But He's Retired So..................

If one more person talks to me about a relative or friend that's retired, I'm going to smash myself in the face with a shovel.

A younger fellow I work with asked me what's up with the crutches. I explained the situation, leaning heavily on my frustration with the fact that I am still in pain after 22 fucking days, and that I feel I am not recovering as quickly as I was led to believe.

He told me his father had the same surgery and had the same experience as me. His father was pissed off as well. I asked how long his Dad was in pain and he told me a month. He said he was on crutches for two weeks and then spent another two weeks resting that sucker up. And then he uttered the words that one of these days will result in my own customized and - no doubt -  fatal myocardial infarction:

"But he's retired, so he pretty much laid around the house for two weeks."

If anybody says or does anything tonight at work that causes me to get up off of my chair when I am resting my knee, I will take a Rafael Devers-like swing with a crutch, decapitate them, and decorate my face with their blood.

Fuck Them

I have decided to hate young people.

It's justified, don't you think? Why do they get to be young while I get to be old?

They are running around having fun, they have this thing called a future; my future is the grave and only the grave.

Every time I leave the house now, Carol hands me a shovel and says "Start digging, motherfucker." She's supposed to be on my side! I don't trust her anymore.

I didn't ask to be old. I was never stuck on being young. I'd settle for 40. If I could have been freeze-dried at the age of 40 I'd be perfectly happy. But I wasn't. I'm 68. And counting.

Worked a show last night. Actually I worked an 11 hour day. Not smart. Major reversal in the knee. Up until last night I had been walking around the house 100% of the time without crutches. Icing it up 3 times a day. Couldn't do that yesterday.

By the time I got home it was killling me. It still hurts today. I'm back on crutches, babying it as much as possible because - I have to work again tonight. 

And I'm fucked up physically because I stayed up past 2 am. You don't think I'm going to get home from work at 11 pm and go right to bed, do you? Might have been some whiskey involved as well.

This is old man stuff. None of the youngsters I saw last night - not many, it was definitely an old person show - none of them were limping or swinging on crutches or had one fucking care in the world. None of them were worried about getting a good night's sleep. I have to hate them. I have no other option.

Not looking forward to tonight's show. It will be a younger crowd, a rowdier crowd, a pain in my fucking ass crowd.

This is ironic coming from a lifelong drinker, but drinking crowds are a royal pain in the ass. There is always some asshole with some kind of complaint or problem, and they all think they are Bill Burr. Compelled to make wise-ass comments as they walk back and forth in front of the box office when they step outside to fire up a cigarette or a joint or to sneak a nip or two.

Fuck them. I'll be ready for them. Gonna take a nap today, ice up the knee at least twice - hopefully 3 times, baby the knee on crutches all day long.

You know, just an old man doing old man stuff.

Did I say Fuck Them?

FAILURE

The strangest thing happens on the days I have to go to work.

I walk out the door, look up at the sky (against my will) and see this word in big, black, block letters: FAILURE.

I always react without thinking "No, there is still time."

My reaction is met with deep, rumbling laughter. Every single time. Who is laughing?

The first time it happened I was stunned to the core. What the fuck is this? I was not looking up, I always walk with head down, for obvious reasons. But the letters were huge and impossible to ignore. They invaded my vision. They were insistent.

I was immediately defensive - "No, there is still time". No thought, no timelag between awareness and response. A wrenching gut reaction.

Followed by deep, rumbling laughter.

I was shaken, almost catatonic, but, of course, I made my way to work. I have to.

I try to ignore it now. It hurts. I know it's coming. 

I can't ignore it. On the days I have to go to work.

FAILURE.

"No, there is still time."

Deep, rumbling, laughter.

Recently I have noticed diminishing conviction in my response.

Bobby Keys

Jesus, man, my reading pace feels like it has accelerated.

I am ripping through books like my life depends on it. So fast I haven't been able to keep up with keeping you informed.

I'm sure this has created a void in your life.

I've been meaning to tell you about Bobby Keys. Sax player extraordinaire. I devoured his autobiography probably a month ago. Or longer.

It was like eating a cheeseburger. It went down so easy. Because that's the kind of guy he was. Straight-shooter, no bullshit, right in your face. Conversational. Nothing fancy about it. Just the truth.

In part, his life story left me nostalgic for Olden Times. Before everything was scrubbed clean. Sanitized, stripped of character and endlessly duplicated.

I kind of caught the tail end of all that. When I was a kid, you could still order a shot and a beer in a bar without being reported surreptitiously to AA. You could find funky bars with live bands playing funky music. You were guaranteed to run into "characters" in all these places, so you never knew how your night was gonna go. But you knew you would not be bored.

Bobby Keys was raised in Slaton, Texas. 

"But Slaton's a small town, and I could hear this music through my window coming from this place a few blocks away called the Black & Tan Cafe. I was maybe ten years old. So I'd sneak out my window and go through the alleys and the back roads and sit outside this place and listen to the music. I had no idea who I was listening to at the time, but I found out later it was folks like Howlin' Wolf and Muddy Waters and some of those other guys who'd do these circuits of small towns throughout the South. Legends now. But back then, I'd just sit out there in the parking lot and listen to the music."

This was 1954. This could never happen today. You would have to get through 8 layers of security and pay $500 to get that close to people like that. Even to just be in the parking lot, for Christ sake. They'd run you out of there like a homeless bum.

"I was ten years old, it was 1954, and one random day - I guess it was a Saturday - I was just lying in bed at my grandparents' house in Slaton when suddenly I heard this music. Of course, I'd heard this type of music on the radio before, but this wasn't on the radio, man, this was somewhere outside my house! So I jumped up and went outside and there he was: Buddy Holly. Buddy and his guys were playing on the back of a cotton trailer with the sides taken off, just a flatbed wagon. He was playing for the grand opening of a gas station just half a block away from where my grandparents lived. Of course, I didn't know who Buddy Holly was at the time. I was just drawn to that sound - it was the first time I'd ever heard anyone play an electric guitar live.'

These experiences shaped and influenced Bobby Keys, got him into the music biz. They could never happen today. The farther down the road we get from the Olden Times, the more we lose. In bigger and faster moving chunks.

There are lots of rock'n roll stories in the book, well worth checking out. The list of bands and people Bobby Keys played with is legendary. Including, and especially, The Rolling Stones.

Bobby Keys was a legend himself.

What a life.

Really, Nobody Fucking Cares

My knee has not been pain-free for even one day since April 8.

Used to be, in The Before Times, B.S (Before Surgery) - my knee would sometimes hurt a lot, sometimes hurt a little, sometimes not hurt at all. That was a wonderful period in my life. Magical.

I am making progress. Last Sunday I was finally able to walk around the house on the knee. Some pain, some discomfort, but I could discard the crutches for short periods. I have pushed it every day since. Some pain, some discomfort. But I am barely using the crutches. In the house.

Can't walk around outside like a normal person, though. Still rely on the crutches.

Got another fucking appointment with Dr. WTF on May 4. I better be completely free of crutches by then. Or he dies.

This will be a dangerous appointment. I have raised a ruckus. After the last appointment, when he gave me a shot of cortisone and promised me the pain would go away in an hour - which it did not, it didn't even subside - I delivered a scathing review of "my recent visit to Concord Hospital."

Got a call from the surgeon a day or two later. And a call from the head nurse.

Doctors hate being questioned or criticized because they have a God complex.

"So I ask you, when someone goes into that chapel and they fall on their knees and they pray to God that their wife doesn't miscarry, or that their daughter doesn't bleed to death, or that their mother doesn't suffer acute neural trauma from postoperative shock, who do you think they're praying to? Now, you go ahead and read your Bible, Dennis, and you go to your church and with any luck you might win the annual raffle. But if you're looking for God, he was in operating room number two on November 17th, and he doesn't like to be second guessed.

You ask me if I have a God complex? Let me tell you something. I AM GOD."

Alec Baldwin as Dr. Jed Hill in Malice.

If Dr. WTF whips out a foot long syringe, I will bash his head in with a baseball bat. 

Every time I feel like I have made a great and meaningful stride forward - I get a surge of pain. A twinge, sometimes more. I am off-balance. There is no rhyhm to the recovery. I'll have a pretty good day; the next day it feels like I have regressed.

And I walk around like the knee is made from Waterford Crystal. I am leery. Like if I get too confident the knee will shatter and, following leg amputation, I will be the only one-legged man in the box office.

That is today's update.

Do with it what you will.

Pain

The darkest hour of the darkest night. 

Bleaker, more painful, day by day, stumbling down a mountain of despair. Always down. Consistency counts. No matter how sad you get, how deeply hurt and lost you are, it will always get worse. 

That's the beauty of suffering. Resolutely building upon it, gradually perfecting it. This is in keeping with the ambitions of life. You must strive to succeed. Or be mocked.

The darkest hour today sets the table for a darker hour tomorrow. And tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.

Pain is a renewable resource. It can't be exhausted. The harder you fight against it, the bigger it gets. Until you are pain and pain is you.

Pain clouds judgement, deflects logic, sabotages decisions. So they say.

Pain provides clarity.

Pain is crystal clear. A compass. A window to the truth. Pain is truth.

To know thyself, know thy pain.

My Celebrity Friend

Jim Morrison recently said this to me in defense of my morbid obesity. 

Talking about when he got a little chunky. He was trying to make me feel better.

"I felt so great. I felt like a tank. I felt like a large mammal. A big beast............I was solid, man. It's terrible to be thin and wispy, because, you know, you could get knocked over by a strong wind or something. Fat is beautiful."

Thanks, Jim

Narrow Parameters

This is the time of year that I come alive.

Alive within the narrow parameters of my own definition. Still, I am a little more frisky, got a bounce to my step, and I am not wearing six fucking layers of clothes.

However this year I am sidelined for a bit. Restrained. Fettered. I can't dance the Ickey Shuffle every morning on my front lawn as I usually do.

I wasn't sure how to handle this. It is a potentially dangerous situation. 

I haven't been able to find a therapist who is willing to get anywhere near me, but I heard about a guy. A guy that I hunted down in the woods surrounding the town I live in. 

White beard down to the middle of his chest, a few holes in his dental makeup, stylish ankle length brown (I think) coat, black combat boots, and a unique aroma that he says is about to be duplicated and marketed by Chanel. For a hefty fee, I might add.

I gave him $1,000 in cash and a bottle of Mad Dog 20/20. And told him: "This is the time of year when I feel most alive. Almost happy. But this year circumstances have conspired to prevent me from enjoying the warm weather. Thwarting my happiness. Which is dangerous because winter is a little over one month away. What should I do?"

He said "You have to establish a Baseline of Despair. Then you will never be disappointed. If something good comes along it will feel like New Year's Eve. But if not, it will be just another day. Every day."

I slapped my forehead with the palm of my hand. "Shit, man - how did I not think of that? I must really be off balance. I already established a Baseline of Despair. 45 years ago, for Christ sake. You are so right. I gotta stick with what works. You are just the jolt I needed to get me back on track."

He asked "You want the money and wine back?" I refused, telling him he deserved it. So he invited me to lunch.

He built a fire and heated up a can of Spam, which he generously shared with me. We drank some MD 20/20. It was the best goddamn lunch I have had in a long while.

In fact it was the best goddamn company I have enjoyed in a long while.

Tranquility (in small doses)

I was lying in bed this morning, my brain rocking and reeling with the dilemma I find myself in.

Wrestling with circumstance, searching for solutions.

I was really distracted, feeling tense, listening to the clock loudly tick away the precious seconds remaining in what's left of my life.

Suddenly I heard the birds chirping. Such a beautiful and soothing sound. They were chirping all along, but the worry in my head drowned them out. Through persistence, they broke through my angst-filled reverie.

It started to rain. Lightly.

We have a metal roof over the screened-in porch just below our bedroom window. The rain makes a calming sound as it bounces off.

Both cats were on the bed. Carol was next to me.

I was temporarily tranquil.

It occurred to me that Life is like Waterboarding.

You live for the moments the rag is removed from your face.

The Darkest Hour of the Darkest Night

 "Every evening after sundown as the light begins to fade,

I feel so low, but I just don't know why these blues won't go away

It's the darkest hour of the darkest night

It's a million miles to the morning light

Can't get no sleep, don't know what to do

I've got those midnight blues

I've got those midnight blues

I've got thos midnight blues

I've got those midnight blues"

From Midnight Blues by Gary Moore

The Ultimate Quote

I am reading It Never Ends: A Memoir with Nice Memories by Tom Scharpling.

I came across THE perfect quote for my life, bar none.

At one point in his career Scharpling was a sports writer covering the NBA. He loved the job. Free tickets to games, free food, great seats, access to the players for interviews.

He was covering a game that was tied after four quarters. Before OT began he visited the men's room, where he ran into an old vet of a sportswriter. The guy disgustingly said to Tom something like "Fucking overtime, do you believe this shit?" The guy was not happy about having to stick around.

As Tom describes it, the old pro said it "like we were workers at a urine tasting factory being summoned back to our posts for an extra shift."

BOOM! That's exactly how I have felt about every job I have ever had.

Some Words

Darkness protects. Don't waste it sleeping. People will hurt you. Punish them. There is no righteousness to life, so live it like a psychopath. Feigning optimism is an offense punishable by death. If you are fool enough to see value in optimism, be optimistic like a child - naively. Doctors are fools, shun their advice. Do with your body what you will - drugs, alcohol, or exercise - it makes no difference. Live the Bible, live Voodoo - you will not alter your fate. Trust no one - not even yourself. Especially not yourself. Approach happiness as a concept, approach suffering as reality. Steal everything that you can get away with, it is the only way you will ever get what you deserve. Fuck responsibility, fuck rules. Sabotage anyone who passes themselves off as your superior - you are no one's subordinate. Ever. Never apologize, never explain.

The NFL Draft

Fresh perspective.

Just watched a chunk of Good Morning Football. Just now. Eating a bowl of cornflakes, sipping on V8 (No vodka). They say the draft is up in the air this year. That there is no definite frontrunner.

This intrigues me because I haven't been paying attention. And because...........

Every year you know exactly who is going in the first slot. You know which team is going to get him. But still, they start the clock.....tick tick tick..........the team pretends to mull it over, stretching out time, creating faux drama and then................surprise surprise they pick exactly who you know they will pick.

It is a fucking joke. Disingenuous and insulting to football fans.

Apparently that is not the case this year. So I will watch the first pick. Maybe more. It is thrilling to watch lives change for the good in a heartbeat.

The drama is in keeping with my favorite dramatic device - deus ex machina.

This is the only hope I have of saving my life. Either going #1 in the NFL draft, or deus ex machina.

Neither of those things are going to happen. I will spend the rest of my life like everyone else, crawling on my hands and knees, chains wrapped around my waist, weights attached to my ankles, until I cross the finish line into retirement, where I will die one day later.

That's OK. I deserve to be punished. So do you.

It's just that the fantasy of either going #1 in the NFL draft, or deus ex machina occurring, is a fun and entertaining delusion. You must have an escape. Even if it is only in your imagination.

I hope we have another pandemic before Thursday. No pomp, no circumstance. Last year Trevor Lawrence was sitting in his living room with his parents when he went #1. He got up and they all hugged.

That's the way it should be. The parents of these guys worked hard to get them there, sacrificed a lot of money, a lot of time and a lot of worry. The celebration should be private (?????) and heartfelt.

However it goes I will watch a chunk on Thursday night. WTF? Why not?

"And with the #1 pick in the 2022 NFL Draft, the Jacksonville Jaguars select.....................Joseph Testa."

FINALLY..................I get to live where the weather suits my clothes.

Fucking Democrats

The committee has the grandiose name "Select Committee to Investigate the January 6th Attack on the United States Capitol".

These people have spent months - feels like 10 fucking years - gathering information that will ultimately incriminate trump and his traitorous cohorts in the insurrectionist activity of January 6, 2021.

In other words, they have spent countless hours collecting millions of pages of words that will tell us what we already know - trump is a traitor and those who support him are cretins.

Jamie Raskin - Representative for the state of Maryland - and a man I have enormous respect (and empathy) for - recently said the committee's revelations will "blow the roof off the House."

This is typical Democrat-speak. This committee thinks they are the Senate Select Committee on Presidential Campaign Activities that investigated the Watergate scandal.

They are not. And it is not 1973.

There were a lot of stupid people in this country in 1973 and still, there was outrage. And Nixon resigned, after being advised to do so by Barry Goldwater, John Rhodes, and Hugh Scott - all republicans. Two senators, one rep.

republicans in 2021 licked trump's balls and continue to do so. Even though it is obvious that the man has the intelligence of a third-grader.

74,222,958 people voted for trump in 2020. These people are certifiably insane. 62,979,879 voted for trump in 2016. This means that 11,243,079 more people voted for trump in 2020 than in 2016 - after watching him try to destroy this country and their lives for four years. There is a special place in hell reserved for this group.

Here's my point. The Select Committee to Investigate the January 6th Attack on the United States Capitol thinks that when they televise and publish their findings there will be a huge outcry, and a measurable backlash against traitorous republicans. They believe this will help Democrats to hold on to power after the mid-term elections this year and ultimately in 2024.

They are 100% wrong. These findings will not change the mind of even one trump supporter or republican voter. The findings might even recruit more people to vote republican; people who are suffering and feel everyone else should suffer too.

republicans will assume control of the House and the Senate after this year's mid-terms, and either trump or some other traitorous cretin will win the presidency in 2024.

And democracy will fall.

Historically, documenting the January 6th, 2021 insurrection is the right thing to do. But Democrats are taking their eye off the ball. As they usually do.

They should be expending every ounce of energy they have towards defeating republicans at every level of government.

Remember - republicans will rape and kill your grandmother and steal her social security check, while Democrats continue to believe in the tooth fairy.

This is what I hate about Democrats, this is how they are handing over democracy without a fight to certifiably insane republicans. Who will then sacrifice democracy on the altar of autocracy. To the cheers of at least 74,222,958 misguided people who are being lied to by the very people they worship.

My advice? Move grandma in with you and keep a close eye on her.

Just The Facts, Ma'am

The knee still hurts. Still on crutches.

Surgery was on 4/8. Follow up with Dr. WTF was on 4/20. One of the first things he said was "Most people are off the crutches by now." To which I responded "Well, it still hurts."

His words set off alarm bells in my head because I feel like something is wrong here.

I asked him if the pain indicates that something is wrong. He said. "No. It happens sometimes." Off the cuff, no concern at all.

We talked, I told him what was going on, he took me to the cinema to see the inside of my knee. Pretty interesting, really. Pictures before, during and after surgery. Some really ragged shit going on in there, which he cut the fuck out.

One of his flunkies took the stitches out of my knee and put that cute surgical tape on the wound.

Afterwards I took out my list to make sure I covered everything (I pinned that motherfucker down).

He said no physical therapy yet, until the pain subsides. Not sure about the wisdom of that. Then he decided to give me a cortisone shot. He said to give it an hour, the pain would go away, and I would be able to walk on it. I believed him because he has done this many times before. He jabbed the needle into my beleagured knee and told me to come back in two weeks. That was it. Wait and fucking see.

He was wrong. The pain did not go away, it did not subside at all. That's when I decided something is really wrong here. Plus my wound opened up; there was blood on my pants.

Coincidentally, I got one of those "How did your appointment go?" texts. I gave it to him with both barrels. Told him I feel he is shooting in the dark, doesn't know why I am still in pain, doesn't seem concerned about it, and that I am going to pursue a second opinion.

He called the next day but I missed it. Message said he was sorry I am still in pain, I should definitely go ahead and get a second opinion blah blah blah.

That was on Thursday.

I decided I would see how things go through Sunday. No progress? Explore second opinion on Monday. Get someone to lay out a specific plan of attack instead of just "waiting two weeks."

I can tell you that as of today there has been no improvement. None.

I feel that Jesus has abandoned me. 

The Job Interview

The NFL Draft, 2022 version, begins on April 28. Ends on April 30.

I tell you that so you can mark your calendar. Nothing else you watch could possibly be as scintillating.

I watch Good Morning Football. In the weeks leading up to the draft, they have top prospects on the show so people can get to know them. At the end of their appearance they conduct a mini-interview. 

"Tell us why you deserve to go in the first round of the NFL draft."

These are football players. The responses are predictable. "I'm the toughest, I'm the fastest, I have the best hands, I have the best work ethic."

No different than any other chump at any other mundane job interview. It is pathetic.

I have had 3 job interviews since I "semi-retired." Since 2016. 

First one was for a non-profit that offers emergency homeless services to those in need, with support coming in all forms - food, housing, counseling. They maintain a thrift clothing store; profits go to the organization. 

In the interview I told them I "always" wanted to work for an organization that helps people versus a heartless corporation. They bought it. They hired me.

Second interview was for the theatre I currently work at. Told them I love music, I love "the arts", I wanted to work for an organization that supports the artistic community. They bought it. They hired me.

There was "some" truth in my words at both interviews.

Third interview was for the City of Concord. Much more corporate style interview. I gave them predictable corporate bullshit. They bought it. They hired me. No truth in that interview at all. I only cared for the money; the job meant nothing to me.

Corporate america is cancer. It is not the efficient machine it pretends to be. It is sloppy, it is lies, it is a waste of money and talent.

The first clue comes at the lowest level - the portal, the first step - the Interview.

An interview should be horrifyingly specific - nail people down, ask precise questions that make people squirm, find out exactly what they know.

Instead, interviews are vague. Vague enough that a talented actor like me can excel. Someone who can feign sincerity convincingly, someone intelligent enough to come across as intelligent.

Ultimately it is a pathetic, humiliating thing for a prospective employee to go through - doing the dance, mouthing the words - the interviewer is playing a part, the interviewee is playing a part - and they both know it.

I don't want to get too preachy here....but I will.

The Job Interview is a symptom of the fatal disease called corporate america. corporate america is a symptom of the fatal disease called america.

Everything is a smoke screen. There is no truth to your life. Except your own truth, which you probably can't even define.

This Fragile Thing

It is called life, but it sure as shit doesn't feel that way.

It feels like dead end jobs, and endless bills.

Distractions.

It feels like not enough oxygen.

Not enough time.

Until there really is not enough time.

Suddenly you realize that your life is happening without you.

Suddenly, more often than not, in the form of disease.

Disease that exposes mortality in a brutal way to your unrealistic mind,

and forces you to confront life in all its raw truth.

Everything gets pretty goddamn clear then.

You see that your life is precious and delicate, and pray

you are not too late to the party.

Fight back, then you begin to live.

Fight to expose your essence to the world, fight to be who you are

and only who you are.

Allow yourself to go after happiness, and not as a luxury.

Taste life in all its fragile glory.

Stand tall against life's brutal onslaught with pride in who you are.

You will be respected.

You will regain dignity.

You will feel alive.

To See Where It Leads

 I think someone is talking to me. I don't know who it is. The vibe fluctuates - from warmth to hostility and back again. There is no consistency to the mood but the intensity is through the roof. Am I safe? I don't know. Should I trust? I don't know. What do they want from me? Or for me? I want to lay down quietly. I want to feel loved. I want to stop. There is nothing left for me to give; nothing more for me to do. If I speak, my words are wasted. So I say nothing. The cold makes me shudder. What is its source? I was warm a short while ago. I am tumbling head over heels but the scenery does not change. There is no bottom. Definitely no bottom. I want to ask where will it end? But that seems futile. There will be no end. I am lost. I must accept that fact. To see where it leads.

Comprehensive

 I am nothing if not comprehensive.

Just picked up Cosa Nostra: A History of The Sicilian Mafia. A book that is hailed in Italy as the best book ever written about the mafia in any language.

Short on its heels I'll be receiving Five Families: The Rise, Decline, and Resurgence of America's Most Powerful Mafia Empires.

I will read them back to back.

Watching The Sopranos every night  is getting under my skin. Suggesting a possible new career path for me.

I gotta do my homework.

Daffodils

Just drove for the first time since knee surgery.

Not much pain. Carol is off the hook. She was probably ready to murder me in my sleep.

Nice Spring day. I sat in the car with the windows down, wearing a denim jacket, while Carol picked up a couple of things. Trying not to overdo the knee. Local store, so everything takes forever. I had a little time.

I was digging on the day. A light, cool breeze blowing through the car. Virtual silence (a side benefit of living in the boonies).

Daffodils struggling heavenward.

Coming up black, though.

I know not what that means.

Mighty Hunters

My cats are Mighty Hunters.

Every time I see one of them prancing down the hall with a dead mouse in their mouth I see it as a metaphor for Life.

Self-Reflection: Part Two

I am weak of character.

You can take every personal entry I have made in this fucking blog over 11 fucking years, everything I said about myself and thought about myself, the things I complained about in my life - you can take every single fucking entry and delete them. And replace them with that one short sentence.

I am weak of character.

I am an insanely emotional and sensitive man. I am proud of that. I call that being alive. But when emotion gets in the way of rational expression it is a fucking liability.

I have enormous respect for my brother. He has survived things in his life that would shatter a lesser person, myself among them. He keeps on picking up the pieces and moving forward. He lives a good life. Everyone respects him, everyone loves him.

The shit that destroys me is miniscule. It is nothing. And it is within my control to overcome it. But I don't.

Ed sat at one end of the table on Sunday, me at the other, which is only appropriate. We are the elders. But his end of the table was represented by an intelligent and rational man. Mine was represented by an emotional cripple. I never felt the gulf between us as widely as I did that day.

I don't know why I have never solved the problems that diminish my life. There is no rational explanation. Except to say that I am weak, I am a coward, I am lazy. I don't know. Feel free to identify other character flaws. I won't mind.

Could be I enjoy wallowing in self-made misery, that I have no intention of wading out of it, that I expect you to empathize with my suffering; that I want you to.

Is that even possible? I think it might be. How does one unravel a twisted psyche?

Sunday really knocked me off balance. I don't know why. Why that particular day? Why that particular moment? That particular situation?

No answer for that.

Do you think I am stupid enough to say that this is the breaking point? This is the moment when I take charge of my life? Like I have said 11,000 times before?

No fucking chance.

I got nothing to say.

Self-Reflection: Part One

My brain is reeling today.

Spent Easter at Eddie's joint with Keith, Craig & Amanda. I see these gatherings as living works of art - like a supremely talented artist is creating something that is unique and precious and invaluable. I never know when it will happen again. Or if it will happen again.

I decided to poison the proceedings with a vicious outburst.

I attacked Lizzo. I was trying to make a point about the wimpiness of the liberal point of view, but I got vicious and brutal and evil in my description of her. I have been thinking about it ever since.

I want to chalk it up to my opinion of myself right now. I am extraordinarily fat. I am embarrassed. The way I described her is the way I feel about myself.

I want to chalk it up to my knee. I have been in pain since April 8. Non-stop. Pain takes a toll.

I want to chalk it up to exhaustion. I have not slept well since April 8. Sleeplessness takes a toll.

I want to chalk it up to the miserable failure of my life, that I have to work a menial job at the age of 68 despite the pain, the embarrassment and the fatigue.

I want to chalk it up to the alcohol I consumed.

All bullshit.

I think deep down I am a vicious, cold-hearted prick.

This might seem at odds with the empathetic, emotional, liberal-minded image I present to the world. But two conflicting points of view or realities can exist side by side in a human being. That's what makes us so indefinable.

I came across as an idiot yesterday. In front of my family. The one audience in the entire world whose respect I crave. Later on in the proceedings, relative to another topic, I was banging on the table like a fucking lunatic.

I have an enormous amount of anger in me in 2022.

Adults are supposed to control their anger, to find solutions to diffuse the frustration.

I am not an adult.

Never have been, am not now. I am an embarrassment.

I need to become an adult. Soon.

It's the only way I can earn the respect of my family, beyond the fact of just being a father. 

Could You?

Could you resist reading a book titled In The Electric Mist with Confederate Dead?

Not me. Reading it right now. James Lee Burke, of course.

Loving it, too.

I Am In Love With James Lee Burke

The man is single-handedly saving my life.

Comfort food, man - I read his books for comfort food. They soothe me, they entertain me, they beat back my anxiety with a sledgehammer.

I adopted a new policy - I keep one of his books at the ready on my tablet at all times. That way, whenever the spirit moves me, or my tortured soul needs immediate repair, there is no delay.

I am currently reading In The Electric Mist with Confederate Dead; Dixie City Jam waits patiently in the wings on my tablet.

I am consuming every book in the Dave Robicheaux series chronologically. In the recent past I have read The Neon Rain, Heaven's Prisoners, Black Cherry Blues, A Morning for Flamingos, and A Stained White Radiance.

I am in desperate need of comfort in 2022.

There is a danger here because I have read many James Lee Burke books randomly over the years. Hopefully I will be able to recognize those before I buy them.

This recently happened to me with a Tom Wolfe book. I was reading something somewhere and his book A Man In Full was referenced. I thought "Hot damn, that sounds like a great book." I excitedly bought the hardcover version of this 700 page monstrosity. Two pages in, it felt familiar. Thirty pages in, it was definite. What blew me away is I must have read it quite a while ago. Yet everything about it seemed as if I read it yesterday. My mind is not exactly fresh - what the fuck is going on?

Beware engagement of those who inspire you. I checked out James Lee Burke's website yesterday. There was a zoom interview, conducted by a bookstore owner, with Burke and Stephen King. I am no longer a fan of King's but I am a fan of writers.

James Lee Burke is 85 years old. King is 74 years old. It was painful. Burke forgot to turn on the mike and he began the interview happily chatting in silence. An assistant had to help him out.

Every picture you see of Burke is of him wearing a cowboy hat (he lives in Montana) and looking fairly rugged. You see age, but you see rugged. He looked frail in this interview. So did King.

I couldn't continue with the interview. It bothered me.

Fucking age, man - it is a relentless motherfucker.

I am 68 and morbidly obese. But I don't think I project fragility. But whose to say I won't? Disease is waging a consistent war against me. That takes something out of you. And age won't leave me alone. I want to be robust when death claims me. I do not want to be a frail, old man. But I have nothing to say about it. I despise being helpless. This is why I despise hospitals.

Anyway...................love is a sweetener of life.

I am in love with James Lee Burke.

The Steady Decline Towards...................

Is it possible my brain is deteriorating at an accelerating pace? 

Writing on my laptop is exposing weakness regularly. Just today I typed wing as iwng, and against as aginst.

This happens all the time now. All the time.

What the fuck is going on. And it is not because I type too fast; I am a two finger writer - trust me, I do not type fast.

I have been thinking about it a lot becaue it has been happening a lot. I am wary of senility. I have not been a friend to my brain.

Is it possible my body is deteriorating at an accelerating pace?

Finger cramps. For months now my right index finger has been cramping up when I write. It cramps hard and for many minutes at a time. I flex it, massage it, cajole it, but nothing helps. I just have to ride it out.

Self abuse is fun.

But apparently there is a price to be paid.

Truth & Lies

 Truth:

"Now if you feel that you can't go on

Because all of your hope is gone

And your life is filled with much confusion

Until happiness is just an illusion

And your world around is crumblin' down

Lies:

Reach out, reach out for me

I'll be there, with a love that will shelter you

I'll be there, with a love that will see you through

Truth:

When you feel lost and about to give up

'Cause your best just ain't good enough

And you feel the world has grown cold

And you're drifting out all on your own

And you need a hand to hold

Lies:

Reach out, reach out for me

I'll be there, to love and comfort you

And I'll be there, to cherish and care for you

I'll be there, with a love that will see you through

I'll be there to love and comfort you

I'll be there, to give you all the love you need

I'll be there, you can always depend on me"

Lyrics from Reach Out I'll Be There, written by Holland-Dozier-Holland, performed by The Four Tops.

Commentary: We are all alone.

Trapped

I allowed myself to get trapped into watching MSNBC this morning.

I had just slapped an ice bag on my knee and I know Carol loves her MSNBC on weekend mornings so I said "Go ahead." Typically I avoid it like the plague. Except for Chris Hayes. He has a delightfully sarcastic sense of humor and is not above criticizing liberals as well as right wing jerk-offs.

I was immediately rewarded with more proof that disingenuous liberals are morons. Once again confirming the fact that they are handing over this country to cretins, as liberals emote and conservatives plunder.

The talking head was interviewing the woman who, as a child, played the "little girl in the red coat" in the movie Schindler's List. I have never seen the movie; Carol has and it affected her deeply.

This woman is currently working to provide aid to Ukraine. The talking head asked "Did the fact that you played the little girl in the red coat in Schindler's List inspire you to help Ukraine?" She asked in that syrupy, faux-empathetic voice that liberals use to pretend to express their humanity.

The woman responded "No. I am doing it because it is the right thing to do."

I wanted to stand up and applaud.

Another mindless liberal exposed. Attempting to take a horrific situation and sweeten it up with maple syrup.

God Knows I Deserve It

I watched a movie titled Wrath of Man Wednesday night.

Typical type of movie that I always go to and always will go to. Violent. Insane. A revenge movie. I love revenge. 

Especially when it is vicious and violent. I don't care how over-the-top insane and unbelievable the movie is, I eat it up like ice cream.

The main character of Wrath was avenging the death of his son. And avenge he did.

Liver, lungs, spleen, heart. That was the title of the final "chapter" of the movie. Sound like Sound of Music to you? I won't go into detail, but that should give you a pretty good feel for the tone of the movie.

As I was watching it I wondered to myself why I love this type of movie so much. I mean, I really get into this shit. I've never really thought about it. Beyond assuming that these movies provide a satisfying release for the anger that seethes inside of me.

I always assumed my anger is directed at the world, that the nasty violence of the movie is a way for me to strike back at life and really fuck it up.

It occurred to me Wednesday night that maybe what I really want to do is strike back at myself. Kind of an uncomfortable thought, but not wholly without merit.

Think about it. Who do I need revenge against? Who should I kill? Who do I fucking hate? Nobody has fucked up my life, nobody has stolen anything from me or ruined my chance at happiness. I did that all by myself.

I have floated through life on a bowl of vanilla ice cream. And I do mean vanilla.

Maybe what I am visualizing is me getting the shit kicked out of me. Maybe I feel I deserve it. Maybe I believe that's what it will take for me to learn a lesson. Maybe that is my brain saying "You stupid fucking motherfucker, you deserve broken ribs, a knife to the belly, a baseball bat to the side of the head, broken teeth, a bullet to the brain."

I enjoy those scenes so much that the enjoyment has to come from a place of intense anger. And I really have no one to hate except myself.

You gotta hit rock bottom before you can admit to yourself..........and make a change. I have been sitting in comfortable recliners, earning just enough money to keep on earning just enough money, working a lot of cushy jobs, suffering only enough but not unbearably.

If someone left me bloody and groaning on the sidewalk, half an inch from death, and I somehow survived, would I then place a premium on being alive and live life accordingly? Or would I still look at it all as a fucking joke and keep skating away on the thin ice of each new day?

I cannot believe I am still alive. There have been times in my life when I consumed so much whiskey on a regular basis that Crown Royal set up daily deliveries to my house. With an intravenous hook-up in case I was too tired to raise a glass. They appreciated my business.

I took stupid chances with drugs, inhaling powders given to me by people with the integrity of a fucking serial killer.

I drove drunk and high all the time.

I'm still here.

Maybe I'm waiting for the beating.

god knows I deserve it.

How Can You?

 "You tell lies thinking I can't see

You can't cry 'cause you're laughing at me

I'm down (I'm really down)

I'm down (Down on the ground)

I'm down (I'm really down)

How can you laugh when you know I'm down

How can you laugh when you know I'm down"

From I'm Down, by The Beatles

So Fucking Obedient

Know what I am doing today?

Going to work. First time since April 6. First time since knee surgery.

I'm doing 4 hours as a field experiment. See how the knee reacts.

I don't want to. I have no interest in doing it. I'm still on crutches. I could care less if I never go back to work ever again. The knee still hurts and it feels squishy.

For fun, I visted Dr. Dentist for 2 hours yesterday to do the crown thing. First time out of the house since surgery. What a wonderful break. It did not fuck up the knee so I decided to test it out at work today.

For Carol. Not for me.

I have a palpable sense that if I don't go back to work, Carol will have a heart attack. I am one of those ultra-successful guys who doesn't get paid if he doesn't go to work. No cushy salaried job for me, no.

Menial, hourly wages. A role in life I am proud to have attained.

I view paying the bills as a concept. Something to rebel against. Carol takes it much more seriously. And she is right.

She pays the bills and manages our money superbly.

And she worries.

We are vulnerable old people. One nasty disease or natural disaster away from a ruined life. 

This is the biggest problem with marriage. You are responsible for someone else's life. You impact someone else's life.

I want to quit. Just fucking quit. I could live on mac 'n cheese, spam, cheap beer - but not cheap whiskey. I can never give up my beloved Crown Royal. But the point is, I wanted a beautiful life, but I got backwoods NH. So fuck it. I want out. I do not want to work another day in my life.

I can't do that. It would hurt Carol. I owe her. So I will go back to work today. Then cobble out some kind of patchwork schedule that suits the condition of my knee.

"Gonna go where the weather suits my clothes." Not me. Gotta work where the workload suits my knee.

Pretty much sums up how badly I have fucked up.

Today, I am obedient.

I Fought The Law and The Law Won

Fucking Barnsy. Stubborn motherfucker.

He would not budge one inch on the important stuff. Nor would he provide any explanation.

The follow-up appointment to surgery is still 4/20. I had knee surgery on 4/8. No physical therapy scheduled before that. The only small victory I racked up was to get Barnsy to sign off for physical therapy in Henniker. A very small victory indeed.

Fucker never even talked to me. I spoke to his office 3 times, every time through a go-between. Because, of course, he's a surgeon - he sits on a throne at the right hand of god. He cannot deign to speak to a commoner - it might taint his saintly patina. Even though he took a fucking knife to my knee. The last time I spoke to this son of a bitch was weeks before surgery.

When you question a fucking doctor in this great land of ours they dig in their heels. "How dare you question me?" Fucking ego-bloated poseurs.

Treating a medical problem should be a conversation. I'm sure it is in civilized countries. america is not civilized. america allows the medical system to rape patients financially, charging them 10 times what a procedure is worth. And decisions are made on the basis of insurance coverage, not considerations of health.

In a related story, when I was diagnosed with prostate cancer and Dr. Feelgood was reviewing options with me, my brain shut down. I asked questions, but as he deluged me with information and options it became clear to me that I could not absorb it all right then and there. I was a bit shaky.

So I asked him more than once "You're going to write this down or give me a handout, right? Because I won't remember everything you are saying." Finally he went out to see an administrator in his office and came back in with a book on prostate cancer - his departmental book, the one they use internally. He was visibly irritated.

Now dig, this is a guy I like. A lot. Straight shooter. No condescenion. But I pushed him about as far as he was gonna go. Why? Because I was asking questions.

Great Side Story: Leading up to the prostate cancer diagnosis, over a period of a year or two, it felt like I was in his office once a week. And every fucking time, he performed the classic digital evaluation. One time in particular I was back in his office, close on the heels of a previous appointment. I was positive he would not stick his finger up my ass. When he told me to drop my pants I rolled my eyes. And he said "You know, this is not fun for me either." I loved it.

Back to Barnsy. When I see him on 4/20 I am bringing a 2x4, hammer, and nails. When I get into his office I'm going to nail the fucking door shut. He doesn't leave until I have all the information I need. And I'm going to call him Sean. Not Dr. Burns. That should reduce him to a quivering, mass of gelatinous goo.

Medical Scorecard in 2022:

So far, I had an old crown that had popped off, re-glued by Dr. Dentist. I went in the very next day to have it re-glued again because it popped off overnight - again. I had a root canal. I had knee surgery. I am having another crown installed tomorrow. Monday I get another hormone shot in the fight against prostate cancer.

The second half of 2022 will be spectacular.

Gotta Be Your Own Advocate

I used to work with a woman, Susan, when I was Assistant Manager of the Peterborough Liquor Store, and we would talk disparagingly about the ego-bloated medical community here in this great land of ours.

I highlighted my title not because I am proud of it - I never was - but because it is amusing to me that a Lover of Liquor should be assistant manager of a liquor store. 

There were certain advantages available to me as asst. mgr, and I took advantage of them. Many times I was alone in the early morning or late at night, and the nip rack was vulnerable. Nip inventory was always off; hard to say why. I also availed myself of the Special Manager's Discount on expensive bottles of booze, when nobody was looking.

The poor have to do whatever is required to survive.

Amusing Side Story: The nip rack was right in front of a register, obviously to cut down on thievery. Had a guy walk in who couldn't speak English or chose not to - I was on the register. He grabbed a nip, said something to me I couldn't understand, and laughed. I told him I could not understand him. He said it again and laughed. I shrugged. He twisted the nip open, guzzled it in front of me and ran out of the store laughing. I did the only thing a self-respecting assistant manager would do - I laughed too.

As in every other phase of my life, I was drawn to scofflaw co-workers in the liquor store and they to me. One young guy and I got along really well. Lots of laughs. 

When we were alone in the store late at night, dangerous and bizarre things would occur. I am amazed customers did not complain about our breath or our generally loose behavior.

Good, clean fun.

So Susan and I would have discussions about the corrupt, ego-bloated medical community - her favorite mantra was "You gotta be your own advocate."

I have taken those words to heart over the past few years. Especially now.

Had a conversation with Keith last night; he inspired me to spring into action. His advice came from his own experience with physical ailments and physical therapy, as well as Krista's expertise as a physical therapist.

I am not happy with how this knee thing is being handled. Surgery on 4/8, follow-up appointment on 4/20 - no discussion whatsoever about physical therapy. So after last night's conversation I called Henniker Physical Therapy this morning for advice and info, then I called orthopedics at Concord Hospital, then I called the office of Dr. Burns - orthopedic surgeon extraordinaire.

I told them I want to begin physical therapy as soon as possible and I want to do it in Henniker. The person I spoke to is going to get that info to Burnsy, and let me know where I stand.

You get a sense of what's what from what your body is telling you. My sense is that recovery is not going to happen overnight, so I need to get the best advice available, then push and accelerate the process as far as is healthy for me.

God knows I will not get good or timely advice from the ego-bloated medical community here in this great land of ours unless I beat it out of them.

A Depressing Interlude

I have been muscling my way through Let Us Now Praise Famous Men, by James Agee.

A tough slog but worth the effort. 

Until the last 4 or 5 chapters. In those chapters he describes - in excruciating detail - the houses these Alabama sharecroppers lived in in 1936. And I emphasize - excruciating. From how the house is built to the dishes they eat off, the condition of the utensils they use, the clothes hanging in closets, the sad collection of things they collect, the conditions of the beds and mattresses, chairs, and on and on and on.

Agee and Walker lived with and interacted with three families. He describes all three houses in infinte detail.

I understand where he is coming from. He is trying to paint as accurate a picture as possible illustratiing the horrible lives these people were forced to live. But he goes too far.

Too much. I couldn't take it. I stopped reading the book.

I hate doing that. The last time it happened was with H.L. Mencken, about a year ago. He was a journalist and satirist with a biting sense of humor. I was reading a collection of his essays and was thoroughly enjoying them - until I wasn't. I came up against a wall and put the book down. Still haven't picked it back up.

However, I recently read a passage from Let Us Now Praise Famous Men that was mind blowing in its truth and its beauty.

He described the shock of birth into the inescapable cruelty of the world. He described the assault on the senses - you are floating in serenity and peace until you are born, then your senses come under a relentless assault that does not end until you die. Which I completely agree with - information, lessons and feedback come at you at a greater volume and exponentially increasing speed as you get older. Until you become overwhelmed and die.

He takes it a step further, implying that it is more than the five senses that are under assault. He implies that "senses" include everything a human being has to do to survive, to fight back, in self-defense, to make sense of...................to just fucking get through life.

I am not doing it justice, but his words had an originality and brutal truth to them that went straight to my soul.

I had a brief, depressing interlude because giving up on a book feels like death to me. But I moved on.

I am reading Outliers - The Story of Success, by Malcolm Gladwell.

Boldness

You cannot create a facade of boldness with any credibility.

Boldness must come from within.

Inconveniences (and Other Details)

Can't drive until at least 4/20. (By the way, the significance of that date is not lost on me).

My right knee is the assaulted one, so driving would be a bit dodgy. 

You shoulda seen this thing - I had a compression wrap (ace bandage) wrapped from my ankle up to my thigh, with the knee area particularly thick with layer upon layer of gauze and ace. Unwrapped it all on Sunday, slapped a couple of bandaids on the surgical incisions and I'm good to go until the follow-up appointment. Haven't showered yet - not feeling confident on that leg. No social engagements in my immediate future.

I can't drive because apparently the area will remain sensitive and there is some question as to reflexes in this situation.

Work & Driving. When I go back to work, Carol will have to drive me in and pick me up. I am tempted to put off my return until after 4/20, then maybe I will not need a chauffeur. Besides I don't want to go back at all, as previously documented.

Right now I told my boss I will be in on Wednesday. I believe that is highly unlikely. Knee still hurts. That decision will be made factoring in my physical condition as well as my mental state. Touchy situation, touchy decision.

If Carol is called upon to be my personal chauffeur it will be a pain in the ass for her - a one hour round trip each time. But I don't feel bad for her - this is the yin and yang of getting old as a couple. You trade off diseases and the inconvenience of adjustment and accomodation.

The crutches are doing me a world of good though. I thought maybe I'd need them through Monday or Tuesday, then hopefully not after. I am basing this on the level of pain I feel right now when I do put weight on the knee. But I got the after-surgery call this morning. I described the pain I am feeling and what I am doing; I was told I could be on crutches for a week - maybe more.

Not happy about that. 

She was surprised I haven't taken any Oxycodone; I consider that a good sign - the pain is ever-present but not overwhelming. Apparently they were expecting the pain to be more heavy-duty.

I am not happy with the post-surgery communication. Don't use crutches, use crutches, maybe 2 or 3 days, maybe 10 days. Did I hurt myself or set myself back by walking around without them for a day and a half?

Who the fuck knows.

I peppered her with questions this morning, really nailed her to the cross like any good Roman soldier would do. I need to know exactly what to expect, and that is obviously not going to happen unless I interrogate these feckless individuals relentlessly.

If I don't feel like I am making progress in a day or two, they will be hearing from me.

(Editor's Note: Ignore the date of publication on these posts. I write a lot of shit all at once and then post as needed - I am prolific and talented. The post date used to be the actual date I posted. Now the fucking blog uses the date I write the post, no matter when I post it. Today's post was written partially on Sunday, partially on Monday. References could be confusing).

Inflection Point

I am at an inflection point.

2022 has been weighing me down to the point where I have been walking hunched over with my forehead touching the ground.

Right to the fucking breaking point.

Wednesday was my last day of work before surgery. Thursday was an off day, Friday was knee-hacking day. I was scheduled to work a show on Wednesday night. No reason not to work it.

I couldn't fucking do it. A co-worker stepped up for me.

Consternation has been building. It is the classic human dilemma of making what appears to be the right decision and then paying a price for it. I changed jobs, the people I work with are great, I love them, the atmosphere is much looser, which suits me fine.

When I worked for the City, every fucking thing was regimented. If I had to take a shit, I had to sign my name and "time-out" on the Bathroom Break Log. I was allowed 15 minutes. If I signed back in after 17 minutes I had to fill out a 3-page Explanation of Excessive Bathroom Use questionnaire. If my explanation was considered insufficient, they docked me 30 minutes pay. And paddled my behind, which I rather enjoyed. 

Anyway.................

The problem with the new job is my schedule is a red rubber ball. It bounces all over the place. At one location, when I work a show, I typically get home around 9 or 10 pm. At the other location it is more like 11 or 12.

Fucks me up big time. I end up staying up until 1, 2, or 3 o'clock. My eating pattern is fucked up (I end up eating a slice or two of pizza at midnight), my sleeping pattern is fucked up. I can't get a handle on it. It's killing me.

And on the day of a show I get so many calls from brainless customers asking stupid questions that my brain breaks. I cringe every time the phone rings. And there are lots of details to tend to. It's a long, fucking, annoying day.

I am burning out already. And I don't want to go back.

I told my boss I'd be back to work on Monday, but there is no way I am ever going to make that with this fucking knee. I am shooting for Wednesday now.

Problem is I have a lot of respect for my boss; he is a sharp guy who is considerate and filled with empathy. He cares. He went out of his way to hire me back and to get maximum pay for me in that environment. So I can't let him down. But I gotta work something out.

I am breaking into little pieces.

The real problem is that I spend my life running away from things that break me instead of running towards things that fulfill me. 

Bouncing from one menial job to another, slapping a smile on my face while acid eats my innards.

Not a recipe for success.

Or happiness.

I am weary to the bone. Weary of life and weary of my life.

In a fucked up way this knee thing could be the pause that refreshes. A mentally and physically jarring episode, followed by disruption of routine, and time and space to think.

That's how the mind is expanded and solutions arrived at, no?

A Good Swift Kick Should Do The Job

Surgery was successful, I guess.

Hard to tell - the fucking surgeon didn't even bother to talk to me afterwards. He talked to Carol while I was still out, then he picked up a bottle of bourbon and a hooker and took off to settle his nerves.

Fuckers told me I did not need crutches. What? Everything I read about the surgery told me 1 week to 2 or 3 months on crutches. Of course I did not want crutches, did not want to deal with them. But I also read a couple of times that the worse thing you can do is walk on the knee before it is ready, before it has recuperated from surgery.

But I believed them because I wanted to believe them. They said the type of surgery I had, bore no risk of damage by walking normally afterwards. Then, as I was getting ready to be wheeled out of the fucking place, they fucking offered me crutches if I wanted them. This was after they made a big deal out of not needing them.

Cavalierly, I said no. Bear in mind, I had just come out of general anesthesia and knee surgery, after getting 3 hours of sleep the night before, and fasting for 9 hours.

Big mistake. Got home and instantaneously found out that walking on the fucking leg was very painful.

But I was exhausted. Hit the recliner and turned into vegetable lasagna. Like a drug addict in an OD induced coma.

Of course I had to get up to go to the bathroom, get food - you know, do the things human beings do to fucking survive. And every time I walked, that motherfucker hurt. And pounded incessantly when I sat down. 

But they gave me a t-shirt. So it was worth it.

Advil, Tylenol and ice, ice, baby. Surprisingly they wrote a prescription for Oxycodone. Are you kidding me? Do they know who I am? Christmas comes early.

I am kidding. I have no intention of using that shit and have resisted it so far.

I went to bed last night hoping that a night off the leg would turn things in the right direction. Of course I could not find a pain-free position in bed so I had to go back downstairs to sleep in the recliner. Woke up at 4:30 to go to the bathroom - instantaneous pain. Fuck me.

Carol went out a while ago and picked up crutches. I just used them to walk around a bit and get up here. Crutches are work, man. I am out of breath. Of course it doesn't help that I am a 475  pound tub of lard. A jiggling mass of gelatinous goo.

But the crutches are making a big difference already. No pain. Which is good because I already gobbled 4 Advil and 4 Tylenol, starting at 4:30 am. And consumed a sip or two of whiskey.

What are you gonna do?

The follow up with Surgeon-Fuck isn't until 4/20. He fucking sneaks out with his bourbon and his hooker after talking to Carol and avoiding me? And I have to wait 12 days to talk to him? I don't even know what he did to me surgically. He owed me that information. He fucking owes me.

I never liked the guy and I'm dumping him from any future consideration. He fucking mumbles and talks at faster miles an hour. I have to keep stopping him to say "What? What did you say?" Christ, after the MRI a while back, when he called to tell me I should probably have surgery, I heard the word cancer amongst his super-speed mumbling.

I said "WHAT did you just say?" He said the MRI didn't reveal any cancer in the knee. Then why bring it up? Fuck-tard.

Anyway, the surgery is over. If I am not pain free soon I will be a very, angry man.

And surgeon-fuck will pay the price.

I am going to torture him on 4/20. Stop him after every fucking word until he breaks down and cries.

Then I'm going to kick him in the balls.

Fun Fact

 We have to be at the hospital at 6:00 a.m. tomorrow morning.

Let me say this loud enough for you to hear: We have to BE THERE at 6:00 a.m.

Stupid, jerk-off motherfuckers.

Going Under The Knife

Knee surgery tomorrow.

Not really all that dramatic; I just like the sound of those words.

Although if I pay attention to the "Preadmission Instructions for Patients Having Anesthesia", maybe it is dramatic. After listing what I should and should not do, comes the following admonition:

IMPORTANT! Failure to follow the above instructions for any patient having anesthesia can result in potentially deadly complications or your surgery being cancelled.

The medical profession today thrives on intimidation and negativity.

Arthroscopic surgery with the bonus feature of a camera. Very cool.

I have climbed the ladder of significance. Been having trouble with this knee for years. Not enough pain to prevent me from doing anything so I just fucking dealt with it. At my age if I visited the doctor every time something hurt, I would have to keep a sleeping bag in the office.

When the pain became significant I'd visit Dr. Feelgood, he'd take x-rays and give me a cortisone shot.

Good to go. But this year it all went south, now I can't do shit. I even had to give up dancing the Tarantella, my favorite.

I climbed another rung on the ladder. MRI. Hey, look at that - torn meniscus with a free-floating chunk sailing around the knee. Maybe this guy is not lying about the pain. Let's operate.

Top rung on the ladder. A camera inserted into my knee during surgery. Now they will find out exactly what is going on - hey this guy really is experiencing a significant level of pain. Who knew?

That's the way the medical profession works in this fucking country. They never immediately go to the definitive step that can provide the best information. Nope. Gotta climb the ladder. Which involves multiple visits over many months (or years) and - most importantly - allows them to rack up those charges, baby.

High drama - I don't even know what time the fucking surgery is taking place tomorrow morning. "Arrival time will be given after 2:00 pm the business day before surgery", meaning today.

The party line is that it gives the hospital flexibility to deal with last minute emergency surgeries. I believe it falls in line with the overall atmosphere within the medical community of exerting total control spiced with intimidation, fear, negativity - the ultimate goal to keep the patient off balance, on their knees, worshipping the supposed omniscience of these ego-bloated poseurs.

I'm not too worried about the surgery. Everything I have read indicates that it seems pretty routine. And it's getting me out of work for a minimum of 4 days, which I sorely, sorely need.

I am worried that they might unearth something more frightening than a torn meniscus. I am also concerned about recovery time. I will be on crutches. The stuff I have read places the timeline somewhere between a week to 2 or 3 months.

We are talking about inconvenience here so it is not really a big deal, no matter which way it goes. But a 68 year old fat man on crutches does not sound pretty to me.

So here I go. Knee surgery. Something new.

Very exciting.

Pretty Well Sums It Up

"Monday morning came so fast,

what a fool to think that dreams would last"

From Trapped Again, by Southside Johnny & The Asbury Jukes

Bare To The Bone

Reading certain books is like reading a 300 page poem.

Let Us Now Praise Famous Men, by James Agee, is one.

This is because the writing is precise, it is descriptive, it is beautiful, it is emotional. It evokes specific images, it stirs the soul. You cannot let your mind wander for 5 seconds when you are reading a book like this. Every word counts.

Reading something like this is a labor of love.

On top of that, I had to read for one full reading session plus a half hour of the next before I even got to the story. There is an introduction by John Hersey which is a mini biography pf James Agee. Many, many pages in length. Then there is a preface of a few pages written by James Agee.

Normally I skip stuff like this. I had to make the time to read this stuff. It gave me a deeper understanding of the book.

Agee was working for Fortune magazine in 1936. The magazine assigned him and Walker Evans (photographer) to live among sharecroppers in Alabama for 8 weeks, and then to write about it.

Evans photographs are wrenching. Find them, they are famous. The book is even credited to James Agee and Walker Evans.

Relationships between two creative people from different disciplines fascinate me. Agee and Walker had enormous respect for each other's talent. Reminds me of Hunter S. Thompson and Ralph Steadman.

Agee did not trust Fortune, he felt they wanted to exploit the sharecroppers lives for fun and profit, that they did not care about these people. He took the assignment because he did care, and felt he could treat the sharecroppers with empathy and respect.

Which he did. His empathy is obvious in his writing. The people he lived with even complimented him on not being condescending, on caring, on really wanting to learn about and write about their lives.

As you might imagine, their lives were horrible. Hopeless, hard, unfair, bare to the bone. Again, I encourage you to find Walker Evans photographs. They are black and white and direct and honest. No artsy manipulation. The looks on many of these peoples' faces will make you cry.

It is a raw book and well worth the effort.

Dig

 "She has not lacked in utter tiredness, like a load in her whole body, a day since she was a young girl, nor will she ever lack it again; and is of that tribe who by glandular arrangement seem to exhaust rather than renew themselves with sleep, and to whom the act of getting up is almost unenduringly painful."

James Agee from Let Us Now Praise Famous Men.

A Dangerous Place

I am in a dangerous place.

I'm already at the point where I have to shut down the space heater.

Then all I hear is Jack McCoy.

If It Was You..................

Peacefully reading this morning when I heard a loud crash.

From the spare room. Or whatever the hell it is. This is a weird house; don't know what name to give to rooms.

We used to call the room I'm in the computer room, now we call it my office.

It's not my fucking office. It's just a place I escape to. And hide.

If you want to shorten your life, interrupt me when I am reading. Although I realized this morning our precious cats are exempt from that dictum.

Reading is the only peace I ever get. Ever. And I revere it.

I am always up 1 and 1/2 to 2 hours before Carol. When I hear her begin to move around in the morning, I know my day is over.

I don't mean that in the harsh way that it sounds. If it's a work day I know the day will be a spiralling pit of torture and I will be miserable. Soon I will leave the house with my head down and eventually crawl home on my hands and knees.

If it's a day off I know I will spend the majority of it cloistered in this room. Because Carol and I have diametrically opposed addictions.

She's addicted to TV, I am addicted to silence. I flee here to find some peace. But I fail.

Because the fucking room is not soundproof. Carol is considerate and keeps the TV volume down, but I can still hear it. Annoyingly. During the 5 month New England winter I keep the space heater going and that drowns out the TV. Almost. It's running right now. No idea what I will do when summer comes around.

We are in a diffferent place now that Carol is retired. She is never not here. So I never get peace.

I am out of the house 25 to 30 hours a week or more. Pursuing the american dream. 30 hours when Carol can do anything she wants to, listen to anything she wants, watch anything she wants, think about anything she wants, move about freely and pursue her happiness.

I get none of that. I have to fight for whatever personal enjoyment I require. Like a junkie jonesing for the next fix.

Back to the cats. They have been here 7 months and they are still finding shit to explore. Amazing.

I knew both cats were in the spare room. After the crash, Emmy Lou came flying out of there. Patsy did not. I'm thinking "Oh Shit, Patsy is buried under something."

Nothing on the floor was disturbed. I was confused. I looked towards the closet, one of the sliding doors is open 6 inches and I see Patsy sitting on a little corner shelf in there innocently watching me. I slide the door back and a whole bunch of shit falls out. I slide the other door open and a whole bunch of shit falls out.

Somehow they had gotten up on the shelf that sits like a cliff way up high and knocked everything off of it. I kicked a lot of shit out of the way, affectionately asked Patsy "What did you do?" and sat down to continue reading.

If it was you, I would have killed you.

Those Days Are Gone, Bubba

I was young, slim and healthy once.

Now I am old, fat and diseased.

Trust me, the former is infinitely better than the latter.

Where's The Beef?

 "The weak in courage are strong in cunning"

James Agee from Let Us Now Praise Famous Men

Better beef up my cunning skill-set.

A Million Dollar Tooth

While I was away..................................

I got me a million dollar tooth.

Between the time the appointment was made to install a new crown, and the actual appointment - my fucking tooth went nuts.

PAIN. Hot, cold, chewing - if I hit it right it was pain through the roof. Popped in to see Dr. Dentist and he told me no way can the crown be done - gotta get a root canal first. I suggested pulling the tooth and he gave me all the reasons I shouldn't. And honestly, there is a slight chance I could live 25 more years - I already have a missing tooth or two - I don't want to wind up looking like a toothless hobo.

He poked around a bit and eventually pushed up on the tooth to make sure he had the right one - my head exploded. His office wrote up the referral for the endodontist and zapped it over to her. Miraculously, I got an appointment for the next morning. At fucking 7:45.

When I got there she did her own testing and caused my head to explode 2 or 3 more times. Then she gave me 3 options.

Options? Fucking options? I thought this was a black and white deal.

One of the options was to pull the tooth, which she promptly advised against when I showed some interest.

Go ahead and do the fucking root canal.

I was super pissed off. In a situation like this, where I have a tooth screaming at me, fucking tell me what to do. Don't lay out confusing options and lame disclaimers and expect me to make a decision.

You are the fucking expert.

About half an hour into the process - after removing the gigantic filling from the tooth and opening up canals to do the root canal - she stops and tells me the tooth has a couple of cracks that run midway down the shaft.

If they were tiny cracks she would advise going ahead with the root canal. If they were deep cracks she would advise pulling the tooth.

Of course these were mid-sized cracks. She could not guarantee a good outcome. Could be good for 6 months, could be good for 5 years. What do I want to do?

I still had a mouthful of fucking stuff. Big rubber thing to keep my mouth open, that cutesy rubber thing they shove in there to isolate the tooth - I just looked at her, projected incredulousness as best I could, and help up my hands as if to say "How the fuck do you expect me to answer you?"

We went back and forth a bit and, finally, I told her to just finish the root canal.

$1,590. Payable immediately. The crown, which will be installed next week, and the original visit with Dr. Dentist, will cost me $2,000. A $3,600 tooth.

Did I do the right thing? I doubt it. But it kind of seemed like it at the time. But the next time things go south with my fucking teeth.....................

I get down on my knees every day and thank Covid for putting money in our bank account. 

However, it's not like we are worry-free. It's not a lot of money and I fear it will get pissed away on stupid shit like this. Drip, drip, drip, chip, chip, chip.

We are old. We are vulnerable. When that money is gone, and if the house doesn't sell, I will become a toothless hobo. Living in my car with a wife, two cats and a kitty litter box.

Made it, Ma. Top of the world.

A James Agee Jag

Andre Agassi turns me on to James Agee.

I buy A Death In The Family. I read it. I love it.

I buy Let Us Now Praise Famous Men. I started reading that this morning.

I buy a biography on James Agee - James Agee - A Life, by Laurence Bergreen. Diseased, creative lives fascinate me. The book arrived yesterday.

I am considering buying a book of his poetry.

I am on a James Agee jag.

I hope it makes me a better man.

For The Health of Your Soul

Carol and I watch Chronicle.

They highlight a lot of great NH restaurants and places to go.

During the height of Covid, Carol kept a notebook at hand and wrote down the names and locations of about 966 places that interested us. Mostly restaurants. They fall into two general categories - places we want to visit with Keith and Craig, places we want to visit to pamper ourselves.

We crossed one off the list yesterday. One of the "pamper ourselves" ones.

Parker's Maple Barn in Mason, NH. It's a breakfast joint.

Mason is 3,000 miles from Henniker but we were up for an adventure. Turned out to be more of an adventure than we bargained for.

It was one of those deals when you wonder what the fuck GPS is thinking. When we got close to Mason we ended up bouncing down dirt roads. Miles and miles of dirt roads. 25 mph. Of course we had no idea where we were, so we didn't know what alternatives we had. So we motored on. Passed people along the way, out on their lawns, who looked at us as if to say "What the fuck are you doing on this road?"

Trip took 1 hour and 10 minutes. 

This restaurant is in the middle of nowhere. Literally. There is nothing else around it. No other restaurants, no businesses, no houses - nothing but trees. We get out of the car and see lots of people all around, and lots of cars in the parking lot.

Walk into the restaurant and are told there is a 1 hour and 15 minute wait.

Normally in a situation like that I turn around and walk out. But we had just crossed the Sahara desert and had nowhere else to go. So I decided to go with the flow.

Of course they have a gift shop, so we killed some time in there buying shit we don't really need. Although I did get a set of coasters with colorful skull designs on them, so it wasn't a total loss.

Finally got seated in the restaurant and had an exceptional breakfast, around 1:00 in the afternoon. Sitting at a table by a window, enjoying the view, enjoying each other's company. On the ride back we were wiser, so we set GPS but ignored it when it wanted to torture us with a return trip on the dirt roads. It self-corrected and kept us on pavement, making for a much easier ride.

The ride back was beautiful. Real deep country, wide open spaces, peaceful, serene, the kind of place you want to retire to for the health of your soul. We admired it and engaged in easy conversation.

My point is that years ago a situation like that would have sent me into a murderous rage. An hour and 10 minute drive down the back roads of Morocco? An hour and 15 minute wait to be seated? Are you fucking kidding me?

Instead, I decided to go with the flow and we had a very nice day. And an exceptional breakfast.

Left the house at 10:30, got home at 3:00.

It was a very nice way to kick off a very nice day.