The Next Thought

I am handcuffed by my inability to have the next thought.

I have talked to friends who play guitar; I ask them when they started playing. Many say "Right after I first saw The Beatles on TV. I went out as soon as I could afford one and bought the cheapest guitar I could find."

The next thought. They made a connection. They thought "I can do that too."

Not me.

Many of those people, most of those people, just ended up playing guitar and not becoming rock stars. But is that such a bad thing? The inspiration brought something into their lives that gives them beauty and peace and a sense of accomplishment.

I have read the words of so many people who, at some point in their lives, thought "This is what I want to do with my life." After seeing someone, hearing someone, meeting someone - they all had a moment in their lives that inspired them to pursue a specific course.

The most important thing you can do with your life is to pursue a specific course. It gives your life meaning, it leads you on to other things that fulfill you. Wandering aimlessly is the worst thing you can do with your life.

Because life is not a passive bystander; life has fangs and your neck is vulnerable.

I never had the next thought. But my proximity to death is leading me in that direction. I am trying to find a way.

I can write. That's it. 

I am trying to lay groundwork to make money as a copywriter, as a starting point. I fucked up the first time. I didn't read any of the many things that were provided for me to help me understand how copywriting works. I just jumped right in because "I am a writer" - I can write anything.

I was humbled.

Round 2 - I am working my way through all the guidance and hints provided by another copywriting website. I submitted a test submission yesterday. I will see where this leads.

This is a short term goal, if a 68 year old man can even have a short term goal. To make some money from copywriting. More satisfying plans include publishing my blog in segments and earning money from creative writing.

The thought is: I am a writer. The next thought is: I can use my ability to save my life.

That's it. Pretty simple. But daunting.

I got nothing to lose, baby.

Like A Sword Swallower's Sword

 "I began to think vodka was my drink at last. It didn't taste like anything, but it went straight down into my stomach like a sword swallower's sword and made me feel powerful and godlike."

From The Bell Jar, by Sylvia Plath

Realness

 "Realness eats raw meat

and does not waver

nor drift on currents.

He has the staying power

of the sun.

Realness walks only in his

own shoes."

A poem, by Spoon Jackson

This is a poetic way of confirming my opinion that life is a motherfucker. That it will punch you in the face every chance it gets. Spoon Jackson said it better.

On Days When I Don't Have to Work (In Summer)

I come downstairs and throw open the French doors leading to the screened-in porch.

The cats immediately go outside - they love it out there.

I brew up a cup of coffee, hit the recliner, and open my book.

From time to time I glance out towards the porch. The morning sun is at an artistic angle and beautifully illuminates the green that surrounds us. The quiet exudes peace, which settles me, centers me in the truth.

The scene surrounds me, it pleases me; the beauty nourishes my soul to the point I feel I can live 100 more years.

The power of the moment is not lost on me.

Words

As I read Where the Crawdads Sing, I come across beauty.

The author describes leaves falling from a tree, and I am paraphrasing, as if they are dancing in the breeze, making the most of their only chance to soar.

Beautiful.

Reading

I am moving too fast for you guys.

You can't keep up.

I started reading Where the Crawdads Sing this week. Carol and I saw the movie last week. You ask "If you saw the movie, why are you reading the book?"

Draw closer and listen intently: The book is always better than the movie. To make the movie you have to leave things out. The book gives you everything.

Sidepoint: The book was lent to me by Flo, a 79 year old woman I work with in the box office. She is an absolute sweetheart. We connect on many things, but especially about books. It's odd, but all the books, except one, that I have read recently have been gifts from my family, or this one that was entrusted to me to enjoy. Too cool for school, baby.

I am not disappointed. The book is magnificent. It creates a mood and allows the reader to exist there. This is what I live for. My emotional reaction harkens back to two books I recently read that I neglected to tell you about.

Beartown and Us Against You. Both written by Fredrik Backman.

These books are set in Sweden and deal with two towns obsessed with hockey.

Who gives a fuck. Right? I do.

This man did not just tell a story. He created fictional characters that live and breathe. I knew these people, and I felt their pain, and insecurities, and triumphs and tragedies. I felt this. My emotions went up and down with those of the characters, I rooted for some and against others.

Backman created a mood and allowed me to exist there.

I am quite fond of a writer known as James Lee Burke. You may not be aware of that. I read his Robicheaux books for the setting, and for the two main characters - Dave Robicheaux and Clete Purcel.

Robicheaux is a recovering alcoholic and former homicide detective in the New Orleans police department, who now works for the Iberia Parish Sheriff's office in Louisiana. He is a rugged guy, who gets beatings and gives beatings, and maintains high ethical standards. He is also emotionally vulnerable.

Clete Purcel is a larger than life guy who got kicked off the New Orleans police department because he breaks every rule. He is a heavy drinker and generally insane guy who now makes a living as a PI, an enforcer for bail bondsmen, and whatever else he has to do to survive. He still breaks every rule.

They are close friends and solve cases together, coming at solutions from decidedly different angles.

I love these stories because these two guys are not who I am, but who I wish I was.

With Beartown, and Us Against Them, the characters are real. I could be them.

This is the most satisfying level of reading for me. When my emotions are inflamed and humanity is revealed for what it is - fragile and unpredictable.

Shit, man - reading - it's what I do.

It's All In The Seeking

 "To a drinker the sensation is real and pure and akin to something spiritual: you seek; in the bottle, you find."

Caroline Knapp

I'll Take That Bet

I am in trouble with football this year.

I can feel it. I tingle.

Good Morning Football finally started covering football this week. I see footage of fucking training camps - and I tingle.

I need it this year. Hasn't been a fun year for me but I'm coming out of it. The insanity of football is exactly what I need to shatter the shackles of depression and despair that restrain me.

In addition, I am planning on betting the house on football this year. Going all in.

I haven't bet much in recent years, but right now I am in the mood.

Two scenarios:

 1) My life gets better, and that good luck carries over to football betting - I win a couple of bucks and Carol and I get to enjoy some disposable income (I had to look that up - I lost touch with that phrase).

2) My life continues to go down the shitter, the bad luck carries over,  and I put us in financial jeopardy. If I'm gonna shit the bed, why not speed up the process?

50/50 odds.

I'll take that bet.

You Gotta Excel At Something

Every time I have bloodwork done, when I roll up my sleeve, the Vampire inevitably says: "Wow, you have great veins."

This is good to know.

If despair wins out, I can become a junkie.

And the envy of all my new friends.

For Now

There are species who, if they recognize one of their own is disfigured or wounded and more likely to attract a predator, will viciously kill it rather than put the whole group at risk.

Thankfully, humans are not like this. Otherwise I would have been dead a long time ago.

Or maybe I have just been lucky.

For now.

The Impossible Dream

To dream the impossible dream,

To fight the unbeatable foe,

To bear with unbearable sorrow

To run where the brave dare not go;

To right the unrightable wrong.

To love, pure and chaste, from afar,

To try, when your arms are too weary,

To reach the unreachable star!

This is my Quest to follow that star,

No matter how hopeless, no matter how far,

To fight for the right

Without question or pause,

To be willing to march into hell

For a heavenly cause!

And I know, if I'll only be true

To this glorious Quest,

That my heart will lie peaceful and calm

When I'm laid to my rest.

And the world will be better for this,

That one man, scorned and covered with scars,

Still strove, with his last ounce of courage,

To reach the unreachable stars!

Let's Vote

Jesus Christ, sometimes I read what I write in here and think I'm full of shit.

Should I take a vote?

So...................

I don't know what to say today.

So I guess I'll riff.

Therapy has me unsettled. In two sessions I have revealed a great deal about my life, and a great deal about my emotions. It is a different experience to speak openly to a complete stranger. It makes me think.

I get off the call and feel pathetic. And strangely comforted. And deeply curious about where this is all headed. I think the answer to my hangups is in my head. Either I don't have the strength to face them, or the intelligence to deal with them. I am hoping Jennifer can unlock something within me, epiphany-like, that will set me straight.

I see in her the ability to relate something from my past to the way I think today, in a way that I haven't done before. This is exactly what I am looking for. She has done it a couple of times already.

I am so deeply entrenched in my own darkness that I can't function like a normal human being. I am hoping she can find a way to pull back the darkness and allow me to see myself honestly, instead of destructively.

We'll see. I remain hopeful.

I am climbing back up on the horse. Exercising as much as my knee and my obesity will allow. Fucking knee still ain't right, but honestly, I did not stick with the exercises religiously. So I am pushing it a bit. If it doesn't come around in another week I'll check back in with Dr. Feelgood #2.

Cut way back on the booze. Feel better. I never felt shitty, but now that I am drinking "normal" amounts, I feel better physically in an indefinable way. If I feel tired I don't drink at all before going to bed. If I feel awake, I drink an acceptable amount of whiskey. Interesting experiment. I am not sleeping "better", I am sleeping differently.

My first experiment with copywriting failed. I earned a grand total of $28 before they effectively fired me.

I couldn't keep up because I didn't commit. On work days, if I had a deadline, I just blew it off. Because when I get home from that fucking job I want to cut my fucking head off. So they said "Fuck you" and stopped assigning work.

There are lots of copywriting websites out there. I am registering with another one today. I am trying to save our lives, here. If the price of oil goes up to $6 or $7 dollars a gallon, Carol and I will be found frozen to death next to an empty box of matches. Fuck that shit.

I am fighting for our independence. Being vulnerable is not a look we wear well.

We are renewing efforts to get this house off our backs. It's desperation time, folks. Sell or die. Our realtor is coming out next week to develop a strategy. There are plenty of unsuspecting rubes out there who will pay through the nose for this rat trap. People who don't know what a black fly is; who believe civilization is actually within reach of this godforsaken location.

I am as a bear awakening from hibernation. And I am angrier, more frustrated and more desperate than ever.

I have other plans waiting in the wings but I won't talk about them until I actually start doing them.

The Famous Final Scene, ladies and gentlemen.

I am trying to write it in mine and Carol's favor.

Wouldn't hurt if you prayed for our success.

Who's Counting

 "One drink is too many for me and a thousand not enough."

Brendan Behan

The Walking Dead

 "Crowds of people on the sidewalks moved through the heat, their faces expressionless, the gaze in their eyes introspective and dead, preset on destinations that held neither joy nor pain, neither loss nor victory."

From Burning Angel, by James Lee Burke

Wisdom Found In Strange Places

There is a TV commercial about commemorative coins that cracks me up.

Towards the end of the commercial, as they are hammering home the fact that you just absolutely have to have these coins, they say: "Avoid disappointment and future regret." 

It amuses me because they connect deep gravity with the failure to purchase these coins.

It also occurs to me that if we applied the same thought process - avoiding disappointment and future regret - to the major decisions we make, maybe we wouldn't fuck up so much.

Dexter

"Everyone wants an Argentina, a place where the slate is wiped clean. But the truth is Argentina, is just Argentina. No matter where we go we take ourselves and our damage, with us. So is home the place we run to, or is it the place we run from? Only to hide out in places where we're accepted, unconditionally, places that feel more like home to us. Because we can finally be who we are..."

Lydia

My aunt Lydia died yesterday.

She was a person who made life fun, who made life better. She brought something tangible to this world. She was tough, independent, unique and goddamn funny. She always had a joke. Right up to the last time I spoke to her, which was not that long ago.

She was my father's sister. There were four siblings - Tony, Ida, Carmen and Lydia. Four remarkable people.

They were raised by Giuseppe and Christina  - my grandparents. Straight off the boat from Italy. Tony (my father) and Ida, were born in Italy. Carmen and Lydia were born in this country. What is remarkable is that given their upbringing, which I'm sure was not easy - these four people grew up tough, confident, and with amazing senses of humor. All of them could make you laugh. And all of them made something of their lives. Against all odds.

I attribute their strength and outlook to my grandfather, who was tough enough to raise a family in this foreign land, but also intelligent and funny. He made me laugh, even though he spoke broken English. Christina was one tough lady, a stereotypical old school Italian mother who took no shit. I can't really discount her effect on her kids because I don't know enough about their childhood. She may have had a big impact on how amazing these four grew to be.

But I'm going with my gut. I'm giving Giueseppe most of the credit.

Being around Lydia was always a blast because she spoke her mind. She was not afraid. She could make you laugh - she was always, always fun - and you could also have a great conversation with her. A serious conversation. A sensitive one. 

She was a fighter and a survivor. A great mother to Tina and Maria because she set an example of confident independence at a time when that was not the way it was done.

As I think about it, I think that maybe people in this situation have a better appreciation for life than those of us who grew up in a more pampered environment. Hense a tougher outlook and more fine tuned sense of humor. Maybe life was more vital to them. More colorful. More real.

Lydia's death closes a door. Loudly. My mother's side - Rita, Dina and my mother - are all gone. My father's side - Ida, Carmen, Lydia and my dad - are all gone.

My brother and I have been on the sidelines for many years. Now we have been called on to the field. A very strange sensation indeed.

I am proud of the blood that runs through my veins. My family was diverse, colorful, unique and accomplished. They had style, baby. The Italian heritage is a strong one, a proud one, and they all wore it well.

I am not doing Lydia justice. Life is too precious, and each life lived too unique, to be summarized in a few words. 

But let me say this: not every human is unique; many are carbon copies. But unique is the perfect place to start when talking about Lydia, because she was unique, she lived it, she projected it, she was her own person, and that is probably the most important thing you can bring to a life. That, and strength, and she had both.

She is the last to go, and she wore the family mantle well. She did our family proud. And her own family as well.

I did not see enough of her, not even close - but I always loved and respected her. You'll have to take my word for it.

As I get older, I value laughter and sensitivity more and more. She gave me both.

I love you, Aunt Lydia. I will miss you.

Kyler Murray

Kyler Murray just signed a 5 year contract extension worth $230.5 million, $160 million of which is guaranteed.

Kyler Murray is a whiner.

I am a whiner.

Where is my $160 million guaranteed?

This Problem Must Be Solved

 When you get up tomorrow morning, walk into the bathroom and smash your forehead against the mirror.

As blood runs down your face, walk out into the hall and throw yourself down the stairs.

This is how I feel every day I have to work.

I Think I'll Risk It

Got the first session under my belt with the therapist.

I am comfortable talking to her. That is important. The only other therapist I visited did not connect with me. So I am hopeful.

Strange, though. I spent an hour telling her about my life so she could figure out where I am coming from. From childhood through today. My relationship with my parents and brother,  college, working for my dad, working as an accountant, as a bartender, "sem-retirement", menial, part-time jobs since, Carol's illnesses, my illnesses, Keith and Craig - liberally spiced with honest opinions about myself and my mistakes and regrets.

I was actually tired afterwards - it was emotionally draining. It is an odd thing to sum up your entire life in one hour to a complete stranger.

She asked inciteful questions along the way - questions that made me stop and go hmmmmmmmmm. Challenged the way I look at things, got real detailed about certain things. This is another reason I am hopeful - in the midst of detailing my woe is me life, she made me stop and think. Gently, a nudge here, a nudge there - but enough to signal to me that this may work out well.

I did 99% of the talking, she took a lot of notes. I will talk to her every Tuesday at 2:00 from now on. At least through 2525.

I am in good company now - Richard Lewis, Larry David, all the rich & famous paranoids who have spent decades talking to therapists. Perhaps we can meet, become friends, form a club. Maybe they will give me $250,000 each so I can retire.

Interesting offshoot of this initial session. I spent a solid hour talking about my life in a linear fashion, laying myself bare and reliving all the greatest hits. All at once. Afterwards I thought - am I just fucking lazy? Could it be that simple? Too fucking lazy to make the effort to change? I mean I really did sound pathetic.

Then I thought about the lethal combination of self-loathing and zero confidence. My guts churn in many situations, making me squirm, making me afraid, making me ineffectual. Indecisive. That shit is real. 

I have to overcome that shit. I think she can help me. But I am not afraid to consider laziness as a component of my failure at life.

Good start. I'll see where it leads.

What have I got to lose? An embarrassing life of failure and underachievement resulting from the influence of my powerful demons?

I think I'll risk it.

Shakespeare On Drinking

 "O God, that men should put an enemy in their mouths to steal away their brains!"

William Shakespeare, Othello

WWDGD

I should live my life in accordance with the wisdom of that question.

WWDGD - What Would Dave Grohl Do?

Dave Grohl is a magnificent human being. I was deeply moved by his autobiography - The Storyteller: Tales of Life and Music.

I have read 2 million biographies and 1 million autobiographies. All interesting, some better than others, some much better than others.

Neil Young, Paul Simon, Jackie Gleason, Springsteen, Dean Martin, Steven Van Zandt, Eric Idle, Katharine Hepburn and..............all excellent.

Dave Grohl is now top five. This man is so full of passion, he works so hard at what he does, he loves his band, his career, the music, his family - he is grateful for all that he has. He is open and honest about it all. He is happy, upbeat, fun and generous.

And he (and his band) fucking rock.

I got a taste of this when he put together an 8 episode series called Sonic Highways. He and the Foo Fighters travelled to Chicago, Washington D.C., Nashville, Austin, Los Angeles, New Orleans, Seattle, and New York City. I think they spent a week in each city - talking to notable music people in each city, visiting meaningful music venues and landmarks, absorbing the culture and atmosphere, and then writing an original song about the experience, to be performed in a hallowed musical location.

I learned and felt so much.

What got to me was Grohl's obvious love and reverance for the history of the music that was made in these cities. It was religion to him and he was not afraid to show respect to the legendary people he interviewed. That was the first time I thought "Wow, this guy is a unique and spectacular individual."

His autobiography deepened my understanding of who this man is and resulted in exponential growth of my respect for him. I would love to meet him. Have a beer. Shoot the shit. Maybe learn something about how to approach life. Because he's got it figured out.

He never gave up. From Scream to Nirvana to Foo Fighters, he kept moving forward and up. A few times with periods of insecurity sandwiched in-between, when he had the rug pulled out from under him and had no idea what to do next. But his grit and his love of music kept him going.

He put himself out there in uncomfortable situations to learn and to grow. People got to know him and resepct him and one good thing led to another.

When he got big he figured out how to balance the family thing with the rock 'n roll thing, which is a very hard thing to do. He has a good time on the road, drinking and partying - he is honest about that, which I like - but family time is family time and is sacred to him.

His book is filled with love and reverance and gratefulness. Shit, man - even the acknowledgements at the end of the book are written differently than most. They are filled with....................love and reverance and gratefulness.

Dave Grohl has contributed a lot to this world. And to the world of music. I love and respect him.

Honestly, I could learn a lot from the way Dave Grohl lives his life. I did learn a lot - the question is whether or not I can apply those lessons to my own life.

I am prying open the lid once again - becoming more receptive to change - anything is possible.

Therapy - The Beginning

Got my first therapy session coming up today at 1:00.

I'm sure you'll hear about it.

Zoomification. Initially I thought I would prefer to go face to face with a therapist as I bled the poison out of my soul. I now realize I prefer the zoom thing - I don't have to leave the house, don't have to wear a tux.

I am nervous, I am curious.

Nervous because it is relatively new territory. I don't know what to expect. 

I visited a therapist many years ago, but he ended up being a hack. I was assistant manager of a liquor store in Peterborough. I told him I hated the job because I am not manager material; I hate supervising others, I hate answering questions, I hate making decisions.

He asked "Do you have an opinion on how the store should be run?" I replied "Yes." He said "Then you are a manager."

That put an end to that relationship. Which is good, because I was in acting mode anyway.

I wonder if I will be able to overcome my well developed acting abilities and just be myself, be completely honest. I have spent my entire adult life pretending to be what I am not and I am very, very good at it. It is like breathing to me. It just happens.

I have to overcome that right from the start. Honesty will"cure" me. I have to bury the therapist in uncomfortable truths.

I am curious because I don't know what her approach will be.

What I want is for her to make me uncomfortable. Ask uncomfortable questions, lead me in uncomfortable directions. Call out my bullshit. Force me to confront myself.

She may have a different approach. A kindler, gentler approach. That's OK as long as it takes me to the same place.

Or she may surprise me. Unique angle, interesting perspective. I will go along with anything as long as I feel it is digging down to my pain.

Big day today.

How Do These Authors Know Me So Well?

 "My cell partner told me today my head's like a bad neighborhood that I shouldn't go into by myself."

From Burning Angel, by James Lee Burke.

Right Hand On The Bible, Left Hand To God

 I, Krakatoa Jones, swear by Almighty God, that I will never again torture you - the helpless and bored - with yet one more ramble on the sweet beauty and enormous talent of James Lee Burke and Lawrence Sanders.

I have done enough damage in that area over the years. You are tired, you are bored, you are in need of fresh meat.

I reserve the right to reference them in passing when my soul is overwhelmed with beauty.

I will not bludgeon you again.

So help me God.

Old Guys Playing Baseball

My brother Ed plays in a fast pitch, hardball, "over 50" league.

He played close to us yesterday; we went to the game.

All the players are at least 50 years old. My brother is 67. There was a 72 year old playing right field for my brother's team.

It was exactly as you would expect - comical. Almost everyone is out of shape, some with noticeable guts, not great at fielding, although I have to say they can still hit.

But running is the thing. None of them can run. I am talking slow and awkward.

And I walked away from there with enormous respect. 

These guys were out there having a good time. Playing for real, taking it seriously, not mocking anyone who made a bad play or fell down trying to make one. You are allowed liberal substitutions for guys who can't run because they have bum legs or bad hips or anything that prevents them from running. If they get a hit, they run to first as best they can, a pinch runner takes over, but the batter gets to go back out on the field when the other team is up.

The spirit is amazing. The way they encourage each other; and all the typical baseball lingo is in evidence. I loved the coach of Ed's team - like a grizzled veteran coaching in the Mexican league. Coach Lou Brown in Major League. Fucking perfect.

Sense of humor. These guys were hilarious with one another. Joking, busting balls. It was obvious they were close. And each team respected the other. Joking on the base paths, helping each other out.

Making the effort, man. These guys know they are well past their prime, but they do the best they can, they enjoy it, and they exude self-respect.

Wives and dogs and family enjoying the game on the sideline on a beautiful summer day. There were maybe 8 of us there. Didn't matter. It was a fun day.

Beers and munchies in the parking lot after the game. 

At one point it struck me to be a uniquely American experience, but upon further thought I realized it is a uniquely small town experience. Baseball is universal. This type of thing happens everywhere. And it is very special. It means a lot to the people who play, the people who watch, and to the general life vibe that feeds on positivity and effort.

At a stage in life where most men are drinking beer in the recliner, bitterly whining about their jobs (I know a guy like that), these guys are out there against all odds doing something they love to do. Regardless of how they play, regardless of how they look - they are fucking doing it, man, and having fun doing it.

You need to know - there were two guys on the field who looked like real athletes - a guy on the opposing team who was short, slight and wiry - dude could hit, dude could run. And my brother.

I was so proud of him. He went 2 for 3 with a walk; two of the balls he hit were fucking crushed. When he ran on and off the field he looked like an athlete. He moved like an athlete.

Ed's team is 11 and 0. They will be in the playoffs.

We will be there.

I Confess

 "The chief reason for drinking is the desire to behave in a certain way, and to be able to blame it on alcohol."

Mignon McLaughlin

My Addiction! I Cannot Feed It Fast Enough!

When I woke up this morning my body was trembling.

My fancy Concord Orthopaedics T-Shirt (which I got for FREE the day they sliced my knee) was dripping wet. Walked into the bathroom - my hands were shaking so hard I almost lost teeth when I tried to brush them. My gut was clenched, my eyes were bloodshot and watering.

Somehow I finished my morning ablutions and staggered into my upstairs retreat, opened up the laptop and ordered..................a James Lee Burke book, to be delivered to my tablet. Even though I have somewhere in the neighborhood of 10 to 15 books laying in wait, waiting to be read.

That, my friends, is addiction.

Went downstairs, brewed up a magnificent cup of coffee, sat down, fired up the tablet and began reading Burning Angel.  

I was immediately calmed. I ascended into Reader Heaven. Peace was mine to have and to hold.

I think the only two authors who have had that effect on me are Lawrence Sanders and James Lee Burke. I know, this is familiar territory, but buckle up anyway - all my words are golden.

I have read 8 million books and sampled many authors. Hunter S. Thompson is a great love of mine. I have read all his books. But with him it's like sticking my finger in a light socket for fun - I need his insanity, I feed off his insanity. Because I am an insane man living a sane life. I need that fucking fix.

Same with Bukowski. I love his poetry and his books. Fucking love it. But again, it is the insanity that feeds me - the willingness to say anything and go anywhere, just like HST.

Stephen King. Loved him early, hate him now. He got too predictable. Read a lot of his books, they entertained me but did not bring me peace.

Then there are the literary dudes. John Cheever. Tremendous stuff. Got a big, fat book of his short stories, and a collection of his books. Tasty stuff. But not peace bringers.

O. Henry. Just read 100 of his short stories. Excellent. No peace. F. Scott Fitzgerald, one of my absolute favorites. Read almost all of his stuff. Delicious. No rest for the weary.

Lawrence Sanders, James Lee Burke. Somehow the writing of these two guys goes directly to my soul. Comfort food. They have brought me so much peace and enjoyment.

I settle into a recliner with their books in my hand and I feel contentment to a degree even a great writer like me cannot describe.

But the feeling...................shit, man, the feeling. For a man like me with a turbulent mind and a ragged soul, the peace they bring me, the calm, the enjoyment, keeps me alive. It fucking keeps me alive.

With James Lee Burke/Dave Robicheaux the setting of New Orleans contributes mightily to my enjoyment. Because I can see myself living there, instead of the plain vanilla state of NH. I would thrive there. And Burke makes you feel it, see it and taste it. That, and the people who live there - good and bad. You get to know them. You empathize, you hate.

I can't get into specifics with Sanders because it has been so long since I have read him. I should re-read all his stuff. It would extend my life an additional 5 years. Although I can get specific about the Archy McNally series. Hilarious and entertaining. Archy was as unlikely a crime solver as you can imagine. Loved those books. 

And there was Edward X. Delaney, retired chief of detectives in NYC, featured in the Deadly Sin series. The man would make "wet" sandwiches, big sloppy sandwiches which he would eat standing over the kitchen sink.

Shit, man - just talking about Sanders' books is making me smile, with peace.

Great start to a great day, this morning. And Emmy Lou slept in my lap for two hours as I read. Does not get any better than that.

Please note: Downloading a book to my tablet for immediate gratification is a perfect example of the good use of technology. Staring at your phone like a cretin, is not.

Today - Part 1 - HALLELUJAH

Euphoria.

I am filled with euphoria today. Can't explain it. Except to say that the wheels have been set into motion.

Went to bed last night sans (it's French) consuming any whiskey. Fell asleep. This has happened a couple of times in the last few nights, which is an explosive development in my life.

I have spent decades medicating myself to sleep, because if I didn't I would lie awake for hours. Most of the whiskey I consumed was consumed shortly before going to bed. About an hour or an hour and a half before I planned on going to bed, it was go time. I would get myself to the point where I knew I could not lay awake in bed, drag myself upstairs and drop off into a peacefully tortured sleep.

This is why it is mind-blowing for me to fall asleep on my own. And gratifying. Because I never wanted to use whiskey as a sleep inducing sledgehammer.

Here's the strange thing about last night/this morning. I went to bed at 11:15 but woke up at 4:00 to go to the bathroom. Went back to bed and slept until 8:00. But I feel like shit. Like I barely slept. Apparently it was not quality sleep.

Still, I crawled out of bed feeling confident. Positive. Euphoric. Where the fuck is this coming from?

My body and my mind know when I am doing the right things. Right now, and all of a sudden, I am doing the right things. Exercising as much as my bloated body will allow. Feeding my brain again. I am finally moving forward in 2022. I am an unstoppable force.

I love this feeling the most because it does not spring from any thought process. I mean, I just crawled out of bed, I was not close to being awake and I felt good? A feeling like this springs naturally from the heart, and from the soul. And that means everything.

Gotta work today. 2:30 to 8:00. I doubt I will be able to use this euphoria to slay that dragon. But it is 10:00 right now. I leave the house at 1:45. Between now and then I can treat my body and mind with respect. Feed them with goodness.

Whatever happens at work happens at work. And god help the customers - I am working a show tonight from 6:00 to 8:00. If any one of them spits poison into my euphoria they will pay a very heavy price.

Dave Grohl is feeding my euphoria. I grabbed a cup of coffee and sat down with his autobiography.

My emotions ramped up exponentially. To the point of tears, off and on. His words tapped right into where I am at today, with an intensity that would blow the top off the head of any mortal man.

But not me.

Let me tell you why I love Dave Grohl..................................

Today - Part 2 - HALLELUJAH

Dave Grohl is fucking amazing.

I have felt this way for a long time. He scratched and clawed his way to rock 'n roll success (and excess). Reached the top of the mountain. Until the rug was pulled out from under him.

Started out playing drums in a band called Scream. Ended up playing drums for Nirvana, as they were beginning work on their spectacular album Nevermind. When it was released in 1990, Nirvana became the biggest band on the planet.

Until Kurt Cobain died.

Once again Grohl was lost (he had no idea what to do after Scream broke up), but at least he had money. What did he do? Foo Fighters. Fucking Foo Fighters, man. And once again he was sitting on top of the world.

You have to respect a man like that. You don't continue to succeed like that without enormous talent, huge grit and a little bit of luck.

I have grown to love Dave Grohl because I am reading his words. I am getting a feel for how he thinks, what he feels, what his approach to life is. If I made my living in the world of music I would write about it exactly as Dave Grohl does.  He fucking gets it.

I read about an event this morning that blew my mind and perfectly captures Dave Grohl's essence.

In 2015 Grohl was presenting an award at the Grammys. Coincidentally, AC/DC would be playing at the awards ceremony. AC/DC, a band that Grohl had worshipped all his life and never met before, except for Brian Johnson. Somehow, Dave's wife had connected with AC/DC and arranged for them all to have dinner after the show. Dave reserved a room in a fine restaurant. 

Paul McCartney was in town so Dave invited him to dinner as well. Why not? McCartney once played Lady Madonna on Dave's piano in Dave's home with Dave's young daughter sitting next to Paul as Paul taught her a little of how to play. Just a run of the mill buddy.

Dave got a random call from Ben Jaffe, a member of New Orleans legendary Preservation Hall Jazz Band. If you don't know who they are I'm not going to waste my breath. Turns out they were in town too and were looking for something to do.

So.............he and Dave cooked up this scheme to have the band come marching down the street, right into the restaurant and into the reserved back room, playing their magnificent New Orleans jazz the whole time. Unbeknownst to the other guests. But approved by the restaurant. 

AC/DC, Dave and his wife Jordyn, a couple members of the Foo Fighters, and Paul McCartney were assembled in the room enjoying themselves. They heard music. What the hell was that? When the Preservation Hall Jazz Band marched into the room everybody went crazy, laughing and dancing.

Here is Dave Grohl's take on it. "Not a day goes by where I don't stop and thank the universe for these otherwordly blessings and I make it a point to take nothing for granted."

"Because I still walk through this life like a little boy in a museum surrounded by the exhibits I've spent  a lifetime studying, and when I finally come face to face with something or someone that has inspired me along the way, I am thankful. I am grateful.

At night's end "I was exhausted - not physically, but my soul had just run a triathalon of emotion, nostalgia, and undying love of music."

"It's hard to put into words the belief that I have in music. To me, it is god. A divine mystery in whose power I will forever hold an unconditional trust. And it is moments like these that cement my faith."

Here's the connection. I woke up euphoric. I read the worshipful words of Dave Grohl as he talked about his relationship with music. Music, which is my religion as well. His words connected with me, were perfectly in sync with my heart and soul. I was vibrating at the frequency of Grohl, which amplified my own vibration exponentially.

His soul-deep love for the way he makes a living is obvious and honest, and the deep respect he feels for the people he gets to meet along the way, the people who inspired him, and fired up his love of music, is religion. And he gets to thank his inspirations eye to eye. Fucking amazing.

All of this emotion, mine, and the emotion expressed by Dave Grohl, it all mixed together to take me beyond euphoria. To a place I don't have a word for. I have no idea where it is leading me or what it will do for me.

But I love the way it feels.

Painful Evolution

I am coming around.

Coming out of my 2022 coma. With intermittently dire consequences, strangely enough.

I have incorporated beauty back into my life on my days off. Exercising, writing, reading, watching good stuff on the television machine, not drinking - allowing my body and brain to recover from the nasty beatings I have self-administered this year. Leading back to the life-saving disciplines I adopted during Covid to allow my soul to breathe.

The flip side to that are the days I have to work. I cannot handle them. Cannot rationalize them away, cannot grateful them away, cannot zen them away. This job is toxic. It is destroying me. More honestly, the way I deal with work days is destroying me.

The contrast is too much. The difference between a beautiful day off and a horrific day at work is the difference between heaven and hell. A fucking psychological roller coaster ride that splits my brain and confuses the fucking shit out of my body. One healthy day, one self-destructive day. Ping and pong. Yin and yang. Jekyll and Hyde. And it happens every other fucking day. No way to recover from it, no time to deal with it, no room for my bruised brain to heal.

No room to breathe.

Dissociative Identity Disorder: "A mental health condition, people with dissociative identity disorder have two or more separate personalities." 

The difference in my behavior is that pronounced. Again, I truly hope my therapist is good. Carol mailed the paperwork out on Monday. Things should start moving soon.

With a little more focus I have transformed my days off into a Sandals-like all expense paid vacation. Peaceful. Tranquil. Appreciating the beauty of where I live smack dab in the middle of summer, appreciating Carol, loving our cats. Appreciating the fact that, once more, my brain is coming back around.

By contrast, I have transformed work days into an all expense paid trip to the den of the Marquis de Sade.

I did not have to be into work yesterday until 2:30. I made it a beautiful day until 1:30. Then I began the process of destroying myself, which I continued throughout the grueling 4 hours I had to work. I won't get into detail because I would get fired. Suffice it to say, I got home at 6:30, downed a shot of whiskey, fell asleep in the recliner at 7:00, woke up at 9:30.

This situation was helped along by the fact that I barely got any sleep - again - the night before.

My plan was to come home and enjoy a peaceful night watching the Red Sox with Carol. My anger and self-destruction would not allow that. I slept through the fucking game and went to bed around 11:30.

I have the capacity to introduce serenity into my life when I do not have to work. My brain works on those days. I have the capacity for self-destruction when I do have to work. My brain does not work on those days.

A strange dichotomy. An uncomfortable one. It is not healthy for one of my personalities to be at war with the other one on a schedule of alternating days.

Apparently, when I evolve it has to be done painfully.

Gotta Be Neat

 "When a man who is drinking neat gin starts talking about his mother he is past all argument."

C.S. Forester, The African Queen

Where You Are, Where You Want To Be

I gobbled up Wimbledon.

Two weeks of tennis bliss. Did you see the Gentlemen's Final? Djokovic versus Kyrgios? I watched it buzzer to buzzer. Fucking fantastic.

Djokovic won 4-6, 6-3, 6-4, 7-6. The score would lead you to believe the match was boring. Wrong. The fucking tennis was spectacular. These two literally slugged it out.

I didn't get the final I wanted - Nadal vs Djokovic - because Nadal was forced to withdraw from the competition with an abdominal muscle injury. On the day before he was scheduled to play in the semifinals. Against Kyrgios. So Kyrgios got a free pass to the final.

Kyrgios held his own as a tennis player but failed as a man. What a fucking baby. Whining and complaining non-stop to his "box", which included his father, his girlfriend, his sister, his coach. He kept yelling at them that they weren't cheering hard enough for him. He pissed me off.

I am officially a tennis junkie. I watch it almost every day. There is always live tennis on the Tennis Channel because they broadcast matches from around the world.

Part of the reason I watch it so much is that Good Morning Football is still fucking around. Ranking lists of this and lists of that, not really covering football. I realize it is early but, honestly, at this time of year they are in full swing leading up to the pre-season. Part of the problem is that Kay Adams has left and they haven't replaced her. She was spectacular.

So, I watched the Wimbledon Gentlemen's Final on Sunday and tuned in the Tennis Channel on Monday. Holy shit. On Monday they were broadcasting matches from Switzerland, Sweden and Hungary.

Hungary really got to me. Very small spectator stands. And there could not have been more than 30 people in the stands. I am not exaggerating. That's when it hit me.

Where you are, and where you want to be.

Wimbledon was glorious. Spectacular. Huge. Monumental. Hungary was small, unnoticed, bare bones. Sweden and Switzerland were not much better.

This is what you do if you want to be a professional tennis player. You work your way up. Alone on quiet courts in front of only family and friends. You fight long and hard to develop your skill and your strategy and your knowledge. Hoping to advance from obscurity to fame.

Let me tell you something. The tennis at these levels is still damn good. I am not sacrificing anything at all when I watch. I enjoy it.

People like this exemplify how life should work. You start out with nothing and, hopefully, end up with everything.

Unfortunately, most of us are too fucking lazy.

Marriage Negates Physical Beauty

I am thinking about Tom Brady.

Here's how I think it went. He decided to retire. Gisele was ecstatic. Tom announced his retirement on February 1st. What else does he have to prove? He's got all the money in the world (some of which he should give to me so I can retire), he has achieved everything there is to achieve in the NFL, he is the undisputed heavyweight champ of professional football - the man is a fucking God. 

40 days later he reversed his decision. Forty days. That's all it took. Forty days of hanging around the house for him to realize - Holy shit - this will be my life? Hanging with Gisele? She's great to look at, not so much fun to be around 24/7.

I am theorizing here, so give me some room. I have never hung with them as a couple. Their loss. So I have zero perspective here. But, I don't know, I see their relationship as more of a business partnership than everlasting love. Pretty people living a pretty life.

If they are still together in 20 years I will apologize (if I'm still alive).

This could never happen to me. Because I married a woman who is pretty on the outside and pretty on the inside.

We were a pretty couple. Trust me, we were damn good looking. I say "were" only because we have aged. Age ravishes beauty, although we have withstood it pretty well.

Carol is self-conscious of her appearance after brain surgery. I know it bothers her. It doesn't bother me. She is still beautiful to me. I don't say that in some phony fucking way. I mean it.

Because she is such an extraordinary person that her inner strength, her positivity, and her optimism shine though like a halo around an angel's head.

I figured it out over the last 5 years. When I look at her, when I listen to her, I see the whole person - I see what's inside reflected on the outside. You truly know a person when you get to that point.

From a selfish perspective, she has never given up on me. Every birthday for a very long time she would write - "This will be your year." Based on zero facts. I gave her nothing to work with. But she encouraged me and believed in me anyway. To the point that I felt guilty as failed year followed failed year.

Still, she persisted.

Although, recently she writes "Give it up, Blimpo - you got nuthin'". Kidding.

I know what I have. I know what we have. I know that when I retire, our relationship will get even deeper, more powerful, more satisfying, more peaceful. I cannot wait. 

Of course, waiting is not the point. Time cannot be wasted in wishes and expectations. What we have, we have now. Trust me, she has been an inspiration to me in 2022 as I struggle. Making me smile, making me feel loved.

As she has in the previous 43 years.

I'm thinking we should get together with Tom and Gisele. Maybe we could teach them something. Give them the tools they need to build an everlasting relationship.

Maybe Tom will give me $250,000.

The Sober Hour

 "The sway of alcohol over mankind is unquestionably due to its power to stimulate the mystical faculties of human nature, usually crushed to earth by the cold facts and dry criticisms of the sober hour."

William James

Cool Uncle (Not Drunk Uncle)

Dave Grohl in his book talks about the grunge rock explosion of the 90's. Obviously.

Nirvana, Pearl Jam and...................Alice In Chains or Soundgarden were the big three. It was a fucking musical revolution.

That shit does not happen often - a complete shift in the musical landscape that changes peoples' lives.

Beatles, hip hop, grunge - detonations. Heavy metal, punk rock - these were new directions, but nuclear explosions are limited. I think hip hop and 60's rock were the two biggest changes in the music world, and they followed similar trajectories.

Mind blowing originality perfected by virtuoso performers, followed by 1,000 different variations and a million different artists.

When hip hop exploded, my generation fucking hated it. Which is so hypocritical, considering the effect 60's rock had on our parents. My friends would say "Hip hop sucks." I would respond "There are good hip hop songs, there are bad hip hop songs. Just like there are good rock 'n roll songs, and shitty rock 'n roll songs."

They would turn their backs in a huff and head to the nearest Starbucks.

Which brings me to my point.

Grohl said, and I am paraphrasing, that grunge rock represented something young people could love and your cool uncle could like.

I am that cool uncle. Actually, I am a cool Dad.

Nirvana, Pearl Jam, Alice In Chains - I loved those bands. To this day, if I hear Rooster on the radio, I will sing it as loud as I possibly can. With extreme prejudice.

I have an advantage - I am open minded. Because I love music. I will check out anything and decide if I like it or not. I will not shut out complete genres just because I am an old man getting older.

Second advantage - Keith and Craig. They turned me on to so much music. Music I would not naturally have been exposed to. "Dad - you gotta listen to this." I cherished those words. Still do, although it happens less frequently these days because my sons were selfish enough to go out and get their own lives.

But when they were captives in my home - holy shit, it was a musical smorgasbord.

A cool uncle. Dave Grohl was talking about me and he doesn't even know it. I feel a connection.

Perhaps I'll have him over for dinner.

Me

 "Man is the only creature that refuses to be what he is."

Albert Camus

What Is This?

Tough stretch.

Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday nights I attempted to set a new world's record for lack of sleep. I was a walking zombie. Thursday and Friday nights I tried to kill insomnia with whiskey, Saturday and Sunday - with gentleness. Last night I was beyond tired. Tired in a weird way. So I gave in and went to bed at 10:15.

I slept straight through until 6:30 this morning. Miracle of miracles.

My mind is fertile today. I cannot explain this adequately, but there are times when my brain is percolating, and if I didn't sit down to write, my body would explode.

I am reading Dave Grohl's book - The Storyteller - Tales of Life and Music. It is firing up my emotions through the roof. Unexpectedly.

He believes that there is a period in your life that makes you. "There is that golden moment in any child's life when independence and identity intersect, steering you in your ultimate direction." In other words, you realize you are independent from your parents and you have a sense of who you are.

I believe I was robbed of both of those. My parents did not encourage independence and I had no identitiy. Still don't. Disclaimer: I moved away from my parents in 1978 - since then any brain/life damage is my own fault.

He talks about how devastating Kurt Cobain's death was to him. And he says "There are people in your life that you try to prepare to lose."  In other words, you see it coming. 

I hope that isn't me. The possibility slapped me viciously in the face when I read those words. I am self-destructive, I am angry and depressed - unhappy. Am I stressing out family and friends? It is not my intention.

Grohl talks about the death, many years later, of a lifelong friend. The emptiness, the memories that will always be a part of him. When I am gone, I think I will leave a bigger hole than I think I will.

I still have time. I would like to increase the size of that hole.

I feel like something is happening with me. I hope so. Got me a therapist, cut back on the whiskey since Friday night, been exercising in a very limited way over the past few weeks (fucking knee still hurts), been thinking.................really taking a harsh and honest look at myself, the hope being that airing out my many weak spots will embarrass me into doing something about it.

Two thoughts bounce around my brain - 1) Holy Shit! -  I am 68 years old. I'm fucked.  2) I am only 68 years old.

I got a steep hill to climb. Untangling my twisted psyche will be no small feat; I hope this therapist is good. I gotta lose a shit-ton of weight. Morbid obesity plays a big part in how shitty I feel, and it is severely impeding the recovery of my knee. I gotta find an avenue for earning money that doesn't slash and stab my soul every fucking day. We are vulnerable; I fucking HATE that feeling.

I gotta get me some grit.

Grohl tells a story (get it?) where he tripped and fell off a stage, broke his leg and mashed his ankle - absolutely destroying it. A doctor tried to get him to a hospital - Grohl refused, determined to finish the concert. The doc wrapped the ankle, they got him onstage in a chair with the doctor supporting the ankle - on stage - they finished the concert. At one point Grohl looked down at the doc and said "Isn't this cool?" Talking about being on stage in a stadium full of people.

Grit is something I don't have. Gotta get me some. You can't survive life without it, as evidenced by who I am currently. Life will kick you, stab you, spit on you, break you, laugh at you - life is not gentle and it is not a spectator sport. Without grit, you are Gumby.

I feel good today. Physically (kind of) and mentally (kind of). "Kind of" is as good as it gets right now. I have been dead for 58% of 2022. Maybe I am coming alive. I hope so. I have been dead many times before and come back in one form or another. This time feels truly overwhelming.

It also feels truly imperative. A matter of life & death. Because I am so fat and unhealthy and mentally fucked up and emotionally fucked up that I can't possibly survive it. Right?

Periodically I tell myself that I have Keith Richards' constitution. How can I possibly still be alive after decades of amazing alcohol consumption, drug use, intense unhappiness, stress, anger, self-loathing, lack of sleep, lack of self-respect - how the fuck do you survive all that?

Many people have died over the years trying to keep up with Keef. Think I'll try another approach.

I hope these words don't make you feel hopeful. I've let you down before, I don't want to disappoint you again. Think of this as something to chew on, to ponder and evaluate.

I will do the same.

The Great Leveler

 "The one conclusion I have reached is that whiskey is a great leveler. You might be a hotshot advertising executive or a lowly foundry worker, but if you cannot hold your drink, you are just a drunkard."

Vikas Swarup, Q&A

Tony Romo

Tony Romo has the world by the balls.

Quietly, I think.

He just won the American Century Championship - a celebrity golf tournament - for the third time. People that competed this year include Charles Barkley, Steph Curry, Patrick Mahomes, Jerry Rice - so I assume it is a big deal. It also included celebrities like Anthony Anderson, Nick Jonas, Justin Timberlake, Colin Jost, Ray Romano - I have no idea how good they are, but I'm guessing pretty damn good.

I think Romo is an amazing individual. I believe his peers consider him to be a fucking damn good athlete, especially when it comes to golf. In 2019 he hit a shot from the deck of a hospitality tent at the AT&T Pebble Beach Pro-Am that stopped 1 foot from the hole. Spectators went nuts.

He is a prescient football commentator who predicts what will happen before it happens, and is so tuned-in to what's happening on the field that he picks things up and points them out before they show the fucking replay. The only other commentator who is that good is Chris Collinsworth.

Romo is great in the booth - knowledgeable, personable, funny, likeable. 

He was the starting quarterback for the Dallas Cowboys from 2006 through 2015. Always considered a marquee position, though not as much today. Still, glamorous. The knock is that he only won two of the six playoff games he made it to, and never made it to the Super Bowl.

Stats don't always make the man. Dan Marino never got to a Super Bowl but he still kicked ass. Within the sport a Super Bowl win is the ultimate validation, but to me as a fan - any player who fucking kicks ass on the field and makes me forget about my life for 3 hours, is a saint. 

Romo was not even invited to the 2003 NFL combine, but eventually received a late invitation to attend as an extra quarterback to throw passes to other prospects during drills. I'd say that puts his 9 year career as a starting quarterback for the Cowboys in pretty good perspective.

I like him because he appears to be one of those people who is living his best life. I fucking hate that expression because it has become a cliche that does not apply to 99.9% of the people on planet earth. The fact that it has become a cliche proves that it is merely one more catch-phrase we humans use to delude ourselves into pretending our lives are meaningful and enjoyable.

But in Romo's case I think it is true. He seems happy, he seems content, he has competed on the world's biggest stage, and he appears to be a fun guy to be around.

Tony Romo has the world by the balls.

Infuriato

I was fucking furious yesterday.

Thursday night I went to bed at 11:30. Woke up at 2. Lay awake until 4. Went downstairs to the recliner. Sipped a little whiskey. Still could not fall asleep. Finally fell asleep around 5:30. Woke up at 6:38.

Are you fucking kidding me?

I was a walking corpse yesterday. And, of course, I had to go to work.

Because I am a chump. A chump who never planned ahead, a chump who earned 50% less than he was capable of in his lifetime, a chump who cannot afford to retire, a chump who works part time at a menial fucking job.

A chump who has no choice - a chump who has to go to work even on 3 hours sleep. What a fucking joke.

Worked a show last night. A show for children. These are always the worst. Fucking frantic parents, always late, always got fucking lost tickets or stupid fucking questions or irrational, selfish requests.

I was working on 3 hours sleep. I wanted to shove my fist through the glass and punch each and every one of them in the face. I know they could feel it.

There is always a mad rush at the box office at these shows. A point at which the lobby is fucking full of people, a long line leading to the box office, one person after another after another after another.

I am not built for this anymore.

Someone gave me great advice when I first started tending bar. They told me that on a crazy night, never look at the crowd waiting in line. Just look at the next person waiting for a drink. Then you won't panic.

It works. It is great advice. I have applied that advice to this fucking job. With a lobby choked with people and a line 12 miles long, just look at the person I am dealing with.

Last night I kept looking at the crowd. With contempt. Hatred. Disgust.

I fucking hate this job. I fucking hate my life.

Lately I just shut down when this happens. I get cold, I get terse - when someone asks me a question I answer them as if I am barely able to stop myself from killing them. Which is pretty much true.

I have been getting a lot of "looks" from people lately. I don't fucking care.

I dragged my ass home. The only good thing about these shows is that I get out early. I was home around 8:15.

I fucking knew I would never get to sleep last night without outside assistance. The previous night's bullshit was in my head - no matter how tired I was I would never fall asleep.

Around 10:15 I loaded up a glass with ice and filled that sucker with whiskey. And then again.

I woke up in the recliner around 1:30 am. Carol was in bed. I got up, went to the bathroom and decided Fuck it - I'll just sleep in the fucking recliner.

Woke up at 7:15. Tired. Always fucking tired.

Gotta work a show tonight. The same fucking kids show with the same fucking idiot parents and the same fucking stress and stupidity.

I am as furious today as I was yesterday.

This is the life I am supposed to be grateful for?

Dexter

 "We all want life to have some meaning. Seems like the older we get, the harder we look for it. And the harder it is to find. And some of us just look in the wrong place. But if our lives don't have meaning, what can we leave behind for those we care about?"

Good News, Mi Amigos (407 Revised)

Homeowners insurance came through with $5,200, making the water situation much more manageable.

Actually, this is the second time they came through for us in 2 consecutive years. Last year we decided to get rid of mold in the basement, thinking that perhaps mold is not a selling point. It turned out to be quite an involved project, because our basement was a fucking pigsty. Ripping out sheet rock, moving shit around, filling up a dumpster.

Bill was around $2,600. Insurance company picked up 100%. There is a Santa Claus.

This time around we are eating the deductible, but still, it ain't hardly nuthin' worth cryin' about.

I fucking hate insurance companies. I would like every single payment I ever made to insurance companies over the last 44 years refunded to me. Then I could retire.

Insurance companies are cold-hearted, exploitive, scumbags.

Still, when you need one and they come through, well, it tastes like chocolate.

407

 I have to work 407 hours to make up for what it cost us to get running water again.

The Concept Overwhelms

Found me a therapist crazy enough to take a chance on me.

She may rue the day.

Talked to her this morning, felt comfortable enough, gave her the go ahead. Got a bunch of paperwork I gotta fill out, mail back to her and the process begins shortly after that.

Hope is a strange thing. At least to me. 

The therapist was scheduled to call me at 8:30 this morning, so I made a cup of coffee and went out on the screened-in porch. Seemed like a peaceful way to begin to deal with my twisted psyche.

Had a pleasant 10 minutes digging a beautiful, peaceful, and quiet summmer morning, sipping on coffee, digging on the cats. The therapist called, we had a good talk, I was honest (Carol made me promise to be honest, knowing full well that I keep things inside). I am committed to the honesty thing, otherwise this will end up being an exercise in futility. I am fascinated to see how the therapist deals with my particular brand of honesty - marinated in poison, barbecued in my own special self-loathing sauce.

Got off the phone and felt instantaneously ebullient. Hopeful. The morning became even more beautiful, peaceful, and quiet. I decided to read out there, which I never do because the recliner is so seductive. I made another cup of coffee, went back out on the porch with a book, and just let myself be.

It felt so fucking good.

It is good to have hope. Maybe this person can help me. I hope so, I really need some hope. Could be a bust, maybe we won't connect. But I don't feel that, we had a pretty comfortable talk - she sounded sincere, not phony. 

You want honesty? She asked why I am seeking therapy. I told her I could give her a list, but I hit her with I have no self-confidence and I don't like myself. I said I could add to that but she said no, that's a pretty good place to start.

I'm off and running.

We'll start out talking once a week, online, and go from there. If it stays at once a week that is probably a good sign. If she increases it to 5 times a week, that could be a bad sign. We shall see.

Back to this hope thing. I have experienced little of it in my life. Especially recently. I got some now. I like the way I feel today. Some might call this feeling "happiness". I wouldn't know. But it beats the fuck out of despair.

If the first session goes well I will really feel good. I so want this to work. I so need this to work.

What kind of life could a Real Joe live?

The concept overwhelms me.

Life (Lurking)

Let's say you are a creative person.

That's it. That's who you are. That's all you got.

You are not practical, you are not reasonable, you are not a critical thinker. Every stimulus that comes your way gets filtered through the creative mind.

The creative mind is useless unless it is creating.

So how do you deal with life? You don't. So you are vulnerable.

What's the worst thing you can be in life? You guessed it - vulnerable. Every other human being on planet earth is a vulture, and every one of them senses weakness from a distance of 14,000 miles. And they pounce. With fanged teeth and a crooked smile.

Let's say your water goes out on the Saturday night of July 4th weekend. No running water. It will cost upwards of $400,000 to get a plumber out on that weekend, so you decide to wait.

Tuesday rolls around, you are entering Day Three of No Running Water. You begin to make the calls. It is 7 am, you have been up since 6.

The first plumber says "Shit, man - I am just getting back from vacation, I got a big job lined up, I don't think I can make it today and besides - I don't like you - you are a creative person so you are useless." But he recommends a well company. Helpful fellow.

Doubt immediately rears its ugly head. Do I need a plumber or do I need a well company? They are two different things and you have no clue how to decide which one you need. You call a second plumber. He's a jolly guy, says he can have someone out there between 10 and 12. You agree to the appointment. He hangs up laughing and says to his office help "We got a Creative!" They roll on the floor in mirth and merriment.

You call a well company because you are crippled with doubt. You want advice. You go back and forth, he convinces you it is a well problem, says he can get a guy out there around noon. You agree to the appointment. He leaves with a parting shot - go downstairs and shut off the breaker to the well pump.

Huh? Do I have a breaker to the well pump?

You call the second plumber back and cancel that appointment. The woman on the phone sounds disappointed - you feel bad, like maybe you ruined her whole week.

You head down to the basement with fear in your heart. The basement is the one area of the house you never visit, you fucking hate the basement. Only non-creatives visit basements.

What if the well pump breaker is not clearly marked? Will the house burn down?

You open the panel and look at the hand written map on the inside of the door. There is no designation for a well pump. Shit. You look over at the breakers and someone has hand written in with a black marker "well pump' next to one of them. Thank you Jesus (my buddy). You flip it. You go back upstairs.

Are you comfortable? Fuck no. You made a decision, but you don't know if it is the right one. What if the well guy comes out and says "You need a plumber." What if the plumber is now unavailable until December 18 of 2023?

You are sitting out on your porch at 8 am writing this shit down and hoping you don't fall through the floor. You hate Life - you fucking HATE life - because Life mocks you cruelly - all the time - and everyone else laughs about it. Right to your face. No empathy. None. Your soul is starving.

It is so fucking clear to you that you should have lived a creative life, whatever that means. Made creative decisions fully in line with who you truly are, instead of placating the monster you created. All the major decisions you made in your life were wrong, wrong relative to who you truly are, and now you are paying the price - Eternally.

You will never get out of this box. Never. Life doesn't work that way. Like a patient Venus flytrap, Life weaves its evil spell slowly, over decades as you continue to fuck up, as you crawl around like a bug on its leaves. Until one day the trap closes. It is too late. There is no escape. It is as if you have walked through the gates of Hell (which is another - and final - event looming in your life). You lose. Life wins.

You are looking forward to meeting the well guy.

You are sure you will have a pleasant conversation. You will be simpatico.

No?

Strange Days Indeed

 Living with no running water is like being a homeless person with a home.

So-Called Peace

My so-called peaceful weekend is drawing to a close.

Gotta make the best of today. I will spend tomorrow dealing with plumbers, bad news, and excessive expenditures. Then I go back to work on Wednesday.

In discussion with a plumber on Sunday he theorized it could be the water pump ( shitty, but somewhat manageable financially) or it could be the fucking well, which would be a motherfucking disaster. Anywhere from $2 million to $10 million.

I joke about bad luck or being punished, but obviously when you don't take life seriously for an extended period of time, life will go out of its way to fuck you over continuously and with extreme prejudice. Guilty as charged, your Honor.

I am doing battle with my brain. I want to enjoy today, but it's a struggle. I want to find a solution to my life but the odds against that happening are steep. So what do I do? 

And don't give me that one small step bullshit - I am 68 years old. There are no small steps left. Either I stop walking all together, give up and let life have its way with me - essentially sacrificing my essence to defeat, or I start leaping like a gazelle.

I am truly lost. Trying to be happy in the middle is a titanic struggle. The only soul-satisfying solution left to me is nothing more than a pipe dream; impossible odds, unrealistic to even consider.

So I'll soon be filling out applications at McDonald's. Kind of like Kevin Spacey in American Beauty. 

Beautiful day today, Sox play this afternoon, I got Dexter, I have my books and my poetry to protect me.

Doing cheeseburgers tonight as I continue the "grilling as survival mode" odyssey. Corona Light. Plastic utensils, paper plates, 14 gallons of water in reserve. I can get through today. Maybe even with a smile.

But tomorrow? Plumbers? Shit, man - me dealing with a plumber is like a lamb dealing with a lion. I don't stand a chance. It will be a miserable day, followed by what is guaranteed to be another miserable day. Maybe many if the well is the fucking problem.

I never wanted to be a homeowner. Never in a million years. Not my thing. I should have stuck to my guns.

Whaddya gonna do?

Whiskey Thinking

 "The liquor sneaked up and grabbed her, got into her mind and talked to her, fooled her into thinking she was thinking for herself when really it was the whiskey thinking whiskey thoughts."

Louise Erdrich, Four Souls.

I Finally Broke Through

But not in a good way.

Barbecuing a few days ago, threw the meat on the grill, realized I forgot the cooking utensils, went back in the house to grab them, walked towards the grill on the porch......................and my right leg broke through the floor. I fell right up to my hip.

Just like that. No creaking, no warning. One minute I was walking, the next I was on the floor with my leg dangling underneath the porch. Thank god all the boards around it weren't rotted or I could have fallen all the way through. I did not get cut, but I have a mega-bruise on the right side of my thigh and a more sedate bruise on the left.

I had a barbecue fork and a regular fork in my hand that I held on to - no fucking time to drop them. Amazing I did not impale myself.

Carol was out there and was stunned - she could not see that I had broken through the floor because my fat body was blocking the view - she was panicking, thinking I had collapsed. Asking me what could she do, what could she do. I couldn't answer her because I was stunned, breathing hard and struggling to get up.

I felt so bad for her because I couldn't say anything. Finally I dragged myself up and out of the hole. When she saw the hole she couldn't believe it. Of course the cats were there immediately to check it out.

Took me a bit to regain my composure. More than a bit. Strange event.

We have a wine crate covering the opening right now so the cats can't make like Steve McQueen in The Great Escape.

We had sausages that night.

They were delicious.

Tired of Falling

 "The only thing you can rely on, in all towns, big and small alike, is that there will be broken people. It's nothing to do with the place; just life; it can beat us up. And if that happens, it's easy to find your way to a pub; bars can quickly become sad places. Someone who has nowhere else to go can grasp a glass a little too tightly; someone who's tired of falling can take refuge in the bottom of a bottle, seeing as you can't fall much further from there."

From Us Against You, Fredrik Backman

This Is How My Fucking Life Works

Jesus, you're such an asshole.

Nice night last night. Good conversation with Ed traveling to and fro, great dinner (steak tips all around because we are Men, not boys) and a spectacular concert.

Talent of a virtuosic nature on display. Explosively good. Derek Trucks and Susan Tedeschi (husband and wife) are enormous talents. Trucks is a guitar God, Tedeschi is pretty fucking talented herself. The entire band is talented beyond belief. Beautiful summer night, a little whiskey, magic music - what the hell else can I ask for?

3 days of peace, love and understanding, for Christ sake. That's all I wanted.

I get home at 12:45. Carol is in bed but watching Saturday night live. I cannot go right to sleep so I decide to go downsairs and sip some whiskey. Before I do, I freshen up the cats' water bowl (the water pressure was low out of the faucet) and go to the bathroom. The toilet flushed once and gives up. No more flushing. I go to the sink, turn the faucet - no fucking water. At 1:00 am I find out we have no fucking running water in the house.

So there you have it. We have no running water. Called a couple of plumbers, found one with emergency service. We've used him before. $450 flat fee (don't forget - today is July 3rd), $250/hour after that starting the minute the guy leaves his home, which is not in Henniker, by the way.

$700 right off the motherfucking bat. We expected this. On Tuesday it will cost $300, and $125/hour after that. So we are experimenting. Trying to live without water. Exactly the way we had hoped to spend the rest of the weekend.

I bought 10 gallons of water for flushing purposes - for now. Paper plates, plastic utensils - I will barbecue every meal to minimize dirty pots and pans. Brushing our teeth with bottled water, washing up with bottled water.

Bathing will be challenging. I am kind of excited. It is fucking hot. I plan to get as dirty, and sweaty and rancid and funky as I can - including greazzzzy hair. Maybe go to work like that on Wednesday. The job deserves no better.

So there you have it. My plan was to rest, get some health, nurture a new perspective. Instead we are living like prehistoric man. I am furious.

But I am going to stick to my commitment to feed off of Carol's positive attitude. I'm gonna try. That is the only thing that will get me through this without breaking every bone in a stranger's face.

You suck, Jesus. Your sense of humor is pure, unadulterated bullshit.

P.S. - If you actually exist and I somehow make it to heaven, I take back everything I just said.

Love you, man.

In The Gut

"One of the hardest things about getting old is admitting mistakes that it's too late to put right."

I don't remember where I read that, but it hits home. 

Happy

Inspiration smashed me in the face this morning.

I had been up a while, reading, coffeeing, breathing, when Carol came down the stairs.

Instantaneously injecting her positive attitude into the room. I decided right then and there to feed off of her always hopeful attitude this weekend. Feed like a Vampire.

I need to feel happy this weekend. Hopeful. The only thing that will heal my frayed nerve endings is Happy.

If I cannot manufacture Happy on my own I can feed off Carol's. When I focus on her naturally positive attitude it makes me feel better. I have talked of this in the past. She is medicine. Medicine that I need now more than ever.

I want us to have a beautiful weekend, built from small, satisfying moments. I want her to be happy around me as I am happy around her.

With an average person there would be danger of me sapping all the happiness out of her as I feed on it, greedily, like a Vampire - leaving an empty sack behind.

Carol is Super Human. Her supply of Happy is inexhaustible.

I am lucky to have her.

The Strangest Thing

It was the strangest thing yesterday as I made my way inexorably, ever so slowly, through my 37 hour, seven hour day.

My bones dissolved. Not completely; I was able to crawl my way out the door at 6 o'clock, but I was more akin to a sack of jello than I was to a human being. Wobbly is an understatment. Apparently as the day wore on and the sheer stupidity of me being there ate away at me, the cancer that is my job almost killed me.

Barely made it home, gripping the steering wheel with Gumby-like hands, fighting hard to avoid slumping over to my right. What an adventure.

I poured myself into the recliner and dozed my way off and on through the night, crawled upstairs to bed and here I am today.

Almost whole. I can stand upright, I can walk. This is a great start to my four day weekend. Four motherfucking days.

Today I must compartmentalize. I must. All I want to do is stay in this house with Carol & The Cats for 4 days and try to find myself. Soothe myself. Infuse my bloodstream with Peace.

BUT - I am going to a concert with my brother tonight. The Tedeschi Trucks Band. This is meaningful to me. Derek Trucks played with The Allman Brothers Band for around 15 years. He was a child prodigy - you can find pictures of him playing guitar with Dickie Betts when he was just a little child. Derek is also the nephew of Butch Trucks, one of the founding fathers of the Allman Brothers.

He is a fabulous guitarist. The concert is at a venue in Gilford NH - one of my favorite venues in the world. Carol and I have seen Willie Nelson there, Linda Ronstadt, Crosby, Stills & Nash, James Taylor and many more. I have seen the Allman Brothers there. It is a beautiful place with a great vibe.

My brother Ed and I are going out to dinner, then going to the concert. He graciously agreed to do all the driving. I am getting so little sleep that I would not trust myself driving over an hour home late at night. All I have to do is drive 1/2 hour to Concord, park my car, climb into Ed's car and go. Then 1/2 hour drive at the end of the night.

I know tonight will be spectacular. I know it. Ed and I never hang together like this. Dinner will be an opportunity to talk, the concert will be an opportunity to lose ourselves in the magic of the moment. Digging a spectacular band.

I need to put aside my anger, frustration, self-loathing and natural inclination to wallow in depression. I just need to have fun. I will have fun. I know I will.

I love my brother. I truly do. This will be a special night. I am going to put my best foot forward, try to relax, and enjoy myself.

Tomorrow I can begin the business of putting myself back together again.

Thankfully I won't have to worry about my bones dissolving this weekend. I am in a supportive environment that does not grind the life out of me. Got Carol, The Cats, Ed, food and music.

I think I'm on the right track here.

This Morning

This morning I feel like a man who was wrongfully convicted and has spent the last 25 years in prison.

I have just been told that my conviction has been overturned and I am about to be freed. But I have to spend one more day in prison until the paperwork has been processed.

Today is going to be one long, torturous, motherfucking day. 

Most likely I will crawl out that door at 6:00 pm on my hands and knees with blood pouring out of my ears.

But I will crawl out.

And I will find some peace.