FOUR DAYS (Apocalypse Now)

Here I go again.

I got fucked out of my fourth day off during the Memorial Day weekend; that ain't gonna happen this weekend.

Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday. Four glorious days. Holy days, really. I gotta get my brain right.

All I gotta do is survive tomorrow. No easy feat. 7 hours of intense boredon - SEVEN - punctuated by the occasional phone call or visit from some moron customer. Christ! This is no fucking joke. 7 hours in the box office is exquisite torture. Acid in the eyes, amputated limbs, bloodletting. Jesus fucking Christ - I am such a chump for putting myself in this position.

Going to a concert with Eddie on Saturday. I am not looking forward to the long ride to and fro and the late night, but once I am there I know I will enjoy it. Tedeschi-Trucks Band. And it will be good to spend some time with my brother.

But I am focused on Sunday, Monday and Tuesday. I have to quiet the turbulence. Release some of the pain, regain some mental discipline. Right now I get out of bed every day like a drunken fucking sailor, rocking and reeling back and forth and up and down - righteous anger, depression, fear - you know, all that positive shit.

I HAVE to break out of this cycle.

In part, I need to get back to the things I was doing last year to focus my diseased brain, to train it, engage it, discipline it. I think I'll take a whack at that. 

I need to squeeze some fun throughout the four day respite - I NEED fun, I need to look away from anxiety and worry and despair.

I need a plan. An escape route. I need answers. But I'm not a plan guy or a budget guy or a rules and regulations guy. So I need to come up with a plan for coming up with a plan.

Hmmmm, sounds like dissembling, to me.

Peace is the most important gift I can give myself over the weekend. I am burning up inside with anger and frustration and hatred. I need peace. I need peace.

Gotta get a little health shit going on. I feel so shitty, so tired, so fat, so unhealthy. I am doing some of that right now, a little exercise here and there - hopefully I can ramp that up over the weekend.

So, yeah, I am talking about The Apocalypse this weekend. A big, fucking deal. I fucking need this even more than the last time I fucking needed it. Which has probably been every fucking four day weekend of my life. But this time..........................yeah this time IS a big fucking deal.

I need some peace. I gotta have it. And I need HOPE. Something I can set my sights on, something to nourish and sustain me as life fights to drain me.

Dexter+

 "Compartmentalization began as an architectural theory. Divide buildings into sections, which can be closed-off to prevent a fire from spreading. Life can also be divided into closed off sections. Makes everything much simpler."

I was going to comment on this and say that Dexter has something else in mind than I do, but compartmentalization is what I have been talking about. What I need to survive. Closing off sections. But then, later in the episode, he says:

"Compartmentalization is a joke. Fires rip through buildings all the time, no matter how closed off parts of them are. Life is the same way; it cannot be contained."

The second comment more accurately describes my life right now.

No Sleep Till Brooklyn!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Holy shit, man - when you get old, your body fights back against you.

The Sleep Experiment: As you know I used to get to bed at 10 or 11 - wake up around 3 to go to the bathroom - lie awake until 5 and then fucking improvise from there.

I decided to move bedtime back to 12 or 1 to see if I could make it through the night. I could. I was ecstatic. I didn't wake up until 7, no 3 am bathroom break. This made me feel good about my intellectual powers - I reasoned through a problem and came up with a workable solution.

Until recently. Suddenly, I go to bed at 12 and wake up at 4:30 - and I have to go to the bathroom. Are you fucking kidding me?

I'm dying here. LOS. Lack of sleep. Exhaustion is cumulative - day after day, 4 hours sleep, you get more and more tired until you are a fucking zombie with jagged nerves and a hatred for all of humanity. Or in my case, a greater hatred for all of humanity.

Let's talk bowel movements. I used to go first thing in the morning and be done for the day. Fait accompli. Cross one item off the to-do list. Now, sometimes, I am taking a shit at 10:30 at night.

I don't need that. It is inconvenient. By 10:30 at night I am comfortably ensconced in the recliner, reviewing and regretting another day's defeats. Weary, yes, but comforted in the welcoming arms of this inanimate object that soothes me so.

Related Thoughts: All the wisdom you are force-fed over a lifetime is bullshit. Like you gotta get 8 solid hours of sleep to function. Nobody gets 8 hours of sleep. Nobody wakes up rested and refreshed.

So what do you do with half a night's sleep every night? You just fucking do. You fucking go to work. You walk around feeling high in a way that isn't pleasant. You are not supposed to feel good when you are old. It's in the rule book.

Eat 19 different vegetables every day. Get 30 minutes of aerobic exercise every day. Walk. Count your steps. Lift weights. Don't lift weights. It doesn't fucking matter. When you get old there will always be something to torture you.

LOS. Bad knees. Bad back. Arthritis. Morbid obesity.

And the worst part is that your old body fights back every time you try to make a positive change. It adapts to your adaptation and knocks you back three steps.

By the way, the lack of sleep may be playing into my anger and lack of patience and control at work. Maybe?

Generally: Right now I am just fucking angry. Irate. All the time. Every waking minute of every waking day. Unless I am too tired to be irate - then I am just aggrieved. Actually I back the anger off a little on my off days, but the undercurrent is there to remind me that all is not well. To keep me off balance.

I resumed my search for an empathetic ear - otherwise known as a therapist. Been striking out until recently - one of them said I was too dangerous for her to deal with, but that she could send some references my way. They must be her enemies. Doesn't matter - I'll take what I can get.

Started exercising on a limited basis - the fucking knee is still bothering me. But I trust the new guy - I will see him again in a week or two.

I'm still fucking fat.

I don't know, I am trying, but moving forward at 25 mph while my body deteriorates at 125 mph feels like a losing proposition.

Maybe if I start taking speed...................

Wimbledon!!!!!!!!!

 Once again, I am gorging at the trough.

What Is A Swiatek?

While I was watching the French Open I became intimately acquainted with Iga Swiatek.

She is ranked #1 in the world by the Women's Tennis Association, and is the youngest player ranked in the top ten. She's 21. When I was 21 I still couldn't tie my shoelaces.

She just won her opening round match at Wimbledon, extending her winning streak to 36. She has won 36 consecutive matches, giving her the longest unbeaten streak since Venus Williams set the record at 35 in 2000.

She has won the French Open twice, reached the semi-finals in the Australian Open this year, reached the first round at Wimbledon in 2019, and the second round at the US Open in 2019.

She is a fucking God.

I think I have run across her in the past, but I was probably numb with shock at the time as I considered options for escape from my paltry life. I was wide awake during the French Open and disgusted with myself for not knowing much of anything about her.

I know a lot about her now. Talk about dominating a sport. Impressive.

I will be following her through Wimbledon. Her, and my man, Rafael Nadal, who is currently playing Francisco Cerundolo in the first round and who won the first set 6-4, and is up in the second 4-2.

Please do something for me - please deposit $300,000 to my account, so I can pay off my fucking Eternal Mortgage and have a little left over for Arby's, and so I can buy tickets to the US Open.

Hint: The Open begins on August 29 - you have time to accumulate the necessary cash.

P.S. - I still can't tie my shoelaces. I am 68.

Some Thoughts

 "Sometimes people have to be allowed to have something to live for in order to survive everything else."

"The worst thing we know about other people is that we are dependent on them. That their actions affect our lives. Not just the people we choose, the people we like, but all the rest of them: the idiots. You who stand in front of us in every line, who can't drive properly, who like bad television shows and talk too loud in restaurants and whose kids infect our kids with the winter vomiting bug at preschool. You who park badly and steal our jobs and vote for the wrong party. You also influence our lives, every second.

Dear God, how we hate you for that."

From Us Against You, by Fredrik Backman

Dexter

 "I'm perfectly comfortable with bodily fluids: blood, snot, tears. But the emotions that go along with them, not so much."

Dexter

You Gotta Laugh (for Christ Sake)

I was listening to Marc Maron talking to Dana Gould - a comedian - on Marc's WTF podcast.

They were discussing aging parents. Marc's dad is experiencing dementia. Marc often talks about how hard it is to deal with, how hard it is to see. Of course he slips humor in there as well, which I respect - you can joke about these things, you don't always have to be all doom and gloom.

Dana's dad is 91 and is also slipping into dementia. Whoever is with him "helps" him remember things. But apparently he is doing OK, considering.

Dana's mom is in very bad shape. He said she is sick in bed and will probably never get up again.

He also said "Nobody's buying her any green bananas."

I burst out laughing at that one.

Today's Agenda

Carol is going out drinking and carousing with her family today.

Going to see Menopause The Musical. I am so happy for her; I think this is the third time she will be seeing it - she loves it. And she's going with her Aunt Annette, her Aunt Paula and her cousin Ronda - three women with whom she shares a close and loving relationship. Fun crew.

Going to the show, going out to dinner.

Here's what this means for me. Five to six hours of solitude. At a time when I really need it. Really need it.

I worked a show yesterday afternoon. I was snapping at customers. Literally snapping at them. With a cold, condescending attitude. Of course this was a dance crowd. Any show that involves children dancing includes entitled parents - truly obnoxious semi-humans who think everyone at the show is there to serve them humbly, every stupid request, every stupid question, every stupid imaginary problem.

Sorry, assholes - that ain't me.

They have such an attitude; they are truly the worst customers to deal with.

This cannot go on. I am snapping at customers, snapping at co-workers, loudly complaining at every turn, dropping into despair on work days, doing whatever the hell I want to.

Typically the box office at CCA closes 1/2 hour after the show starts. I closed exactly 1/2 hour after the show started because I was screaming inside. Grabbed everything up and stored it in the overnight room. As I walked back towards the desk Robert said "Oh, you didn't hear the announcement?" I said "What announcement?" He said "We are contracturally obligated to keep the box office open for 1 hour after the show starts." I replied "Fuck that" and walked out.

This cannot go on.

Today I am going to try to unscramble my brain. I am going to write, I am going to read, I am going to exercise as much as my body and knee will allow, I will eat healthy all day, I will watch TV and then I will.............. barbecue the gorgeous Delmonico steak Carol picked up for me.

No whiskey, maybe some wine with the steak.

The goal here is to try to climb down from this mountain of anger and despair that is suffocating me.

Temporarily. That's the best I can do for now. 1 Day. 1 day to rest my soul, soothe my mind and calm my nerves. Before I fucking implode.

Unfortunately I gotta work extra hours this week because BossMan is away on vacation. At least there is only one show to deal with, so the chance of dead customers is minimized. But even being in the box office during the day makes a mockery of my life.

I have today. Remember I talked about compartmentalizing? If there ever was a day, today is it. My body must be relieved of the poision that runs through it like a raging river.

I'll do the best I can.

Deep Truth

 "The love a parent feels for a child is strange. There is a starting point to our love for everyone else, but not this person. This one we have always loved, we loved them before they even existed. No matter how well-prepared they are, all moms and dads experience a moment of total shock, when the tidal wave of feelings first washed through them, knocking them off their feet. It's incomprehensible because there's nothing to compare it to. It's like trying to describe sand between your toes or snowflakes on your tongue to someone whose lived their whole life in a dark room. It sends the soul flying."

From Bear Town, by Fredrik Backman

An Obscenely Fat Man Once Rolled Down A Hill

Rupert stood atop the hill and felt the thrill.

He heard about this place. A beautiful spot where parents brought their children to fly. One hell of a steep hill - the incline was intimidating to adults, exhilirating to kids. Because kids live and adults dream.

The grass was thick like a carpet. That's what made this hill so unique.

The poor kids could slide down on pieces of cardboard, the rich kids rode plastic sleds specificially manufactured for this sort of thing. No one got hurt, everybody laughed.

Rupert was alone in the world. He had no friends, his family shunned him. He was fat. Obscenely so. Society condoned his isolation. He didn't matter. So he retreated within himself.

Rupert didn't mind, not really. He knew he was a freak show. Uncomfortable silences wherever he went. Stores, restaurants, libraries, movies - he grew used to it. Besides, he had his books. His precious books.

And streaming on TV. Anything that interested him anytime he wanted. No reason to leave the house.

Except for work. Lowly wages for a lowly job. They kept him in the basement, babysitting ancient files. Paper files in manilla folders. No windows, no air conditioning. The lack of A/C really wasn't a problem, the basement was a dark, damp cave. Rupert didn't mind.

One thing Rupert craved was exhiliration. Just a taste. His life was a level surface - no highs, no lows. No laughter, no excitement, no companionship. It was ok but still, he wondered. What would it be like to feel, to just let go.

He had heard about these kids on the hill, he wanted to experience their joy,  even though he was not sure he could recognize joy with nothing to compare it to. So he drove 55 miles to be there. And here he was.

The kids laughed raucously, Rupert laughed cautiously. Leaning out and over, thrilling to the total abandon of the children, the willingness to just let go and feel.

Then he slipped; he began to roll. At first he was terrified but quickly realized there was nothing to be gained from that. So he just let go.

And he laughed and laughed and laughed. He was flying, his soul had been released, his heart was pumping and he was alive. He thought he would die, he could not believe he could feel so vibrant.

He rolled and rolled and rolled, until he reached the bottom of the hill, where he landed on his back staring up at the beautiful, blue sky. It took a moment to catch his breathe from the ride and from looking at that sky. My God, what he had been missing.

When he stood, he noticed all the kids pointing at him and laughing. Cruelly mocking him. He saw the parents looking away. His shoulders slumped, his smile died, his joy vanished.

Once more he retreated within himself. He had no idea how he would get back to his car - climbing a hill is no easy task for an obscenely fat man. But he had to get out of the line of vision. Or die.

So he walked towards the woods and disappeared amongst the trees.

The parents and children were safe and comfortable in their world one again.

Rupert cried in his.

He regretted just letting go.

Something To Think About

When I am watching Dexter and Patsy jumps up into my lap....................

am I committing a crime against God?

That's It, Baby

 "Hockey is just a silly little game. We devote year after year after year to it without ever really hoping to get anything in return. We burn and bleed and cry, fully aware that the most the sport can give us, in the very best scenario, is incomprehensibly meager and worthless: just a few isolated moments of transcendence. That's all.

But what the hell else is life made of?"

From Bear Town, by Fredrik Backman

This Is My Future

I want to quit my job.

"Want" is way too benign a word - I ache to quit my job. Every fiber of my being cries out for me to quit.

Every day that I go to work I am as a Waterford Crystal goblet smashed against the wall.

I can't quit. What are you fucking kidding me? We are already living on Spam and Cheetos.

I can't quit because This Is My Future:

Soon we will probably be paying $5, $6, $7, $10 per gallon for oil to heat the house. Deal breaker. Can't afford it, gotta keep working. I am thinking about picking up a nice factory job. I hear there is a solid future in computers. I am so grateful to have options.

There will be an explosion. I am a psychopath at work. I have lashed out at my boss twice recently and he does not deserve that. He is a caring, considerate, empathetic guy. 

I shit on a co-worker while working a show last Saturday. Just lashed out at the guy. He is a serial Disingenuous Optimist. Works for him but disgusts me when he forces it on me. The show was a cluster-fuck of stupidity, I was angry, he insisted on revving up phony optimism - I struck. He didn't deserve it. At heart, he is a nice guy.

At the same show, I ranted like a lunatic behind the scenes before I opened up the fucking box office. People were circling around me as if I was a wounded bull. Which I was.

So there you have it. My future as it now sits ensures that I will work until I die. My mind, my heart, my soul are shattered and on life-support because I have to work.

This is an untenable reality.

There will be an explosion.

This Is My Future.

Unless I do something to change it. Anybody taking odds?

A Thing That Moved Me

Watched a thing the other day that moved me.

A woman in the show just went through a difficult time and she breaks down. I mean really breaks down.

Sobbing uncontrollably, but at the same time, trying to explain where she is coming from. In a nutshell she is saying that she is a fuck up, that no matter what she tries to do she always makes bad decisions that fuck up her life, and that there is nothing she can do about it. Because she is a fuck up.

Really hard scene to watch because she has opened up her soul, wide open and vulnerable. The actress was unbelievable - put her heart and soul into it. Sobbing, choking, tripping over words, gasping - her entire being was engulfed in pain - she was pain.

I feel like that a lot.

Father's Day

I was more comfortable around my family on Father's Day than I have been for a very long time.

It was a beautiful, peaceful, comfortable day.

I have been exposing disturbing truths about myself, but not really expecting anything to come from it. But I am beginning to think that I am releasing pressure, that these harsh internal looks are freeing something up inside me.

I guess you gotta be ready to accept shit like that.

Anyway, I am always uncomfortable around my family. Around anyone, really. Always. Self-conscious. Wondering how I am coming across. What do I sound like. What reality am I projecting. Can I successfully plaster over unhappiness with a show of confidence and good humor?

I did not feel that way last Sunday. Amazing feeling. I came pretty damn close to just being myself. The ultimate benefit was that I could enjoy my family in a genuine way, instead of through a smoke screen of self-doubt and endless interpretation.

The power of that situation was mind blowing to me.

My family is magic. Everybody says that about their families, some are delusional, some speak the truth, but for me there is no doubt. I get feedback. Mutual acquaintences compliment me on my sons, and on the women they love.

I don't have to say anything. I just sit back and enjoy the feeling of pride in my soul.

But there is often a gulf between that pride, and the reality of my disturbed mind in the presence of my family. That gulf did not exist on Sunday. Their love traveled directly to my heart, and mine to theirs.

Holy shit, is this the way it is supposed to work?

Powerful, peaceful and life-affirming.

Gotta get me some more of that.

And Then My Brother Called

Carol and I get home on Sunday night, Father's Day night, and I am sitting in my recliner in natural happiness.

I enjoyed the day so much. I was relaxed and content.

And then my brother called. I am very uncomfortable with my brother. My fault, not his.

He called to wish me a happy father's day. He is very considerate like that; he often calls just to check in with me, to see how I am doing. I never call him like that.

He has replaced my parents as the phone call that makes me nervous. It is fucking ridiculous, but I haven't figured out how to deal with it yet. When I talk to him I am not myself. I hear it in my voice. I say things I would not normally say, and I say things in ways I would not normally say them.

I feel like my life is paper thin compared to what he has dealt with. I have no right to complain about anything to him. I also feel that it is quite obvious I have done nothing with my life, while he keeps moving forward and finding ways to succeed and to enjoy himself.

I want to get off the phone as fast as possible.

This has to stop. I love my brother. My respect for him is enormous. I have to stop feeling like I have something to prove to him; I have something to prove only to myself. But, of course, it is not that simple.

I am painfully aware of my lack of accomplishment, and tortured with clarity over the strength and success he has shown.

The contrast between how beautiful Father's Day made me feel, and the discomfort of that phone call, was jarring. Knocked me off balance for a while.

I got work to do. Truth is I will never feel good about myself until I do something with my life.

Tick, tick, tick.

Until then I have to find ways to minimize the way I poison important relationships.

How You Feeling Today?

 "All adults have days when we feel completely drained. When we no longer know quite what we spend so much time fighting for, when reality and everyday worries overwhelm us and we wonder how much longer we're going to be able to carry on. The wonderful thing is that we can all live through far more days like that without breaking than we think. The terrible thing is that we never know exactly how many."

"Anxiety can act as internal gravity, shrinking the soul."

From Bear Town, by Fredrik Backman

Work

 "I do not particularly like the word work. Human beings are the only animals who have to work, and I think this is the most ridiculous thing in the world. Other animals make their livings by living, but people work like crazy, thinking that they have to in order to stay alive. The bigger the job, the greater the challenge, the more wonderful they think it is."

Masanobu Fukuoka

Sadness

Overwhelming sadness suffocates every instinct, survival strategy, and coping mechansim; it murders the future and crushes with the pressure of a 20 ton weight.

You can't see it. It is masked. Walk tall. Maintain the pose. Be quick with a smile. 

Make people laugh, even though there is no laughter to draw from.

But read the mind, catch a glimpse of the internal posture - you will be horrified.

How can one function at all, torn between a dark reality and an adopted persona? Given the magnitude of the stress, the body should just explode. Blow apart like a grenade, spreading bloody shrapnel across the landscape.

But it doesn't work like that. A mind, a body, a life at war with itself implodes. Collapsing violently inwards. Silently.

This is neater, and much more considerate, leaving room for others to pretend. Pretend that all is well; with themselves and with those around them.

But the collapse is inevitable. A house divided...............

A life becomes unmanageable. Undetectable fractures become fissures, fissures lead to shattering and suddenly....

"What did he just say? Did he really do that? Where did that come from?"

There are consequences, the curtain falls, people look the other way and move on.

Until it happens again.

Clinical Question For You

 Is there a difference between depression, and feeling sorry for yourself?

For Your Soul

 Blues tells the truth in a world full of lies

The Knee (Again, Joe? For Christ Sake)

Did the second opinion thing this past Monday.

First off, I knew right away I would like the guy because the examination room was plastered with high quality, framed pictures of THE PATS and the Bruins.

Yeah, baby.

The guy was great. We talked a lot, he asked a lot of questions, then he gave me an examination that went way further than anything Dr. Schmuck ever did.

First he delicately poked and probed. Does that hurt? Then he got aggressive. Put one hand on the right side of my knee, grabbed my foot with the other hand and pressured my foot to the right. Put one hand on the left side of my knee and pressured in reverse. Had me lie back, grabbed my foot and bent my leg back towards my chest.

No pain. So that was a good sign.

He explained that everything that was happening to me sometimes does, so don't panic.

But he was surprised that the knee is still swollen and still has fluid in it. He prescribed some pills for that. Prednisone. A corticosteroid. I've always wanted to use that word. I hear it constantly in all those bullshit "used car salesman" prescription medication adds on TV.

It's helping. But not dramatically.

So here's where I come down on all this. I still experience pain, but not a lot. That is surprising to me 9 weeks after surgery. Still, it does not shrink my expansive lifestyle too much. The knee still feels uncomfortable, awkward and fragile when I walk on it a lot, but again - nothing I can't live with.

I've been off crutches for a couple of weeks. So I just gotta ride it out.

Dr. Feelgood told me to keep exercising it, keep icing it, and to call him in a month.

So that's what I will do.

This thing turned into a monster, but what are you gonna do? I'm 68. If I can take a healthy shit in the morning and gum down my Wheaties, the day is already a success.

Work

 "I have no profession," said Cecil. "It is another example of my decadence. My attitude - quite an indefensible one - is that so long as I am no trouble to anyone I have a right to do as I like. I know I ought to be getting money out of people, or devoting myself to things I don't care a straw about, but somehow, I've not been able to begin."

E.M Forster, A Room with a View.

The Saddest Song in the World

 "Moonshine whiskey, outta be a crime, when I start drinkin', I'm bound to lose my mind, oh Brother, got to get it a few more time, now what's that smokin', yonder 'cross the hill, looks like our secret hideaway, we had so many years, John Law done come and run us away from here.

He burned down the liquor store

He burned down the liquor store

John Law burned down the liquor store

John Law burned down the liquor store"

Bullshit! Are you fucking kidding me? John Law sucks, man - committed to depriving people of fun unless he can make a few bucks off it.

The band we dug on the Henniker bandstand this past Tuesday night was Peabody's Coal Train. Six guys playing acoustic Americana. Covers and originals. Guitar, mandolin, bass, banjo, harmonica. Superb.

They sang John Law Burned Down the Liquor Store. Never heard it before; it caught my attention that night. This is the beauty of these concerts, you never know what you're gonna get but it is always good.

Next week: Downtown Horns. Jazz, blues, R&B and Latin. Are you kidding me? In little ole Henniker?

The following words escaped my lips on Tuesday night, directed to Carol: "We should come to every one of these concerts this year."

Holy Moly, where did that come from?

Every year we wiffle and waffle, procrastinate and get lazy, and eventually go to 2 or 3 concerts. But that night really got to me. Don't forget, I went there as a prisoner handcuffed by depression who wanted nothing more that night than to stay home. No human contact.

But shit, man - the variety of music offered is stunning. And talented. And inspiring. Why not check all of it out? And get out of the house, and eat, and talk, and laugh on a precious summer night? BE ALIVE.

That's the goal. Remember, Winter is Coming.

But in the meantime, if John Law burns down the liquor store, I'll break his fucking head.

Triples Tennis

I need a plan for post-fatness.

I have to get dignified (I can't say skinny because I will never again be skinny. Unless........) I will not be a FAT FUCK at Craig and Amanda's wedding. I have until October.

I want to take up tennis again when the knee is "healed". But not just any kind of tennis. Triples Tennis.

I have to reinvent the game. Even doubles tennis would be too strenuous for me at this stage of my life.

I petitioned the ITF - International Tennis Federation, for permission to invent Triples Tennis. The ITF is the world governing body for the sport of tennis. I used to play tennis. They have to take me seriously. Don't they?

I got a response on letterhead that had a picture of Moe, Larry and Curly up top. The response was short and sweet.

"As the world governing body for the sport of tennis, we cannot seriously consider adding Triples Tennis to our roster, although we appreciate your devotion to the game and your innovative attempt at modernizing it to appeal to elderly fans like yourself.

However, we do not want to turn our backs on you as an avid fan. We are offering you an opportunity to keep Rafa's balls clean at every tournament he competes in from now on, beginning with Wimbledon on Monday, June 27.

We have enclosed a self-addressed stamped envelope to accomodate your timely response."

I am not quite sure how to interpret that response or the letterhead, but I feel like, perhaps, I am beginning to earn the respect I have always craved.

Work

 "To earn one's bread by the sweat of one's brow has always been the lot of mankind. At least, ever since Eden's slothful couple was served with an eviction notice. The scriptural precept was never doubted, not out loud. No matter how demeaning the task, no matter how it dulls the senses and breaks the spirit, one must work. Or else."

Studs Terkel

(Editor's note - Studs Terkel is known, in part, for his collection of oral histories. One of which was titled Working - People Talk About What They Do All Day and How They Feel About What They Do.

Read it. It is excellent.

The Power of Music Alfresco on a Bandstand in a Small Town on a Summer Night

Henniker sponsors a summer music series.

Every Tuesday night, downtown at the bandstand on the lawn, starting in June and running through August 30. Very cool. Blues, rock, jazz, bluegrass, pop, big band, and reggae. You kidding me? In little downtown Henniker? For free?

The first concert kicked off this year's series this past Tuesday night. Carol and I attended. Gorgeous night in a beautiful setting.

It is exactly what you picture a small town event to be. Kind of like that Michael J. Fox movie - Doc Hollywood. Hundreds of people with fold-out chairs, coolers, dogs, children. The average age of the audience is 83 (and I factored in the kids).

Doesn't matter. We really dig it. We pick up subs, set up the chairs, chow, and dig the music. So sweetly peaceful.

Here's the catch. I was down on Tuesday. All day. Really, really down. Strange, but as I analyze myself, as I get more honest about my shortcomings, it seems to bring on depression. Because I am creating a vacuum. Out with the old, in with............................nothing. I got no plan. Not sure what the hell to do.

It was Carol's idea to attend the concert. I did not want to leave the house. Buying subs meant I would have to deal with people. Going to the concert meant I would have to deal with people. I did not want to have to talk to another human being.

I agreed to go because I owe it to Carol. My unhappiness should not infect her happiness.

I survived the sub shop, I survived setting up the chairs, sat down, took a look around and smiled inwardly. Such a beautiful spot, such a gorgeous night. Began to chow, the music started up, and I was happy. I felt good. Just like that. 

Digging Carol's company. Talking to each other, making each other smile. She spotted a little "learning to walk" girl and pointed her out to me. We watched her stagger, watched her ass hit the ground. Carol so loves that, she never got her little girl. I reached out unconsciously, no premeditation, and grabbed Carol's hand in mine. What the hell was that?

Digging on the setting - little kids running around, the tiny girl just learning to walk, older kids throwing balls around, dogs everywhere getting lots of attention. I love that. People randomly walking up to dog owners asking "OK if I pat him?" The dogs rolling over and lapping up the love. As dogs should.

People tapping their feet, bobbing their heads, buying raffle tickets, food, eating ice cream, pulled pork sandwiches; wrestling food out of their picnic baskets.

What an incredibly peaceful, simple, happy vibe.

Conversations, smiles. Are you shitting me? Is this what happy humans do?

Five minute ride from the house. Doesn't get any easier than that.

I have some "real" concerts lined up this summer. In fact, I just got screwed out of my first one last night. Me and Phil had tickets to see Devon Allman in Concord - Gregg Allman's son. The show got cancelled because of small ticket sales.

Going to see Tedeschi-Trucks on July 2 in Gilford, NH with my brother Ed. Going to see Marshall Tucker on July 29 in Beverly MA with Phil.

It takes work to go to these concerts. Gotta drive. Watch alcohol intake, deal with crowds. Bathrooms (very important for a 68 year old male). Late night.

Honestly, I am not that excited about going to these concerts. I would rather enjoy The Power of Music Alfresco on a Bandstand in a Small Town on a Summer Night.

I am so glad Carol inspired us to enjoy it.

Dexter

 "But what do I have to offer a child? Just me. Demented daddy Dexter. Maybe I'm making the biggest mistake of my life."

Dexter

Honey

 I don't like Dads who call their young sons honey.

Paris vs London

I have adopted the habit of watching the Tennis channel in the morning as I eat my wheaties.

There is always a tournament going on somewhere. Today they were flicking back and forth between London and Berlin.

Know how you know you are doing the right thing? When you get a peaceful feeling in your gut.

That's how watching tennis makes me feel.

Big difference between an audience in Paris and one in London. I got a solid taste of Paris while watching the French Open. Fell in love with Roland-Garros. That is the next t-shirt I will buy.

Parisians are elegant, they dress well, they exude an air of confidence (perhaps condescension), they are skinny. Londoners are frumpy. I saw some women in frumpy house dresses. The men have guts. They don't smile. They have that stiff upper lip thing going on. Their faces are stern. Parisians' faces look they are anticipating their next glass of designer wine.

Parisians look like they are enjoying themselves. Londoners look like they are concerned that they are missing work.

At first I thought it was in my head. I am into exotic lately. Paris is exotic. London is not. Perhaps I am biased.

So I focused on the crowd shots, I did my homework, I put the work in - and I am right.

There is a difference.

Happy to visit both places.

But I'd rather spend time in Paris.

Watertown

I was driving home from work at night recently when I slid on over to the Sinatra channel, which I have set on Sirius XM.

I don't go to it as much as I used to because it feels like it is 75% Others and 25% Sinatra. It's like gambling on roulette; the ball rarely seems to drop on Sinatra. I don't mind if it's Dino or Tony Bennett, but I just don't like a lot of the other stuff they play. Like Eydie Gorme. I am not a huge Eydie Gorme fan.

I struck gold that Friday night. Stumbled upon a program called In Conversation. This one featured a conversation with a guy named Bob Gaudio about a Sinatra album titled Watertown, released in March of 1970. Watertown was produced and co-written by Gaudio.

It is a concept album. Concept albums tell a story; the songs give you different aspects of the story and are meant to tie together.

Ed O'Brien (the interviewer) and Bob Gaudio went throught the album song by song, with Gaudio explaining what the song meant to convey and giving a little history of the writing and recording of it. Then they would play the song.

I love stuff like this because music and poetry are illusive; you take from them what you will. For me, when I understand what the artist is trying to say, it makes the experience more meaningful.

This album is beautiful. It is emotional. The story is about a man from Watertown, New York whose wife has left him and their two boys to chase her dreams in New York City. Sinatra is the man, telling his story from a place of sadness and resilience.

The first song is called "Watertown". It describes the town and creates a mood within which the story can be told. Great line from this song: "Old Watertown, everyone knows, the perfect crime, killin' time". 

The second song is "Goodbye (She Quietly Says)." Devastating. The husband and wife are sitting in a coffee shop, recognizing that they are splitting up, but the conversation has no emotion. They are blowing their lives up but not honestly expressing what they feel.

There is a song called "Michael & Peter." The husband is talking about how the kids, Michael and Peter, are doing. It is heartbreaking.

There is a song called "She Says", which leads you to believe that the husband and wife have been communicating, that the wife has sent a letter saying she is coming home.

The last song is called "Train." In this song you find out that the husband and wife never communicated at all, that the songs that feel like the husband is talking to the wife are really the husband's thoughts. You find out she is not coming home.

The album is beautiful. It is sad. It feels like real life.

You should listen to this album. It might soften you up a bit.

Work Ethic

"Apparently I lack some particular perversion which today's employer is seeking."

From A Confederacy of Dunces, by John Kennedy Toole

You're Hurting My Feelings

 I was watching an episode of Dexter and one of the characters says to his workmates "You're hurting my feelings."

I know this is a strange context from which to bounce, but thoughts resonate with me in strange and mysterious ways.

He's a great character, with a twisted perspective and a wicked sense of humor. His workmates have been busting his balls about his personality, so he changes. He gets quiet. He gets angry. Finally they ask him what the hell is going on and he replies "You're hurting my feelings."

That should be the most powerful admission one human being can make to another. If someone says that to you, you should fall down shaking and crying. In shame and regret.

When you dig down below the three feet of bullshit we all burrow under to protect and hide ourselves, you get to feelings. How we feel about ourselves, how we feel about each other, how this makes you feel, how that makes you feel.

Feeling is everything. Feeling is life. Feeling can suffocate you. Feeling can destroy you.

How we feel about ourselves is probably the most important aspect of our character. That opinion impacts everything else. It impacts the face you show to the world, it impacts how you treat other people, it impacts how others treat you, it impacts how you deal with life.

The amazing and fragile thing about this is that for most of us, how others feel about us impacts how we feel about ourselves.

That's a tricky equation, baby.

Few of us are born tough. The rest of us get tough as we move along through life. This is toughness that is layered on, that develops in response to what we are dealing with. It is not one thing; there is no universal definition of toughness because there is no universal human.

Do people who are born tough have feelings? I don't know. Maybe natural toughness supercedes emotion.

The rest of us definitely have feelings and we have to deal with them.

Try not to hurt somebody's feelings.

You are damaging their soul.

Dexter

 "But if you play a role long enough, really commit, does it ever become real? Could I become real?"

"Most actors toil in obscurity, never stepping into the spotlight. But if you hone your craft, work diligently, you might just find yourself cast in the role of a lifetime."

Dexter

It Has To Be Said

I have covered this territory before, but now seems like a good time to reiterate. Forcefully.

There are two people in my life who have demonstrated - vividly - what it takes to be a survivor. Under the harshest of conditions.

My wife had a mastectomy in September of 2017. She had a tumor removed from her brain in November of 2017. We are talking two months between mastectomy and brain tumor removal. She received the diagnoses for both within a week of each other. Her life was radically altered in a fucking heartbeat.

The surgery to remove the brain tumor left one side of her face sagging like that of a stroke victim. Affecting her speech, and eating. She had surgery to repair her sagging face in February of 2019 that spanned two days because a lot went wrong.

That surgery repaired nothing.

Through all of this she has remained strong and positive. Unbelievably so. Never giving up, never pulling the "woe is me" shit that I always pull. She hates the condition of her face but she deals with it and keeps a positive attitude towards life. A strong and positive attitude.

My brother's only son died of a heroin overdose in December of 2014. His only son, his only child. He was broken but he dealt with it. He got therapy, he stayed involved with all of the activities that make him who he is, he continued to work. It was so difficult for him for so long but he never gave up, he never did the "woe is me" dance. He just kept on dealing with all of it. And he emerged strong and successful with a new life and a new wife. Unbelievable. Strong and positive.

In addition, I have four other family members whose children have died. Four. And all of them made it through.

Six family members who have walked through hell and survived it.

Given the fact that I have witnessed all this misery suffered by my family, and that I have witnessed amazing strength from all of them as they dealt with it, I have nothing to complain about. Ever.

Still, I whine because my part-time job prevents me from watching the French Open. I whine about my knee. I whine about being fat. I whine about not being retired.

This is the weakness I have spoken of previously. It's embarrassing. It is an insult to my family.

Strong and positive are two words that no person has ever used to describe me.

I have been writing in this blog for 11 years. There is a great deal of whining in there. Think about that. 11 fucking years of openly whining in front of family members and friends who read my words. With no shame.

As if whining is legitimate, as if my life is so fucking hard that I have to cry about it in front of family and friends. With no lessons learned, no progress, no change, no forward movement. The same fucking complaints over and over again.

Like an insane person.

What do I do?

I change. 

If I do not change I will self-loathe myself into the grave. Which would be a waste of my life, and the ultimate insult to my family who have shown such strength.

After Scrooge's perspective was altered by his three ghost friends, and after he reconciled with his nephew Fred, and Fred's wife Janet, Janet tells Scrooge that he has made them both very happy.

Scrooge quietly replies "Have I?", as if he's never been told that before.

This is how I want to feel when my family tells me that I have changed, that I have learned how to be strong and how to make myself happy. And that is what I want to hear from them, that I have made them very happy. And I would reply "Have I?"

Scrooge goes on to say one more thing, which is the only thing I can say today:

"God forgive me for the time I've wasted."

PRETEND

 "I see them all hanging up before me, like clothes on a rack, all the jobs, tinker, tailor, soldier, and you have to pick one and then you have to pretend for the rest of your life that that's what you are.

Graham Swift, from Last Orders.

Dexter

 "I've never been great at conflict resolution. Not without a blade, and several rolls of plastic wrap."

Dexter

A Real Slap in the Face

 " Normal is.......getting dressed in clothes that you buy for work, driving through traffic in a car that you are still paying for, in order to get to the job that you need so you can pay for the clothes, car, and, especially, the house that you leave empty all day in order to afford to live in it."

Ellen Goodman

When I Get To Thinking

When I get to thinking.............

I cringe.

I think about what I don't have and what I should have done.

I think about the pain inflicted on others, 

the enormous pain inflicted on myself.

I wonder why this is the life I chose.

I reflect upon the things I should never have done;

and wonder why I repeated them.

Some people learn from their mistakes. I am not one of them.

I wield my mistakes as a vicious blade, meant to cut, 

to maim, to punish.

Pain overwhelms, but I run towards it time and time again.

Never thinking that a quick sidestep or reflective thought 

might stop the bleeding.

Thoughts of salvation lie dormant in my mind.

Numb. Beaten into submission.

When I get to thinking................

I cringe.

Mercurial

 Ultimately, when attempting to understand my lot in life, one can chalk it all up to the fact that my moods are mercurial.

Psyche Eval

I am currently vibrating at the speed of Confusion.

Been taking a close look at myself and setting down painful truths for all to see. Obviously, there is work to be done.

Cliche has it that it is a good first step to be honest with yourself about yourself. Potentially cathartic.

I feel no catharsis. The words are fine, and it is noble to trumpet one's shortcomings to the heavens, but the ultimate release comes from the "doing."

Hence my current discomfort. I am squirming like an indicted murder suspect caught in a lie on the stand.

I must begin the "do." Feels overwhelming at this stage, I mean, how the hell do you atone for a lifetime of failure and underachivement with the sword of Damocles hanging over your head?

I'm talking about you, Grim Reaper.

Compartmentalize. The concept fascinates me. Tom Brady is renowned for that ability and look where it got him.

I have the day off today. I am thinking about tomorrow, when I will be working until 11:00 pm. I am not compartmentalizing.

My survival, and hope of success/peace of mind, are reliant on my ability to learn to compartmentalize.

So there you go. Step One.

413 steps to follow.

HST

 "Take it from me, there's nothing like a job well done. Except the quiet enveloping darkness at the bottom of a bottle of Jim Beam after a job done any way at all."

Hunter S. Thompson

Banana Tyranny

When you buy a bunch of bananas, man, you are immediately thrust into a high pressure situation.

I don't know if it has always been this way, or if the current banana situation is a result of climate change or corporate greed or supply chain inefficiency...............but bananas ripen at an alarming rate when you bring them home.

Carol went food shopping yesterday, brought home some bananas. I love bananas. Fucking love them. Carol hates them. The fact she would even handle them is deep testimony to her love and dedication towards me.

Had a bowl of Corn Chex this morning and I sliced up one of those bad boys onto the Chex and chowed that concoction in gleeful and healthy delight.

Walked the bowl into the kitchen for formal placement into the dishwasher and my eyesight was drawn to the kitchen counter and the remaining bananas. Holy shit, man - there are 5 or 6 more of those goddamn things just waiting to be consumed............or trashed. All of them already have some coloration going on.

Talk about pressure.

Fortunately I have the day off from work. I can really dedicate myself to banana consumption.

The timing is perfect. I really have to lose weight. I am forced to get around on my hands and knees because my 5'7" frame cannot handle 785 pounds standing upright. I am really tired of crows landing on my back and pecking at my ears.

Gonna try to recapture some variation of exercise in some form or fashion today. Something, anything, that will burn calories, build muscle and hack off poundage. Anything that doesn't blow out my knee.

Gonna eat healthy.

I am gonna eat so many bananas in one day that my skin will take on a yellowish hue.

Which could be effective camouflage for the possibility that I may be entering the cirrhosis of the liver era of my life.

Miami

Thinking about moving to Miami.

I believe the nightlife there would suit me well.

If it's good enough for Dexter, it's good enough for me.

Dexter

 "It's strange to have a creation out there, a deeply mutated version of yourself, running loose and screwing everything up. I wonder if this is how parents feel."

Dexter

Morning Court

 "Judge Robert Dautrieve presided over morning court, that strange, ritualistic theater that features morose and repentant drunks who reek of jailhouse funk, welfare cheats, deranged drifters, game poachers, and wife abusers whose frightened wives, with blackened eyes, dragging strings of children, plead for their husband's release."

From Dixie City Jam, by James Lee Burke.

I love this quote, bleak as it is, because it describes the hopeless, lost state of human beings who go around in circles, making the same mistakes, punishing themselves and suffering, and get up off the mat in the morning to do it all again. Despite the fact that "every sunrise reminds us that we can start fresh with a good atitude, positivity, and gratitude."

These are the broken people, the people who have really fucked up their lives. But I believe deeply that the same emotions are experienced by those who walk among us projecting confidence and stability. Hopelessness, feeling lost, - these feelings are not class-specific. They are democratic.

Isn't that wonderful?

Millions of these underground people, broken but projecting confidence and stability, slither through life every day like slugs, leaving a trail of slime behind them.

If you feel that you are pissing your life away, if you hate what you do and who you are, if you feel trapped in a role that breaks your bones every day (only to have them heal overnight) - then you are  "the morose and repentant drunk who reeks of jailhouse funk" who knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that the next botttle of wine will solve all his problems.

This Is Fucking Hilarious

The set-up: This is an excerpt from a book titled "Straight Pepper Diet" by Joseph W. Naus. The author is a guy who was destroyed/almost destroyed (I haven't finished the book yet) by his addictions. He has been arrested, and is attending court-ordered rehab. The speaker at rehab has just explained to them how addiction is tested on mice, and how mice will refuse to eat - up to the point of death - until they get their next fix.

"My first thought is, who would do this to these cute little mice? I picture a white mouse wiggling its cute little nose. Poor guy, all strung out. After the experiment did they send them to rehab? Are there little mice rehabs? Or do they just party until they die? The little emaciated mice, in a cage, all around a black leather couch, wearing dark glasses, chopping up fat white lines on a glass table, and taking turns snorting them up their tiny little nostrils with miniature rolled hundred-dollar bills. Stacks of untouched cheddar-cheese blocks in various degrees of mold surround them. "I'm Just Waiting For The Man" is playing in the background on a miniature turntable."

Dexter

 "Am I evil? Am I good? I'm done asking those questions. I don't have the answers. Does anyone?"

Dexter

Two Weeks Supreme

I just watched Rafael Nadal win his 14th French Open.

This is the ice cream on the cake of two weeks of bliss for me. I have watched so much tennis in the last two weeks that I am beginning to believe that happiness is attainable.

Tennis is a supreme sport. Rafael Nadal is the undisputed King of Tennis, in my humble opinion. He has won 2 Australian Opens, 4 U.S. Opens, 2 at Wimbledon, and.......14 French Opens. He has won 22 Grand Slam titles; Federer and Djokovic have each won 20.

But fuck all that - he is just fun and amazing to watch. Amazing. 

I watched him play Djokovic, Zverev and Ruud. Zverev gave Nadal the toughest run for his money, forcing him to a tie breaker in the first set, which Nadal won, and forcing him to a tie breaker in the second set. As they were duking out the second tie breaker, Zverev suffered a gruesome foot injury that resulted in several torn ligaments in his right foot. He was forced to concede.

I really wanted that match to continue because it was epic. I was actually sizing up Zverev as someone to root for in the future. The guy played amazing tennis.

Look at my face. Do you see the smile? A real smile, not the phony one I paste on every day to pretend to outsiders that all is well.

I love tennis, man. I fucking love it. I played a lot of it when I was younger, so I have a deeper appreciation for the sport than an outsider.

Wimbledon is coming up - June 27-July 10. I am going to give it the same blanket covereage I gave to the French Open. How could I not? The last two weeks added 4 days onto my life. If I keep this up I may live to see 70.

(I always have to get fucking morbid, don't I?)

Final Thoughts: - Tennis is a sport for loners. You are isolated out there. No one to depend on but yourself. And it is grueling. Nadal and Zverev took 3 hours to play 2 sets. Three fucking hours. If that match went 5 sets it would probably have taken close to 6 hours.

Could you do that?

Tennis is a metaphor for life. You are alone against the world. You have to be in supreme physical and mental condition to win. Or you get crushed by the asphalt roller of your competition.

You have to be in peak fighing condition to win at life. To really win at life.

Most of us are fat, dumb and lazy. That's why we lose.

Of course, you could always cheat. As most fat, dumb successful people do.

Anyway, I am getting off track. I love tennis. I love it with all my heart. And tennis loves me back. It treats me well. It extends my life. It thrills me. It makes me smile, gasp and exclaim.

Fucking A, man - it has been a supreme two weeks.

Horrified By Life

 "I couldn't get myself to read the want ads. The thought of sitting in front of a man behind a desk and telling him that I wanted a job, that I was qualified for a job, was too much for me. Frankly, I was horrified by life, at what a man had to do simply in order to eat, sleep, and keep himself clothed."

Charles Bukowski, from Factotum.

I Awake Alone

I awake alone. Alone with my thoughts. Alone with my shortcomings.

I face people during the day. I am still alone.

They don't care what I am about. Don't care how I hurt.

They hurt too. A hurt that blinds them to my reality.

It's a two-way street. I don't give a damn what suffocates their soul.

We all suffer. We do it alone.

Everything dies - compassion, empathy, love.

The only thing that can be sustained is pain, because it feeds on itself.

The perfect life force; immortality expressed in a twisted truth.

Is this what God intended?

Jesus Will Take Me

So I get home on Tuesday at 6:30 and Rafael Nadal and Novak Djokovic are still playing.

I expected this.

They were in the 4th set. Nadal won the first set 6-2, Djokovic won the second set 6-4, Nadal won the third set 6-2. When I got home Djokovic was up 5-2 in the fourth set.

I was elated. This was fucking perfect. Djokovic would win that set, setting up a fifth set - which I could watch in its entirety LIVE. Fucking live, man.

One set live between these two men would have made my day - it would have gone on forever because of long, exquisite rallies and extreme competition.

I go upstairs, change my costume for comfortable clothes, do this, do that - come downstairs and the score is 5-3, Djokovic. As the next game begins I realize that Nadal is suddenly dominating and Djokovic looks tired.

5-4. 5-5. 6-5. 6-6. Tiebreak. Which Nadal wins. 7-6 Nadal. Match Nadal.

Are you fucking kidding me?

Rafa, baby - come on, man - I am in your corner. You are the current bad boy of professional tennis - I always root for the bad boys. Besides, you fucking kick ass. I love to watch you play. Intensity through the roof.

You couldn't tank one set so I could have a life?

Jesus fucking Christ.

I recorded the whole match, I will watch it in bits and pieces over the next few days, but it will not be the same.

I come home from a demeaning job, I am angry, tired and hopeless - a fifth set would have breathed temporary life into my temporary life - but you stole that away from me.

You are playing in the semi-finals....................tomorrow. I am working tomorrow. Fucking working my part-time, demeaning job while you perform on one of the world's biggest stages. I am fucked by destiny once again. Sensing a pattern here?

Sidenote: I just watched the Women's semi-final match between Iga Swiatek and Daria Kasatkina. Just this morning. Swiatek kicked Kasatkina's ass. 6-2. 6-1. I would dearly love to watch the Women's Final. The final is being played on Saturday during the day, our time. I am working Saturday afternoon. All afternoon.

The Men's Final is being played on Sunday. I am praying that Nadal reaches the Final. I do not have to work on Sunday.

Jesus will probably take me on Saturday night.

Whaddya gonna do?

Chump in Charge

When you are a part-timer - real bottom of the barrel, insignificant employee - you get truly fucked on long weekends.

You can bet your life that every salaried employee will take the Friday of Memorial Day weekend off, leaving part-timers holding the bag. I must admit, as a salaried employee, I did the same thing many, many times. But I am on the other side of the equation now and I resent it.

Because I should be retired, not in kindergarten.

Everybody disappeared last Friday, leaving me and another part-timer in the box-office. She left at 3:30. I was alone from 3:30 to 6:00. In an empty building.

Normally I enjoy this, I pray for it, I look forward to it - I hate being around people. But on the Friday before Memorial Day weekend I feel like a chump.

Everybody else is water-skiing, smoking fat cigars, barbecuing, kayaking, consuming large, enlightening volumes of alcohol, laughing, telling stories, enjoying the company of friends, enjoying the company of relatives. I am sitting in a vacant building, the phone is not ringing, no one is stopping in, bored to death and resentful. And when the phone does ring, or somebody does walk in, I get furious - I do not want to deal with you. 

What the fuck is your problem? Can you not just leave me alone?

I walk (limp) around the buliding, ride the elevator, look out the window at people below happily bouncing down the street in Memorial Day freedom. I reflect upon the train wreck that is my life, leaving me washed up and stranded on the Island of Unfulfilled Potential. Shocked to find myself here - in ragged clothes, with rancid breath and lifeless eyes.

Oh well, what are you gonna do?

Chump in Charge. Sounds like a position of authority to me.

As much as I am ever going to get at this point in my life.

The Knee (April 8)

Wow, man - this thing turned into a thing.

Who knew? Certainly not me.

Fucking surgeon made it sound like not a big deal up front. Maybe it isn't for some people; most people? I don't fucking know.

All I know is that today is June 2 and I am still in pain with a knee that still stiffens up. I am riding an exercise bike at the lowest level of stress, I am doing a bunch of exercises daily, icing it up multiple times daily, I have made a lot of progress in the last two weeks BUT it still fucking hurts, it is still delicate, it is still uncomfortable.

I still take the crutches with me when I leave the house because I never know when the knee will flare up and say "Hey, dickhead - I am in charge, not you - you will bow to me and do as I dictate."

I'll be walking along feeling good, feeling hopeful and then suddenly there is a twinge - a painful twinge - that truly distubs me. And I'm back on crutches.

I think the people at work think I am faking it. I think everybody thinks I am faking it.

I don't fucking care any more about anyone in any way. Fuck them. I know how I feel, I know what I am dealing with. Fuck them and all their friends and relatives and antecedents.

Carol had lunch with a friend of ours a week or two ago. Her husband was there at the time. Carol was talking about my knee woes. Turns out he went through exactly the same thing - same type of surgery - same long, painful recovery. He eventually had knee replacement surgery on that knee. And the recovery from that went easier than the meniscus tear surgery.

Feels like I am on the same path. Had I fucking known, I would have jumped right to knee replacement surgery. The surgeon did not suggest it, it never even came up. I did a lot of research in advance but only on meniscus tear surgery. I did not even think about knee replacement.

Lesson fucking learned.

I dicked around with Dr. Surgeon until I was convinced I was getting nowhere. Then I set up an appointment for a second opinion with another hospital.

They confirmed it last week. For June 13. Fucking June 13.

So I am still dealing with this fucking thing. Haven't exercised since the middle of January. I feel shitty; tired, out of breath, weak, vulnerable.

Fuck it.

What are you gonna do?

I had a friend who used to say that odd numbered years were good years for him, even numbered years were bad.

Maybe 2023 will be my year.

You Will Thank Me For It

Here's why New England fucking sucks.

It steals your joy.

You spend five months out of every year suffering in misery, on your fucking knees, bleeding from the ears, through cold and ice and snow until "you end up like a dog that's been beat too much, 'til you spend half your life just coverin' up" - (thank you, Bruuuuuuce). And then it's May.

But it comes with a catch. It gives you 70 degree days and Beauty, it gives you 50 degree days and regret.

I am sitting up here in my sanctuary with a fucking heater on. It's June 2. And this is not the first time. I spent multiple days up here in May with the fucking heater on.

All you jerkoffs who say "I just love New England, I just love the change of seasons" are delusional. There is no change of seasons. You get WINTER, and other stuff, with WINTER days sprinkled in.

The lie of Spring, Summer and Fall is false hope - you pray for warm weather - you get it, but only in fits and spurts. The next thing you know you have fallen on your ass in the driveway as you scrape ice off of your windshield.

New England is a vicious and cruel area of the country to live in. I hereby decree that all New England residents be relocated to warm climates - I am talking about truly warm climates - where you can actually live a life in ease and peace. Then drop a nuclear bomb obliterating the six states, so no life can ever "flourish" here again.

You will thank me for it.