What The Fuck Am I Supposed To Do With That?

I'm sitting in the recliner this morning, dreading, absolutely dreading, having to go to work.

I was alone, it was quiet - I got tears in my eyes.

Not sad tears, not hurt tears - hopeless tears. Fucking hopeless tears.

What the fuck am I supposed to do with that?

Hopeless tears are the worst. Hopeless tears express the truth about your life with a brutal honesty.

No options, no answers, no relief - just soul killing, heartbreaking, mind numbing fucking emotion expressed as liquid dripping from your eyes.

What did I do? Blinked them back, of course. I am an adult. Tears are an infraction in the rule book.  Even though I was fucking alone, I blinked them back. I'm sure that's a healthy response.

It gets better.

Eventually Carol comes downstairs, now it's getting really fucking close to me having to get up. Put on my fucking costume, drive to work and assume the position.

12 minutes before I have to get up - twelve fucking minutes - Patsy climbs into my lap. Climbs up, curls up, and closes her eyes.

Patsy who is so precious to me, who prolongs my miserable life with her sweet, loving, innocent love - Patsy who makes me smile, who has the tiniest meow any cat could have - so fucking cute - SO fucking cute - curls up in my lap.

Twelve minutes before I have to get the fuck up.

I got tears in my eyes.

What the fuck am I supposed to do with that?

I blinked them back, but some escaped. What a terrible blow to maturity.

12 minutes later I gently nudged her from my lap, put on my costume, drove to work and attached the electrodes to my testicles.

Another Harsh Look

You may have noticed that I am taking a pretty harsh look at myself lately.

A brutally honest look. I think I am trying to purge - purge this bullshit faux person from my system - this person who fakes it and still doesn't make it - to make room for Real Me to be born. Without a pointed head.

Try this on for size.

I am uncomfortable in my own house because I am consumed by guilt. Uncomfortable around my own wife. Because I know I did not hold up my end of the bargain.

Think about that - uncomfortable at home, uncomfortable at work - when the fuck am I comfortable - when I'm taking a shit?

This grates on my nerves like you can't believe. It wears me down. Wears me out.

If Carol took me to court and sued me for Bait & Switch, she would win - psychologically but not financially - I got nothing, baby. Nothing. My personal net worth is 12 cents.

She married me thinking she grabbed a guy with a future, but I pissed it all away. If I performed up to my potential we would both be retired right now, living a very nice life. And our life leading up to this moment would have been a lot more comfortable.

75 mph. That's why I idle at 75 mph. Because I am consumed by guilt at all times, fueling anger, and I can't dig myself out of the hole - at least up to now.

I know who I am, I know who I should be. The gulf between those two realities crushes me.

And Carol pays in every way imaginable. The financial repercussions are obvious, but the emotional shit is omnipresent.

My mood can change in a heartbeat, and I guarantee you there are many, many times when Carol has no fucking clue what just happened.

You think I put too much pressure on myself to earn Proud money? That's why I do it - because my underachievement has punished Carol, and I can't stand to be in front of her with guilt just dripping off of me - as I do nothing to solve the situation.

Especially because she has always gone above and beyond. She gave everything to this marriage and more - she carried this family on her back, and kept this marriage going when she should have divorced me many times over - or even killed me - justifiable homocide, baby.

No idea where this is going. Can't believe I am still alive with all the ground glass I have consumed.

And Another...................

Gotta go to work tomorrow.

I despise that I have to do that. Fucking despise it. I am grinding my teeth, my innards are flipped upside down and I am filling up with self-loathing.

Yeah, I hate that I am 68 and still working. What a fucking joke. Menial jobs hounding me to the grave.

But I also despise who I am at work. That has a lot to do with my anger. The fucking alter-ego I slip into to survive.

I have no control over it. I've been doing it for so long that not doing it is a lot harder. So I listen to myself and look at myself and think "Jesus fucking Christ, who is this fucking pantywaist? This phony fucking "nice" guy?" I so want to vomit. 

This guy who won't speak his mind and be himself.

I am even a different person with different people. I tailor my act to the person and the situation. How fucking sick is that?

When I am out in public there are a hundred different "me's" - and none of them is me.

Again, uncomfortable at home, uncomfortable at work.

I cannot believe my body has not just melted away. 

I remember watching a movie about a guy who abused himself with alcohol and drugs. He got sick, the doc checked him out and said "You may be 25 years old on the outside, but you got the insides of a 90 year old man."

That's how I feel. And not because of booze and drugs. I got the insides of a 90 year old man because of pretending. Play-acting. Fighting against my own true nature. 

It takes a fucking toll.

The Repercussions Get Louder

Rafael Nadal plays Novak Djokovic in the Quarter Finals at Roland Garros.

Tomorrow.

Are you fucking kidding me? I will be at work tomorrow. At work. I will miss this match. A dream fucking match.

Ironically, I don't typically work on Tuesdays, but it's New Season Kick-Off at CCA so I gotta be there.

Double fucked by fate.

I will be sitting at a desk answering moronic questions by stupid people - in person and on the phone -  about shows, about ticket prices, about venues, about seats, about every little thing you can think of and some you could never even imagine - repetitively, same questions over and over again - while these two titans of the game slug it out in spectacular fashion, most likely for 5 sets.

I might as well be dead.

Actually going to work is a temporary death every time I do it.

I am so fucking pissed off. Furious. I have been gobbling up the French Open for a week now, truly enjoying it, working my way up through the no-names to get to the big boys.

And here they are - Nadal vs Djokovic - and I will be working a job that a fifth grader could do.

Jesus Fucking Christ.

I will record this match, even though it goes against my grain. And watch it ASAP. I mean, I fucked myself by fucking up my life, putting me on the road to this moment. If I decide not to record it and the match turns out to be legendary, I will have double fucked myself.

It's bad enough that I am being double fucked by fate.

75 mph

Let's get serious.

For Christ sake, every time I try to write something in a "nice" tone of voice, it comes across as overcooked pasta.

I am not nice. I am angry.

Bill Burr has this great bit he does in his latest special. His wife is telling him that she doesn't understand his explosions of anger. She says "You go from zero to 100 mph in a heartbeat." He says "What she doesn't understand is that I idle at 75 mph." Angily talking about them walking into a restaurant he says "I heard that guy talking too loud on his fucking cell phone when we were still in the parking lot!"

That's me. I idle at 75 mph. I am always instantaneously ready to slam my fist into a wall, or just get fucking depressed. Just like that.

It cracks me up when I am interacting with another human being and coming across like I'm some fucking normal guy. What's really happening is that just below the surface I am vibrating at the speed of hate. Ready to fucking explode. But I cover it up with layers of sugar and honey.

So I decided to write something nice about Memorial Day Weekend. Because the thought popped into my head Friday as I drove to work and saw happy vehicles driving by. My empathy gene kicked in. And I wanted to avoid my annual rant about how we are all fools who are exploited in the work force and fall to our knees in pathetic gratitude when we get one fucking extra day off.

Jesus, I wrote what I was feeling at that moment, but when I re-read it I puked.

Niceness doesn't work for me.

Let me tell you where I am at this weekend. Day One was comfortable. I got me some peace. Today is Day Two. The buffer day. I don't have to work tomorrow but I do have to work the day after that. So I can still breathe, but I need a little assistance from the emergency inhaler.

I'm getting restless. Developing anxiety ramp-up.

Concrete progress is the only remedy. I need something to hang my hat on. A course of action that will expel me out of my misery like Jonah out of the belly of the whale.

I am not confident that this will happen. I am not confident that my return to work will be successful. 

It could be a disaster.

But right now, disaster sounds like a solution to me.

How Do These Fucking Authors Know Me So Well?

 "I had never achieved a great degree of self-knowledge..............nor had I ever been able to explain my behavior, and the way I thought, or didn't think, to normal people."

Dave Robicheaux, from Dixie City Jam by James Lee Burke.

Roland Garros

Been watching the French Open at Roland Garros.

In Paris. Who would not want to travel to Paris to watch professional tennis? Only an idiot. Or a Checkers devotee.

Experiencing tennis at this level must be mind blowing. I wouldn't know. I never have. I have come close, though. In my mind.

Every year the U.S. Open Tennis Championships are held in New York City, baby. Every year I think that I should attend. NYC is probably only 5 or 10 minutes from where I live. And I make so much money that ticket prices could not be an option. But I don't make it.

I cannot be sure, but I think that somebody has passed a law of Draconian harshness preventing me from ever leaving New Hampshire. I was not aware of this possibility when I moved here in 1986, but things change.......and never for the better.

Anyway, you are in Paris digging on exquisite tennis. What do you do after the match? Shit, man - you take in every historical and beautiful site that Paris has to offer. Are you fucking kidding me? History with a capitol H.

The Eiffel Tower, The Louvre (I would go fucking crazy in there), Cathedrale Notre-Dame de Paris, The Seine (left bank and right bank, Jesus man - do it right), Arc de Triomphe. And those are just appetizers.

Then there is exquisite French food, (of which I have never tasted), and fabulous restaurants. Put some effort in before you travel - hunker down and learn to speak French beyond a rudimentary kindergarten level. Then the waiters will not be able to shit on you.

The Quarter Finals are scheduled for Tuesday this week. I have to fucking work on Tuesday. The Semi-Finals are scheduled for Friday. I have to fucking work on Friday. 

Thank god the The Finals are scheduled for next Sunday. I don't have to work that day. But I do have to work on Saturday during the day so I will miss whatever action takes place.

Deal is I don't want to miss any of this action. But I have to. I fucking have to. (I could record it but I don't want to. Not the same).

Who the fuck makes these schedules? Who the fuck decided I should be working a menial job at the age of 68? A job that robs me of fun and passion. That sucks the life out of me surer than a vacuum cleaner hose attached to my lung.

Who made this decision? Oh yeah, right - I made this decision. Fucking me. And fuck me.

Negative Affirmation

 My life is defined by everything that I am not.

Memorial Day Weekend

Ahh, Memorial Day Weekend.

The kickoff to the Long Weekend Happiness Triumvirate.

Memorial Day, July 4th, Labor Day. These are High Holy Days to the working class. And rightfully so.

Such a sense of relief. One extra day off is as good as a terminal cancer patient being given one more month to live. Even better.

Since 2016 I have worked low level, oddball jobs that have me coming and going to work at strange times. So I am on the road heading to work when everyone is making their escape - there is gobs of traffic heading in all directions - north, south, east, west. (I am a city boy - I have no fucking clue what north, south, east and west even means. When somebody tells me to head east, I kick them in the balls and find somebody who will point). 

In NH it is ususally north - seems to be some kind of rule or something. Everybody's heading north, baby. Gotta go north. Maybe because there are less people up north. Less people = more peace.

On long weekends, everybody's creating nirvana.

Happy traffic. Cars loaded up inside and out, shit on the roof, kayaks, bikes on the back. RV's, and cars towing campers.

I am not a camper. For me to camp I would require a $700,000 camper, luxury accomodations at the campsite, fine dining with wait service, and a hermetically sealed campsite that keeps bugs out.

But it occurred to me yesterday, as I watched this exodus of happy camping people, that camping makes sense. When you camp, you really shake things up. Getting out of your cushy environment, going someplace completely different, different scenery, campfires, wildlife, sleeping bags, different routines - you are shocking your senses with freshness, newness, variety - you feel alive alive alive.

That's kind of the point of getting away.

I am happy for the people. Worker bees getting a dose of happiness, relaxation and release. Exhaling, for a change.

Three whole days.

Dig it, baby.

My Memorial Day Weekend

First of all, it should have been 4 days off, but we got the new season kicking off next week at work, so I got screwed out of a day.

We have no plans. Zero. That doesn't bother me anymore. I don't have a burning need to do anything. It's good to just have three days to read, write, watch sports, movies, programs - in perfect peace. Although I did try to put together a road trip to see Billy Bob Thornton and The Boxmasters.

Billy Bob Thornton, you ask? WTF? I like the guy, I like his acting, I thought it would be cool and unique to see his rock band. In a bar. With alcohol and family. I sent out invites, but renegged the very next day because we went to dinner the night before, I walked around a lot without crutches and the knee hurt. So bopping to a rock show didn't seem prudent.

Unfortunate. I am jonesing for Unique because as I get older my life gets more and more like unflavored oatmeal. Boring. Bland. Colorless. Drab. Dull. Mind-numbing. Monotonous. Pedestrian. Tame. Tedious. Wearisome.

Get the point?

The timing of the long weekend is good for me because I am on the verge of going ballistic. I'm talking about smashing my fist through walls. Breaking my fucking skull open. I rarely get 2 days off, never mind three. I gotta get my head straight. I gotta get my head straight. By Monday fucking night.

A normal person would come up with a plan. I am not normal. I hate plans, budgets, rules, regulations. If I do make a plan, I can't stick to it.

But I gotta do something. Gotta get the ball rolling. Gotta get off the schneid. Gotta move forward.

Keeping it vague, baby.

How's this? Gotta lose weight, gotta get the knee healed, gotta retire, gotta fix my brain. No idea how I am going to do all those things, I just know I gotta do them. 2022 has thrown a voodoo curse my way so far, but I am pure of soul and the pure always win. Right?

I started the weekend off brilliantly. I knocked off the Remy book yesterday, so today I had to decide what to read. The choice was important because I gotta get some kind of peace of mind thing going on. I have to.

I chose Dixie City Jam by James Lee burke. Brilliant. As always with Burke, I was immediately sucked in, my heart and soul and mind were leaking contentment, my breathing regulated, my heartbeat stabilized. I was happy.

I cooked breakfast for Carol and myself - omelettes, thick, maple bacon, toast. We watched the first game of a Red Sox doubleheader. We'll watch the second game in an hour and a half. Before that, I will exercise the fucking knee. Probably end the night with the Sopranos.

I am getting me some peace today. It will get harder as the days accumulate because pressure will mount. But I will do the best I can.

I won't be getting as much peace as Ray Liotta is but, frankly, I am not ready to go there yet.

Dontcha Think?

A couple of days ago I was reading O. Henry.

Now I am reading If These Walls Could Talk - Stories from the Boston Red Sox - Dugout, Locker Room and Press Box. By Jerry Remy and Nick Cafardo.

I am a fascinating guy.

Don't you think?

Dancing Motherfuckers

How do those dancing motherfuckers do it?

Smooth, slick, effortlessly gliding along a continuum of accolades. Getting to where they are going in style and grace. They make it look so easy.

But you know it's hard. You know it's hard. At least it's hard for you.

They dance, you stumble. They dance, you fall. They dance, you crawl. They dance, your bones break.

Until you can't take it anymore.

You want to kill them, but you know you'll never catch them.

So you kill yourself.

Sweet release, eternal peace.

Call Me Crazy

O. Henry spent a few years in prison.

He said this in describing life in prison: "If a man gets sick and can't work they take him into a cellar and turn a powerful stream of water on him from a hose that knocks the breath out of him. Then a doctor revives him and they hang him up by his hands with his feet off the floor for an hour or so. This generally makes him go to work again..."

Call me crazy but I think this describes how all employees in the good ole US of A are treated.

Affectation

I have 10,001 books.

Because I read. 

I recently cleaned out the insignificant books, you know, the ones I read purely for entertainment and to forget about who I am. Brought them down to the Swap Shop at the dump - boxes and boxes - so the near-illiterate can have something to read while they drink cheap whiskey and clean their guns.

I bought two new book cases - big fellas with plenty of room - to accomodate the overflow, and reserve space for the 10,001 books I will acquire between now and my death.

I have been telling family members and friends that the remaining books will be there for my sons to pick through after I die. To get a sense of who I was, to divvy up between them if there is any interest.

I say it as if that is the primary reason I am organizing my books.

It is not. It is partially true, but the real reason is that I love my books. I love being surrounded by them.

I sit up here and look around at these book cases and reflect upon the fact that this is my life; these books represent thousands of hours of dedicated reading. Thousands of hours whose origin goes back to my youthful years, sitting on my parents' porch, second floor, 120 Winthrop Street - reading in the summertime.

I cherished those moments. I was not stuck in my room. I was outside listening to birds chirp, digging the warmth, digging the beauty and relative quiet of the street I lived on, digging that big goddamn tree that stood right in front of me. Stopping occasionally to watch cars drive by, people walk by, or just look around at the houses that surrounded me. Feel the cool breeze flowing through.

I sit here sometimes, lean back in my chair and swivel around, looking at the books that surround me. And I realize that I am looking at a reflection of my soul.

I am proud of the books I have collected. Proud of the reading I have done. I could not have lived this long without it.

I am getting lost in book reverie. But the real reason I am here today is to admit to affectation. Something I am trying to change.

The whole "doing it for my sons" thing. I say things for effect. I don't speak the honest truth. I am incapable of doing that because of the wall I have built around myself.

I cannot ever have a conversation with another human being - any human being ever in any situation - without being hyper-aware of how I am coming across, of what I am saying, of how that person is reacting to what I am saying. The only time my guard is down is when I am totally and unequivocally alone.

That is a hard and lonely truth.

I pay close atttention to people who are comfortable in their own skin - people who speak their minds in courage, people who are not painfully self-conscious - I wonder how the fuck they can do that. And I'm envious of the peace of mind it must give them.

I do want my sons to go through my books when I'm gone. I hope that a few of those books will inspire them to say "Wow, I didn't know he was into that. There was more to Dad than we knew."

But these bookcases surround me primarily for my own peace of mind, my own pride. There is an electric connection when you can look directly at manifestations of your own soul.

This is how I survive as a human being.

So Many Nights

"Death's twin brother, Sleep."

From The Dream, by O. Henry.

Exactly right.

And

There are so many nights that I have thought "if I die in my sleep tonight it will be the perfect release."

Some nights when I have thought "I hope I die in my sleep tonight."

Dexter

 "I just know there's something dark in me, and I hide it. I certainly don't talk about it, but it's there - always. This Dark Passenger. And when he's driving, I feel...alive, half sick with the thrill of complete wrongness. I don't fight him, I don't want to. He's all I've got. Nothing else could love me, not even...especially not me."

There are certain things that Dexter says that I connect with in a dark way.

The big question is.......................how many others feel the same way?

Rocky Comes To My Defense

 "Wait a minute. I'd like to explain somethin'. I ain't punchy. I got what you call like, I don't know, a relaxed brain, but I ain't punchy."

Rocky Balboa from Rocky II.

Rocky: "And that applies to my friend Joe, too. Show him some respect."

Thanks, Rocky

Life Givers

Carol and I are superior pet lovers because we recognize them as so much more than animals. 

I was reading this morning in peace and contentment when Emmy Lou and Patsy went on an insane and highly entertaining rampage.

They do this a lot. They are young. They race around this house at faster miles an hour, chasing each other, jumping onto counters, couches, chairs, running up and down the stairs, onto the bed, back down the stairs - it is so much fun to watch.

They own us. They own this house.

Our relationship is so deep and so personal and so loving that it interrupts the space-time continuum.

Pets have souls, they have minds, they have personalities.

The personality thing blows me away. What is personality? Where does it come from? In humans, in animals - I am fascinated by personality.

Partly because I don't have one. I   am   an   automaton.   I   do   what   I   am   told.

Most pet lovers feel the same thing about their relationship with their pets. I believe some of them but not all of them.

Emmy Lou and Patsy have been in this house since September 2021. They are 100% comfortable here; they are 100% comfortable with us, we are 100% comfortable with them.

When they are in my lap:

The sludge in my aorta blasts away.

My liver regenerates.

My kidneys stand up and dance.

Brain cells come back alive.

Precious cats so full of love and fun.

Life givers.

Recognition of Infancy

There is a local fuel company that dedicates a few hours on one day every year to re-fill the propane tanks of the poor.

It is a very cool thing to do. They charge $10, which is less than half of what it normally takes if you do the swap at the local grocery store.

That day was yesterday. There was quite a long line, but it was a tasteful summer day, so why not?

By the time we got out of there my knee was bothering me. We were supposed to pop over to the grocery store but I was not into it. I made that clear in a whiny, selfish way. A tone of voice driven by anger and self-pity.

Back up one frame - Carol carried the fucking propane tanks around to free my knee - propane tanks are heavy - especially after they are filled up.

I felt emasculated. Grudgingly grateful.

What a selfish jerk, huh? Carol works so hard to take care of me and to negotiate her way around my unpredictable moods. She keeps a positive attitude always. Always.

Carol carried the tanks into the house and turned around to go back out to fetch vital groceries, like Corona Light and cold cuts.

While she was gone I thought deeply about what a fucking baby I am.

When she got home, I apologized to her. I never apologize. Never apologize, never explain. Remember?

I told her I was sorry for the way I treated her, that I had treated her like shit, that I was being a baby, and that I would do better.

Carol being Carol, she said she hadn't picked up on that at all, that she didn't feel I had treated her like shit.

But I knew that I had. I know she doesn't deserve that, and I know she deserves all of my respect.

Always.

Panache

I am currently reading O. Henry: 100 Selected Short Stories.

I have read 97 of them. You ask "Well, why the fuck didn't you read the other three before talking to us?"

Because I am a go getter. An up and comer. A Junior Executive on the rise. I am pursuing my destiny like a bull after the red cape. I'll probably end up with a sword in my shoulder as the bull inevitably does, but what are you gonna do?

I can't lose one second reading another O. Henry story today. I gotta lay the foundation for a successful corporate career. And hundreds of thousands of dollars of hard earned, well deserved income.

I became aware of O' Henry quite a while ago. You can't be an avid reader like me and not come across hundreds of references that pique the curiosity. My perspective was limited - all I knew was that he is beloved by many. What I have learned is that he skewers the rich and their condescension towards the unrich quite ironically. But he also paints a sad picture of the poor - who outnumber the rich by a zillion to one, and whose ranks I count myself among.

Consistently he accentuates the folly of being a human being, no matter what your bank balance is. How we are all so fucking stupid that we waste our lives on pettiness, forgetting that death writes the final paragraph.

He is known for his surprise endings. When you read story after story you find yourself wondering what the twist in this one will be; you try to second guess O. Henry.

His real name was William Sydney Porter. He lived from 1862 to 1910. In 1891 he began work as a teller at the First National Bank of Austin. In 1894 he was accused of embezzling funds and was fired. In 1895 he was arrested on charges of embezzlement, with a trial scheduled for 1896 , but he fled to New Orleans and then Honduras. Eventually he surrendered to the court and was sentenced to five years in prison, beginning on March 25, 1898. He was released on July 24, 1901.

He was a heavy drinker. He died on June 5, 1910 at the age of 47 of cirrhosis of the liver.

Now that's a fucking life. No wonder he became such a great writer.

Creativity and self-destruction go together like a horse and carriage.

Brace yourself - I am about to buy books by Guy De Maupassant and Gustave Flaubert. Does this make me pretentious? Nooooooooooo - it makes me a fucking genius. Or, at the very least, a literary seeker.

I want to change my name to Gustave Flaubert. That would give me the panache to succeed in life.

You know what they say: Boring name, boring life.

Conquering Hero

I'm trapped like a motherfucking rat.

I am locked in a cage that fucking Harry Houdini could not get out of.

I went back to work. A week off did very little for the joy of my fucking knee. I thought I would go back to work like The Conquering Hero - no pain, no crutches. Not to be. Actually I hoped for some supernatural occurrence to save me from going back to work at all. Didn't happen. Jesus let me down once again.

I went back to work because I have to go back to work. No choice. The two most evil words in the English language.

Who am I?

I sat there, in that chair, answering that phone, and wondered "What the everloving fuck did I "do" with my life? Jesus Fucking Christ - how did I get here?

Oh, yeah - I keep forgetting - I did it to myself.

Dealing with so many customers that I just want to strangle. Strangle unto death while I look directly into their bulging eyes while reciting my mantra - "You are a self-centered pain in the ass. I am not your servant."

Monday I called Dr. Surgeon's office and left a message that I want his referral to get a second opinion on the knee. I called back on Tuesday, because I never got a call back - left a nasty message on the fucking voicemail. No humans work there.

Dr. Surgeon called back later on Tuesday. Said he would be happy to provide a referral, although "he thought my recovery was coming along fine." Got a call later that day from someone in his office telling me my records had been transferred to Dartmouth-Hithcock. She gave me a phone number to call.

I never heard back from anyone. Finally on Friday I called Dartmouth-Hitchcock. They have no record of receiving my records from Concord Hospital. None. I called Concord Hospital, spoke to a human who immediately transferred me to Medical Records before I could even get the entire sentence out of my mouth.

Voicemail. I left a fucking message at 11:30 Friday morning. Went to work. They never called back.

I am filing a grievance this weekend with Concord Hospital. Then I am going to amputate my leg.

I am truly fucked up. Never before in the history of my life has the carrot and the stick been so liberally applied to torture me, since the beginning of 2022.

Trapped in a menial job that rips my guts out. No escape. Trapped with a painful knee that is not healing, at least not fast enough for me. Trapped with an uncooperative hospital who evidently has decided I am their enemy, irregardless of my health. I am morbidly obese, which does not help the healing. Or my self-image.

Are you fucking serious? This is who I am? This is where I am?

I am not done. I will fight the hospital, I will fight the weight gain, I will fight to free myself from the oppressive burden of employment.

I know it is fashionable to defer to those who have much bigger issues to deal with than me. "Could be worse."

True. And it probably will get worse. I don't envision a good end for my life.

But am I not allowed to air my grievances? There are undeserving pricks who are living a lot better than me. 

Shouldn't they suffer?

A Worthwhile Meal

I am currently gorging on The Sopranos and Dexter.

The perfect storm of the ultimate darkness of the soul.

I am one with my universe.

Formula 1

I am digging Formula 1.

Haven't watched one NASCAR race this year, maybe watched a couple last year. Not into it anymore. No idea what is going on.

Ironic, because as we began to crawl out of the Covid Apocalypse a couple of years ago, NASCAR was one of the first sports to come back. And I watched like a junkie who hasn't fixed for half a day.

I gobbled it up, wide eyed and jubilant.

Formula 1 appeals to my sense of........................

First of all I love the cars. Beautiful Beasts. Exquisite Creatures. Strange Animals. Drivers hunched down inside like they are in a womb. Peaking out ahead as they travel over 200 mph. Over 200 mph. Beautiful.

NASCAR cars pretend to be like street cars, try to look like them. Of course that's like comparing a spaceship to a baby carriage. Formula 1 does not pretend - they put these monsters on the track - sleek and intimidating - and say "Check them out, ain't they cool?" I think they have a bit of the dark side to them.

The car manufacturers who sponsor - Mercedes, Ferrari, McLaren, Aston Martin, Alfa Romeo. Brilliant.

The circuit - Spain, Bahrain, Saudi Arabia, Australia, Italy, Monaco, Austria, France, Belgium - so fucking exotic. Christ, man - I live in NH. Fucking Rhode Island is exotic to me. Bahrain? Gotta love it.

I thrill to these fascinating locations. And people. Although it interests me that the people in the stands look and cheer just like NASCAR fans. It's the insiders who are foreign and fascinating.

I wish I lived in Spain. Or Brazil. These are my kind of people. I could feel alive there, be alive there. Alas, it is not to be. I am condemned to blandness. Hopefully my family can light my corpse on fire and barbecue over it when I die. That would be exciting, as my face melts into oblivion. 

And I bet the ribs would be fucking delicious.

More sponsors - Emirates, Rolex, MSC Cruises. Class up the ass, baby.

I catch bits and pieces of races. I don't watch from start to finish because they are usually on relatively early in the morning because the races are run in groovy locales. But I may work up to it. I need a thrill.

I can't have Blueberry Hill but I can definitely have Formula 1.

They are racing in Spain this weekend.

Perhaps I'll fly over there tonight.

Dexter

 "My devil danced with his demon and the fiddler's tune is far from over."

Dexter

No More Football

Hunter S. Thompson left a suicide note on February 20, 2005.

He titled it "Football Season Is Over."

He was a crazy football fan. So am I. I understand where he was coming from.

He didn't kill himself because football was over, there was a lot more going on there. But traditionally, after the Super Bowl, he was down in the dumps.

The Super Bowl this year was on February 13. After that I embraced the Bruins with everything that is good and god-fearing and passionate within me. I followed them all season long, but after the Super Bowl I was as a rabid Pit Bull tearing into the carcass of a hapless raccoon.

The Bruins were eliminated from the first round of the Stanley Cup playoffs on May 14. They gave me the gift of 3 more months of life. Now I am lost.

No football, no hockey. I hate this time of year sports-wise.

Thank god for the Celtics. Fighting for victory in the Eastern Conference Finals. I am not much of a basketball fan, but I'll happily jump on the bandwagon with absolutely no self-consciousness at all.

But it's not the same.

I need crazy, I need violence, I need insanity, and I will not get that from the International Badminton Tournament. Which is being held, by the way, between August 21 and August 28.

I am not well rounded when it comes to sports. Many would say I am not well rounded at all. I don't fucking care.

I can't trade one sport for another. I will happily watch NBA playoffs, golf, tennis, baseball and enjoy them - but I lose myself in football and hockey.

And since I don't like myself or my life, losing myself is the key to survival.

Middle Is Nowhere

"Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right.........

here I am stuck in the middle with you."

Took a week off from work, it did nothing for my knee. So I am going back to work today in total defeat. The knee still hurts, I didn't win the lottery.

Why not? I wasn't earning any money staying home, and my brain began to believe I was retired.

Very dangerous.

I can hurt the knee here, I can hurt the knee there - what fucking difference does it make?

I am waiting to hear from Dartmouth-Hitchcock about getting a second opinion. I set the wheels in motion on Monday. Things move slowly in the medical world.

Spoke to the surgeon who sliced me up, he told me "there are plenty of people here who can give you a second opinion."

That's like a sleazy used car salesman offering to sell me another car after the first one got towed back to the lot with a blown transmission 1 day after I bought it.

So I am in between medical expertise. I exercise, I ice, I rest, I work, I wait.

I have begun submitting writing to a copy writing website. Actually I have submitted one assignment so far. I am desperate to craft an escape clause from the shackles of being an "employee". I gotta get the fuck out of what I am into. I'm dying here. It's a life sentence from which I get no time off for good behavior.

The pay sucks. So low I am too embarassed to even tell you about it. Theoretically, as you prove yourself, you get better assignments and better pay. We'll see. It's boring and mindless. But then, every job I have ever had has been boring and mindless. Except for when I was a urine taster.

Seems a shame to use my one true talent in such an embarrassing endeavor. But what are you gonna do?

My brain continues to roil and broil. It just won't leave me alone. Continually providing evidence of the monster within and challenging me to reconcile him with the easy going fool who faces the public.

Strange days indeed.

I am in the middle with medical care. I am in the middle with employment. I am in the middle with my own fucked up self.

And I'm stuck in the middle with you.

Dexter

 "I can't have sex with Rita. Every time I sleep with a woman, she sees me for what I really am. Empty. Then she's gone."

Dexter

Unfuckingbelievable

I have been having very dark thoughts over the last month, month and a half.

The danger is that the thoughts are truth.

Been climbing into my brain, taking a real close look at what I think when I am alone in silence. It is not pretty. I am not pretty.

I present an inconsistent image to the world. The inconsistency is a result of the conflict between the act I perform every day and the real me. But what I have recently realized is that the real me is deeper and darker than I allowed myself to believe.

I used to think the real me was crazy Joe, iconoclast Joe, creative Joe, buried under a lifetime of negative shit beginning on January 1, 1954. 

During the pregnancy my mother used to think "Please expel this evil thing from my body so I can get my figure back and get on with my life" (I could read her mind). When I was born, my father grabbed me by the ankles and threw me in the trash saying "Get the fuck out of here, you pointy-headed motherfucker." The doctor pulled me out and told my father "You can go to jail, or you can raise this sorry excuse for a human being." My father chose to imprison me and enjoy his own freedom.

Anyway, crazy Joe, iconoclast Joe, creative Joe - not the problem, not the source of the conflict. Vicious Joe, cold-hearted Joe, selfish Joe, misanthrope Joe - that's the fucking problem. I am so far removed from the decent guy image I project, that my mind can't handle it.

There is a constant roiling and broiling going on in my brain. A battle. I squirm, I writhe. Exhaustion reigns supreme because a human is just not designed to live with cognitive dissonance of this intensity.

So what do I do with this reality?

I have to run away. In order to fully explore and express my dark reality I have to live amongst strangers (preferably in a warm climate). My family, my friends, could not handle the monster within.

I can't run away. As Kevin Kline said, playing Harold Cooper in The Big Chill - "I'm dug in."

I'm dug in. Dug in to the false personality I have created, dug in to the false life that false personality resulted in. If I bared my soul at this point, my family would reject me. Perhaps rightfully so.

It is absolutely fascinating how much pain and confusion a human being can inflict on oneself. Life's cruelty is not enough? You gotta torture yourself from within?

Unfuckingbelievable.

Knee - An Historic Saga

Up and down and all around.

Between the surgery and the first follow-up appointment, my intuition told me the fucking thing was not healing right. The follow-up appointment freaked me out so I shit all over the hospital and the surgeon in my sunny "how did your appointment go" text, threatening to get a second opinion. But I held off for a few days to see what might happen.

What happened was I was able to get off the crutches and walk around the house fairly comfortably. I decided this was a good sign.

At the follow-up to the follow-up appointment things were neutral. I walked in without crutches because I felt I should - it's important to keep up appearances; I was not comfortable. The knee was still swollen, we talked, Dr. Surgeon told me I could skip physical therapy if I religiously did the 10 exercises spelled out on the pages he gave me. I'm doing the exercises.

I figured out that work is fucking up my knee. I am taking time off. Exercising the knee, icing it, resting it. 

Results have been inconsistent and infuriating. The knee still hurts; the knee feels fucked up and uncomfortable and not right and like it is made of Waterford Crystal. Last week I was coming down the stairs and the fucking thing kind of popped and the pain was jagged and ragged. What the ever-loving fuck? It has been five weeks since the surgery.

I just called Dartmouth-Hitchcock to set up an appointment to get a second opinion. Get someone else to poke around inside my knee to see what's what.

I am in fucking limbo. Don't know what's going on, don't know what to do.

Why? You know where I am going with this. The answer to why is that the fucking surgeon is focused on deciding whether a Porsche or a Ferrari makes more sense, and whether or not a vacation home in Mexico is a good investment.

The condition of my knee is an afterthought to this motherfucker.

Meanwhile I am missing beautiful weather and I am missing work. And I am mean, disgruntled and prone to violence.

Real life consequences are not relevant to American doctors. 

Golf is.

Determination

 I am not giving up until I own a Movado and a Lincoln.

The Rapture

The Rapture will do me no good.

Jesus and I are not on speaking terms.

Can't Go Home Again

Have you seen Sam Waterston as Jack McCoy in the new Law & Order?

Heartbraking. 

I don't even know if the show is still on the air. The show sucks, the acting sucks and Jack McCoy is old and frail. It is impossible to accept him in that role any more. Can't go home again.

Funny thing is, he is perfectly acceptable as Sol in Grace and Frankie. That's because there are no prior expectations. And he is playing an aging man.

I used to read spy thrillers voraciously. Ken Follett and Robert Ludlum. Gobbled them up. Eventually I stopped. Had enough, I guess.

Recently I confronted a reading crisis - I let my inventory of unread books dwindle, and I was not into anything at hand. I didn't want to read the James Lee Burke book I have stored up on my tablet because I had just read one of his books. I wanted to shake up my brain.

So I downloaded a Ludlum novel to my tablet. Why not? I used to love him.

Couldn't read it. My brain would not accept it. Can't go home again.

Had a recent conversation with an acquaintence about my family, my Italian heritage, my upbringing. Got me thinking about the amazing meals my mother whipped up, the huge family gatherings we had for every occasion. I miss the meals, and wish I could relive the gatherings - I didn't give a shit about them at the time, but now I realize how cool it is to enjoy a large family gathering.

Not going to happen. Can't go home again. I have lost those things.

Besides, I think large family gatherings have been outlawed. I never hear anybody talking about them.

I often dream about going back a few decades so I can grab Keith and Craig up in my arms, swing them around and listen to them laugh. Never going to happen again.

In fact, we are getting close to the point when they will pick up their frail, old dad and swing him around into a wheelchair or a hospital bed. I probably won't be laughing.

Life just keeps running you down. You can try to capture it in pictures or diaries or fucking blogs, but life just laughs in your face and makes you older. And older. And older.

Life, in the beginning, gives you things.  

In the end, it takes things away.

Dexter

 "It's said there are seven stages of grief. I suppose killing someone with my bare hands in a men's room was my way of working through the anger stage. Whatever the other six stages are........I don't have time for them."

Dexter

Here's Why

I have begun to watch Dexter.

96 episodes aired between 2006 and 2013. I have watched 5. Got a lot more gruesomeness to enjoy.

Dexter fills a dark hole in my psyche. A very, dark hole. 

I was lost after I wrapped up Billions and Succession. I like to have a show I can watch up here on my laptop. A show that is for my brain and my brain only. I tried this, I tried that - nothing gave me the satisfaction I require.

I have dabbled in Dexter over the years. Watched an episode here, an episode there, found it very tasty. Consistency has not been my strong point. But lately I am into consistency - committing to a show and watching the shit out of it.

Dexter has gruesome violence, dark stories, evil - it satisfies all the important food groups. But Dexter the character is the icing on the cake. He is a very strange guy. Not plugged into being a human being at all. He doesn't feel or understand the things other people feel. He looks upon these "normal" aspects of being a human being as if they are strange occurrences to be studied under a microscope.

He struggles with emotion. He doesn't understand love, or pain or commitment. He is coldly detached. And not because he is an asshole; he just doesn't have it in him. These things are not part of his psychological make-up.

I love the man.

I recently explored my fascination with revenge movies, where a good or somewhat good guy beats the shit out of and kills someone who has wronged him. I still feel that is my psyche watching the shit get kicked out of me.

But Dexter goes further than that. Dexter appeals to the part of me that loves sickness, disease of the soul, gruesome violence. I don't think this is me projecting my own deserved punishment. This is just me lusting after the sickest, cruelest thing I can find. I like to cringe.

Dexter is not really about revenge, it is all about payback. But not payback for wrongs done to him. He is killing people - quite gruesomely and torturously (especially psychologically) - that deserve to die because of the evil things they have done.

Dexter is more valuable to society than any CEO or politician.

We need more Dexters.

Preferably to deal with CEO's and politicians.

Dexter

 "I like to pretend I'm alone. Completely alone. Maybe post-apocalypse or plague...Whatever. No one left to act normal for. No need to hide who I really am. It would be...freeing."

Dexter

Connections

I love Peaky Blinders. I love Billions.

I should say I used to love Billions, now I just like it. I loved it because of Damian Lewis, who played Bobby Axelrod. He played a phenomenal villain. The epitamy of the soul-less, corporate billionaire. I fucking loved his character.

He left after season 5 because his wife was sick and he wanted to be with her. I did not know who his wife was.

Season 6 of Billions was like a psycho after a lobotomy. The intensity got turned way down. The guy who replaced Lewis - Corey Stoll, who plays Michael Prince - is kind of a good guy billionaire. He's got some evil in him but it is not over the top. He's more of an evil eunuch.

I was doing some Peaky Blinders research yesterday, trying to find out when season 7 will air.

It will not. Partly due to the fact that Helen McCrory, who played Polly Gray, died. Polly Gray was Thomas Shelby's aunt on the show.

Helen McCrory died of breast cancer on April 16, 2021 at her home in London. She was 52 years old.

And she was married to Damian Lewis.

I was blown away to find this out. I am probably the only human being on Planet Earth that didn't know Damian Lewis left Billions to be with his wife Helen McCrory from Peaky Blinders.

For some reason that connection disturbs me. Two people from two shows I love touched by tragedy. Two successful and talented people touched by the viciousness of life.

Could be the talent thing that disturbs me. 

I want all talented people to be immortal and all slugs to die. If life followed that blueprint, eventually the world would be filled up with creativity to the point that the slugs could not taint it.

The world would indeed be a beautiful place.

A Strange and Embarrassing Truth

 Our cats are so often underfoot that sometimes I have to walk 10 miles to move 10 feet.

Am I Fucking Done?

Just got back from the dentist.

Finally installed the Permanent Crown, upper right side. He fashioned the temporary crown about 3 fucking weeks ago. They sent the mold out to the Official Professional Crown Manufacturer at that time. What do they get, like, 30,000 mold submissions a week? Give me a break.

More evidence for my file that the medical community does whatever the fuck they want to do - no regard for the health or convenience of the patient. 

They called me on Tuesday and told me the crown was in and they could see me on Wednesday. I said nope, doesn't work for me, how about Thursday? There was actually a moment of silence as if to imply "who the fuck am I to assert some independence?" Fuck them.

Four and 1/2 months of 2022 have been nothing but crowns, root canals, hormone therapy and knee surgery. I sense a break. An opening.

The next hormone shot is scheduled for July. If nothing else goes wrong I may get some peace in between.

I pray.

Six Days:

Taking some time off from work. Why? Because my knee fucking hurts. It's desperation time, kiddees. I go to work, my knee hurts. I get a day off, I ice it, rest it, and the pain subsides. I go to work, the knee hurts. Sense a pattern here? I have a wonderful job - I typically get one day off in a row. One day. Sometimes I get two when a magical weekend rolls around.

Grabbing me 6 days of peace, love and understanding. Gonna do nothing but knee exercises, ice and rest.

And if that does not do the trick I will not go back to work until I have answers.

But it goes deeper than that.

I need to rescue my life. When I left work last night I was immersed in an overwhelming sense of relief. A 6 day break. But I don't want to go back. I don't ever want to go back.

I have reached the breaking point with the meaningless of my life. 

I need to get the knee straight, I need to lose 750 pounds, I need to get my head straight, I need to get my life straight.

Azidoazide azide is defined as "the most dangerous explosive material in the world."

Azidoazide azide is kid stuff compared to what is going on in my brain.

Dexter

 "I can kill a man, dismember his body, and be home in time for Letterman. But knowing what to say when my girlfriend's feeling insecure............I'm totally lost."

Dexter

Boston Sports

The C's are down 3 to 2 in the second round of the NBA playoffs. The B's are down 3 to 2 in the first round of the NHL playoffs.

Shit, man - Boston sports fans are praying for two Game Sevens. Two.

That's the way it is if you are a fan of Boston sports teams. Not the Game 7 thing; the fact that we got two teams in the playoffs.

Boston sports teams are descended from heaven. We have enjoyed decades of sports excellence, especially if you are a football fan.

Boston sports teams carry weight, baby. Bruins, Celtics, Patriots, Red Sox - all storied franchises. You speak those names you are uttering a prayer. 

The Sox underachieved for 86 years, but they made up for that with a vengeance since. And the real point is that Red Sox fans hung in there. They did not run for the exits.

I wish the therapeutic value to fans of successful sports teams could be measured. You know where I stand on this. Sports gets you out of your life; it excites you, distracts you, makes you feel fucking alive. You get into it. You read about it, you talk about it. 

You get delirious. You feel. You are part of a group of thousands, if not millions, of people who are all rooting for the same thing.

A championship.

Because a championship gives you a reason to go over the top; with your emotions and your celebrations - it allows you to live your life with abandon and release the emotions you typically have to keep in a prison cell because expressing them intensely would not be considered mature or professional.

I am watching the Bruins playoffs with laser-like focus. I   am   all   in. I live with every goal they score, I die with every goal they give up. I want another fucking Cup. Period.

I am not a huge basketball fan, but I have caught the final minutes of all of the Celtics playoff games and I have rejoiced and recoiled.

Two Game Sevens, man.

If the Bruins win and the Celtics win, my life will be so much better than it has been for all of 2022. Me and milllions of my friends.

If they get eliminated, it will hurt a lot. I will be down.

Then I will take a breath and root for the Red Sox to turn it around. Shit, man, they haven't won a World Series since 2018. Slackers.

Then it's on to The PATS. Love of my life.

Sports are no joke, motherfucker.

They are life.

D. Cease

There is a White Sox pitcher named Dylan Cease.

When they put his stats up on the screen they abbreviate his name "D. Cease."

I would find that ominous if I was him.

You Only Get Away With Life.......................

Dan Vitale died. He was 66.

He was a comedian. A comedian who apparently had a big impact on Marc Maron. Yesterday, on his podcast, Marc replayed a conversation he had with Dan from 2014.

Marc opens each podcast with remarks; things he is thinking about, things that happened to him, thoughts about this cesspool world etc. In this case he talks about who Dan Vitale was, what their relationship was, he talks about death.

A lot of what he said resonates with me. He said that so many people have died recently you start to think that death is all over. I feel like death is coming at me like raindrops. Truth is it's always all over. 

"Everybody dies, people, and you never know when it will happen." Two cliches (truths) rolled into one. But if you think about it, they are somber words that define your life in black and white. No escaping these truths. They are etched in granite.

He said "You only get away with life for so long." That is the comment that got to me. I love the way he worded that.

That's what I've been doing for all of my adult existence. Getting away with life. I am not living it. I am merely getting away with it. I don't really deserve to be alive, given the enormity of my underachieving, but here I am.

I am not getting away with life in any sneaky, successful way; I am not enjoying life in a way that is way out of proportion to what I deserve. I just keep plodding along, making repetitive mistakes, moving forward without really moving forward.

Getting away with life.

Marc defined Dan Vitale as having "explosive sensitivity." These are the people who suffer and then die unfulfilled. There is no room for sensitive people in this world.

Dan struggled on stage because comedy was important to him and he was determined to get it right; he struggled on stage because he was a sensitive guy with a lot of issues who had the guts to just put himself out there. That is my definition of a heroic struggle.

The rest of us put a phony smile on our faces, go to work and talk about the weather. That's cowardice. 

Can you imagine taking all of your insecurities and problems and fears and exposing them on stage to a room full of people? Many of whom do not give a shit about your insecurities and problems and fears.

I struggle for ways to understand who I am. To explain myself. Sometimes in my own words. Sometimes in the words of others.

In this case its Marc Maron's words. "You only get away with life for so long." Thanks, man.

Requiescat in pace, Dan Vitale. I am so sorry that your life was so dificult.

In the words of Darby Brigham Rosenfeld, daughter of Tom Brigham, a friend of mine who died on January 14th: 

"May you find the peace and freedom that was always just out of reach."

The Fact Is

 "The fact is, people seldom truly speak with or listen to one another; more often than they care to admit, they deliver soliloquies, with each individual using another's remark merely as a launching pad for his or her own performance."

Yi-Fu Tuan

Hope

It is rare that I experience Hope.

It's a concept that has been beaten out of me.

I'm talking about Genuine Hope. Not the self-delusional kind we all depend on to keep plowing through our tortuous lives. Not the fake shit peddled by every fool we meet.

I'm talking about the kind of hope that stirs your soul. That makes you feel good against all odds.

May is magic. May is a month that makes me feel good. I don't know how else to describe the sensation so I call it hope. I think it is hope.

The sun shines brightly. Beautifully. The sky is blue. Birds sing. Temperature in the 60's. 70's. Sometimes 80's.

Buds are bursting on the trees. Buds bursting is the crux of the hope thing. I look at trees as I drive down the road and I feel so good. At that point we are all right on the cusp of natural beauty. When those buds pop and trees come alive you feel like a human being. Buds equal hope.

Beauty will do that to you. It is a wonder. There is so much gray in our lives that being color blind is not a drawback. May blasts right through that. You cannot ignore the color. You cannot fail to be moved by it. Especially in New England where we have just endured 5 solid months of odious, colorless, winter weather.

There is the smell of Spring. The sounds of Spring. The feel of Spring. The taste of Spring. The SIGHT of Spring.

Baby, all your senses are engaged. You   are   alive.

I experience Hope in May. Not in any specific way. I am not feeling hopeful that my life will end well or that I will successfully cultivate feelings of pride and self-confidence or that I will get to retire to a few months of peace.

It is a generic hope, but it is genuine.

That's better than nothing, baby.

Mothers Day (Devoid of Sentiment)

Mothers Day was one of those holidays we were commanded to make a 200 mile round trip to pay homage to my mother. For years and years and years and years......................like a prison sentence.

Actually we were commanded to do this for every holiday you can think of. Including Palm Sunday.

Who the fuck celebrates Palm Sunday? My family did.

There was no sensitivity in my heart on mothers day. Partly because celebrating the day was an obligation motivated by fear, not joy. Partly because of the kind of mother my mother was. To me, anyway.

I was the disappointment, my brother was the golden boy. That's a story for another time and place.

I have one burning, specific memory of a mothers day. I realized at the last minute I had no present for my mother, mainly because I did not care so I did not plan ahead. I ran out to get one. In Henniker. Henniker is a very small town. There is nothing worthwhile to buy in Henniker. Nothing.

I bought some cheap candle fucking thing and was done with it.

When my mother unwrapped it she hit the roof. She went ballistic complaining how cheap and thoughtless the gift was. Can you imagine that? She could have taken the high road, you know, it's the thought that counts. But she didn't. She went right for the jugular.

Admittedly, it was a cheap piece of shit. A pet rock would have been a better gift. But isn't a mother supposed to be sensitive to her kid's emotions? Not my mother.

That incident sums up perfectly her view of the world. And of me. That intensity of disgust and disappointment was directed at me many times over until I escaped into marriage.

Mothers Day now is sacred. It means something. Because Carol is the woman that the Mothers Day holiday was created to celebrate.

She raised our sons with sensitivity and intelligence and intuitiveness and gentleness and perceptiveness and empathy and LOVE. My sons were and are the entirety of my heart and soul and existence and it killed me to be away from them all the time working jobs that ripped my soul open to bleed.

When I was studying for a Masters Degree (which I never completed) at night I would get home after they had gone to bed. I would grab a beer and sit on the floor in the dark in their room. Many times I would sit on the floor in the dark in their room and silently cry. That's how much I hated to be away from them.

But Carol was there for them every day all day. There could be no better protector and teacher. I was 100% comfortable knowing she was in charge of taking care of my sons.

To this very fucking day Carol will tell me about something Keith would do or say or Craig would do or say that I know nothing about. Because I was not fucking there. This kills me every time it happens. There are pieces of my sons' lives that I was never a part of. I die when I think about that.

But Carol was there. And thank god for that.

Mothers Day is for Carol.

Not my mother.

Crippled Inside

 "You can shine your shoes and wear a suit, you can comb your hair and look quite cute, you can hide your face behind a smile, one thing you can't hide, is when you're crippled inside"

From Crippled Inside by John Lennon

April Is Dead To Me

April is dead and gone.

Like Jesus, between Good Friday and Easter Sunday, I lost a bit of time.

Couldn't do much with it or about it because I was hobbled. A bit of a shame because April represents the beginnings of good weather, as thin as that can be.

We are careening into May, whoa there, baby. May is exceptional. May is the first month that fulfills the promise of Spring. Today is May 7. Good weather is ripping by like a Formula 1 race car.

I have had to take drastic action.

Two Fridays in a row I have worked 11 hour days. Two weeks in a row I woke up crippled on Saturday. Back on the fucking crutches. I even iced my knee up twice at work yesterday, to no avail.

Fool me once shame on you, fool me twice shame on me. Insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result.

I get the message.

I have to work next week. There is a lot going on, the box office manager set up a schedule so me and my two compatriots cover the box office 100% of the time it is open, freeing him up to do everything he needs to do to get everything ship shape.

I cannot let him down. I have to work. But only in the box office, no shows, no 11 hour days.

I am taking the week after that off. 100%. No work at all, my strikingly handsome face will not be gracing the turf of the box office. My plan is also to take the next week off as well - 100%. Part B is negotiable to a limited extent if I make a miraculous recovery during Week 1.

I am sick of dealing with this.

I went back to work too soon and I knew it; I did it because I felt obligated to, given the poverty line that Carol and I live below.

Fuck that. It is my deeply held belief that if I wasn't working at all, my knee would be 100% healed by now.

Patient heal thyself.

However, I am not a fool. I have made provisions for our financial well being.

I bet $50 to win on Crown Pride in today's Kentucky Derby.

Wishful Thinking? (Hopefully Not)

 "Never realized the passing hours of evening showers, slip noose hanging in my darkest dreams, I'm strangled by your haunted social scene, just a pawn outplayed by a dominating queen, it's four o'clock in the morning, damn it, listen to me good, I'm sleeping with myself tonight, saved in time, thank god my music is still alive..........

and someone saved my life tonight................

From Someone Saved My Life Tonight, by Elton John and Bernie Taupin

Something I Fucking Hate About Myself

I am a straight shooter when I deal with customers at my job at The Capitol Center for the Arts in Concord of New Hampshire.

This is why people like me. No bullshit, a sense of humor and I am knowledgable.

I work with a guy who is Disingenuously Optimistic. He tries too hard. I don't like that about him, but I do like him as a human being. He's a gentle guy.

If I walked into work on Monday and announced: "I have Stage 4 Entire Body Cancer and I am going to die in 15 minutes", he would cheerily say "At least you got 10 good minutes in you."

Too much, man.

If I connect with people I am fun. If I sense any condescension or attitude, I am cold and I don't fucking hide it. That's life baby.

But there's one thing that I do that is entirely ridiculous.

I enjoy swearing. Many people will say swearing is immature, but fuck them - swearing adds punch to communication.

I am dealing with a customer, we are getting along, I'll slip a cuss word into the conversation - then I'll raise my hand to my mouth and go "Oops, sorry." Like I am embarrassed. Which I decidedly am not.

I feel like Caspar Milquetoast when I do it. It is SO disingenuous. Christ, man - if I came face to face with Jesus Christ and he asked me "Why do you say Jesus Fucking Christ all the time?", I would say "Because you're a fuckup."

I do it because I am an actor. I am paid to be an actor. But I know the customer is not buying it.

This is called affectation.

Always

It is deadly to allow ancient wounds to fester.

They always win in the end.

Wild and Precious

"I don't know exactly what a prayer is.

I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down

into the grass, how to kneel in the grass,

how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields

which is what I have been doing all day.

Tell me, what else should I have done?

Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?

Tell me, what is it you plan to do

With your one wild and precious life?"

This is an excerpt from a poem titled The Summer Day, by Mary Oliver

"Wild and precious life" seems like a far-fetched way to describe your life, doesn't it? You might have the "precious" part down - I doubt it, but you might - but wild? Then why are you so fucking bored?

Our lives may not seem wild, but they are unique - every human being is unique, every life lived is unique. That is an incredible thing to say in a world of almost 8 billions lives. You may not be jumping off of mountains, but uniqueness is what makes your life wild. Ain't nobody else on planet earth like you, baby. So shine the fucking light.

Eighty or ninety years feels like a slow moving thing until you get to the finish line. Then it is a heartbeat. That slow moving thing becomes predictable, repetition kills gratitude and blindfolds perception.

Doesn't mean that wild and precious isn't there. It is. We just become numb to it. Big mistake.

Most of us don't "plan to do" anything with our lives. We just live them. We settle into some kind of groove, usually not the one you might have imagined for yourself, and you ride that groove numbly to the point of no return. Big mistake.

"The unexamined life........"

It is all about your soul; it is not about everyday life. Enlightenment is unattainable without critical self-examination, which we usually "don't have time for."

None of this suggests weakness or stupidity on the part of tiny humans; it just is what it is. We live our lives as if we are immortal. "Oh, I have time." Meanwhile, everything is a struggle, and most of us are not strong enough to overcome the burden that everyday life becomes. To transcend it.

Plus, we don't have fucking time. Anyone can die at any moment.

None of us have answers to this situation, it has been an issue since time immemorial. Each of us has to figure out how to make "wild and precious" the first thought in our head every day and live accordingly.

And You Expect Me To Have Faith In Humanity?

From CNN: 

4/23/2022 - A 4 year-old girl in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, has died after her grandmother forced her to drink whiskey, police say.

The mother and grandmother became angry with the child on Thursday because "she may have drunk from a Canadian Mist bottle," that was on a counter, the warrants said.

The grandmother then forced the girl "to consume the remainder of the bottle which was possibly over half full while on her knees in the hallway," the warrants said.

The mother was present and didn't try to intervene, according to police.

3/14/2011

It all began on March 14, 2011.

4,070 days ago.

Not a lot of progress has been made.

What a shame.

Renovation in Progress

My brain is under reconstruction.

Your patience is appreciated.

First Things First

 Drop all manner of affectation.

Blueprint to Despair

Angry mother

Angry wife

Motherfucker

What a life

Yeats

 "The world is full of magical things - patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper."

W.B. Yeats

SVZ

Steven Van Zandt is a man of great wisdom.

When he is on air on Underground Garage, in between songs he tells stories, gives you a little history, offers obscure information about colorful characters and lots more. I live for these breaks in the music; I love the man.

His inspiration for launching Underground Garage on Sirius XM was his love of fifties music and his despair at how it got pushed aside by sixties rock. But also about the connection between the fifties and the sixties, and the continuing evolution of rock 'n roll and rock 'n soul into 2022 and beyond. His playlist blows your mind.

His knowledge is complete, his love of the music is deep.

Yesterday he gave a short dissertation, a brief history of the origins of early rock, fifties into the sixties, beginning with guys like Muddy Waters. He wound it all up by focusing on the contributions of one man - Bob Dylan. Said something like "if you were going to write songs that were personal, political, intelligent, and revolutionary - you got one man to thank for opening the door and opening eyes - Bob Dylan."

I never thought of it in those terms, but his words hit me right in the face. What I got out of it was that there was this evolution of rock music over decades that reached a pinnacle with Bob Dylan. Not that it has stopped evolving, just that this one man was so central to making music life or death to my generation.

This is one reason why I love Steven Van Zandt.

He delivered the commencement address at Rutgers University in 2017. Here is some of what he said (I'm cherrypicking) :

"Our contemporary society has forgotten what greatness is because it has no time for it. Nobody expects to experience greatness. We may not even recognise it if we saw it. Reason why greatness is scarce is because development is scarce. Development takes time. Don't let the desperate panic of mediocrity that is all around you, uncomfortably hurry your development process. Anybody who needs an answer right now, you say 'No'. You'll make your own opportunities, you'll have the choice to choose the path to greatness, in spite of our contemporary society's low expectations. It'll be up to you.................

Summing up, what did I learn in this crazy life? Two things might come in handy. When your ship comes in, you'll probably be at the airport. You can make all the plans you want, but keep your eyes open for the unexpected opportunities because that's where most of life comes from............ 

Don't compare yourself to your contemporaries, compare yourself to the best...........Hang out as often as you can with people smarter and better than you..................Don't listen to excuses and negativity about why something can't be done.....................Don't tolerate incompetence and mediocrity...........And give a little back on a regular basis, doesn't matter how small. You don't have to bring down a bad government everyday. Just do something nice for somebody. You'll feel better."

I did some research to find out who gave the commencement speech at my own graduation from Northeastern University in 1977. First of all, it says a lot that I don't even remember who it was. Looks like it was Ted Kennedy.

I would have learned a lot more from Steven Van Zandt.