply emotional today. I will roll with it.

I don't go back to work until 2:30 tomorrow.

I can wring a lot of usefulness out of an emotional run of that magnitude.

Wasted Days - Part 1

I tuned in to Outlaw Country on Sirius on the way to work yesterday.

I don't do this often. I love the music but hate the DJ's. These fucking people feel compelled to go way over the top with their country twang and slang and bullshit  - feels phony to me and makes them sound like fools.

Anyway....................I lucked out. Caught Steve Earle interviewing John Mellencamp.

You might not know Steve Earle, but you should. He carries some weight in the music biz. One of those guys who has made a lot of music but never achieved super stardom. But he is a songwriter's songwriter.

If you don't know who John Mellencamp is, you are an idiot.

Mellencamp just released an album called Strictly a One-Eyed Jack. Got a taste of it yesterday - Earle played a song called Wasted Days, that Mellencamp sings with Bruce Springsteen.

Humbling and delicious.

The music John Mellencamp makes these days is gourmet stuff. Raw emotion and troubling truths. He put out an album in 2010 called No Better Than This. I had it on CD and wore that sucker out driving to and from work at the liquor store. The music and lyrics cut into my heart like an obsidian knife blade, took root and became a part of my psyche.

He has come a long, long way from Jack & Diane.

That is called growth. Growth as a human being, growth as a songwriter.

That is what makes music spectacular.

Wasted Days - Part 2

 Dig these lyrics (it's ok to cry):

"How many summers still remain, how many days are lost in vain, who's counting out these last remaining years, how many minutes do we have here......................

How much sorrow is there left to climb, how many promises are worth the time, and who on earth is worth our time, is there a heart here that I can call mine.......................

How can a man watch his life go down the drain, how many moments has he lost today, and who among us could ever see clear, the end is coming, it's almost here"

The chorus goes: "Wasted days, wasted days, we watch our lives just fade away too, more wasted days".

Heavy, heavy lyrics. Truth is what makes them so heavy.

This is John Mellencamp singing with Bruce Springsteen. Mellencamp is 70 years old. Springsteen is 72.

These men have spent a lifetime making music. Their music is made deeper by the lessons they have learned. Wisdom. It comes with age. And if you can express that wisdom and the emotion that comes with it in a song or a poem or a story - then you will connect with other humans because we are all on the same ride.

If two other people sang this song it would not be the same. It would pack less of a punch. Because Mellencamp has followed his own path and so has Springsteen. They each bring those specific experiences and perspectives to the song. But it is obvious that they connect as human beings, and they bring that to the song as well.

It bumps up the impact exponentially.

I will listen to this song a lot. It is in my wheelhouse right now because I am trying so hard not to waste any days, waste any moments (I fail every day).

I am trying to keep my fucking eyes open and my mind alert. I am trying to make something of myself, trying to make something out of my life.

Troubadours and poets, man. We fucking need them.

Change Jar

We have a change jar on the counter in the kitchen.

A Crown Royal change jar. How bizarre is that.

It is literally a glass jar built just like a cookie jar - but with the Crown Royal logo on the side.

I don't know where it came from. I don't know for what purpose it was made. But there it sits.

There is evidence of Crown Royal all over the house. My favorite is the Crown Royal pillow my brother-in-law Sarge gave me. It is a purple pillow with a slot in the middle that fits a 750 ml bottle of Crown.

I used to keep it on a table in the living room, with a bottle of Crown nestled comfortably in it. It was spectacular. I don't have it displayed anymore. I am much more sedate these days.

We have a change jar on the counter in the kitchen.

I never thought I'd have a change jar in my life.

I Just Want Me Some Peace

From Octopus's Garden:

"We would be warm, below the storm, in our little hideaway beneath the waves, resting our head, on the seabed, in an octopus's garden near a cave....................

oh what joy, for every girl and boy, knowing they're happy and their safe....................

we would be so happy you and me, no one there to tell us what to do"

Gotta find me an octopus's garden.

Prejudice Towards Lennon (Away From McCartney)

I listen to Ya Ya by John Lennon and I love it.

I listen to Wonderful Christmastime by Paul McCartney and I get nauseous.

Objective opinion? Or not?

I make no apology.

44

Saturday, February 12, 2022, is our 44th wedding anniversary.

Let's review. 

Carol has had a mastectomy; Carol had a tumor removed from her brain. Carol had facial surgery that was worse than medieval torture.

I had melanoma. I have prostate cancer.

We filed for bankruptcy in 1998. Almost lost our home.

These are the things that never enter your head when you are young and getting married. Why would they?

February 12, 1978. We were 24 years old. We are now 68. Blink of an eye, baby - blink of an eye.

May 3, 1980. Keith. October 23, 1983. Craig. The gift that keeps on giving. Supreme happiness that has nourished our souls for the majority of our married life together. And will continue to do so "for the rest of our lives."

I hate that term now because the time span it implies is short.

I am not here to be negative, but to supply perspective.

What has happened to our life over 44 years is what happens if you are lucky. And if you love each other.

Top of the charts, hands down, are Keith and Craig. These two human beings exploded into our life and ignited in our hearts unconditional love - the purest form of love. Unconditional kind of implies that you can forgive anything. The bonus with Keith & Craig is that there has never been anything to forgive.

Our love for them burns like a forest fire to this very day.

I am fascinated by the twists and turns our love - mine for Carol, Carol's for me - has successfully negotiated.

We have had hard times, good times blah blah blah. That happens to every relationship. What fascinates me now is where our love ended up. It's a different animal than it has ever been. I am blown away by it every day.

This is largely because I am slowly but surely becoming an adult. In 20 more years I might be described as mature.

I know what I have in Carol. I appreciate what an amazing person she is. So open, so strong, so naturally herself.

She can be a pain in the ass too, but I am not lying when I say that she makes me smile every day now, often when she is not even aware of me appreciating her.

We laugh together now more than we ever have. That is a magical, mystical gift.

I long to be a billionaire, but I have strong suspicians that I will never get there. But the life I have is pretty solid.

I have Carol, she has me. We have Keith and Craig.

Saturday night we are going out to dinner. Carabba's, our favorite Italian restaurant. It will be a quiet celebration. We will enjoy the food, the atmosphere, the significance of the day. We will enjoy each other's company. We will talk. Even after 44 years we still have things to say to each other. Maybe because we have been together for 44 years.

We did not realize on February 12, 1978 that we were not in control of our own destiny. At some point life stepped in and put its thumb on the scale. That's just the way it works.

We know it now. And what we do realize is that we survived it all. We have 44 years of memories that form our life narrative. We fought hard, we did what we had to do. And we can hold our heads up high.

Most importantly, we love each other. That is it, that is the point of life. To give love, to get love. 

Everything else is bullshit.

Our love for each other is bullet-proof. It is ours. We made it, we shaped it, we gave it the unique characteristics that no other couple can duplicate.

Magic, baby - pure magic.

Do You Know Who You Are?

 "Solitude in the years did not go well with me, even though I had lived over half a century. I had concluded that I was one of those people who would never know with any certainty who they were, that my thoughts about myself would always be a question mark. My only identity would remain the reflection that I saw in the eyes of others."

From A Morning For Flamingos, by James Lee Burke

Greatest Toast Ever

 "Be not inhospitable to strangers, lest they be angels in disguise."

Last Night Was A Disaster (but none of my own blood was shed)

Printer problems. Problems getting into the software that allows tickets to be sold. Password problems.

A fucking nightmare. I did not suffer personally but I suffered for Leslie. I was the passive observer, hoping to rekindle my knowledge of managing a show. Leslie was in charge.

To her credit, she did not panic and showed very little anger. We were there at 6:00 - doors were to open at 7:00. At 6:50 she was still struggling to right the ship.

This is my worst fear of working the box office on the night of the show. Born of experience. I do not know why we can't get it right, why we can't make it simple. Last time around, I got into the habit of arriving 30 minutes to an hour before I was scheduled to be there so I could trouble shoot every possible problem. I never put the additional time on my time sheet - I was there so I could have peace of mind when I opened the box office to the public.

And still.............

So I got a bit of a bad taste in my mouth last night. Like, oh shit - nothing has changed.

Use this laptop, don't use that one. Use that laptop, don't use this one. Use this password, the password has changed. Re-start your laptop. Unplug the printer, plug it back in again. Set up auto-print. Figure out why auto print won't work. Try printing 8 times. When you get it right, all the tickets you queued up will print out - eight fucking times (that happened last night).

Anyway, I got to sell a few tickets. Answer some questions. Figure out how some reports work. Talk to a few customers - get my feet wet.

Then it happened - the magic moment I live for.

A crusty old dude (probably around my age) came up to the window and pointed to his son and told me his son plays guitar and he was psyched to see the show. We talked a little, then he proceeded to tell me the guitar players crusty listens to are Eric Clapton, Stevie Ray Vaughn, Jimi Hendrix, Carlos Santana etc. Immediate connection.

Then he said that the guitar player he loves the most is Dicky Betts. BOOM! For the uninitiated, Dicky Betts is one of the founding fathers of The Allman Brothers Band. I lit up. Told him he was talking to the biggest ABB fan in the world. Then we talked about Dickey's guitar playing for a bit. We high-fived and he and his wife and his son walked into the show.

After the show he stopped by the window to say his family enjoyed it. Then he proceeded to tell me that he himself plays guitar. That when he is in the mood, he goes into his special room, turns the lights down, cracks open a beer................and plays. Very cool.

So the night was not a total loss. There was some magic in it.

All I gotta do is fan the flames.

One Million Dollars (and other trivialities)

Part One:

Since I started the new job in January, it has been a Covid disaster.

Up through December they were able to pull off a fair amount of shows. In January, artists began to postpone or outright cancel with sickening regularity.

We in the box office spent all of our time calling people, telling them shows were postponed and offering refunds.

I took a large cut in pay to work at CCA. Happy to do it for the peace of mind it offered me (but still, at some point that will have to be dealt with after we run through the Covid war chest we amassed in 2020 - unless we succeed in selling this albatross of a house).

I did not expect the operation to be shut down again, but I was nervous about where we were headed. I justified the risk in my mind by recognizing that Carol and I have endured a hell of a lot of financial disasters and difficult situations in our life - and we are still standing. Pretty thin logic but I am trying to get happy, so fuck it.

A woman died in January and donated $1 million dollars to the Capitol Center for the Arts. You read it right - one million dollars. A huge relief for the CCA, a huge relief for me. I have no idea what the financial situation at CCA is, but I gotta believe a million dollars provides a solid measure of stability.

It's a great story.

We wanted to find out who this person was - no one recognized the name -  so we went through our record of memberships and ticket sales. Turns out she has been a member for a very long time - at the lowest level possible. Right now $50 is the minimum; back when she started $35 was the minimum. There is no record of her ever buying a ticket to a show. Ever.

How fucking amazing is that? The woman is a savior.

I am breathing a little easier.

Part Two:

I am working my first show tonight. I am nervous.

Every show I was scheduled to work in January was postponed. I haven't worked a show in over two years.

In general, working a show is a positive experience. People are excited, people are happy - they are out for a "night out" - dinner, music, booze - it beats the shit out of working for a living.

I typically have great conversations with many of the attendees - music is the great equalizer.

It's the glitches that I hate. Sometimes the printer won't work - it is not a good thing to be unable to print out tickets. Sometimes the credit card machine gets loopy - it is not a good thing to be unable to take peoples' money.

If I make a mistake it is on me - I can deal with it and learn from it. When the equipment lets me down I get furious. Nothing sucks more than people waiting for their tickets while I am on my kness trying to get the fucking printer to work. It used to happen a lot. I don't know what to expect tonight.

Occasionally I have to deal with an asshole or two.Usually it is people who bought their tickets from a ticket re-seller without knowing it didn't come through us. We have no record of their purchase, no record of their name. And, unfortunately, they have always grossly overpaid.

If there is an issue (lost tickets, forgotten tickets) there is very little I can do. Of course this makes them furious because no matter what I tell them they believe they bought the ticket from us.

Not fun.

But in general, working a show is a positive experience. And I get to hear me some live music.

So I am nervous about tonight, but looking forward to tonight to get that first show under my belt.

The ticket holders are in luck - I am a charming son of a bitch who will make their experience even better.

I am, indeed - a Minor God.

Full Disclosure

I did not work yesterday.

I was do in at 2:30. Working the box office until 6:00, then working my first show since I came back.

My boss texted me late morning and asked if I was coming in. I told him I was going out shortly to deal with the snow/ice and I would let him know. He followed that up with a text saying if I could not make it, it would not be a problem.

I came in after shoveling/scraping and told him I would not make it. He said no problem.

My boss at the Capitol Center is a genuine human being - a man of empathy and sensitivity. He cares about people.

He probably had a horribly long day yesterday. There is only one other person who might have come in to work - if he didn't, it means my boss worked the box office alone from 11:30-6:00, then the show from 6:30-9:00.

When I see him tonight he will not complain about it nor bust my balls for not showing. He lives 10 minutes from the theatre and accepts the fact that new england winter weather sucks. So he does what he has to.

I do not regret the prayer I sent Jesus' way. It was justified. I will hold it in reserve until the next snow storm.

Life is strange, baby.

Have A Nice Day, Jesus

Jesus. Please.

Answer my fucking prayers. RETIREMENT! That's all I want. Not too much to ask for.

I do not want to deal with this fucking new england weather anymore.

It is icy today. Rainy. Snowy. Weird. I have to go out in this shit - I have to go to work. 

I am sixty eight years old. 68!

I should be nestled in my recliner right now without a care in the world. No obligations. No worries. No reason to leave the house.

Instead my blood pressure is 236 over 188, sitting here thinking about the drive in. The drive home. Cleaning off the fucking car. Road conditions. My condition.

I realize a lot of this is on me. I made bad decisions, non-decisions. Had my eyes clenched shut as I grimaced my way through the work-a-day world. Forgot about the hole "putting a little away for a rainy day"scenario.

But you knew that. You let it happen. No warning, no lectures, no heads-up.

Give me a fucking break. I thought we were buddies.

You could have given me some help. Given me a sign. Given me some money.

Everybody I know is retired. Every single fucking person I know is retired. 

Including people who haven't been born yet. That's right. I know people who will be born into retirement. Tough concept to grasp but I have faith in your ability to figure it out. After all, it's your fault.

Every human being on earth is retired. Except for me.

Retired people wave at me, drink in hand, and laugh as I drive by their windows. "Have a nice day, Joe."

I throw rocks through their windows as much as I can, but their are a lot of windows filled with a lot of assholes. I can't keep up.

I don't know what else to say. I need to retire. Immediately. And since I failed to pull it off it's up to you to make it happen.

You owe me, man. I am a sensitive guy. Whatever evil things I have done in my life, whatever mistakes I have made - you know I am a sensitive, loving individual who deserves all things good. You know that. You fucking know that.

I am only human after all. Made in your image. Or your father's image. I forget which one.

I deserve to be rewarded, not punished. I am a sweetheart of a guy.

Listen, do me a favor. If you are leaning towards thumbs down, then just kill me in my driveway as I am scraping fucking ice off of my car today. Massive myocardial infarction. Fatal.

Let's get this over with.

I don't want to deal with ice and snow anymore, I don't want to deal with a job. I am sick and tired. Beat down. Spent.

OK. That's it. That's my prayer for today.

Show some compassion, man. You're always bragging about it, so do it.

Have a nice day, Jesus.

Amen.

"She Used To Be Mine"

There is an amazing song titled She Used To Be Mine. Written by Sara Bareilles, performed with mind blowing intensity by Shoshana Bean.

The song is about a woman who is talking about herself - the real person she used to be and the one that currently exists - warped and detoured by life.

She talks about her real self as if she has been permanently lost - "she is gone but she used to be mine." 

Such an awful feeling but so true for so many of us. The person we were, overwhelmed by life, or the person we thought we'd be who never appeared. This is what disconnection is all about, this is why we feel so lonely no matter who we are surrounded by, who we are loved by.

Hollowed out shells that we fill with alcohol and anger and drugs and despair.

She describes her old self, who turns out to be a human being. Vulnerably imperfect, messing up, fooling herself, lying to others, broken, lonely - all of these things "baked in a beautiful pie."

She describes a better side of her previous self - a fighter who is "reckless just enough", who gets hurt but toughens up, who is ultimately inspired to "fight just a little", with fire in her eyes "that's been gone but it used to be mine."

The lyrics haunt me because she knows who she once was with absolute clarity, but it sounds like she feels she can never get her back.

So painful.

I do the song a grave disservice by dissecting it this way. Check out the lyrics, find the song online and listen to it.

Then smash all the mirrors in your house.

A Lonely Figure

He cut a lonely figure as he made his way through life, unable to trust signals the heart sent to his brain.  

Defenses were built, a thin but durable wall that kept him from realizing what he had.

Defenses against a non-existent enemy, defenses that robbed him of nourishment that could have fattened his soul. Given him life. Made him whole.

The emptiness was so familiar it lurked like background noise. Always there, but not crippling.

He found no anchor in life. Nothing to shatter the superficiality. No driving force to bring meaning.

He suspected it was out there, suspected it was within him, believed it could be corralled and fanned into a roaring flame.

Fire of inspiration. Fire to destroy and purify. Fire of resurrection. 

Still, he had no handle on the solution. A solution just outside his grasp.

Anger consumed him. He knew he was not trying hard enough.

Give Me A Fucking Break

Even Tom Brady has retired.

I have not.

What the ever-loving fuck is going on?

Electric Connection

Emmy Lou jumped into my lap this morning while I was reading.

This has happened less than five times since we brought these precious cats into our life. It used to be a daily occurrence.

It's like the last critical component of an electrical connection - when one of them jumps up, I light up like a Christmas tree.

She took a tour of my lap. Crawled up my shoulder onto the back of the recliner. Back into my lap where she did the nose to nose thing. She likes to get right in my face - will actually touch her nose to mine.

Then she checked out my book. I love it when the cats check out my books. It's a time honored tradition originated by Maka and Lakota.

She rubbed her face against it, sniffed it, rubbed it, left wet spots on the cover.

She approved.

I am currently reading Elton John's autobiography.

With Emmy Lou's approval, I feel comfortable reading on.