Flip My House, Motherfucker

Where have I been?

I have no answer for that.

I am hopeful that my brain is re-calibrating. One never knows.

How the fuck are you? Happy? Healthy? Satisfied? 

I doubt you can answer yes to all three of those. None of us can. I know I can't.

You do the best you can and fake the rest, until the grave beckons. Then regret cracks open your skull with a vengeance.

Not a pretty picture.

I am picking up the pieces. 

Exercising regularly again, but at a much reduced pace and intensity. My body has been assaulted this year and I just don't feel right. I am trying, but I definitely feel old. I am too fucking young to feel old.

The booze thing is a hoot. I am consuming half of what I used to and I don't miss it. Who knew?

It all started with God. I was kneeling in desperation in a church 50 years ago. I explained that my life was only an imitation of what it should be and I felt lost and alone and directionless. I prayed: "What should I do, Jesus?"

His booming voice replied: "Have you tried whiskey?"

I was unaware at the time that he had a sense of humor. No harm done. The booze I have consumed over the last 50 years has served me well.

Shifting gears: We had plumbers over here last week. In conversation it came up that we want to dump this house on some poor, unsuspecting rube. An hour later the guy made us a cash offer. Pretty reasonable one. No inspection required. As is.We were stunned.

Of course we counter-offered.

Obviously, he flips houses and this house in this market is a good bet. They took a walk through the house and told us they would get back to us.

We immediately called our realtor. This is uncharted territory and if it happens, we need to make sure our asses are covered.

He was very supportive. He will walk us through the entire process, should it actually materialize, and make sure all the t's are crossed and i's are dotted. For a reduced fee, which we are happy to pay him. He is a good man.

This is the best possible situation for us. This house is a broke-down palace. An eye-sore. A boil on the ass of the neighborhood.

Going through the normal selling process will be long and painful. And we'll probably have to compromise the asking price considerably. A quickie sale like this to a guy whose only goal is to fleece some poor unsuspecting rube down the line (in line with our own philosophy) is the ultimate answer.

The odds are a trillion to one that this will go through. It came out of the blue. Hope is a dangerous commodity.

So Carol and I are cautiously optimistic but not unrealistically hopeful.

Kind of like the way you live your life.

We are waiting to hear back. Since last Thursday.

I mention it only to illustrate that our life is bouncing around like a red rubber ball. Up and down and all around. Fucking weird.

Still, I am fucked in the head, lost and distorted, and drifting aimlessly.

What advice you got for me now, Jesus?

Maine Cabin Masters

I have watched a hell of a lot of HGTV over the years, thanks to Carol.

I have learned a lot about backsplashes, crown molding, color combinations that pop, and shiplap.

Generally I am not impressed. But Carol came across a show called Maine Cabin Masters. These are people who specialize in refurbishing vacation cabins in the woods of Maine. Often in the deep woods of Maine.

I love these people. Because they are real. 100% authentic. They are who they are and they don't pretend otherwise. I so respect them for that. Because I don't know how to do it.

They work hard, really hard, and they have fun.

Most of the people I see on other HGTV shows are pretentious. Condescending. Full of themselves.

I enjoy the show because family history is such a big part of it. The people who own these cabins have had them in their family for many decades, even hundreds of years; they are run down, neglected, and in serious need of work. But they are loaded with family history.

When the cabins are refurbished, the owners are deeply moved. Invariably they talk about grandpa or great grandpa who bought or built the place, they reminisce about family gatherings, and they talk proudly of how good they feel about being able to pass the cabin down to future generations.

It is so meaningful.

Then there are the cabin masters. I watch the show wide-eyed because I am so tightly wound and they are so natural. I think about how much fun I could have if I could just learn to be me. 

They work their asses off and they laugh and joke as they do it. They are a bunch of family and close friends who all dig each other; it comes across so obviously. They enjoy life. All of it. Work and play.

That's the way it is supposed to be.

I continue to be royally fucked up. I am working with a therapist, but lately I have wondered how deep I should go. We have covered my life from start to now in detail, but I have not gotten into the emotional shit that really holds me back. We talk again Thursday. I need to get into just how restrictive my self-doubt and fear and hatred of my life can be. See what happens.

In the meantime, every time I watch Maine Cabin Masters, I laugh. Fucking therapy, man. I marvel at how naturally they approach life, how they overcome obstacles, keep moving forward and don't create obstacles for themselves by worrying too much.

They take life as it comes. And they enjoy it.

I know if I sat down and had a beer and a little whiskey with them, it would be a blast. 

Might even fix my brain.

Pretty Smart

 "How do I guess at the future? Based on the omens of the present. The secret is here in the present. If you pay attention to the present, you can improve upon it. And, if you improve on the present, what comes later will also be better."

From The Alchemist, by Paulo Coelho

Another version of living in the moment. There is no doubt that this is the way to live a life happily. But what gets me about this quote is the idea that if you imrove on the present, you improve on the future.

That's heavy, baby.

It hits me now because I have been awakening from the moroseness of knee trouble/fatness from cancer woes of 2022.

I am exercising regularly. Consuming a lot less alcohol. My brain is coming around.

I am improving upon my present to improve upon my future.

Seems pretty smart to me.

Only One French Door? (You're Kidding)

As I have previously mentioned, I start each morning by throwing wide open both French doors, let the cats out onto the screened-in porch, dig my book, dig my coffee, and generally marvel at the sunshine and beauty that surrounds me.

We have had many cold mornings this summer. One morning I decided it would be smarter to only open one French door. As if that would moderate the temperature some. What can I say, I am not exactly wide awake when I get up in the morning.

It drove me crazy. 

Every time I looked up from my book, the scenery was disturbed. It's not like the closed French door really blocked the view - its got plenty of windows, for Christ sake. But it disturbed the flow. The sightlines.

I had an afghan on my lap (it was that cold), a hot cup of coffee, I was so fucking content. I did not want to get up.

But that goddamn closed door distubed my peace of mind. It raised my blood pressure. It pissed me off.

Until I had to get up and throw it wide open too. I had no choice.

I sat down to peace of mind.

Later on, work would raise my blood pressure sky-high.

But in that moment, I felt decisive and wise.

And serene.

Come On In

The knocking on the door was insistent. Beyond rude.

The door was locked, providing temporary refuge from reality, but it wouldn't last much longer.

Joe appeared to be unconcerned. He was sitting at the kitchen table with a 3/4 empty bottle of whiskey and a look of resignation on his face.

Comes a time in a man's life when enough is enough. The condition of the bar that Joe just left provided stark testimony to that.

If the asshole just kept his fucking mouth shut, Joe would not have had to set him straight. Bragging about his fucking retirement, how he planned and carefully nurtured it over three decades, allowing him to quit working at the age of forty-eight. Talking up his brand new Cadillac like a pimp, displaying pictures of his vacation home like they were playing cards, flashing his cash and buying rounds.

This was Joe's bar, not his - he was a fucking stranger, an interloper. Just passing through. Where the fuck did he come off?

Frank, the bartender, had listened to Joe's story for years. But he was a good listener, quick with the empathy and besides, he liked Joe. He felt Joe was a good guy, a straight shooter who had made some mistakes in life that left him stranded at the end of his life and the end of his rope. No solution. Nowhere to turn.

Working a menial job that mortally wounded his ego every fucking day. Trying to live off that paycheck and a meager social security check. 

Eating shit psychologically and literally. The life he was living was fucking up his mind. The food he could afford was nothing a reputable nutritionist would recommend.

Then again, there's a lot you can do with Spam if you are creative. Joe was very creative.

And he loved Cheez-Its.

As the unlucky stranger spoke, Frank noticed Joe tightening up. Gripping the bar tightly with his left hand, tapping the brass rail audibly with his right foot, but not so hard that others would become alarmed. Frank was wary but had never seen Joe get violent, so he waited. Until it was too late.

The stranger turned to his right, patted Joe on the shoulder, and offered to buy him a double. Obnoxiously, in a loud, showy and abrasive tone of voice.

Joe's left hand came off the bar like lightening and cupped the man's neck. He smashed his forehead on the edge of the bar three times. Blood pooled on the bar, soaking the cardboard coasters. Joe's right hand went to the stranger's chest and knocked him off the barstool.

The stranger was stunned.

Joe kicked him in the ribs and the kidneys - repeatedly; and in the mouth, breaking a few well manicured teeth. He grabbed his rocks glass and bounced it off the stranger's head.

The stranger wasn't moving.

Joe looked at Frank apologetically; Frank's eyes were wide, his mouth was open. Joe nodded, threw three twenties on the bar and walked out the door.

The knocking went beyond insistent. It was intrusive. Joe crept silently to the door, unlocked it, walked back to the table, sat down with his gun in his lap, poured one more shot of whiskey and said mockingly:

"Come on in."

My Brain Is Frozen

And if I don't thaw it out soon - exceptionally very soon - Carol and I and the cats will be living in a homeless shelter.

Here's why. The Future: The cost of electricity is about to double. The cost of home heating oil will jump 250,000%.

The motherfuckers that control this world always find a way to make the little man suffer. Shit gets crazy globally, and corporations and politicians find a way to shift the entire burden onto the shoulders of the little man. A burden, by the way, that is manufactured - contrived - made up.

A war breaks out and oil companies lick their fucking chops - "Ooooh, here's another opportunity to skyrocket the cost of home heating oil unjustifiably." I laughed a long while ago when Biden came out and warned the big oil companies not to artificially jack up gas prices, using the war in Ukraine as an excuse.

They laughed and did just that. Prices have come down, but that is small comfort - these jerkoffs can adversely affect every Americans' life (except the rich) whenever the fuck they want to.

Electric companies were drooling as well - "Shit, why let the oil companies rake in all the money. We can screw the consumer just as easily."

And they are.

Of course these are things over which we have no control. You have to heat your house, you have to put gas in your car, you have to have electricity.

There will be stories this winter of elderly people dying because they had their thermostat set so low that they froze to death.

Oil company executives and electric company executives should be prosecuted for murder.

Anyway................this will be an expensive winter for me and Carol. Ridiculously so.

I am temporarily frozen in the decison-making, action-taking department. Don't know what to do. Working a menial job may not be the solution. Perhaps I should set my sites higher.

A moderate sized drug deal could be just the solution I seek. One and done. I mean, I am not even on the radar - nobody would suspect me of anything. Then I could keep $700,000 in cash in the house and we could live off that.

Of course with my luck, I'd get caught - and Jack McCoy would prosecute the case. I'd wind up with 12 consecutive life sentences without the possibility of parole.

But that would free Carol up, who would have had the foresight to hide the $700k in an ultra-secret location.

Giving her the opportunity to live a debt-free and Joe-free lifestyle.

My heart breaks at the thought.

Reality

 People are much quicker to judge me a fool than a poet.

Fifty Six

I have been consumed with melancholia for the past two days.

Here's one reason.

A list of deceased classmates was published on the facebook page of my 50th high school reunion.

I don't think this is morbid, I think it is appropriate. These are people who should have been at the reunion who are instead in the grave. A sobering reality.

There are 56 people on this list. Fifty six. There were only 276 people in my class. 56 is a stunning number. Frightening.

Death is marching forward at a staggering pace for the people I went to high school with.

There were names on the list that I did not know about. Friends of mine, or at least people I had more than a glancing contact with. Keith Gilbert, Barry Jacobson, Barry Kaplovitz, Eric Solberg, Brook Tuttle. Brook Tuttle used to live in the downstairs apartment of my parents' house.

I did not know these people had died. It was upsetting to read their names.

The reunion haunts me, it is on my mind, but not because I wish I was there. I do not. I definitely do not. I am glad I skipped it.

It bothers me on one level because it is like an arrow pointing to my life on a page indicating how far behind myself I am. Indicating where I should be in life and where I really am.

On a deeper level, it is like a mortality warning bell. Clanging. Loudly.

Seeing those names in print, especially considering the high number of them, really upset me. That list is contributing mightily to my deep sense of melancholy.

Appropriately so.

Two Chairs

Here's another reason.

We are focused on removing clutter as we prepare to put the house on the market.

We had two big stuffed chairs that were handed down to us from Carol's parents. Our kids used to sit in them when they visited. I have created a self-imposed moratorium on visitors - including family - because my dream of one last get together in dignity was shattered.

The dream was to get the inside of the house fixed up so I could feel proud when the kids came over for the first time in decades, so I could say "Look - finally - not a shithole." I was robbed of that opportunity by Covid related bullshit.

So I am ashamed; I don't want anyone else ever in this house again before we dump it on some poor, unsuspecting rube. The fucking place haunts me as the ultimate expression of failure.

I listed the chairs in craigslist a while ago. $60 each, two for $100. Zero response. So we decided fuck it, let's just give the motherfuckers away. I listed them for free. Zero response. I couldn't fucking believe it.

It has been weeks. Suddenly we get a call on Sunday - somebody right here in town. They bopped over, dragged the chairs out of here and that was that.

Except I became melancholy. Surprisingly. Two big holes where the chairs used to be. Looks odd.

But beyond that I was thinking "Here we go. This is real. We are going to sell this place."

Of course it could mean nothing. We could put the house on the market and get laughed at. But we could sell it. And those chairs represent a concrete step towards getting this house off of our backs.

We have done a hell of a lot of work already but a lot of it was in the basement, so we don't see the results. Got a lot of trash out of the house but, again, that's just housecleaning. 

The chairs feel like a piece of our lives has been removed. And the empty spaces are right in front of us. Unavoidable.

We have lived here for 36 years. 16 of those years with our sons. There is a lot of emotional baggage connected with this place.

Selling a home is one of those momentous events in a life. I get it. We really don't want to sell this joint - too much effort, too many memories. We are comfortable here.

But I am already having trouble getting up and down the stairs because of my knee. And we have no choice. I will never retire with this mortgage hanging over my head. Not retiring is not an option.

We have a deadline. Gonna put the place on the market in September. That has us moving. Got a few more big things to get done. A lot of small, annoying shit. But we will get it done. No choice.

We got rid of two chairs.

But not the emotional baggage attached.

Bill Russell

Bill Russell died on July 31st.

I have been putting off writing about him for weeks. What the hell is a man like me going to say about a man like him?

He was a giant as an athlete, he was a giant at life. I am pre-born by way of comparison. Even at the age of 68.

I am glad I waited. The NBA retired Russell's #6 league-wide. That has never happened before. That tells you just how important he was to the game of basketball. Of course there are caveats and exclusions, but generally, that is a massive statement to make about the man.

Stats: He led his team to 2 consecutive NCAA championships in 1955 and 1956; he was captain of the gold-medal winning U.S. national basketball team at the 1956 summer Olympics; he was the centerpiece of the Celtics dynasty that won 11 NBA championships during his 13 year career. Eleven. That includes a run of 8 straight championships. Are you fucking kidding me?

He was the NBA MVP five times, and an NBA All-Star twelve times.

I could go on but, really, there is no point. He was a God in the game of basketball. Period. Hands down.

Here's how Boston "fans" treated him. 

In the 1960's, Russell's home was vandalized while he and his family were on vacation. His home was a mess, the N-word was spray-painted on the walls, beer was poured on the pool table and the felt had been ripped up, his trophy case had been broken into and most of the trophies were smashed, and the vandals shit in his bed.

Every time the Celtics went on the road, vandals would tip over the family's garbage cans.

Here's the kind of man he was. 

Medgar Evers was the NAACP's first Mississippi field secretary, who worked to organize voter registration drives and economic boycotts. When he was assassinated in 1963, Russell called his brother, Charles Evers and asked him what he - Russell - could do. Evers asked him to come down to Mississippi to set up the first integrated basketball camp in the state.

Russell went down and did it. He had 6 NBA championships under his belt at the time. He didn't have to do anything. He definitely did not need to put his own life in jeopardy. It was such a volatile situation that as Russell slept at night, Charles Evers sat up and guarded the motel room with a rifle. But Russell did it.

Bill Russell participated in the Cleveland Summit in 1967. It was a meeting of prominent black Americans organized by Jim Brown in support of Muhammad Ali's decision not to serve in the Viet Nam war. There were 11 attendees, including Muhammad Ali, Bill Russell, Jim Brown, and Kareem Abdul-Jabbar.

At the age of 83, Bill Russell took a knee and tweeted "Proud to take a knee and to stand tall against social injustice."

This is merely a thumbnail sketch of who Bill Russell was. That's why I hesitated in writing this. It does not do the man justice.

He was an NBA superstar in every sense of the word, a spectacular athlete and competitor who earned the respect of all athletes. A man who went way beyond athletic achievements to live a life fighting racism and hatred and violence. A meaningful life. Regardless of the potential consequences, regardless of the danger to himself, selflessly fighting to make other peoples' lives better.

He was outspoken, he had strong opinions and was not afraid to express them. He stood up for what he believed in and never backed down. 

He made the world a better place. And while he was at it, he enthralled basketball fans for 13 years, just to put some icing on the cake.

A real man and a genuine human being. A brave man.

Who lived a deeply meaningful life.

50th High School Reunion

Last night was my fiftieth high school reunion.

I wasn't there. How could I be? I have nothing to recommend me.

First of all, I am not a reunion kind of guy. I see no reason to go out of my way to hang with a hell of a lot of people who mean nothing to me. If I am going to see my real friends I would rather do it in a private way.

However, if I was a reunion kind of guy, I would still not attend.

I recently had a conversation with my brother Ed. About the reunion. There was a guy in my class, Nelson, who is actually a closer friend to my brother than he is to me. My brother asked Nelson if he was going to attend. He said no because he felt like a loser. Ed was sarcastic about this from the point of view that that was not a good reason.

I would never attend a class reunion, because I feel like a loser. The first girl I dated owns her own company, a very large company, and is a raging success. My closest friend in the world is a millionaire.

What am I gonna say? "Yeah, I am 68 years old and I cannot afford to retire." Sounds a tad pathetic, don't you think? Because it is.

The vast majority of my friends are retired. I imagine a vast majority of my high school class is retired. The others, I'm sure, represent a wide swath of humanity - some successful, some not so much - but I am simply not interested in parading my failure in front of them. I have a hard enough time dealing with it myself.

And it would be inevitable. After we got past the family thing - wife, kids etc. - the inevitable next question would be "So what are you doing?"

"I am semi-retired and have been working low paying, menial jobs since 2016. My ego is bruised and bleeding and I don't see a way out."

Response: "Oh."

Reunions are strange animals. Two of my close friends wrestled with the decision about whether to go or not. Up to and beyond the RSVP date. They both decided to go. Had to get special dispensation because they blew off the RSVP date.

If they thought it would be a deeply meaningful experience, if they thought it would be a rip snorting good time, they would not have hesitated. But they did.

Because there is a lot of superficial shit connected with reunions. Lingering resentments (even after 50 years), petty jealousies, artificial affability, false braggadocio. I remember after a previous reunion my friend Phil told me, sarcastically, he was amazed at how many of our classmates owned their own businesses.

There is also the "captives at the zoo" aspect. People want to get a look at each other, see how people have aged, see who looks affluent and who looks impoverished. 

I mean, think about it. 50 years ago you shared rather immature relationships with these people. But everybody has an image of everybody else, formed over the course of those four years. 50 years later you want to know how they did at life; you want to break out the scorecard and rate everybody, especially and most importantly, as it compares to what you have done with your own life.

You want to see if your 50 year-old impressions proved to be accurate. You get satisfaction out of confirming that the ones you expected to fail actually did fail.

If I ever do go to a reunion, I want to strut in as a conquering hero.

Perhaps the 75th.

Hangin' With Petty

I dialed up some new Sirius stations recently.

I gotta shake things up every now and again - I am so easily bored.

Grabbed me another Jazz station because the one I listen to now does not often play what I like. 

Got me Jimmy Buffet. Radio Margaritaville, of course. Shit, man, that is such a fun station. Lots of party songs, a general party atmosphere. But there is much sensitivity too - Jimmy singing about the lure of the ocean, about getting older, about love and pain and hurt. Friendship. Riches won and riches lost. Beautiful. Fucking Margaritaville, man. Every time I hear that song I want to trash my life, live on the beach and drink tequila. Excessively.

I found a kind of soft rock station. Plays The Eagles and stuff like that. A tasty diversion.

I struck gold with Tom Petty, though. Tom Petty Radio. I have listened to it non-stop for a week, and I ain't done yet.

I love Tom Petty, but I am like you - I know only the hits. A good band goes much deeper than their hits; if they have been around a while they have a catalogue that covers the entire range of human emotion and experience. They have depth.

I found that out when I leaned on U2 to get me through radiation treatments. I fell in love with so many songs I had never heard before. Cathartic.

I am enjoying the same experience with Tom Petty And The Heartbreakers. Beautiful stuff.

The fan connection always blows me away. Found it with U2, finding it with Tom Petty. It is intense, but there is a universality to it.

So many fans talk about how the music sets them free and allows them to be themselves. Because we are not allowed to be ourselves in "real" life. You gotta fake it to make it. Tell them what they want to hear; be a good boy, a good girl and lock your essence deep inside under cover of bullet-proof camouflage.

But fans will tell you that "their" band got them through a tough time, or perfectly expressed what they were feeling inside. That this one song got them past a family death, or that one song gave them the courage to.....................

I hear this so often - U2, Tom Petty - take your pick - that I accept it as religion. And I recognize it as a powerful force, a life force, a soul-nourishing force - that saves people, inspires them, gives them a weapon to fight back against life.

I love being exposed to Tom Petty's true nature. Obviously, a lot was recorded before he died - he did some DJ'ing on his station. I get his sense of humor, his perspective on a lot of stuff, his outlook on life and music.

Plus............I get exposed to some of his band members. Like Benmont Tench, who DJ's a show on the station. He also played in a band called Mudcrutch, that at one time featured Tom Petty, Tench, and Mike Campbell - a precursor to Tom Petty And The Heartbreakers. I was not aware of that, but now I get to hear Mudcrutch's music as well.

Anyway.............shit, I do go on, don't I?

I found Tom Petty. I'm digging deep.

My life just got better.

A Beautiful Moment

La vecchiaia e carogna.

That's Italian for "old age is carrion."

Choose your favorite expression. "Old age is not for the squeamish....not for the weak....not for sissies....not for wimps." "Old age is carrion."

Such a sad and lonely truth.

When you get older you break down, you get sick, you get weak, you suffer indignities. Eventually you crawl into or get thrown into a grave. You rarely walk proudly into death. You die in defeat. An insulting way to end whatever your life was.

I popped into the hospital this morning to get the ultrasound done on my thigh blob.

Apparently the results will be available to me online today to peruse; I will hear from Dr. Feelgood in a day or two. Very exciting.

That's not the point.

I waited only a couple of minutes in the waiting area before I was ushered in for "the procedure."

That was enough. I was the youngest in the room by 75 years. I also appeared to be the healthiest. That was my impression, superficially. But the truth is that, most likely, a lot of these people are not much older than me, if at all. They are people who have been battered by life and are weak, old beyond their years, close to being devoid of hope.

How long before that is me?

Every time I see a doctor I am surrounded by the old and feeble. This is because the shit I am dealing with is old people shit. Except when I went in for knee surgery. I was happy to see a young guy in the waiting area, waiting for surgery. Happy to see a young person damaged.

Walkers, wheelchairs, canes, oxygen masks - mothers and fathers - weak and helpless - being escorted in and out by their middle-aged children.

I fucking hate it. But that is my fate. I am well on my way.

When I walked out of the hospital into the sunshine today, I almost raised my arms in victory and yelled "I made it - I am walking out - not in - and I am doing it on my own. I-am-still-free."

I am not kidding. When I hit the sunshine I had an emotional reaction that surprised me. I was so glad to be walking out of there.

The waiting room got to me. The room where the ultrasound was done, got to me. A room with no windows. Muted lights. Quiet. When she was done the technician had to leave the room to run the results by the radiologist.

I was on the table, alone in this room, in an undignified state of dress and undignified position - just me and my thoughts.

And I was thinking: "I am tired of this shit already. I am only 68 and I have endured many indignities over the last 3 or 4 years. Indignities that are in stark contrast with my self-image. Beyond that, I thought about what Carol has endured since 2017. Indignities that are ten-fold more intrusive than my own."

And I thought: "We are getting old. And life is taking its shots. Old age is not for the squeamish. How long can you hang on? How much can a human being take before life wins and they drop the final curtain? On a broken, battered, humiliated body that once walked in hope."

I stopped at Dunkin on the way home and picked up breakfast and coffee for me and Carol. We grabbed our food and sat down and watched a Law & Order together.

It was a beautiful moment.

Two Decisions

 As I move into this more promising and decisive phase of my life (?), I am making bold moves, and decisions with far reaching consequences.

I just wanted to see how those words sounded together.

Examples:

1) No more haircuts - I am done with barbers and stylists and alchemists. I can never get them to cut my hair exactly as I wish. Never. The latest attempt was with a guy right here in Henniker. Convenient, baby. I saw him last October (that should tell you something right there). I went in with long hair and gave my standard directions - I want to keep it long, but neat, pretty, stylish.

He proceded to chop it all off. Happens every fucking time. "Gotta cut it back to get it right." Bullshit. For a few hours afterwards I deluded myself into thinking he was my guy anyway - because he served me whiskey. But............no. I'm done.

Of course I have to find a solution. YouTube? Gotta be something out there about how to cut your own hair. I'll give it a try. I gotta get it right, though - don't want to look like Albert Einstein at Craig's and Amanda's wedding.

So strange - it feels like everything right now revolves around their wedding. Losing a shit-ton of weight, cutting the hair, buying a suit - they should just elope and save us a lot of effort.

2) No More Job Interviews - I am never going on another job interview for the rest of my natural born days. I am done with that shit. I am going to ride with the job I have and hope my liver outlives the obligation. 

I will ride it out while simultaneously pursuing palatable alternatives; the ultimate goal being to free myself from the embarrassment of being shackled to a menial job, and hitching my wagon to an effort that makes me proud......and makes me money.

I have a lot of important decisions to make - a lot - because my life literally rides on the outcomes. I am courting change. But for now, no haircuts and no job interviews seems like a pretty good start.

Baby steps to build confidence and then.................KABOOM!!!!!!

King of the World, baby.

Wisdom On Fogo Island

Fogo Island is a remote island off the northeast coast of Newfoundland and Labrador in Canada.

It was featured on an episode of 60 Minutes because of this and that; you should watch it, it is a good story. A human story. A heartwarming story.

There is a small bar on Fogo where the locals relax and socialize. They get together for what they call "shed parties." Not to get drunk but to consume alcohol in the manner in which it was meant to be consumed - in the spirit of good company.

They have a traditional song they sing; one aspect of it involves handshaking. As the woman sings it, she walks around shaking hands. I like that. It personalizes the music even more than naturally happens.

The lyric I love: "Be satisfied with what you've got, and leave well enough alone."

Simple, direct, almost harsh. But beautiful.

Happiness is a simple thing. It's all about perspective. Why can't I keep that straight in my mind?

I have sharpened my receptors, I'm improving in my dedication to getting smiles from the little things - the enormously good things - in my life.

But I want..............................and therein lies the rub.

I want my own life, I want money, I want retirement, I want to lose weight, I want vitality, I want freedom, I want dignity.

Those "wants" weigh approximately 250 tons, and I carry them on my back.

Tough to move around freely within happiness when you are forced to duck walk in a permanent squat because of the weight of "wants."

I don't interpret the "and leave well enough alone" part as giving up, or passively accepting your lot in life. I think it is a warning not to poison your happiness. Recognize it, enjoy it, appreciate it. If you must seek change, do it - but never lose site of those precious things that fuel your heart with the love and happiness it requires to keep on beating.

I haven't figured out too much of this puzzle; I experience small happiness much more often than I used to, which is good. But I continue to kill enormous amounts of small happinesses in worry and regret, which is a fucking crime.

I don't know what it is going to take. Maybe a daily visit from The Grim Reaper. He shows up in my room every day and stands there in silence for 15 minutes, looking directly into my eyes. I don't know if I am going to die or if he is going to leave. I am sweating blood.

He leaves. I am relieved.

How many visits like that would it take for me to wake the fuck up?

One? That is all it should take.

But with my track record, who the fuck knows.

In the meantime "be satisfied with what you've got and leave well enough alone."

What A Guy!!!!!!!!!!

I have the day off from work today, so I jetted over to the French Riviera, with Carol's permission of course.

I packed a Speedo, a corkscrew and Aviator sunglasses.

Je vis ma meilleure vie.

Dreams & Nightmares

 "Dreams do not do well in the waking world, but nightmares thrive there."

From The Sandman

Fortunately

 One of my greatest fears is that one morning, when I am only 33% awake after another shitty night's sleep, I will lift the toilet seat and a moray eel will spring upwards and clamp its vicious teeth on my throat, slash it open, and drink 58% of my blood, leaving the remaining 42% as a viscous pool at the base of the toilet in which I will die face down.

Fortunately, this has not happened yet.

A HOT Day

You roll out of bed on a hot day.

A very hot day.

Before you even make it to the bathroom, the following words scroll across your brain:

"Jesus Motherfucking Christ, it is fucking hot!"

That is a tough way to start the first day of the rest of your life.

If you repeat those words to Father O'Brien later on that day and he replies:

"Fuckin' A Right!" - you know you are in trouble.

True story.

Happened to me.

Christian Vazquez

Christian Vazquez was drafted by the Boston Red Sox in 2008 at the age of seventeen.

He made it to the majors 6 years later in 2014. In 2015 he had Tommy John surgery and had to recover from that. In 2018 he won a World Championship with the Sox.

He spent his entire 15 year big league career with the Sox.

This week the Sox traded him to the Houston Astros. On a day when the Sox were playing the Astros. In his second game with the Astros, Vazquez was called to the plate in the 9th inning as a pinch hitter. Against his career-long, ex-team.

Can you imagine what his emotions were? The man loved playing in Boston. You could see it, you could feel it. His enthusiasm was over the top. All of his former teammates say the same thing. I think a lot of the players he left behind were as heart broken as he was.

This felt like an unusually emotional experience. Maybe it happens more often than I am aware, but in Christian's case he wore his emotions on his sleeve. And so did his teammates. When he was on the field pre-game in an enemy uniform, many of his teammates hugged him in an obviously heartfelt way. They talked to him. They looked him right in the eye.

The love was obvious. The respect was obvious.

His trade amplified how weird it is to be a professional athlete. With no say about where your team trades you. "Players that have accrued 10 years of major league service time and spent the last 5 consecutive years with the same team can veto any trade scenario that is proposed."

Vazquez did not qualify.

Professional athletes are human beings (except for Tom Brady). Many of them get traded against their will. It's not just the prospect of playing for another team; it's the personal decisions that go along with that.

These guys have wives, they have kids - they are established in a city. What do they do now? Move immediately? Wait a while to see what happens? If the athlete doesn't relocate his family, how often will he see them? He no longer has a home field.

In Vazquez's farewell he said about his teammates and staff  - "I am forever grateful, for you helped me when I was away from my family." About Red Sox Nation - "I will hear your cheers in my heart forever." About Boston - "Boston will always have a place in my heart, and this is me leaving a piece of it with you."

During his introductory press conference with the Astros he said to Boston "To the fans, I'm going to miss you a lot. Every game in Fenway Park, a special place to play. You never know, I'm going into free agency next year. You never know. Let's see what happens. ........But I love you guys. You were very good to me and my family, and I'm going to miss you guys."

Do these comments sound like the words of a man who is happy to be traded? Fuck no!

There are many of you who say "these guys make big bucks, fuck them, it's part of the deal."

I say "Fuck you, you are an asshole."

Carol and I were devastated when we heard about the trade, and we truly hope he makes it back to the Red Sox.

To win another championship.

Supremely Confident

 "It shrinks my liver..........It pickles my kidneys.........But what does it do to my mind? It tosses the sandbags overboard so the balloon can soar. Suddenly I'm above the ordinary. I'm competent - supremely competent. I'm walking a tightrope over Niagara Falls. I'm one of the great ones. I'm Michelangelo molding the beard of Moses. I'm van Gogh painting pure sunlight."

Charles Brackett and Billy Wilder, The Lost Weekend.

A New Business Model

And the ping pong continues.

On non-work days I am a pussycat, a model citizen. On work days I am a psycho hose beast. One imaginary provocation away from tossing my laptop against the wall, or using it to club a ticket buyer over the head. Especially when I work a show. Like last night.

I walk into the theatre with shields up. I stalk my way in. I strut. Body language daring any unsuspecting fool to irritate me in any way, small or large.

Behind the scenes, I bitch, I complain, I am an ornery motherfucker. When the curtain comes down on the box office window and I am forced to deal with customers, I project an air of menace.

I ask "Can I help you?" but in a tone that says you better not fuck with me. And if they are stupid enough to fuck with me, I spit poison. I cannot believe no one has filed a complaint.

Last night I did the "can I help you thing" and the woman at the window recoiled and said sarcastically "Well that was awfully loud!" I don't even remember what I said because at that point I am white hot and everything becomes a blur, but I do know my tone of voice was nasty. Apparently I made my point because she shut the hell up, bought her precious ticket and walked the fuck away.

There is glass between me and the customer. We communicate through a two way amplification system. Sometimes you get that screechy feedback noise. Can't be helped. It fucking happens.

BUT, every time, every fucking time, the idiot customer will make a face like somebody stabbed them in the eye with an ice pick and say something stupid, implying that it is my fault. That's my favorite situation. I have about 5 different heavily sarcastic comments that I make, all of which are very enjoyable for me.

There is a movie titled From Dusk To Dawn. Bizarre movie, very bizarre movie, but it stars George Clooney, believe it or not. From 1996.

Cheech Marin, from Cheech and Chong, plays a bartender in a sleazy, Mexican bar. Behind him, over his head, is a neon sign that says "The customer is always wrong."

I am in agreement with that philosophy.

I am creating a new business model for customer service.

I don't know if it is sustainable, but it sure is fun.

As The Career Turns

The second copywriting website rejected me.

Rejected me. Are you kidding me? Come on, you have seen and appreciated the creative way I string words together. You love my writing. How can you not? I'm brilliant.

I submitted a writing sample and after a few days they came back with "Sorry, kid - you suck."

I put down a $20,000 deposit on a yacht, fully expecting these people to offer me a contract worth $4 million annually. Now what the fuck am I going to do? What will I tell Carol?

To summarize my copywriting career: I blew my first chance at it and that website treats me like a leper. Incommunicado, baby. The second website rejected me outright.

Holy shit, man - what am I gonna do?

Porn, baby.

Hell of a career in that.

The Rubicon Looms

Have I crossed the Rubicon?

In 2022 I have become enormously fat. My knee ain't right. I have no energy. I get out of breath from wiping my ass. 

My head tells me I can get past this. When I have to, I can go on a psycho diet and raging exercise routine and lose weight. Get healthy again. Get my breath back. Rustle up some energy. At least in the past.

But what about now? How many men my age are fat and out of shape? All of them. Can every single one of them be lazy, or is it just a thing that happens - a fact of life? Is it possible that I will never get "it" back? That I cannot lose the weight? That I will never again feel healthy?

Is this the fucking beginning of the end? 

Something to consider: My brother, who is 67, recently told me that he gained 10 pounds. That is stunning. He couldn't believe it himself. He is disciplined in his diet, disciplined in his exercise routine. He is in excellent health; he comes across like a 45 year old man.

He tried to exercise it off, diet it off - and he couldn't do it. He ended up going through the Noom program - and it still took him 2 months to lose 10 pounds.

I am fucked. I want to lose 25 to 30 pounds before Craig & Amanda's wedding, so people won't point to me and say to Craig - "Is that fat man over there your Dad?" To which he will reply - "No fucking way. Unfortunately, my Dad couldn't make it today."

If I lose 10 pounds, it will be a miracle.

But health is the point. Aging. I am not aging well all of a sudden, and if I don't find an answer I will never age well.

You have to fight back against death. Being fat, being weak, shortness of breath, fatigue - these are all invitations for the Grim Reaper to visit earlier than he had planned.

Fuck the Grim Reaper. I don't want him around.

But I am nervous. I hate the way I feel, hate the way I look. This fucking 2,000 degree heat wave has chopped the knees out from under my exercise program for now. Air conditioning was invented in 1902. 120 years later, Carol and I have no air conditioning. Apparently, we are not decisive.

Once the heat breaks, I am going to ramp up the exercise program exponentially. I am going to give it my best shot.

But that voice in my head is skeptical. Am I too old? Is this a delusional quest?

Have I crossed the Rubicon?

I pray that I have not, because what awaits on the other side is not pretty.

Severe Need.

On the mornings of the days when I have to work, I am in severe need of sensitivity.

Severe. I need to feel something, something real, something in my heart. Because when I go to work I will be eviscerated; my belly will be sliced open, my guts falling to the floor, people walking by stepping on my guts and not apologizing.

Our cats have this thing that they do. They spend 98% of their time on the screened-in porch all summer. But they check in on us. They stroll into the house, walk across our laps, look us in the eye and walk on through. This happens multiple times during the day and the night.

On those mornings as I sit vulnerable in the recliner aching to be human, one of them - Emmy Lou or Patsy - and sometimes both of them at different moments - climb into my lap. Spend a few moments. Look me in the eye.

In those moments my heart leaves my body; it floats through my chest and hovers within striking distance of Emmy Lou or Patsy.

They sniff it, as cats do - lick it a little bit, nuzzle up against it (my favorite move).

And I am so full of love and so grateful and so tenderly content - tears in my eyes - that I remember that I am a human being.

Not a chump.

Emmy Lou and Patsy are precious beyond description to me and Carol.

Health in 2022 (An Update)

Remember when my right leg went crashing through the rotted board on my screened-in porch?

I told you about it, for Christ sake - don't you even care?

The right thigh/hip took a fucking beating and was badly bruised - a big ugly goddamn thing. Blue and purple and yellow and aquamarine.

Eventually the bruise subsided, but a couple of weeks ago I noticed swelling in that spot. Actually, it is more like a bubble than swelling. It wasn't going down, so I popped in to see Dr. Feelgood this week.

She checked it out and said it is probably a fluid build-up, which sometimes happens in cases where body parts take a beating.

I am scheduled for a Sonic Boom (Ultrasound) next week, and will probably have to have the fluid drained by a needle.

Health has not been my strong point this year.

I AM Fighting Back

Been a lot of doom and gloom in here in the Year of Our Lord 2022.

I've been kicked around a bit and I'm feeling off balance. But I am fighting back.

Driving fast with the AC on and the sunroof open and the radio blasting. That is a recipe for success. Or survival. Or mental health.

Whatever type of recipe it is, it is fucking working for me.

An added bonus is that I haven't had a haircut since October. My hair whips around my head in wild and reckless abandon, confirming the truth that I am indeed a child of the sixties. And always will be, with no apologies.

When I lower myself into the driver's seat of that high powered, built for speed Hyundai, I feel like a man. I crank the AC, open the sunroof, blast the radio and fucking take off.

Nobody can touch me, nobody can hurt me.

"Music has always been a matter of Energy to me, a question of fuel. Sentimental people call it Inspiration, but what they really mean is Fuel. I have always needed Fuel. I am a serious consumer. On some nights I still believe that a car with the gas needle on empty can run about fifty more miles if you have the right music very loud on the radio." Hunter S. Thompson

His words ring true.

You start there, make yourself comfortable, and crank up the speed, and suddenly all the answers to the questions of the Universe are revealed to you.

Plus, it is a lot more fun tossing empty nips through the sunroof than it is to drop them cautiously out the driver's side window.

The Bubble Couple

Carol and I are living in a bubble.

Have been for a couple of years. We will experience one of two outcomes:

1) The bubble will burst and we will crash and burn.

2) The bubble will be set adrift on a breeze of hope and, ultimately, deliver us to peace.

We are sitting on this rat trap of a house which has magically become valued at much more than it's worth. Selling it is the only chance we will ever have of both being retired together and living the rest of our lives in peace.

Our realtor is coming out to the house for the third time in 2 or 3 years; he'll be here Thursday. We have come up with strategies each time to make the house sellable before putting it on the market. Carol and I have followed through - having a company haul all the fucking trash - 36 years worth out of here. Before that we rented a huge dumpster, and Carol and I cleaned 3,000 tons of trash out of here ourselves.

We hired a company to come in to the cellar to get rid of mold. This required an enormous amount of work; stripping sheetrock, moving shit around.

We have tried for years to get handymen over here to do outside work, with very limited success.

Finally Carol called the realtor recently and said "Fuck it, we are done fooling around. Let's just list this motherfucker and see what happens." I'm not sure she used those exact words.

The realtor is coming out to take another look around, and to give us advice. He is a friend of Keith's; we trust him.

Either we sell the house or we don't.

If we don't, we crash and burn and live our lives trapped in a hell of our own making.

If we do, we finally get the peace and comfort we have worked our whole lives for.

2022 has been an up and down fucked up year.

The roller coaster ride continues.

The Worst Words

 "And now it's too late."

8/1/2022

Today is August 1.

Residents of New England: Wake the fuck up.

Residents of the rest of the United States: Congratulations on the wise choice you made to live somewhere - anywhere - else.