I'm All About Solutions

Had a bowl of cornflakes for breakfast and a tumbler of V8 juice.

Pretty much took care of all my problems right there.

When The Meetings Are Over

The NFL Annual League Meeting is going on right now down in Palm Beach, Florida.

It is generally referred to as the owners meeting.

Has to be the most obnoxious collection of pretentious, privileged, rich, white guys sitting in a room anywhere on planet earth.

Every single one of these guys has a big, fat, head. Owning a football team is the ultimate toy for the rich. Fucking trump tried to buy a team many years ago, but was ignored by the league, fucking clown that he is.

Although there is irony in the thought of Jerry Jones thumbing his nose at trump.

These guys are hypocrites. They call the game "product." They pretend to care about protecting players from concussions, pretend to care about players' health. They only care about themselves.

They pretend to care about the game.

They don't love football, they love the prestige of owning a football team. It is merely an investment to them; players and coaches are inventory, pieces that can be used up, discarded and replaced without any thought to fairness or human dignity.

I imagine these rich fucks party their asses off nightly at these meetings. These pampered jack-asses who are surrounded by opulence and treated like royalty. Truth be told, if I was down there (I don't understand why I'm never invited) I would do the same. To the victor go the spoils.

Read a book on football written by Mark Leibovich called Big Game. One of many books on football that dot my bookcases. In it he tells a story of him interviewing Jerry Jones on Jerry's fancy-ass bus. Jerry was consuming large quanities of Johnny Walker Blue and Mark had a hard time keeping up. Of course the Johnny Walker Blue is a pretentious statement in and of itself - a standard 750mL bottle costs $240. And that's at New Hampshire prices, which are generally reasonable. A fucking 50 mL nip costs $20.

I love football, hate the NFL. Management has become corrupt (maybe always was), they are far removed from the reality of the game, they are self-serving, racially prejudiced, cold-hearted, bloated caricatures of what a team owner should be and what a team owner should represent.

I want to love Robert Kraft, but how stupid do you have to be to get caught receiving sexual attention in a massage parlor, getting swept up in an undercover raid? He was 78 at the time. The guy is worth $8.3 billion. He could fly hookers in from Hong Kong, for Christ sake, get his rocks off in the safety and anonymity of his own home, and fly them back to the Orient. No fuss, no muss.

That's what I would do.

I want to believe the original owners, people like George Halas and Tim Mara, absolutely loved the game and wanted to do the right thing. But I'm probably being naive.

Fucking Roger Goodell is nothing more than a corporate puppet, and a stiff, uninteresting guy who gets paid $63.9 million per year.

I imagine when the meetings are over, Palm Beach locals will sanitize every surface touched by these pretentious fucks.

A Whiter Shade of Pale

Got out of work at 11:00 last Friday night.

I don't necessarily like working that late, then again I do. Driving home from work at 11:00 at night feels dark and delicious. 

At one low point in my life I worked second shift on a menial, stupid job. Got out at 12:30. A.M. This is when my hair was still down to my ass. Summer nights, man - summer nights.

It was a short drive home but I'd take the elastic out of my ponytail, roll down my windows and let my hair whip around my head. Radio loud. I was a bit stupider then, so I also always had a beer going or a bit of whiskey.

Felt like freedom. Felt like rebellion.

The current situation is not quite the same - my fucking hair is short and I don't drink on the way home - but the radio is loud, it is late at night and the road is unpopulated. All the drunks are already home or in the drunk tank or still drinkin'. I feel more alive then than I do almost anytime else.

But that's not the point. Procol Harum is the point.

It's after eleven on a Friday night, I'm driving home alone with my thoughts and A Whiter Shade of Pale floats out of my radio.

My emotional reaction was intense. The mood of that song captured - in that moment - everything dark I've been feeling lately.

Everybody's dying.

People who are important to me, people who allowed me to escape the vapidity of my life, people who made me cry, made me feel, breathed life into my soul - people who provided for me a release that kept me alive - these people are dying. It's too finite. Too sad. It is reality in the form of the cruelty of life, slapping me in the face.

All of this was captured in that one song in that one moment.

Gary Brooker was the lead singer of Procol Harum - his is the voice that haunts your soul. He died on February 19 at the age of 76. When I heard of his death I was saddened. When I heard the song, I was shattered.

That song is iconic to anyone from my generation. Assuming you can still feel anything this far down the road.

When regular people die it is sad. Death equals the end of hope. When creative people die it is worse. 

Creative people have lightened the load of the common man, given them beauty to distract them. They leave their beauty behind, but their mortality bothers me.

Creative people should be immortal. In a sense they are, of course. But I'm talking physically immortal. So they can continue to create and soothe the lives of generation after generation. They should be given a pass.

What else do we have?

Every death like Gary Brookers amplifies the fragility of my own mortality. I take it personally. Sixties rock was my true birth, not some fucking hospital on January 1, 1954.

I am not doing much to protect myself lately. Kind of down. But I feel my anger burning. Anger in me is always a good sign, as opposed to depression, which is self-defeating (but hard to defeat).

I am stewing. I am heating up, I am restless, pissed off and aware. I stalk around the house but my brain moves quicker.

I am working backwards to where I was at the end of 2021.

I will be back on track shortly.

My sadness at the death of Gary Brooker is now a dark emotion breathing quietly in my soul. Along with all the others who inspired me, then died.

A Whiter Shade of Pale will crush me every time I hear it from now on.

Club Random

Bill Maher has a podcast.

He calls it Club Random because that is what he calls his bar at home and that is where the podcast is filmed. You can watch it on YouTube.

The only rule - no politics. I love the idea of this. He is talking to his guests as human beings and totally avoiding the topic of politics which, of course, is the main focus of Real Time with Bill Maher on HBO. Plus he is drinking and smoking, so he is very loose.

Episode 1 features William Shatner, which Carol and I watched yesterday.

Shatner is 91 years old, so naturally he brought thoughts of death into the conversation. Like if his appetite is failing him he wonders "Am I dying?" Maher talked about how life forces you to think about mortality as you age. Like the fact that he just mailed off his shit to be analyzed.

Patsy and Emmy Lou have taken up every inch of space in my heart and my soul. I did not think it possible for me to love another cat more than I loved Lakota and Maka but it has happened. I love them more than I thought it was possible for a heart to love.

When I look at them I think they will be the last pets I ever love. 

That is how I look at everything now.

My body is failing me.

I have prostate cancer. I am fat. Knee surgery coming up. And now it's my teeth.

While I was having an errant crown re-glued to a tooth, I mentioned that another tooth was bothering me. Dr. Feelgood checked it out and said "Oh, yeah - that's the tooth we identified two years ago as needing a crown."

I never had it done because old people are not allowed to have dental or vision insurance. Which makes perfect sense - teeth and sight are two areas that the elderly never have to worry about.

But there are always consequences to procrastinating about dental work. His revelation led to a round of x-rays and an appointment on Wednesday to have another crown installed. Total financial commitment - $2,000. 

They can patch me up, fix this, replace that - but the ultimate message here is that I am in decline.

Nothing can change that. It is a sobering thought.

And I am wasting my time with a part time job that devours time. I worked 36 hours this week. 4 days in the box office plus three shows. I'm supposed to work 20 hours/week. Eternal Disclaimer: My fault. I created this situation. No one to blame but me.

Thinking optimistically, if the job continues to eat up all my time, I will be distracted from the harsh reality of my failing health.

An annoying customer will say something stupid to me, I will respond "Fuck You", and then keel over and die.

Unfortunately, this will be sad for Patsy and Emmy Lou. 

When a pet dies, it is heartwrenching. It takes months to recover, along with liberal doses of whiskey. But humans move on and snatch up new pets.

When I die, Emmy Lou and Patsy will have no clue what the hell happened. They don't understand death. Thank god. They will just know that I am not around. These two cats who sleep in my lap every night, will be bewildered. They will be lost.

I wish I could shield them from this but I can't.

Patsy is lying in my lap right now as I write. She keeps looking up at me with the cutest cat face in history.

She is so precious to me.

It breaks my heart.

Quiet Reverie

 My quiet reverie is often disturbed by the shrieking of my soul.

Alone

 Ultimately, I just want to be left alone.

Deserve To Suffer

I give up the things that I love.

Started thinking about it when I read Andre Agassi's autobiography.

I love tennis. Always did. Played tennis a lot when I was in high school and I was pretty damn good at it.

Probably haven't played now for 50 years. Why?

I love to watch tennis. I rarely watch tennis.

I love playing the trumpet. And I was pretty damn good at it. First trumpet, first chair in high school (for what that's worth). Rarely played since.

I have a trumpet. My family gave it to me. I pick it up from time to time and play it and think "Gee whiz, this feels pretty good, feels so right." I don't pick it up again for 10 years.

Know what I don't do a lot of when I am home? Listen to music. Why?

Music is my life's blood. What the fuck am I thinking?

I could list five more "things that I love that I don't do", but I sense that you are getting bored.

I believe I have some deep rooted darkness in my twisted psyche that intentionally keeps me from doing the things that I love to do. As a form of punishment. All because my mother forced me to eat fish.

Subconsciously I believe I deserve to suffer. 

In the world of addiction and mental illness it is recognized that patients believe they deserve to suffer, and that they don't deserve happiness and peace, that they deserve lives of pain and struggle. They develop emotional, thought, and behavioral patterns that revolve around these toxic beliefs. They become self-hating and obsessed with their insecurities, and become self-destructive and self-sabotaging.

Hmmmmmmmmm............

Am I incapable of being happy? There's a word for that - anhedonia: "The inability to feel pleasure, a common symptom of depression and other mental health disorders."

Larry David and Richard Lewis come to mind. Two very close friends of mine.

Since I haven't lined up a therapist yet, I started talking to a hooker.

Turned out to be a brilliant move. Talking to her has led me to discover that I am brilliant. With a killer sense of humor and a deep, deep mind. An intellectual giant and superb physical specimen.

She makes me feel good about myself. At least when I'm with her.

It's early. I have time to clean up and play my trumpet, time to watch tennis, time to listen to music.

But..........................maybe I'll just sit in my recliner, sip whiskey and watch the Sweet 16 leg of March Madness.

Gotta conserve energy.

Gotta work tomorrow.

(Editor's Note: Psychology Today identifies laziness and procrastination as strong indicators of mental incapacity. Or, more generally, as indicators of a slothful approach to life.)

Raggedy-Ass Bastard

I am a raggedy-ass motherfucker.

Had to visit the dentist yesterday because a crown popped off. Had to visit him today because the crown popped off again last night.

Sitting in the chair noticing the stains and wrinkles and cat hair on my pants. Two days, two different pairs of pants.

I just don't give a shit.

I am fat and repulsive so I just don't care what I look like.

I used to care. A lot. I used to luxuriate in fine clothes. Had to have them, had to wear them. Thankfully my brother has carried on the tradition. He dresses well and looks sharp. One fine looking Testa, one frumpy looking Testa.

I got New Hampshire-ized. When I moved here I got lazy because we live in the fucking woods and there is never anything to get dressed for. So laziness dictated fashion choices.

Then I got fat.

I am fat now and take great satisfaction in blaming it on hormone therapy, but truthfully, I have been fat for a long time. I was diagnosed with melanoma in 2016, had to get checked out every six months after that, and now annually. After every checkup I get pissed off and determined to lose weight so as not to embarass myself again. Never happens.

It goes back farther than that. I have probably had a gut more than not for the last 20 years (maybe longer).

Whiskey is not a low calorie drink.

But lately the sloppiness has taken on a broken kind of feel. Even though I don't really care, I am sometimes amazed at how I dress to leave the house. I am supposed to look pretty on nights when I work shows. That used to be a cue to show off. Now I put on any fucking thing I put my hands on, even if it is wrinkled and dirty. Which it usually is. And I just don't fucking care.

I could put on a nice suit, but then I would just be a fat man in a nice suit. I wrote a poem many years ago titled Fat Man In A Tie that was hilarious and truthful. Wish I could find it, you would love it.

One of my secret goals is to get back to a place where I can wear a fine suit and feel proud. Maybe hang out with my brother.

But I gotta lose a couple of hundred pounds first.

Could be a while.

Music Is Mightier Than The Pen

"An eye for an eye or a hand for a hand

Trust in the music and strike up the band

The more that we sing the less that we fight

Time and again this is proved to be right"

From The Ballad of Ronnie Drew, a tribute to Ronnie Drew who was a legendary Irish folk singer.

Laugh, Think, Cry

I quoted Jim Valvano in a sarcastic counterpoint to something a close friend recently said to me.

Which led me to Jim Valvano quotes.

Here's one I love:

"If you laugh, you think, and you cry, that's a full day. That's a heck of a day. You do that seven days a week, you're going to have something special."

He nailed it.

Life is not about getting shit done. Getting shit done is how we distract ourselves from focusing on what we are feeling about life, which is primarily pain and disappointment. Or, even worse, nothing at all.

Perfect Warren Zevon line: "So I'm gonna hurl myself against the wall, 'cause I'd rather feel bad than not feel anything at all." From Ain't That Pretty At All. 

Life is about how you connect with the ones you love and how you connect with yourself. It is all about emotion. It is there that emotions count the most. Because those are the emotions that sustain you; family love and love of self. 

And thinking. You gotta think about your life. About life as a concept. Life will kick you around and knock you down and fuck you up every chance it gets. Life is not your friend.

Thought #1 has got to be about how you can make yourself happy. That trumps every other thought. It is the only thing that matters.

Laugh, think and cry. I cry a hell of a lot more than I laugh, but at least I am feeling something. Intensely.

I don't think enough. That's how I got here. But lately I am experiencing some version of clarity. So......................

If you can boil your life down to laughing, thinking and crying - if those become your priorities - then you are truly living your life. You are feeling it. Not fighting against it.

Jimmy V left behind a lot of "direct to the gut" wisdom.

What a gift, especially considering how bravely he faced down death.

Laugh, think, cry.

Try it.

A Zen Moment For Sure

I raise the cup of hot coffee to my lips, close my eyes, sip, swallow, and sigh - that right there, that insignificant moment - is perfection.

It is peace.

A Philosophy Grounded In Truth

 "We live in an insane asylum. A barbaric, merciless, cesspool. And in this purgatory filled with disease and ugliness and violence and hatred and injustice and greed and lies and pain and frustration and confusion, there are brief, fleeting moments of peace and love and truth and beauty. They are rare. They are years and miles apart. But they are so meaningful that they make life worth living. Those moments give you strength to face the insanity with your balance intact and your eyes focused and you endure and tolerate and survive. And if you're lucky, real lucky, you can tap that strength and hold on to it long enough to, in your own small way, try to make it all a little bit better. Just a little bit more civil and just. To serve. And you don't do it for anybody else because no one is going to thank you or reward you or even notice. Don't kid yourself. You do it for you. For your own soul. Because in this world that's all the salvation you're ever gonna get."

Little Steven, from his liner notes to the Born Again Savage album from 1999.

Passe (without the accent)

I hope I don't become passe before I even have a chance to be.

Spring

Spring is not a date on a calendar.

Spring is a feel.

All the vapid people will be running around today chirping: "Today is the first day of Spring! Today is the first day of Spring!"

You will be shoveling spring after the next two snowstorms.

When the weather becomes consistently warm and there is no threat of snow - then it is Spring.

There are delightful warning signs, though.

Sitting in the recliner this morning, sipping and reading, when a bird perches on the railing outside our screened-in porch and starts singing.

I twist my neck around and I can see the bird sitting there. Singing.

Beautiful. And persistent. She sang for a couple of minutes - maybe longer - before she flew off to deliver the good news to the next lucky human.

A Thought

 It is unusual for me to feel determined on a Monday morning.

And Jim Valvano Said...................

 "Don't give up. Don't ever give up."

A Simple Truth

A close friend recently said this to me:

 "I've been thinking about my life. It's time. Somehow I've gotten to an unrecognizable place, an unrecognizable reality. It's as if I have been blind for my entire adult life. It's as if I have been on a superhighway to the abyss. How fast it goes by.

Can decades actually pass - many decades - where one part of your brain is screaming silently that something is wrong, and another part of your brain recognizes the pain and decides that buying just the right leather jacket is more important? Apparently so.

So I've been looking at this thing and wondering how I allowed it to happen.

Illusion of immortality. This is how we all get by. If I focused on the fact that I could die at any moment, really focused on it, obsessed about it, than maybe I would have been motivated to make my life better. Maybe.

Instead I just assumed I would get up tomorrow morning. And tomorrow morning turned into 18,000 tomorrow mornings.

Day by day, it does not seem that important. Looking back at 18,000 wasted days reveals it to be a heinous crime against the self. Unforgiveable. The mind can't comprehend.

But the mind can fear. Fear is the end result of decades of regret marinating in its own special sauce.

Peace of mind can only be achieved by recognizing the current moment for what it is. Recognizing it and accepting it, instead of railing against it.

So I have been sitting and thinking about my life. Trying to make sense of what it has become, attempting to sum it all up as simply as I can. And this is what I have come up with.

My life is a joke. It always has been and always will be until the day I die. And it's my fault.

That's it, buddy - my life in a nutshell. I can't fight it anymore, I can't deny it. I cannot delude myself that it's anything but. I can't blame anyone else and I cannot revitalize it. Game over."

With that, he took one last swallow of whiskey, shrugged on his winter coat, and stepped out into the cold.

A Dark & Disturbing Thought

The mother of one of my close high school friends died a couple of weeks ago.

She was 99.

Upon learning this, the first thought that popped into my head was "thank god my parents didn't live that long."

Bobby Keys - A Hello From Beyond

Started reading Bobby Key's autobiography this morning.

Bobby Key's was a renowned sax player who played with Lynyrd Skynyrd, Harry Nilsson, Delaney & Bonnie and Friends, George Harrison, John Lennon, Eric Clapton, Joe Cocker and many others.

And, oh yeah, The Rolling Stones. He played with The Stones for decades.

As you know I buy my books used. Every once in a while I get little treasures.

I open up the book this morning and see that it is autographed. "Thanks, Bobby Keys." Are you fucking kidding me?

I read a couple of pages and a ticket slips out of the book. A ticket from a show Bobby played in New York City in 2012. I flip it over and on the back - Bobby Key's autograph.

My morning could not have begun on any higher note.

Coffee

 I prefer my coffee dark and troubled.

In My Cat's Heads

I was reading quietly on Monday morning, enjoying the compromised peace that one feels as the time to leave for work approaches.

I was admiring my cats. I thought I want to be them when I die. Then I thought I would rather be them right now.

I am so tired.

I don't want to fight anymore. I have won all the Oscars, I don't want to act anymore.

I want what is left of my life to be my own. To be peaceful, protected and happy. I want to be my cats.

Before I could will my spirit to inhabit my cats, I caught myself - just in the nick of time.

Imagine my thoughts in their heads? Oh my god, that would be the most evil thing any human has ever done in the entire recorded history of mankind.

Their peace would be shattered. Their happiness would be murdered. Their playfulness would be destroyed.

They would run around the house desperately trying to escape their brains. They would smash their heads against the bathtub. They would wail, never to purr again.

Oh my god, I could never do that to them. Never.

Better that they inherit my soul when I die than my thoughts right now.

A Prescient Comment

 A Ukrainian being interviewed for TV, regarding NATO's refusal to institute a no-fly zone in contrast to the humanity being shown to Ukrainian refugees in other countries:

"Thank god people are human, unlike politicians."

Intriguing Theory

I am reading a book about a guy who terrorized California's Central Valley.

He was a hit man for drug cartels based in Mexico. Drug lords would contact him regarding people who needed to be disciplined, he would track them down and kill them, be very well compensated, then fly home to his wife and kids. 

His name is Jose Martinez. He's currently serving a life sentence with no possibility of parole. He was convicted of 12 murders and confessed to 36.

He also killed people for fun. He killed a guy who parked in his driveway after being warned twice to park on the street. He killed a guy because Martinez wanted to have an affair with his wife. And on and on.

Still......................

Carol and I are re-watching The Sopranos. We wrapped up Seinfeld and turned to darkness.

Now we enjoy a nightly dose of vicious beatings and death, victims trembling in fear and begging, sadistic torture for fun and profit.

Still..........................

I love violence.

I love it because I want to dish it out. 

It seems to me that the threat of violence; lying, deceipt and exploitation is a wonderful way to live a life. Bad guys win, nice guys lose. Bad guys live thrilling lives, nice guys die a torturously slow- moving death. As I am.

When my brain goes dark I think that if I exuded violence, if I didn't give a fuck about anyone or anything, if I was brazen, if I took what I wanted whenever I wanted - I would be much further ahead in life.

For instance I would be fucking retired.

(Quick segue - A woman walked into the box office recently. She recognized me before I recognized her. She said hello and I realized she worked for the City, in a different department than I did. Our paths crossed from time to time. When I asked how she's doing she said "I'M RETIRED!" Every person on planet earth is retired. Except for me.)

I'm not talking about killing people. I'm talking about just not giving a fuck. Not respecting any rules. Not giving a damn about other peoples' feelings. Not doing what is expected of every little man and good citizen. Good citizens work jobs they hate for 50 years and die one day after they retire.

Jose Martinez and Tony Soprano are feeding my dark impulses. This would be a great time for me to go vicious. No one would ever expect it. I'm a nice guy (on the outside).

If I started getting in peoples' faces, if I took big risks, if I quit my job and rolled the dice - people would be shocked.

Then I could take advantage of them. Use them to get what I fucking need. Right fucking now. I don't have any time left to waste.

It's an intriguing theory.

One Day In A Row

I essentially work every other day.

Throw in one or two nights for shows and you have a truly eclectic schedule.

Typically I get one day off in a row.

This is not enough. Not     even     close.

I have been a proponent for 3 day weekends for most of my adult life. Two days is not enough.

You spend 95% of your two day weekend doing fucking chores. Being responsible. Doing the things little people have to do just to survive. Just surviving excludes fun. Erases that concept from your life.

A two day weekend is supposed to re-charge your soul. Make you feel human again. Prepare you for Monday morning battles that will suck the life out of your soul and leave you defenseless against the horrific injustices of the next 4 days.

Two days is not even close to being enough. Every working stiff should enjoy a three day weekend every fucking weekend.

One day "weekends" bring a smile to the face of the Marquis de Sade. The brain remains scrambled and it is impossible to find even 38 seconds of peace. And then..........................

If 3 days off is a cruise ship, one day off is a hypersonic jet.

Don't get me wrong.

I am grateful for..............................

The people I work with are........................

The job is.............................................

BUT

one day off in a row does nothing to quell my murderous rage.

It might even be feeding it.

Hard to tell.

And potentially dangerous.

James Agee

 "And a human being whose life is nurtured in an advantage which has accrued from the disadvantage of other human beings, and who prefers that this should remain as it is, is a human being by definition only, having much more in common with the bedbug, the tapeworm, the cancer, and the scavengers of the deep sea."

From Cotton Tenants: Three Families, by James Agee

The Time Has Come

I have to mount an offensive.

No choice.

Actually, many offensives. On many fronts.

The time has come. Circumstances conspire against me. Problems screaming for solutions.

Obstacles are not insurmountable but are indeed formidable.

Explosive action is required. Take no prisoners. Make no compromises. 

No apologies, no explanations.

It has come down to this. Time to move.

Defeated expectations provide rocket fuel for inspiration. There is plenty of fuel.

These are the times that try a man's soul.

A Death In The Family

Wrapped this baby up yesterday.

It was not what I expected. It was deeper and emotional.

It revolves around the death of Jay Follet. 36 year old father and husband. He is called away to what is expected to be his own father's death bed. Turns out the guy doesn't die, Jay turns around to go home and on the way is killed instantly in a car accident.

I thought the story would be about where his family goes from there. Instead the story focused on the day of his death, the wake and the funeral.

It exposes the raw emotion of his wife and his kids, the empty feeling of not understanding and not believing that this is happening. Much of the story is told from the point of view of Rufus, his six year old son, who barely understands what is going on and who has so much confusion and so many questions in his head.

You get some perspective from Follet's daughter Catherine, who is even younger than his son.

They watch their mother suffer and don't know what to do.

As the family gathers on the night of the death, the reader is exposed to thoughts these people are thinking but not saying. Hurtful things, petty things, as well as grief and shock.

You see people reacting appropriately and inappropriately. Agee (the author) paints an accurate picture of how hard it is to comfort someone experiencing death, how people don't know what to do or say, but still try. And end up saying things that come across as cold.

Comments are misunderstood and misinterpreted because emotions are overwhelming.

What goes through the mind of Mary, Jay's wife, and Rufus and Catherine is raw - so painful, so shocked, so uncomprehending that it rips you apart.

I am not doing the book any justice here. You gotta read it to feel it.

When you do, you realize how accurate it is in describing grief, in all it's unrealities and inconsistencies.

P.J.

 "Don't send funny greeting cards on birthdays or at Christmas. Save them for funerals, when their cheery effect is needed."

P.J. O'Rourke

Death Surrounds Me

Yesterday, I finished reading A Death In The Family, by James Agee.

Deeply emotional book.

Today I started The Devil's Harvest, by Jessica Garrison. A non-fiction book about a killer who stalked the California farm country for decades, killing many, many people. He focused primarily on migrant workers because he knew the cops were less likely to care about those deaths. Which proved to be true.

I am a man of many books. I am also a man of many bookmarks. My favorite of which features pictures of the Kancamagus Highway. One side is a picture of a winding road surrounded by trees - absolutely fenced in by trees - in the fall. Gorgeous colors. A lonely road. No traffic.

I am talking high quality photos here - high gloss, very clear. The other side is a shot looking across a lake at Mt. Chocorua.

This bookmark is so beautiful that I bought an extra one and thumbtacked it to the wall.

I have no idea where I got this bookmark or when. I only know I have had it for many years.

I was admiring it earlier this week and decided I needed to explore the website of the guy who makes these. His name and info is at the bottom of the bookmark on the Chocorua side.

Chuck Theodore.

I pumped his name into the internet machine and found out.........................he is dead.

This bummed me out. Not 100% sure why.

He died at his home in Lincoln, NH on October 15, 2017. He was 68 years old.

I guess it hit me because I was admiring and have admired the beauty he created for many years. This bookmark is my go-to bookmark. I was picturing a living, breathing artist doing what he loved to do, for a living. I wanted to buy 100 of his bookmarks.

Instead I stumbled upon his obituary.

Lately I am surrounded by death.

I must push it away.

I'm Not Good With Celebrities

Many years ago I went to a Little Feat concert with my friend Bryce.

Little Feat is to Bryce what The Allman Brothers are to me. And they are a helluva band. Love them. Great concert.

They were signing autographs after the show and Bryce had to have one. So we got in line and had about a 20 minute wait to get to the table.

Time enough for me to think about what I wanted to say. I refused to act like every other clueless fan; after all I am knowledgeable about music and I have important observations to make. My comment had to be unique, had to get their attention.

When I got to the table I said "You guys rock!" 

My guess is they have heard that before.

Friday night Carol and I motored on up to Laconia to see Marc Maron. I love the man, have followed him for years, I check out his podcast from time to time, I love the way he thinks. He is truthful, he doesn't throw up any false hope, he is a realist. And fucking funny.

We had great seats - two rows from the stage. The show was awesome.

Afterwards we waited a few minutes for the crowd to clear out. As we approached the lobby there was a crowd gathered right outside. We got closer and realized Marc was hanging with his fans. He was taking pictures with them. Unbelievable.

He broke from a crowd, Carol called out his name, I walked up and put my arm around him and his was around me. Posing for a picture. I really wanted to make an impression on the man.

I said "I love you, man - you are hilarious."

Admittedly, I had no time to compose myself, no time to come up with a memorable comment, but still...................my guess is he has heard that before.

Anyway, I got a cool picture.

Sometimes............

 Sometimes when my cats look directly into my eyes I feel unworthy.

The Cat

 "The cat does not offer services. The cat offers itself. Of course he wants care and shelter. You don't buy love for nothing."

William S. Burroughs

The quote is not exactly inspirational. What blows me away is who said it.

William S. Burroughs was a madmen. A writer. A self-described junkie and unredeemed drug addict.

What the hell is he doing thinking about cats?

He was known for using the cut-up technique of writing, at least in some of his stuff. I never believed it could be done, but apparently it was a real thing.

In cut-up, the writer takes a "finished, fully linear text and cuts it into pieces with a few or single words on each piece. The resulting pieces are then rearranged into a new text."

Bizarre.

He was a unique, strange, creative guy who got away with killing his wife, while being given only a two- year suspended sentence. A true inspiration.

Anyway, in researching this quote I came across a number of quotes from Burroughs about cats.

Who knew?

More to come.

Unfortunately

 "The difference between stupidity and genius is that genius has its limits."

Albert Einstein

Can't Beat It

Like I was saying, Andre Agassi's autobiography was spectacular.

Honest as hell, well written, and offering up truths about his life you may never have guessed.

Like he hated tennis. Fucking hated it.

I got turned on to the book through a conversation I saw/heard on TV a while back. Can't remember if it was a sports talk show, or the Illustrated History of Pornography, but what caught my attention was that the talking heads said not only was the book a great sports autobiography but a great autobiography in general.

They were correct.

Typical childhood prodigy story - his Dad decided before Andre was born that he was going to be a tennis superstar. He built his own ball machine, and at a very early age, had Agassi hitting 2,700 balls a day. The theory was that anybody who is hitting 1 million balls a year will make it as a pro.

Obviously he had no childhood and he grew to hate tennis because of it. But his Dad was a tyrant and would not let him quit. What blew me away is that even as a pro, Agassi hated tennis. Hated it. You would think the success and the money and the fame would ease the pain. Nope. He hated it over the course of his entire career.

He talks about conversations he had throughout his career with close friends and people of trust, when he would tell them he hated tennis. Every time the other person would say "You don't mean that? You don't really hate it, do you?" And he would always respond "I am serious. I hate it."

But in press conferences he would tell reporters what they wanted to hear: "Yes, I love this sport." And it would tear him up because he was forced to lie.

I don't want to harp on the hatred thing. There is so much more to the book.

His internal stuggle as a human being to find himself because his Dad forced him to be a stranger to himself. His relationship with Brooke Shields. His marriage to Steffi Graf. His relationships with various coaches and trainers. His relationships and rivalries with other tennis players. His descriptions - very detailed - of specific matches; some that broke him, some that made him. The inside stuff from the tennis world. Becoming a father.

Spectacular book. Honest book. Fascinating life.

Segue: I read Steven Van Zandt's autobiography many months back. Spectacular. I have barely talked about it because I can't. I cannot do it justice. I love the man, I love his music, I love the history of his life.

I can't do it justice because music means so much to me that I can't reduce it to words. Suffice it to say it is another brutally honest book. He says what he means, what he feels. About musicians, about the music industry, about his career, about his life.

About his relationship with Springsteen.

It's just fucking delicious.

It made me laugh, it brought tears, it taught me stuff, it surprised me, it made me love the man even more.

I listen to his station on Sirius XM - Little Steven's Underground Garage. The funkiest radio station you will ever listen to.

On his show he tells detailed stories between songs. Tremendous stuff. He has this little, understated laugh that cracks me up. He's telling a story, he laughs a bit - you have to wait 30 seconds or so for him to get past the laugh. Love it.

Two spectacular autobiographies. Two spectacular lives.

Can't beat it, baby.

Ten Minutes of Torture

 "This run, even if it brings on heatstroke, will give me peace of mind tonight in that all-important ten minutes before I fall asleep. I now live for that ten minutes. I'm all about that ten minutes. I've been cheered by thousands, booed by thousands, but nothing feels as bad as the booing inside your own head during those ten minutes before you fall asleep."

Andre Agassi

James Agee

 "As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods; they kill us for their sport."

From A Death In The Family, by James Agee

P.J.

 The French are a smallish, monkey-looking bunch and not dressed any better, on average, than the citizens of Baltimore."

P.J. O'Rourke

Sweet Serendipity

I wrapped up Andre Agassi's autobiography.

Spectacular. I will tell you about it eventually.

But I am here today to appreciate serendipity. I love it when a book I'm reading leads me to other books, books I know nothing about.

Agassi mentioned a book titled A Death In The Family, by James Agee. Published posthumously in 1957. Never heard of the book, never heard of the author. It is a big deal. A big deal that I somehow missed along the way.

I researched it, I own it, I'm reading it.

Who the hell would think that Andre Agassi would lead me to James Agee?

As I researched James Agee, it lead me to another of his books, titled Let Us Now Praise Famous Men. Another big deal. It is about the lives of sharecroppers in Alabama in 1936.

I ordered it, it's on the way.

How I miss significant books and authors like this escapes me. But I can't be aware of everything. I mean, shit, man - I do not even know who I am. How the hell can I know who James Agee is?

James Agee was novelist, journalist, poet, screenwriter and film critic who lived from 1909 to 1955. Are you kidding me? Some people, when they are talented with words, can write anything. Amazing.

He was also a heavy drinker and a heavy smoker, which endears him to me even more. I connect with tortured souls.

The introduction to A Death In The Family was written by Steve Earle, a man I admire. In 1974, Earle hitchhiked to Nashville, Tennessee from Texas when he was 19. Agee was born and raised in Knoxville, TN. Earle had never heard of Agee but when he did, many years later, working in Knoxville, he met "local hipsters: a handful of hyper-literate hillbillies who spoke in reading lists, all of which began and ended with James Agee."

His introduction captures the feel of the man, the feel of his life, and the tone of the book beautifully. 

I am 66 pages into the book and I love it already. I loved it immediately.

The blessings of good literature are many. Contentment, education, peace, lower blood pressure and a longer life.

Spectacular.

James Agee

 "He felt that although his father loved their home and loved all of them, he was more lonely than the contentment of this family love could help; that it even increased his loneliness, or made it hard for him not to be lonely." 

From A Death In The Family, by James Agee

James Agee

 "He did not believe, he couldn't remember, one sober breath he had ever drawn, that he had drawn as if in his own right, feeling, I don't care what anybody thinks of me, this is myself, and this is how I do it."

From A Death In The Family, by James Agee

P.J.

 "The proper behavior all through the holiday season is to be drunk. This drunkenness culminates on New Year's Eve, when you get so drunk you kiss the person you're married to."

P.J. O'Rourke 

A Study in Opposites (WCK and putin)

Carol and I made a donation yesterday to World Central Kitchen. You should do the same.

It is a spectacular organization founded by a spectacular man. Chef Jose Andres. Check him out. He is a God.

His organization travels all over the world to feed desperate people in crisis situations. They are feeding people in Ukraine as we speak.

We were furious when putin began his reign of terror in Ukraine, and our anger has intensified daily. We were sitting comfortably yesterday morning, eating omelettes, sausage and toast, watching coverage of Ukraine and feeling guilty. We had to do something.

Ukraine has negotiated temporary cease fires with Russia twice, so innocent civilians could travel to safety. Bus transportation was arranged, but both times putin violated the agreements and attacked civilians so they could not escape.

Can you imagine the horror these people felt after being given hope of survival, then having that hope yanked away from them? Being told to go back to their homes which were under attack?

putin is a fucking sadist. A deranged lunatic who happens to control the fate of 146 million Russians and, for now, the fate of 41 million Ukrainians. 

putin is hitler is trump. Remember that.

The United States delayed getting involved in WWII because we didn't think it was our problem. Until it was. Until it became apparent that there was a madman determined to rule the world.

The same thing is happening here. Nato nations refuse to declare a no-fly zone over Ukraine. They are afraid it will trigger WWIII. Afraid nuclear bombs will come into play. Sounds like hyperbole but it is not.

No one believed a second world war could happen. No one believed a fucking lunatic would exterminate 6 million Jewish people with mass shootings, extermination through labor, and in gas chambers.

Does it even sound real to you?

WWIII can happen. Nuclear war can happen. If Nato does not declare Ukraine a no-fly zone, Ukraine will be destroyed. It is a delicate situation. History teaches us that no level of genocide is unimagineable. I do not envy the people making these decisions.

I  am ripped apart every day watching footage of crying children, sobbing adults, bombed out homes and cities. Thinking about the horror and unpredictability that has been forced into the lives of innocent civilians. It is always innocent civilans who suffer. Never politicians. They get richer, fatter and more corrupt. And more heartless. Including American politicians.

74 million people voted for trump in 2020. Those who did, better educate themselves. trump is a sadist and a deranged lunatic. If he gets back into the White House he will bring putin's mentality with him. Only trump is infinitely less intelligent. He will destroy this country. He will destroy the lives of the people who vote for him. People who believe he is on their side. He is not. He despises you. The only thing he likes about you is his ability to manipulate you.

But that is a future concern. Right now we have to deal with putin.

I sincerely hope he is assassinated.

I sincerely hope a Ukrainian pulls the trigger.

P.J.

 "Politics is the attempt to achieve power and prestige without merit."

P.J. O'Rourke

We Are Simpatico

 The back cover of Andre Agassi's autobiography reads, in part: ".......a wrenching chronicle of his lifelong search for identity and serenity, on and off the court."

I'll have to give him a call. I am taking the same trip.

Old Man Hands

I was reading yesterday morning.

I put the book down, took a sip of coffee, rested my arm on the arm of the recliner, and took in the magnificent quiet.

I do this often.

I made the mistake of looking at the back of my hand. It looks like an old man's hand.

It's wrinkled.

This disturbed me greatly. Now I can't stop looking at it.

It didn't happen overnight. Maybe I never noticed it because I did not want to notice it.

Keith paid me and Carol an amazing compliment recently when I was whining about being old. He said "You and Mom do not present as old." A spectacular thing to say. And truthful.

We are both close to 70 but we look much younger. Maybe 22. And we don't act old either.

But age is a motherfucker. It is relentless. Unless you are dead. 

Sooner or later, age catches up to you. Apparently, sooner is here for me.

I am a bit off balance. I have 600 million miles to go to get to my own personal peace. I do not want to die in torment.

I need time.

Fucking wrinkled hand.

P.J.

 "If you are young and you drink a great deal it will spoil your health, slow your mind, make you fat - in other words, turn you into an adult."

P.J. O'Rourke

Missed Opportunities

Winter. I fucking hate it.

There's no way around it. Have I told you this before?

It alters me. 

Carol has told me many times that I am a different man in winter. More irritable. Short-tempered. Depressed. Moody.

She's right. I am ready to rip somebody's head off right now.

I hate the cold. I hate being cold. Especially in my own home. We keep the thermostat set at 70 degrees.

Thermostats lie.

Our house is wide open, so it is always cold. There might be one corner of one room - maybe two square feet - that is 70 degrees. Everything else is sub-zero.

I get cold easily. Right now I wear three layers to work - a heavy shirt, a sweatshirt and a fleece. It is a cold office. People laugh at me, but it is what I need to survive. I will occasionally strip off a layer, but generally I wear all three layers all day long.

At home, in my recliner, I wear two sweatshirts and cover myself with a blanket.

I hate the cold. New Hampshire is cold from November to March. 5 months. 42% of the year. This make sense to you?

Carol is fine with the cold.

At some point in this marriage, I should have slipped a rufi into her milk, tossed her into the trunk of my car, driven to Arizona, dragged her into our new apartment, and chained her to a desk.

Talk about missed opportunities.

A Brilliant New Routine

I go to bed around 12:30 every night now.

I wake up between 6 and 7. In other words, I don't get up at 3:00 am to piss any more - for now.

This is a fucking miracle.

If I get up at 3 am, I will be awake for the next hour and a half - minimum.

This always makes me angry. Especially since I have to lie there and listen to Carol breathing rhythmically in her sleep. Taunting me in peaceful repose.

I say "for now" because I tried this experiment before. It worked, then it didn't. Old age is an unpredictable motherfucker.

For whatever reason, it feels more natural this time. It's working. Has been for a couple of months.

It is a blessing.

Too much information?

Tough shit.

There Are No Stupid Questions

He woke up nervous.

What the fuck is that all about? How do you wake up nervous?

The rules of life say you wake up refreshed. Make yourself the greatest cup of coffee ever brewed. Read the paper. Eat an omelet.

But this guy, for Christ sake, this guy wakes up nervous. On his day off.

He's nervous about tomorrow. Another work day. He's nervous in advance. What weapons are in his possession that will allow him to defeat the day? To fucking win? To not make stupid mistakes?

Stupid mistakes infuriate him.

By the time he gets a little coffee in him, nervousness has backed off a little. It lurks in the back of his mind. Feels like a piece of meat stuck between his teeth. Makes him uncomfortable but not enough to grab the floss.

Will he have answers for the questions that are asked? Will he be able to deal with the technical glitches that are inevitable in laptops and printers and credit card machines every single fucking day?

And what about this procedure and that procedure and new procedures and altered procedures?

Will there be guidance? Will it be timely? 

Can he punch a brainless customer in the face?

Love Along The Way

There's a commercial on TV that really gets to me.

It's about adoption.

A Mom is looking her son right in the eye and telling him that when he came into her life he changed it forever. She tells him she is so proud to call him "Son."

He gives her an emotional hug.

That's it. That's what it is all about. Every kid needs love. And when they come from a place where there was none to a place where there is - it's like receiving the most holy of sacraments.

Every child needs love to have even the tiniest chance of growing up unbroken.

Of course, most adults who were loved all along the way wind up broken anyway. That's just the nature of the game. No guardrails, no soft landings.

Love equals hope. 

I suspect adopted children appreciate the concept more than most.