Finally

Our toilet whistles.

When I flush, I conduct like Keith Lockhart.

TOILET MAESTRO!!!!!!!!!!!!

I have finally made my mark.

What I Am Working Towards

 "I walked with him to his car, then watched him drive down the dirt road, his convertible top down, a Smiley Lewis tape blaring from his loudspeakers, determined not to let mortality and the exigencies of his own battered soul hold sway in his life."

From Jolie Blon's Bounce, by James Lee Burke

Won't You

I'm a really handsome man,

I just changed my name to Stan,

I am traveling to Japan,

Oh won't you come along?

Carol & The Cats

Thank god I have Carol & The Cats to soften me up.

A hard heart shatters easily.

Pig

Just watched a movie titled Pig.

Starring Nicholas Cage.

Put aside every negative opinion you have about Nicholas Cage (I have them too) and watch this fucking movie.

Don't watch another movie with The Rock, don't watch Fast and Furious 433, watch Pig.

That is if you don't mind feeling. This movie will stir up your emotions and take a cattle prod to your soul. Take the risk. It won't hurt you to get away from your life for a while.

It's what I call a small movie. It is quiet, it rips open your heart, it tells an improbable story and it tastes so fucking good.

It deals with friendship, betrayal, father/son relationships, the evil in the world, tragedy and loss. The story is set in a world you and I know nothing about, which is so good for the brain.

And it deals with the love between a man and an animal in a raw and honest and powerful way. If you are a pet lover and you do not cry, you are not really a pet lover.

The final scene in the movie is the ultimate expression of aloneness. Painful and raw. Blew me away.

My gut was clenched five minutes into the movie and stayed that way until the end. Not in a tense or fearful way, but in a deeply emotional way.

You bet I cried. More than once.

That's how I know it was a good movie. 

Excellence

THE PATS are having an excellent season.

They have the same exact record as Tom Brady and the Bucs.

Are You Fucking Kidding Me?

"As a business owner, your bottom line is always top of mind."

Sentences like that are the exact reason I never functioned well in the corporate world.

Today, I Mourn My Own Passing

Pastor Pasquale was interactive.

He felt that preaching to congregants from on high was cold and impersonal. And one way. After all, he was there to help his people. Is this not better accomplished through two way communication?

So he encouraged people to speak during services. To walk up to the front of the church at a specific time during the service, to open up their soul in front of people they trusted. And the man they looked to for answers. Advice. Inspiration.

Many of the confessions were repetitive, but this is the way of human nature.

Infidelities, broken dreams, financial woes, fear, disease. Pain. Enormous pain.

On a Sunday in February, Steve Constantino stepped to the front of the church and broke the mold. He opened with this line: "Today, I mourn my own passing."

His posture was that of a broken man; slightly stooped, in a defensive crouch. There were tears in his eyes. But his words had a finality of tone to them. Like the last sentence of a somber book.

People sat up. They stopped whispering, the coughing stopped, children almost sat still. The air became thick and it was a little harder to breathe.

This is what Steve said:

"Today, I mourn my own passing. I had a life, it was given to me with no agenda - the ultimate gift. Abundance was handed to me on a platter - every opportunity, every encouragement. 

Childhood was effortless; my parents had money and they spent it on me. Adolescence came along and my mind tightened up a bit. There was some confusion, some rebellion, some self-doubt and doubt about the world, but I foolishly ignored it all and kept on moving. Even though that did not feel comfortable. It did not feel right.

It was around this time that mirrors took on an absurdist quality to me.

Adulthood. A quantum leap in responsibility with no corresponding leap in understanding or awareness, especially of consequences. And no conviction whatsoever to guide my way.

I kept moving forward. In time, not in accomplishment.

Time quickened, decades passed. Pain became as much a part of me as blood, but it was muted through familiarity, relegated to a crippling dullness. Wreaking havoc and destruction in a quietly relentless way.

It began to close doors, eventually closing almost every single door to my soul. Leaving in its wake a compromised human being, a complete stranger, unrecognizable to the person born to this world so many decades before.

I have run out of time. There is no path to redemption. No chance to reclaim lost opportunities or squandered potential.  

I was given a life. I gave it away.

I am dead.

Today, I mourn my own passing."

With that, Steve Constantino turned slowly and walked towards a side door. And then out. He moved like a person who has had their essence sucked out in a vacuum. A bag of bones rattling towards nothing. No future. No hope. No destination.

The congregation was deathly quiet. Pastor Pasquale was frozen in place. He heard thousands of confessions over the years, but none like this. This one defied hope and left him questioning his faith.

To his parishioners he said "Go in peace."

When the last person had left, he shut down the lights and sat alone in a pew, shadowed in candlelight.

He cried.

Functioning Alcoholics Rule The World

"An alcoholic is someone you don't like, who drinks as much as you do."

Dylan Thomas

My Earlobe

I think my earlobe's falling off.

I fear my earlobe's falling off.

I see my earlobe's falling off.

What will people think?

What Is A Wedding?

Craig & Amanda are getting married.

On one level it's not that much of a stretch. They've been living together for years, they own a home together - on one level they are just making it official.

But marriages go much deeper than that - it's the emotional impact of a wedding that tips everybody upside down. Makes everybody giddy.

100 people will gather in pure happiness for Craig & Amanda. People who will look at them in awe, love and respect, people who will talk to them and hug them, happy to be within the circle of their joy.

Rituals will be followed and none of them will seem silly. Almost every wedding is the same, yet we all observe and participate in the rituals as if it's the first time we have ever seen a garter get tossed.

I honestly don't know if Craig & Amanda will do all that stuff - they are a ways down the road in life and they are pretty independent. I'm guessing some of it will be included, some will be excluded. But whatever they do, it will be fun. It will be appreciated.

Friends and family. This is what injects energy into a wedding. Friends partying with friends, family partying with family. There will even be cross-pollination to take things to a higher level.

You walk into the hall and happiness infects you through osmosis. There is a vibe in the hall and that vibe is contagious, and it grows and spreads as people greet people and talk and laugh.

You stand at the bar, sit at the table and it all feels natural. Even though you are wrapped up in a monkey suit, you don't think twice about it. You just are, it just is.

Carol and I will be surrounded by family at the wedding and we cannot fucking wait. People who we are comfortable with, some we haven't seen in a while, but they are family. A judgement-free zone that allows maximum space for fun. And conversation. And connection.

Unlike what you get in your daily life.

A wedding is all about love, celebration, acceptance, fun, release, escape - it is a magical day dropped into your weekend to really spice things up.

The next day you get to bask in the glow. Kind of like medicine on top of medicine. A bonus day. Bonus joy.

When I was much younger and attending weddings at a rapid pace - kind of like a 162 game baseball season - one after another after another, I took them for granted. Felt they were pretty corny and repetitive.

With some distance in my life, my perspective has changed. Weddings are meaningful. Especially this one.

First of all, it's my son. Heavy duty. Secondly, we haven't had a wedding in this family for quite some time. So the ritualistic gathering of the tribe takes on that much more meaning.

Bring it on.

We are ready.

The Only One Who Can Fuck This Up Is Me

Craig & Amanda's wedding.

I mean fuck it up for me, not them. I would never get in the way of their joy, their fun, their love, their marriage. I imagine they will have a spectacular day.

I am the Father of the Groom. I am already nervous. Self-conscious. Worried. Worried that I will allow my phobias and insecurities, and my tendency towards being a psychopath and a neurotic, sabotage the natural fun factor of a wedding.

I just picked up my suit and I don't like the way I look in it. Not at all. I look fat. No hiding the truth. This is weighing on my mind. I imagine some will think and maybe even say, "Jesus, Joe got FAT - he's fucking enormous." But the wedding is not about me; it doesn't matter what I look like. I have to get that shit out of my mind.

I want to have fun at the wedding. Pure and simple. Unadulterated, pure Joe-fun. I need Old Joe to make an appearance.

Old Joe was uninhibited - in a bar, on a dance floor, at a party - anywhere fun was to be had Old Joe had fun. People liked to be around me. Now they say "Jesus Christ, the Marquis de Sade was more laughs than you are."

Somehow over the decades I have become closed in psychologically, kind of like living in an Iron Maiden. Permanently.

I have shut down spontaneity, I rarely laugh, I never cut loose, I remain closely guarded at all times. It's quite suffocating. I am strangling the shit out of my Chi.

Tangential point: Dr. Feelgood was quizzing me yesterday before The Shot. What have you been up to, what do you do for fun, are you traveling, what do you do? I think he was assessing my state of mind.

And it hit me hard - I am fucking boring. My life is fucking boring. The only thing I could come up with was "I read." Are you fucking kidding me? How did this happen?

So yeah, the wedding is not about me - it has nothing to do with me. It is Craig & Amanda's magical, mystical day, and I know they will make the most of it.

I need to follow their lead. I want to dance (badly), I want to laugh freely, I want to feel and be loose. I want to enjoy my family deeply and honestly, free of any distractions. A wedding is a naturally fun atmosphere.

I want to have fun naturally. Like Old Joe used to do.

I need this day like medicine. I need to feel completely free, I need to feel completely me. I need a fucking break.

My choice - a fantastic, fun, laugh-filled day celebrating and enjoying the sheer, natural beauty of my family effortlessly

                                                                              OR

One more deep dive into the twisted, dark, ooze of my battered psyche.

A lot hangs in the balance.

Who Are They?

People think I'm a smelly goat, 

people think I'm a leaky boat,

people think my life's a joke.

Who are they? Who are they?

People want to see me fail,

people want me stuck in jail,

people want me weak and frail,

Who are they? Who are they?

People want to see me break,

people want to see me shake,

people want to see me ache,

Who are they? Who are they?

People want my life to end,

to die alone without a friend,

people want my heart to rend,

Who are they? Who are they?

Vicious people walk this earth,

and rob this life of any worth,

spreading only fear and pain,

driving gentle souls insane.

Who are they? Who are they?

Hopefully not you. Hopefully not me.

Shot To The Belly

Got the final shot to the belly this morning.

9:15. Kind of early, don't you think? I do.

That's where they administer the hormone shot. The belly. I am surprised my fat body doesn't pop like a balloon when they jab me.

"Shit - call maintenance - he fucking exploded. Wash down the walls, mop the floors, wipe down the furniture. We got another appointment in 2 hours. You got a piece of his liver over your eyebrow."

They alternate from side to side every time. "We gave you the shot on the right side of your belly 3 months ago, so today we'll jab the left side."

Does it really make a difference? Hard to believe. But the medical community is invincible. So I roll with it.

Here's the deal. I keep learning things at the last minute. Dr. Feelgood said they will check me again in 3 months, which makes sense because these are three month shots. In other words I should get the same readings in January as I got today.

Then the real reckoning begins. I keep going back every three months for possibly up to a year, as the testosterone gets back to normal and the PSA gets back to "normal."

I was not aware of the "up to a year" part. Dr. Feelgood told me it could take 9 to 12 months for everything to get back to "normal." And on and on I go.

Obviously the ideal is for the PSA count to stay low. That would be wonderful. He did tell me that as this shit wears off I should start to "feel better" - especially in the energy department. He said fatigue should lessen.

Honestly, I feel like I have been tired all of my life. But maybe I have ben especially tired over the last two years and just accepted it as the norm. I have no frame of reference because my reality is second to second. My memory is spotty at best. In fact you can't even call it memory. Impressions maybe?

So I have another year to sweat this out. He did say the morbid obesity can be dealt with as the shit wears off. So perhaps I can once again become svelte. Resume my modeling career. 

Who the fuck knows. I am hopeful (95% five year survival rate is projected) but, again, who the fuck knows.

At least I won't be lifting my shirt up and exposing my bloated belly to any more humans from now on.

Unless I get drunk at Craig & Amanda's wedding.

Knucklehead

People think I'm a knucklehead,

people say I'm a knucklehead,

people see me as a knuckle head,

they think this all day long.

No fucking way I'm a knucklehead,

I just can't be a knucklehead,

I don't see me as a knucklehead,

I felt this all my life.

My brain's relaxed, it's way laid back,

my brain's relaxed, that's all there is to know.

I bang my head against the wall, to jump start all my thoughts.

I bang my head against the wall, sometimes all for nought.

I bang my head against the wall, and brilliant thoughts escape.

I bang my head against the wall, and genius does take shape.

So no, I'm not a knucklehead, 

no way I am a knucklehead,

I just can't be a knucklehead,

my mind shines for all to see.

Like a beacon.

Happy Ending

There was a young man name of Bob,

who got lazy and lost his good job,

his wife took their home,

and left him alone,

but Bob got to sleep with his dog.

(Happy Ending)

The Right Attitude

I'm working yesterday, the job that I love, my destiny, my calling - sympatico with my soul.

My favorite time of the day - alone. I end every Monday alone for an hour or two. It is the sweetest possible eventuality, the greatest moment of my life every time, eternal peace, sweet release, calm, introspection and reflection.

Unless a fucking customer walks in.

If the phone rings when I am alone, I am completely in charge - I never answer it. I let it go to voicemail, then I listen to the message to see if the person sounds like an asshole. If they do, I delete the message and go back to whatever podcast I'm listening to.

But if someone walks in I actually have to deal with them - face to face. It really sucks.

A woman walks in at the very end of the day yesterday. The very end of the day. She hands me a check to renew her membership.

Company protocol requires me to jump up and down and clap like an organ grinder's monkey whenever anyone pays for a membership. And to say "thank you so much", with humility and at least 100 times.

I don't do that. I mumble "thanks" like Steven Wright and that is it.

I thought I was done. But no - the woman starts to ask me questions. Questions about a show she's taking her grandkids to see.

Customers should never be allowed to ask questions. We should have a "No Questions" sign up in the box office. But we don't.

One of the great joys of this job is that we in the box office rarely have the information on a show that we should have. Like how long the show lasts, if there are any intermissions, is there this is there that. This is shit we should definitely know, but it is rarely available. No big deal, we're only on the front fucking lines.

So we look stupid. Which I don't really care about because the job is menial anyway but still, if you can answer questions you can shut customers up.

If you can't answer questions, customers get that insulting look on their face that makes me nauseous. Like knowing shit is part of my job.

Anyway, I faked my way through her questions about her precious grandchildren's show and she left.

Whereupon I started hooting and hollering, jumping and dancing like a madman.

It is a supremely satisfying thing to usher a customer out of the box office.

They take up too much space and make too much noise.

Prostate Cancer (Don't You Know)

Crawling up towards the finish line.

Final hormone shot tomorrow. Ending a two year escapade.

An escapade that began with 44 radiation treatments early in 2021. And then two years worth of hormone shots - one shot every three months. 

Turning me into a woman. My voice is higher than Al Kaprielian's when predicting a high presssure area.

Not really. Hormone treatments have turned me into the Pillsbury Dough Boy - soft, fleshy, fat, and misshapen. I feel weak, I feel tired, but I'm not dead. 

People tell me that's a good thing.

In reality the whole ordeal went pretty easy on me. The Captain of Radiology told me repeatedly that I tolerated it well. No real side effects. Same thing with hormone shots. No radical side effects beyond the fact I don't recognize myself in the mirror.

I saw worse. People shuffling in for radiation treatments, hunched over, some even in obvious pain. People my age who looked 15 years older. People shuffling out - slowly - hanging on to their escort.

I was reminded of it again last week. I had to meet with the Captain of Radiology last week for no discernible reason. I wrapped up radiation in April or June of 2021. He asked me how I was doing, told me I handled the whole thing well, and reminded me that I will see him again three months after tomorow's shot.

?

While I was there I saw people shuffling in, shuffling out, hunched over, arm in arm with their escort. Not pretty. Life graphically illustrated.

Before every hormone shot I have blood work done to confirm that I am still a woman. Apparently, before the Final Shot, they really want to test shit. Normally they take two vials of blood. Period. They don't require a urine sample.

Yesterday they took four vials of blood and had me contribute urine to the process.

The beautiful thing about aging is I can provide a urine sample whenever they need one. Any time of day or night, whether I have just gone to the bathroom or not. Urine is in endless supply when you get old. Thankfully there are some benefits to decrepitude.

Tomorrow Dr. Feelgood will tell me  testosterone is negligible, the PSA level is negligible, this and that and this and that. I have heard it every three months for two years. All good news.

He'll tell me we'll check you out again in three months after your body has had a chance to return to "normal."

That checkup is the key. If the PSA count skyrockets I may be a dead man walking. If it is low it means these last two years of treatments were not wasted.

I am rooting for the latter.

A Rodeo Clown Is Something To Be

Oogalala Joe, got nowhere to go.

Looking all around, feeling like a clown.

A rodeo clown, now that's something to be.

A rodeo clown is specific with a job description and a specific set of skills.

Oogalala wants to be a rodeo clown or the Captain (C) of the Bruins.

Or a brain surgeon or a fry cook.

Thankful for the choices.

It's never too late to make a career choice.

There's always hope if you are alive.

Not really.

But it surely sounds good.

Surely it does.

It's also never too late to be what you might have been.

Not really.

There are boundaries, you know.

Lines that you cross that you cannot uncross.

Rubicon.

There's a destination that will fuck you up.

Don't cross it?

You already have.

But listen, buy yourself a premium coffee,

and be nice to an asshole.

That's about as good as your day's gonna get.

NEVER!!!!!

If you are not using Charmin Ultra Strong toilet paper, I can never respect you.

And I will never shake your hand.

Naked. Exposed.

The house has been listed for a week.

One couple has expressed interest. One. And I suspect they were out more for a pleasant October drive than to investigate purchasing a house.

My enthusiasm has waned. It was artificially propped up by our optimistic realtor, who believed that the price was low enough relative to all the other houses on the market to attract a do-it-yourself guy. A real go getter. A handyman. A visionary.

I no longer believe that.

The pictures in the listing reveal the truth. Warts and all. Annie Leibovitz could not disguise the distressed condition of this joint.

Here is what the listing reveals to friends and relatives:

Here is the end result of a guy who got it all wrong. He bought a fucking house. A fucking house. Two, actually over his lifetime. 

He had no business buying a house. Ever. He could never make the inevitable repairs that would result from age. He never had that talent. He could not afford to hire anyone to make those repairs because he underachieved professionally.

He was a victim of his own goddamn creation.

He bought a house because that's what you do. Didn't think about it. In fact, the expression "I wasn't thinking" applies so many times in his life, resulting in so many problems, that it should be forever associated only with him.

And now he is relying on this house to bail him out of a tight situation. To buy him retirement. Pretty unlikely scenario.

In fact, the only way this house will sell is if the price is lowered to $19.95, with another house thrown in for good measure. "Act now and you will get a second house at no additonal cost."

The listing reveals the sad truth of his life in stark detail for all to see. Kind of like a pre-death epitaph.

It would be comforting to delete the pictures and hide the truth, but it's too late for that. People know.

Still, things are bound to get better.

From A Gentle Soul

Everybody wants to kill me,

but no one wants to thrill me.

People want to crush my skull,

condemn my soul to rot in hell.

Break my knees, ignore my pleas,

steal my money, lock me up and destroy the keys.

Humiliate me and laugh, drown my hope and me in the bath.

I don't really know why.

I am a gentle soul.

15 Minutes of Dignity

No, I don't want more fucking hours.

I am not an hourly employee. I can't be. I am 68 years old. I have lived a life. I have accumulated dignity.

Christ, man - I have a college degree. I must have done something constructive with that over time. Right?

You want me to take a 15 minute lunch. Are you fucking serious? Half an hour is insulting. I am a human being. Fifteen minutes is a direct assault on dignity. Jesus fucking Christ. I will not fucking do it.

You have a project for me? Give me a fucking break. Don't call it a project. Don't pretend it is something that requires intelligence. Skill. Knowledge.

You want me to stuff fucking envelopes, like some fucking child. "Look, little Johnny, you take this piece of paper and slip it into this little envelope, you seal the envelope, you stamp it, you put it on the pile and you do it again - 350 times. Isn't that fun, little Johnny?"

"Let's fold t-shirts. We have all these t-shirts we are going to try to sell, hundreds of them, to push our brand on an unsuspecting public, but first we gotta seperate them by size, fold them, and put them in boxes. Which we will have to dig through every time some unsuspecting rube buys a t-shirt. What makes it enjoyable is that it's all for the cause. Don't you think?"

No, I don't want more fucking hours. I want less hours. I want no fucking hours.

Fuck paying the bills. I've been paying bills all my life.

They must all be paid by now.

Andy Warhol said: "In the future, everybody will be world famous for fifteen minutes." An incredibly stupid quote.

I am looking for 15 minutes of dignity before I die.

Gnarled Roots

His frontal lobe was twisted and gnarled like the roots of the Shepherd's tree in the Kalahari Desert.

The roots of the Shepherd's tree can run 230 feet deep. Imagine the difficulty of tracing an individual root all the way through.

The thoughts in his brain, after conception, wandered aimlessly. There was no cohesion, no connection or identifiable logic. No follow-through.

Each thought was independent, eventually starved and dying before ever getting the chance to interact with other thoughts to arrive at logic.

This was why he suffered.

Life was incomprehensible, he could make no sense of it. Could not plan, could not solve, could not define or navigate. He bounced from moment to moment, self-made crisis to self-made crisis, like a blind man in a maze, never learning, never gaining the wisdom from experience that some did.

He screamed silently. And did not understand why.

This is the end result of a brain that is battered endlessly, tortured from within, assaulted from without. A  brain, once healthy, that adapts to constant pain and confusion, criticism, and contradiction by forming gnarled roots. In defense. And eventual self-destruction.

Gnarled roots that choke off hope.

And reduce life to a pointless endeavor.

F&J

F: "Give me one more whiskey, John, and I'll settle up."

J:"You're kind of quiet today."

F:"Been thinking a lot."

J: "Care to talk about it?"

F: "Not much to say, really. I've recently come to a realization about my life."

J: "You gotta be careful with thoughts like that."

F: "I'm a bum. Pure and simple. Nothing but a fucking bum."

J: "That's not true, man - you're being a bit harsh on yourself."

F: "I didn't plan on being a bum. I never wanted to be a bum. I didn't think I was capable of it. It just turned out that way."

J: "What is it that makes you think you're a bum?"

F: "Nothingness. I did nothing with my life. I could have, I had opportunities, but I did not act upon them. I squandered this thing everybody describes as so precious. Life."

J: "Everybody makes mistakes, man, everybody misses out on things - you shake 'em off and move along."

F: "It's not that simple. I don't have a lot of time left. I can't make up for what I've lost. Leave my gravestone blank, man - it's the only epitaph that makes sense."

J: "You are so wrong. Everybody loves you, people respect you, they like to be around you. You made a mark, man."

F: "You're probably right. Maybe I'm overreacting."

F took a final sip of whiskey, left a generous tip, and shook J's hand.

He had been nodding along, making like he was listening intently.

In reality, he hadn't heard one single word J said.

Hard Knocks Indeed

I watched Hard Knocks: Training Camp with the Detroit Lions a couple of months ago.

Saw something I never saw before.

Comes a time in pre-season when the roster has to be cut from 80 players down to 53. That is a lot of bloodshed.

The players get called in by the coaches one by one, there is a (half-assed) explanation about why they are being cut, the players act tough, handshakes and thank you's all around, and the execution is over.

One guy got called in, the news was delivered and he..........got tears in his eyes and asked "Is there anything I can do?"

Begging for his job.

Sad to watch and painful. I lost no respect for him.

These guys are living life compressed. The vast majority of us live 175 years of pure, slow-moving torture. We swallow our egos, accept compromise that makes our lives invisible, we die and are forgotten.

Football players devote their lives from the age of 5 to getting into the NFL. They work their asses off. They are actually, physically, pursuing a dream. The rest of us only talk about it.

They make it over every fucking hurdle and are told at the age of 20, 21, 22 - you are not good enough.

The dream shatters like Waterford Crystal on concrete.

Life compressed. All the cruelty and irony and false hope exposed in the naked light of day in only twenty years. The rest of us get to lie to ourselves for 175 years.

Which is worse?

At least a football player gets a chance to move on, with plenty of time to pull it off.

The rest of us belatedly dig our heels into the mud as we are dragged towards the grave, while screaming "Wait, wait - give me another chance. Give me more time."

"Please!"

Wasteland

It occurs to me that I have done little else but complain in here for 11 years.

It is entirely possible there is precious little entertainment value in my words.

Seems wasteful.

No?

Beware

 You can free yourself from anything but yourself.

The Homeless Thing

The house is listed.

It has been a long, torturous road. But we are moving forward. Kind of.

House didn't get listed until Friday morning. Open House yesterday.

Carol and I trust no one when it comes to our cats. There are a lot of inconsiderate fools - cretins, really, in this world, who would pay no attention to open and closed doors. Result? Our cats get outside, somebody dies.

We had to get the hell out of the house to make way for the Open House - we took the cats with us.

Packed up the litter box, water bowl, food bowl, blanket, and rolled on down the road. Ran an errand or two then set up camp 5 minutes from the house.

It was kind of fun really. We parked and let them out of the car carriers to roam around the car. Windows down a touch, sunroof open a touch, Carol in the back seat with her newspaper, me in the front with a book.

Emmy Lou had a blast, Patsy was a bit anxious.

It was a good experience - gave us a feel for what it will feel like to be homeless, if that becomes an eventuality. It was quite cozy.

Parked in a park 'n ride, pretty much alone for an hour and a half. Someone pulled up right next to us for the last half hour. I was amused to wonder what they were thinking to see Carol in the back, me in the front, cats roaming around. I hadn't shaved in 4 or 5 days.

Kept expecting the cops to show up.

We know what we are dealing with. Homeless people refuse to live in our house. But you can't help but be hopeful. You bust your fucking ass to get the house ready, you make the emotional investment to put it on the market, you clear out of the house for a couple of hours, and you wonder.

Hundreds of people viewed the listing in a very short time, a dozen or so "saved" it - we didn't know what to expect.

Got home - the realtor said only one couple came by. One. Might mean nothing. Might mean everything.

We were tired. I was generous enough to give my disease to Carol, although she didn't have it as bad as me because everybody knows the husband always gets sicker. We were both sick pretty much all week, which made getting the house in order a bit tougher.

The cats were tired too. We all spent the rest of the day chilling, like lumps of flesh waiting to be carved up for dinner.

The For Sale sign is at the end of the driveway. Very strange.

We are off balance. Don't know what to expect from here. Been 36 years since the last time we sold a house.

Pretty big deal, though. A major life transition on the way.

Rolling the dice, baby.

At least we know we got the homeless thing down.

Soundtrack of Our Life

We gotta get out of this house

if it's the last thing we ever do

We gotta get out of this house

"cause girl, there's a better life for me and you

Sung to the tune of "We Gotta Get out of This Place", by The Animals.

An Enormous Toll.

Selling a house is stressful - emotionally, physically - in every way imaginable.

Exhausting.

Consider an alternative scenario.

We just walk away. Climb into the Hyundai - Carol, me, Emmy Lou and Patsy - and head west. Maybe in a caravan. Maybe Carol drives the VW too. Details, baby - we can work it out.

The rolling homeless. Criss crossing the country, perfecting perpetual movement and a very small life.

Of course it would take a lot out of us, living on the road in such a violent and unforgiving country.

Eventually we would be found dead by the side of the road. All four of us.

Sad, but an interesting story to leave behind.

Why?

 "Because I'm a sad man. With little to do."

Carved In Stone

 When you let your life get away from you, it will always come back to haunt you.

A Near Death Experience (Not Really) - But Frightening

Been sick as a motherfucking dog.

Since last Saturday. Courteous of my best friend in the whole wide world.

Phil. You know him, you love him. Friends since second grade. Stunning really.

I went to a concert with him last Friday night. Get to his house and he tells me he is sick as a motherfucking dog, but no Covid. He had just spent five days in Vegas and he came home sick. Tested negative three days in a row by the time I got there.

Funny how the mind works in the brave new world of deadly disease. I thought "No Covid - good to go." Never considered that he might infect me with some other deadly disease.

We shared Uber rides. Went to dinner. Went to the concert. Wound down at his house afterwards over a harmless cocktail or two. I spent the night.

Got home Saturday feeling funky but not sick. Had to fucking work Saturday night, which I did. Reluctantly.

Sunday things got tougher. Monday and Tuesday were really tough. Felt like I had a brick in my chest, sneezing like crazy, runaway runny nose and a nasty, nasty cough. 

Got in to see the doc on Wednesday - upper respiratory infection, which was aggravating my asthma. Got a prescription for a steroid, done deal.

Sitting at home Wednesday night, innocently sipping on hot water and lemon, when it went down the wrong pipe. I choked, but here's the fun part - I could not catch my breath. I could not inhale at all.

I grabbed the inhaler and pumped it - but could not inhale. Not one tiny fucking breath. Began to panic. Pumped the inhaler again - could not inhale. At all. Now I am really panicking and Carol is frantically asking me if she should call 911.

At that point I was scared to fucking death - I could not get a breath into my lungs. Figured I would collapse before emergency people got there and then................

I bent over at the waist. That seemed to open up a path - I took a tiny breath, then another, then another - straightened up and got three or four inhaler blasts into me.

And sat down trembling.

A sobering fucking experience.

Been out of work for a week. Happy to feel like shit.

The party is over. Gotta work tomorrow. I am just exhausted. Amazingly so. But that is no excuse. 

Everyone is exhausted.

Alternate ending:

Carol calls 911 - "Please help - my husband is choking, unable to breath, he can't breath at all! I think he's gonna die. Please hurry - he's running out of time."

In the meantime I recover.

Carol calls 911 again - "Never mind - the motherfucker lived."

Stay Gold Cheesy Boy

I watched Reservation Dogs.

Two seasons so far. I hope there will be many more to come.

The show reminds me of Northern Exposure.

It has quirky characters that you love, quirky story lines, small people living small lives in dignity and authenticity, and with a sense of humor. There is a sense of spirituality that runs throughout.

The show goes straight to my heart, straight to my soul.

I need shows like this because my heart and my soul is where I live. It makes me feel human, alive. It just makes me feel. It brings me to laughter, it brings me to tears.

I am being strangled with superficiality. 

Reservation Dogs loosens the grip on my throat.

Fuckatosis All Around

Do you really expect me to do what you want me to do?

Do you really think you can inspire fear in me? Use fear as a motivator?

Where the hell have you been?

You may hold a negative opinion of me, but that's on you, that's the weak spot in your tiny brain. I could stick a pencil in your ear and take care of that right away. Come over here.

I am walking a fine enough line as it is. Teetering and tottering, bouncing around, over and through - from violent intent to passive gratitude to self-loathing to chest pumping braggadocio to irrational, ecstatic joy.

You don't have a clue who I really am. Then again, neither do I.

That's why I keep 50 quaaludes on hand at all times, along with four handles of whiskey and a bible.

I hung myself in effigy in my clothes closet as a sobering reminder of what lies ahead.

I read poetry; deep stuff to nourish my soul. Like:

The End

When beckoned by death's fateful kiss, in this moment you might reminisce, as your past is unfurled, you cling to the world, now let go and descend the abyss.

By Fred Hornaday - King of Limericks

You might define me as well-rounded. In fact, I recommend it.

But however you see me, know that your vision is warped. I am a shape-shifter extraordinaire. An alchemist. A seasoned practitioner of dark magic.

I also enjoy Grape-Nuts.

Dumping On The Shrink

I got real honest with my therapist on Thursday.

I have had the nagging feeling that we were making only superficial progress, only because I never really opened up about the maggots eating my brain.

I have talked about my life in depth, about my entire family history in depth, about self-doubt, about mistakes and bad decisions, and the unsatisfying life that resulted.

But I was not honest about exactly how fucked up I am.

My brain has been roiling since Carol went on vacation. I have been putting my underwear on backwards and getting lost traveling home from work.

Unsettled is a good description. So I decided to really open up and reveal how crushing my insanity can be.

I described The Awakening when Carol was away, and the subsequent perfect inability to function since then. How I can't make decisions, how I am paralyzed about what exactly I should do and how to go about it, how I got a good look at myself, a good feel at myself, and how I have no fucking clue how to get back there - which I really, really, really fucking need to do.

My therapist now knows exactly what she is dealing with.

It was cathartic. And beneficial. She really dug in and we had one hell of a talk.

Previously, we had started to go down the path of cognitive behavioral therapy. This made me wary because I discovered CBT on my own many years ago. At first it seemed to make sense, to be in sync with the twisted psyche I call my own.

But you have to do exercises. You have to use a workbook and write shit down. That doesn't work for me. I am not a workbook guy, I am a talking guy.

She sent me pages to do exercises on about a month ago. Of course I didn't use them. Then came The Awakening.

After our talk on Thursday she said "Maybe CBT is not the way to go with you."

That's called progress. She has a more accurate feel for what is choking up my brain, and I feel better about being completely honest. Otherwise, what's the fucking point?

This will get more interesting from here on out.

By the way, I called her "shrink" in the title. That was only to get your attention. I have great respect for her, we have had many good conversations. My favorite moments are when she asks "May I be blunt?"

I am fascinated with the relationship you can build up with a total stranger. We have come a long way in a short time. Now that I have opened the door wide, maybe she can reach deep into the recesses of my deranged psyche and poke and probe, and remove the diseased shit with surgical precision.

Leaving behind only me.